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Emmanuelle de Maupassant. My applause for Simone's 'Dancing' short story. Insightful and thought-provoking - as all good erotica should be. This looks like an interesting book series. I Tamed The Brat. Opposites attract I'm Miranda and I'm kind of a free spirit. I do my own thing an Seeing Her Secrets.

When Stacy Carrington shuns an enigmatic man, she meets in a bar, thinking his arrogance is the wors Stacy discovers the man to be her new supervisor and must figure out a way to work with him, despite having shunned him and inadvertently teased him to the point of arousal. Will Stacy be able to maintain the secrets of her darkest desires, or will her new supervisor, Mr. Corey Hamilton, spill her secrets and cause her to become shunned in polite society? The Lady and the Beast.

Evelyn is a dedicated queen, governed by royal duties and loyal to the clergy.

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But it's these same r But it's these same rules that she longs to break away from. While taking a stroll she finds herself in the ruins of an old castle, lost in the dirty pleasures of her desires, and aroused by the discovery of her awaking body. When she's seductively forced into submission by a beast-like creature, she's convinced her dreams are no longer mere fantasies. Thus opening a whole new world she had deeply longed for. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Evelyn, her entire clergy has been hiding a sexual fantasy of its own and it may well be a secret Evelyn might regret to discover.

Wanton Desire. Tasha Munroe has been working for Roland; her billionaire boss for only a short while but has now be Tasha Munroe has been working for Roland; her billionaire boss for only a short while but has now been offered a promotion. She is surprised, happy and uncertain at the same time because she has heard stories about Roland Hormone, the tyrannical boss. She has only ever had brief contact with him, but when she finally gets to meet him, she sees that he is indeed bossy and does not take no for an answer. However she discovers a soft spot to him. Roland Hormone has had his eyes on the young typist, Tasha Munroe, ever since she stepped foot in his establishment.

The fire in her eyes, although seemingly hidden, is very glaring to him, and he knows that he owes it to himself to see all he can do with that fire. The Stragglers. All college guy Aiden was looking for was a little end-of-semester release. Instead, he found Cooper Mercury Jones. Adam Jacobs has been thrilling fans with his muscular prose for years on Tumblr and other venues. The Stragglers is true to form, a tale that in less skilled hands would be a slight and merely arousing tale.

But Jacobs gives his leads real character, and draws the reader in as they are drawn to each other. It's good to have him sharing his work more broadly and the internet is better for it. Cassie Samuels moved half-way across the country with nothing but a Dachshund named Derby.

She creat She created a new life, a new name, even a new line of work - all to keep a dangerous ex-boyfriend from finding her. Ryan Dawson has been running from the ghosts of his past, trying to find peace after the death of his wife and son. But when a violent ex-lover pays a midnight visit, Ryan is forced to chose between his own safety and standing his ground to protect his new found love. Hit Hard. Darius Frost - tall, ripped like a Greek god, and sporting a chin full of sexy stubble - is slugging it out in the main fight of the night. After a furious slug-fest I'm not into sadism or masochism.

But neither am I merciful, even though my name is Mercy. Correction-- I have no mercy when it comes to evil acts and evil people. What I am into, is helping the broken, and that's what I am aiming to do with Mr. Sade the sadomasochist. Sade, thinks I'm sweet and naive. Which makes me irresistible to his sexual appetites. He doesn't know that I'm not afraid of pain or suffering, or even death. That by those things, I have died and been reborn. He doesn't know that I signed his year-long contract for the same reasons he did—to use him to get what I want. I just want to help him.

But sometimes we underestimate the evil in people. And sometimes more is required of good people than ever before. Sometimes it gets messy and goes very wrong. Her Dilemma. She had it all figured out, until he came into her life. But little did Samantha know, there was something dark about him, that she could not put her finger on.

From mysterious parties to early morning breakfasts, will her heart melt? Your information will never be shared or sold and you can unsubscribe at any time by scrolling to the bottom of any email from the author. Yorgos Ntovas. Dirty Ella. Inspired by Cinderella. Billionaire in Vegas. Falling for the Boss. Falling for him was forbidden. Especially when I had college dues to pay….. And… Became pregnant! With his child!! Neil Montgomery had fantasized about the sex on heels nanny, Sabrina. Will he be able to commit to Sabrina and make her and the baby his own?

Forbidden Love- Season of the Hunt. What happens when who you thought you were, changes overnight? Summer I have been trained to be a hunter and this victim was no different than the rest, or was he? I was not prepared for the overwhelming feelings that overtook me and left me helpless in his embrace. August I know that she is coming after me, the wolf. The beast within me must fight back, but the man cannot resist her. Both will be tested. Both will fight back.

Who will be victorious? Will their intense animal attraction be their downfall? Craving Ecstasy. The once-upon-a-time sweet marriage of Harry Castle and Sheila castle turns a new chapter of embarra Harry has to watch all this and feels betrayed and equally embarrassed because he cannot control his own urges. The couple decides to keep this to themselves and live their lives but how does Harry wash all the images from his head? Things take an even juicier turn on a bus when Harry is forced to come to terms with the truth.

His wife would never love him the way he dreams of. Can they ever mend their marriage and put her raging crave for ecstasy behind them? Daddy Dearest. Nikki had money, a mansion to live in and one of the hottest stepfathers on the planet. He was a kin He was a kind man that kept her living just as she had before her mom died and while she was grateful, she also felt a hot lust for the gorgeous fit man. Why would she do that?

It was forbidden. She was just taking her time until she realized that he just might want her as well. Nikki must be crazy to consider seducing him and taking advantage of his weakness. What would she do when lines started to cross and the taboo started to become real? Focus On Your Job. Tessa Goings is a bounty hunter.

Her job is to bring outlaws to justice. She is a specialist. She is She is tough, gritty, has a no nonsense attitude, and she is dead sexy. Her newest assignment is Lightning Isaac Swayne, the fastest gun in the west. He has been on a nonstop spree of armed robbery against banks, saloons, and hotels going town to town throughout west Texas. Tessa knows that capturing Isaac will be no easy task, but she is the right woman for the job. A Whisper of Roses. Felicia Silverwood is almost ready to give up her dreams of owning and running a flower shop in her Felicia Silverwood is almost ready to give up her dreams of owning and running a flower shop in her small hometown of Whitmore.

Her dreams of hope and love for anything beyond the existence she has known, have all but faded into flickers of memories. But when a tall handsome stranger walks into the store, demanding aid for a wedding that is slated for only two weeks away, Felicia finds the stranger to be pushy, controlling and all too tempting for her vulnerable heart. Felicia finds it within herself to help the stranger, Nicholas Ferral, and save the wedding, but at what cost? Sinful Cops. Life can be great when you have no cares in the wor Life can be great when you have no cares in the world and have nothing better to do with your time than travel and see all the fascinating sites that the world has to offer.

Eva started her journey that way but like a lot of people had to face the music and blend into society with a boring job that she wishes to be free from. She gets her break when a burglary gone wrong pulls her into the hot seat down at the local station. Sometimes an officer can be your worst nightmare and sometimes they can be your knight in shining armor. It may not seem like much, but one night of debauchery can change the world. Kitchen Heat. What gets cooking in a big hotel kitchen when no one is around to supervise the early crew?

Lots of Lots of things get cooking in there; stews, brews, caterings, tempers, and even romances. Can new hire Scott get the attention of the resident chef, Brianna? Can he win her heart for even a moment? He tries as they cook up some heat in this story. Come for the food and stay for the story. A Love Painted. When Briana Morgan finds a new lease on life in sunny Los Angeles, California, she never expects her When Briana Morgan finds a new lease on life in sunny Los Angeles, California, she never expects her dark and troubled past to catch up to her.

Bree sets off to discover herself and express her newfound love of life when a terrible accident occurs. As she is left dazed and confused, she can't remember anything about herself or her life and must rely on the mysterious man, Riley, to take care of her. Love and Shots. A young man in a small town, Steve Gerard wakes up to a surprise as he finds out that new neighbors A young man in a small town, Steve Gerard wakes up to a surprise as he finds out that new neighbors are moving in next door.

It gets even more interesting when he discovers that his new neighbors are young siblings, Bianca and Nick Walter; and Bianca is absolutely gorgeous. He is fascinated by her beauty and struck by bees in his belly when he and his sister go to pay their neighbors a visit. However, he gets to know that things are not sunny and warm as they appear to be. The siblings are in serious trouble and cannot help themselves. Steve bravely gets himself involved and inadvertently gets him and his sister, Stephanie in the mix. Now they have to think of a way to get out and hope that they all make it out alive.

The reward of saving the day might be a chance with Bianca for Steve. Lucky Number Three. Michael is a billionaire who is bored of life and can't seem to find any satisfaction. Chris and Sue Chris and Sue are childhood sweethearts who have found that life hasn't worked out as they had hoped. In a valiant gamble to win a fortune, they risk everything they have.

Michael witnesses their act and he decides to offer them a proposition. Join Sloane Peterson's mailing list and get your FREE copy of "Lucky Number 3" By joining my mailing list you'll get regular emails with links to the hottest new romance books and occasional contests and giveaways. The Erotic Romance Starter Pack is a 7 story bundle that allows you to sample different steamy serie The Erotic Romance Starter Pack is a 7 story bundle that allows you to sample different steamy series from author Mindy Wilde.

Links are provided at that end of each story in case you would like to read the rest of the books in that series. Most of the stories are a quick sexy read that you can fit in during a lunch break or at night before you go to bed for a little "inspiration"! The Virgin's Summer - Part One. Taboo Daddy Six Pack. Join my mailing list and get a hot six pack of Taboo stories! Sara Kitty's quickie stories have what you crave. None of the fluff. Just hot action -- usually very Taboo -- and always hard and unprotected.

These are the stories you're coming for. Tapping The Bad Boy. Ashley Dalton, daughter of Billionaire, future wife of successful corporate law attorney Chase Vaugh Ashley Dalton, daughter of Billionaire, future wife of successful corporate law attorney Chase Vaughn, is feeling bored with her fiancee and his stuffy ways, she has a hunger for sexual excitement that Chase cannot deliver. Jesse Morrison, looking like a Greek god. His bronze-colored physique, thinking to herself she would love a piece of that!

He and his crew had been hired by her father to put the roof on the new car port garage. She cannot get the Jesse Morrison out of her head—she aches to feel his touch—can she deny her inner feelings of desire and marry another just because he is in her own social class? Another problem arises when Ashley finds out that she is pregnant—who is the father? Shower of Teases. Cindy McGreevy has lived alone for quite some time after her husband; Brian McGreevy gets a job that Cindy McGreevy has lived alone for quite some time after her husband; Brian McGreevy gets a job that takes him out of the country.

Her sexuality has taken different turns, with the most recent being her fascination with sex, especially when it is with a married partner. Edgar is married, but the moment Cindy discovers his interest in her, he becomes her target and she does what she must to get him. But just when she thinks she has seen all the twists to the ribbon, she discovers something new and interesting. Punish Me Daddy.

Will his punishment turn into a blessing? The Art of Hanky Panky. What would you do if a hot, rich, famous artist asked you to pose for one of his painting? And, by the way, did I mention you'd have to be naked? Honestly, it's mortifying enough to stand naked in front of my own mirror, but to do it in the same room with my mind-blowingly hot, totally off-limits art instructor? This is so not something that I, June Cooper, had planned for this college semester. What I should be focusing on is working my butt off to pull in awesome grades and get into my choice of law schools.

No distractions allowed. Especially if they come with male parts attached June Cooper has everything she needs to get into the law school of her choice, the grades, the test score results and she's done it without help, but she could use some help because the one thing that will get her there is money and she doesn't have enough to pay her fees. Then she sees a way out. It involves posing nude for a world famous artist who wants her as his subject. Problem solved right. No chance. He's the most gorgeous man she's ever met and she finds herself drawn to him like no other man she's known..

This man will see her naked all day long for the duration of the project. Naked in the bright light of the day from day one with the man of my dreams. How will things not go wrong. Scum-sucking, lying, f Scum-sucking, lying, filthy, cheating bastards! Her mother had experienced it with her father. April has experienced it herself now too… twice! The cheating bastards. But what did that make her? Perfect mistress material?

Liya Silver and Jia Lissa

Why was it, considering that every relationship she ever got into, ended up hurting her in some way, shape or form… Had she been self-sabotaging all of her relationships? And why was she thinking this all now? Over a man she could never be with? Because after traveling halfway round the world she meets a Greek-sex-God, hunk of a man… with morals to boot? Well, all good things must come to an end… right? Unexpectedly, she tripped out of thin air, yes.

Thin air. Making the tray of mugs spill onto the emp Making the tray of mugs spill onto the employees making them screech from the pain of hot coffee meeting their skin. She was different. She was a klutz, and I completely understood what that meant.

I knew I had to have her. I wanted to hear her scream my name all night and to squirm beneath me. But I had rules to follow, to keep my heart safe. Her baby blue eyes stared at me with innocence and fear, she awoken a beast from within me. I was going to have her but I was torn.

Should I follow the rules that has kept my heart safe or succumb to the growing feelings I have for Lily? It was a duel between safe and secure against love and lust. When the handsome older guy moves in down the street, Ethan's intrigued. When he finally meets Joe w When he finally meets Joe while escorting his little brother out trick-or-treating, Ethan gets the chance to ask himself some big questions. And when Joe invites him to come back again later on his own, he'll give Ethan the chance to find some answers, too - and a whole lot more.

Buckle Up. Elliott Judd has a lot to be thankful for.


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A lot! Men and women alike fall at his feet, and who is h Men and women alike fall at his feet, and who is he to turn them away. A red hot racing driver, he's out for as much as he can get his hands on. And he gets his hands on a lot. Elliott isn't choosy, men or women, his motto is, if it's fun, run with it.

Until Kyle Beaumont. A mechanic with a dream, he's wanted to be the top of his game his entire life. And he won't let a woman turn his head. Being straight, he hasn't prepared for the advances of Elliott Judd. But Elliott prepared for him, and Kyle had better watch out; Elliott always gets what he wants. With passion, testosterone and way more grease than is proper, all mixed with a healthy dose of fast cars and racetracks, you'd better buckle your seat belts for the ride of your life.

Duke of Desire. Her father is a drunk, her brother spends most nights in a gambling Her father is a drunk, her brother spends most nights in a gambling house and her cousin lost all of his inheritance. The only thing she can think to do is to offer her body for one night in return for protection.

Graham Sutton, the Duke of Cole, runs a gambling house. She is beautiful and he wants her. Nobody knows that Graham is the Duke of Sutton, and he intends to keep it that way. After spending a lust filled night together, both are torn. Iliana knows she could never marry a disreputable man.

All she can do is enjoy the night with the handsome stranger that seems to be willing to. Hot Short Stories. Love transcends all boundaries. Even death. Molly dies while chasing a felon and Molly dies while chasing a felon and discovers she has been sentenced to an afterlife of six years. She must escape and return to Earth to save her boyfriend and best friend from the same forces that murdered her.

Marry Matthew. She soon realises however, that the love she was searching for had been a lie and she must now decide whether to continue or give up on love entirely. When she meets Matthew, the fierceness and swiftness of their love staggers her and causes nothing but doubt. After making the decision she thinks is most rational, the outcome is worse than she ever thought it could have been. In an attempt to rescue the love she had so carelessly given up, she must convince Matthew she still loves him. The only issue is that she finds out that their love might have led to the most wonderful surprise; the only question now is if he will accept her back into his heart after she hurt him.

The Bodyguard. She's forbidden fruit - but I'm hungry for a taste. A Perfect Climax. Debby Newton, a young and beautiful college student, had her life all planned out. She was going to She was going to marry Parker Schmidt, a billionaire in his own right since his billionaire family are obviously going to hand over their billion dollar company to him. He already has a controlling position and equally looks forward to being wedded to Debby.

Even when she sees him with other girls, he plays it off and says she is paranoid. In His Arms. As a nanny I did my job taking care of Alicia. I wanted her to like me as a person. She was easy to She was easy to get along with and I think that she liked the bond that we had. We were both girls. Alexander on the other hand was something different.

He was a man of power, a man that made things go his way. Though he surprised me in numerous ways there was something hidden behind those gorgeous eyes of his. I wanted to get to know that side of him. Would he trust me enough to tell him what was bothering him? Would he take that chance to see if I could be trusted with the demons of his past? Past : Bad Boy Romance. Description Todd thought it was going to be an ordinary dinner with his parents.

Them telling him what a big disappointment he was to them and how he could do better. He knew that when his mother saw his motorcycle she was going to have a fit and she did when they limo pulled up into the parking lot of the restaurant that they were going to. About the Author Amazon. In-Store Pickup. Drew's bored, horny, and stuck at his in-laws' for the Thanksgiving weekend.

The last thing he wants The last thing he wants to do is go to the mall Step Daddy Desires. Jude is everything I've ever wanted in a man. Cute student, Strong older man: Hot vacation Sophie is a bright young college stu Cute student, Strong older man: Hot vacation Sophie is a bright young college student, who has a vacation romance with Alex, an older man. He is so much more mature and worldly than any of her previous boyfriends and treats her like an adult and an equal.

As Sophie and Alex start to fall for each other, is there any chance that this will be more than just a holiday fling? This book contains the first three chapters of the novel Sophie's Journey, but can be read as a standalone short story. If you want to join my email list for more free books and offers, and monthly information about my books, then please check the box to subscribe. You can leave and unsubscribe at any time. I do not share your information with anyone else. Daddy and Me - 3 Taboo Stories. Dominance and Submission Part One: Awakening.

The Billionaire's Conquest. I need to save Mercury Wild, but who would save my heart? I'm Trevor Wild, Billionaire and Men admire me for the fortune that came with my name. Women flock to me for the man of their dreams, but along the way, I lose sight of who I am, and my business is at stake. So desperate to save the club, I have to put pride behind me and seek out help, and help comes in the form of Jasmine Washington.

Her skin is smooth as silk. Her eyes are piercing green that would burn holes into my soul. Will I be able to have both my club and Jasmine, or will going after her cause everything to crumble around me? Roughing the Cheerleader: Railed By the Footb Can Dalia hold herself as she is torn apart by the pack of wolves Dalia Coach's 18 yo old daughter, Gentle, Sweet So in love with Tyler.

I am your winning trophy Take me The team shares everything They were waiting The Gang of Jocks Dalia just becomes the team's cxx dump What happens in the Football locker room, remains in the locker room ;. At a young age, she fel At a young age, she fell for the man of her dreams, but he left her without looking back. As time went by, she found out that she was pregnant and although she is alone and shunned by her family, she manages to make it through.

Years later at the height of her career, she sees none other than Lucas, the man who shattered her heart. History of Her Heart. Kelly discovers that the hall is owned and operated by her high school heart throb, Dominic Chase, who has set out to win her heart back and place the bid for her love at an even higher price than fame or fortune. As Dominic Chase refuses to lose what he sets his heart on acquiring, will his attentions be too much for the heartbroken Kelly, or can he convince her that his feelings are as genuine and sincere as they were a decade ago? Into My Silhouette: Discovering the Dark.

She was tired of boring. Will a new life of ecstasy be too much to handle? The only problem is that every man who comes into her life bores her to tears… until she meets John. In addition to not having done much online dating, I have never really dated anyone I have a lot in common with. I blame my astrological sign. Over time, I definitely find common ground in my relationships, but the people I tend to date are often quite different from me.

She lives in a city and takes for granted the diversity around her. In retaliation, I told her I dated a Chinese boy in college. I told her I date the boys who ask me out. I also seem to have a penchant for libertarians. I seriously cannot get enough of them and their radical need for freedom from tyranny and taxation.

I love being with someone who is endlessly interesting because we are so different. Wanting to belong to people or a person is not about finding a mirror image of myself. BET is not a network I watch regularly because I am very committed to Lifetime Movie Network and lesser cable network reality programming. Beyond that, black people—all people of color, really—only get to see themselves as lawyers and sassy friends and, of course, as The Help. Where BET is concerned, we settle for nothing at all unless it is airing reruns of Girlfriends , which is criminally underrated.

It took me a long time to appreciate Girlfriends , but that show was onto something and never got the support it deserved. Sometimes, though, I feel like looking at people who look like me. Brown skin is beautiful; I like seeing different kinds of stories. In BET years, I am ancient. What is the premise? I consulted Dr.

The threshold for fame weakens ever so rapidly. I watched the Toya show, and there was nothing about any of it I could relate to other than caring about my family. I vaguely got the sense that Toya cares for her family and is trying to help them get on the right track, but it was fairly unclear because mostly the show involved people talking about boring things. During the show she dated someone named Memphitz they are now married , who was looking at gorgeous diamond rings. Is he a rapper? What do these people do for a living? I wish BET did more to represent the full spectrum of black experiences in a balanced manner.

Once in a while, I would love to see an example of black success that involves other professional venues. Laurence Fishburne played the lead on CSI for a season or two. Back in the day, Blair Underwood played a lawyer on L. There are the aforementioned Shonda Rhimes—helmed shows.

And yet. At some point, we have to stop selling every black child in this country the idea that he or she only needs to hold a ball or a microphone to achieve something. BET frustrates me because it is a painful reminder that you can have something and nothing in common with people at the same time. I enjoy difference, but once in a while, I do want to catch a glimpse of myself in others. In graduate school I was the adviser of the black student association. There was a negligible black faculty presence on campus you could count them on one hand , and those folks were either too busy or burnt out or completely uninterested in the job.

After four years, I understood. The older I get, the more I understand lots of things. Advising a black student association is exhausting and thankless and heartbreaking. It kind of destroys your faith after a while. I get my work ethic from my tireless father. I get it. I am an acquired taste. They thought the way I use slang is hilarious because I round my vowels.

I kind of singsong the word. Yes, I was a demanding bitch, and at times I was probably unreasonable. I insisted on excellence. I get that from my mother. Many of those kids, I quickly realized, did not know how to read or be a student. When talking about social issues in academia and even in intellectual circles, we talk about privilege a lot and how we all have privilege and need to be aware of it.

I have always known the ways in which I am privileged, but working with these students, most of them from inner-city Detroit, made me realize the extent of my privilege. The notion that I should be fine with the status quo even if I am not wholly affected by the status quo is repulsive. Shame on me, certainly, for being so ignorant about the galling disparities in how children are educated.

Shame on me. I learned so much more in grad school out of the classroom than I ever did sitting around a table talking about theoretical concepts. I learned about how ignorant I am. I am still working to correct this. One-on-one, the students and I got along much better. They were far more open. I had no idea what I was doing.

How do you teach someone to read? Google regularly. I bought a book with some basic grammar exercises. I had a mother who was home every day after school and who sat with me day after day and year after year until I went away for high school, helping me with my homework, encouraging me, and certainly pushing me toward excellence.

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There were things in my life my mother was unable to see, but when it came to my education and making sure I was a good, well-mannered person, she was on point in every way. At times, I resented the amount of schoolwork I had to do at home. There was a lot of pressure in our household. A lot. I enjoyed being the best and making my parents proud. I enjoyed the sense of control I felt by being good at school when there were other parts of my life that were desperately out of control.

I was expected to get straight As. This is a typical child-of-immigrants story, not at all interesting. When I worked with those kids in graduate school, I understood why my parents showed us how we had to work three times harder than white kids to get half the consideration. They did not impart this reality with bitterness. They were protecting us. They were embarrassed to be seen putting effort into their education, to be seen caring. Many of the kids I worked with did not have parents who would or could prepare their children for the world the way mine did.

Many of them were eldest children, the first in their families to go to college. One boy was the eldest of nine. One girl was the eldest of seven. Another girl was the eldest of six. There were many absent fathers, incarcerated mothers and fathers and cousins and aunties and siblings. There was alcoholism and drug addiction and abuse. There were parents who resented that their children were in college and tried to sabotage them. There were students who were sending their student loan refund checks back home to support their families and spending the semester without textbooks, without enough money to eat, because the mouths back at home needed to be fed.

There were certainly students with a great parent or parents, with families who were supportive, who knew nothing of poverty, who were well prepared for the college experience or well prepared to do what it took to get up to speed. Those students were the exception. I often think about the danger of a single story, as discussed by Chimamanda Adichie in her TED Talk, but sometimes, there actually is a single story and it tears my heart open. By the end of my last year of school, with all the other things I was dealing with in my personal life, I was completely burnt out.

I had nothing left to give. All too often, the students just did not give a damn and neither did I. If after four years they had learned nothing, I had failed, and there was little I could do to rectify that. They were just being college students, of course, but it was frustrating. When the last semester ended, I was relieved. I would miss the students because they were, to be clear, a great joy—bright, funny, charming, kind of crazy, but good kids. I still needed a break, a very, very long break. The woman who recruited me to grad school had worked with the black students for about twenty years.

I understood her burnout too. It took me a mere four years, but I got there. There was an end-of-the-year banquet where the students surprised me. They gave me a plaque and read a beautiful speech where they said I was the epitome of integrity and grace. They thanked me for recognizing they were talented and powerful beyond measure.

They said I stood up for them even when they were wrong and that I was family, which did nicely explain our relationship—unconditional but complicated. They said lots of other gorgeously flattering things. I left grad school feeling like I had reached them. They certainly reached me, made me feel like I was a part of something even though it was my job to make them feel like part of something.

I feel this sense of responsibility. I feel weak and stupid. I had a black student in my class during my first year who felt I was picking on him because he was black. Also, I expect excellence from all my students, without exception. He was incredulous that I did not think he deserved a proverbial cookie for having been a good student before coming to my class.

I was incredulous at his arrogance. We had some very tense conversations, one of which was so tense my boss, unbeknownst to me, stood in the hallway just out of sight the entire time because he felt this kid might get rowdy. I thought the kid was going to get rowdy. His way of doing that, of proving he was different, was to maintain his perfect GPA by any means necessary. I work hard. I volunteer for things. I try to deliver when I say I will do something. I try to do my job well. I extend myself, then overextend myself. I work at work and I work at home. I study my teaching evaluations, trying to make sense of my imperfections so that next time, I might get it right.

I sit with my colleagues and think, Please like me. Please like me. Please respect me. People often misunderstand me, misunderstand my motivations. The pressure is constant and suffocating. In graduate school, early on, I once overheard a classmate talking in her office as I walked by. She was gossiping about me to a group of our classmates and said I was the affirmative-action student. I went to my office, trying to hold it together until I was alone.

I was not going to be the girl who cried in the hallway. Rationally, I know it was absurd, but hearing how she and maybe others saw me hurt real bad. There was no one I could really talk to about what I had heard because I was the only student of color in the program. There was no one else who would understand.

I stopped joking about being a slacker. I tripled the number of projects I was involved with. I was excellent most of the time. I fell short some of the time. I made sure I got good grades. I made sure my comprehensive exams were solid. I wrote conference proposals and had them accepted. I published. I designed an overly ambitious research project for my dissertation that kind of made me want to die. No matter what I did, I heard that girl, that girl who had accomplished a fraction of a fraction of what I had, telling a group of our peers I was the one who did not deserve to be in our program.

Those peers, by the way, did not defend me. They did not disagree. That hurt too. Her words kept me up at night. I can still hear her, the clarity of her voice, the confidence of her conviction. I worry, Do I deserve to be here? I worry, Am I doing enough? I am still writing my way toward a place where I fit, but I am also finding my people in unexpected places—California, Chicago, upper Michigan, other places, some not on any kind of map.

Writing bridges many differences. Kindness bridges many differences too, and so does a love of One Tree Hill or Lost or beautiful books or terrible movies. There are times when I wish finding community was as simple as entering some personal information and letting an algorithm show me where I belong.

The Book of Dreams

And then I realize that in many ways, this is what the Internet and social networking has done for me—offered community. An algorithm is a procedure for solving a problem in a finite number of steps. An algorithm leads to a neat way of understanding a problem too complex for the human mind to solve. They cannot be wholly addressed in a single essay or book or television show or movie.

I will keep writing about these intersections as a writer and a teacher, as a black woman, as a bad feminist, until I no longer feel like what I want is impossible. I no longer want to believe these problems are too complex for us to make sense of them. When I was young, my parents took our family to Haiti during the summers. For them, it was a homecoming. For my brothers and me it was an adventure, sometimes a chore, and always a necessary education on privilege and the grace of an American passport.

Until visiting Haiti, I had no idea what poverty really was or the difference between relative and absolute poverty. To see poverty so plainly and pervasively left a profound mark on me. To this day, I remember my first visit, and how at every intersection, men and women, shiny with sweat, would mob our car, their skinny arms stretched out, hoping for a few gourdes or American dollars. I saw the sprawling slums, the shanties housing entire families, the trash piled in the streets, and also the gorgeous beach and the young men in uniforms who brought us Coca-Cola in glass bottles and made us hats and boats out of palm fronds.

It was hard for a child to begin to grasp the contrast of such inescapable poverty alongside almost repulsive luxury, and then the United States, a mere eight hundred miles away, with its gleaming cities rising out of the landscape and the well-maintained interstates stretching across the country, the running water and the electricity.

Privilege is a right or immunity granted as a peculiar benefit, advantage, or favor. There is racial privilege, gender and identity privilege, heterosexual privilege, economic privilege, able-bodied privilege, educational privilege, religious privilege, and the list goes on and on. At some point, you have to surrender to the kinds of privilege you hold. My parents raised my siblings and me in a strict but loving environment. I attended elite schools. I got a tenure-track position my first time out. My bills are paid. I have the time and resources for frivolity. I am reasonably well published.

I have an agent and books to my name. We tend to believe that accusations of privilege imply we have it easy, which we resent because life is hard for nearly everyone. Of course we resent these accusations. Look at white men when they are accused of having privilege. They tend to be immediately defensive and, at times, understandably so. To have privilege in one or more areas does not mean you are wholly privileged. Surrendering to the acceptance of privilege is difficult, but it is really all that is expected. What I remind myself, regularly, is this: the acknowledgment of my privilege is not a denial of the ways I have been and am marginalized, the ways I have suffered.

You need to understand the extent of your privilege, the consequences of your privilege, and remain aware that people who are different from you move through and experience the world in ways you might never know anything about. They might endure situations you can never know anything about. You could, however, use that privilege for the greater good—to try to level the playing field for everyone, to work for social justice, to bring attention to how those without certain privileges are disenfranchised.

When we talk about privilege, some people start to play a very pointless and dangerous game where they try to mix and match various demographic characteristics to determine who wins at the Game of Privilege. Who would win in a privilege battle between a wealthy black woman and a wealthy white man? Who would win a privilege battle between a queer white man and a queer Asian woman? Who would win in a privilege battle between a working-class white man and a wealthy, differently abled Mexican woman?

We could play this game all day and never find a winner. Playing the Game of Privilege is mental masturbation—it only feels good to those playing the game. Too many people have become self-appointed privilege police, patrolling the halls of discourse, ready to remind people of their privilege whether those people have denied that privilege or not.

In online discourse, in particular, the specter of privilege is always looming darkly. When someone writes from experience, there is often someone else, at the ready, pointing a trembling finger, accusing that writer of having various kinds of privilege. How dare someone speak to a personal experience without accounting for every possible configuration of privilege or the lack thereof? We would live in a world of silence if the only people who were allowed to write or speak from experience or about difference were those absolutely without privilege. When people wield accusations of privilege, more often than not, they want to be heard and seen.

Their need is acute, if not desperate, and that need rises out of the many historical and ongoing attempts to silence and render invisible marginalized groups. Must we satisfy our need to be heard and seen by preventing anyone else from being heard and seen? Does privilege automatically negate any merits of what a privilege holder has to say? Do we ignore everything, for example, that white men have to say?

We need to get to a place where we discuss privilege by way of observation and acknowledgment rather than accusation. We need to be able to argue beyond the threat of privilege. Privilege is relative and contextual. Few people in the developed world, and particularly in the United States, have no privilege at all. Among those of us who participate in intellectual communities, privilege runs rampant. We have disposable time and the ability to access the Internet regularly.

We have the freedom to express our opinions without the threat of retaliation. We have smartphones and iProducts and desktops and laptops. If you are reading this essay, you have some kind of privilege. It may be hard to hear that, I know, but if you cannot recognize your privilege, you have a lot of work to do; get started. I go to school for a very long time and get some degrees and finally move to a very small town in the middle of a cornfield.

I leave someone behind. I want to choose the man over the career. I have a guest bathroom. This is the dream, everyone says—a good job, tenure track. My name is on the engraved panel just outside my door. My name is spelled correctly. I have my own printer. The luxury of this cannot be overstated. I randomly print out a document; I sigh happily as the printer spits it out, warm. I have a phone with an extension, and when people call the number they are often looking for me. There are a lot of shelves, but I like my books at home. I must have books on display in my office. It is an unspoken rule.

I put a dry-erase board on my door. Old habits die hard. Every few weeks I pose a new question. Pretty Woman. West Side Story. What do you want for Christmas? Peace of mind. Currently: What is your favorite cocktail? I forget the code weekly. She is friendly, patient, kind, but if you cross her, there will be trouble. I vow to never cross her. There is a mind-numbing orientation that begins with a student playing acoustic guitar. A threatening sing-along vibe fills the room. The student is not a chanteur. Most of the audience cringes visibly.

I hide in the very last row. For the next two days I accumulate knowledge I will never use—math all over again. Turns out when you say you can do something, people believe you. Ten minutes before my first class, I run to the bathroom and vomit. They wait for me to say something. I stare back and wait for them to do something. Finally, I tell them to do things and they do those things. I realize I am, in fact, in charge. For a few minutes I am awesome because I have brought toys. Teaching three classes requires serious memorization when it comes to student names.

The students tend to blur. It will take nearly three weeks for me to remember Ashley A. I rely heavily on pointing. I color-code the students. You in the green shirt. You in the orange hat. I get my first paycheck. We are paid once a month, which requires the kind of budgeting I am incapable of. Life is unpleasant after the twenty-third or so. Then I see how much The Man takes. Damn The Man. I wear jeans and Converse. I have tattoos up and down my arms. I am not petite. I am the child of immigrants. Many of my students have never had a black teacher before. This will probably never change for the whole of my career, no matter where I teach.

There seems to be some unspoken rule about the number of academic spaces people of color can occupy at the same time. I have grown weary of being the only one. When I was a student listening to a boring professor drone endlessly, I usually thought, I will never be that teacher. One day, I am delivering a lecture and realize, in that moment, I am that teacher.

I stare out at the students, most of them not taking notes, giving me that soul-crushing dead-eye stare that tells me, I wish I were anywhere but here. I think, I wish I were anywhere but here. I talk faster and faster to put us all out of our misery. I become incoherent. Their dead-eye stares haunt me for the rest of the day, then longer. I keep in touch with my closest friend from graduate school. We both really enjoy our new jobs, but the learning curve is steep. There is no shallow end. We dance around metaphors about drowning.

During long conversations we question the choice to be proper, modern women. There is so much grading. Gay is rather rude for ignoring that poor student. I turn around to say something before I realize she is talking to me. I see a lot of words faded and stretched across asses, bra straps, pajama pants, often ill-fitting. In the winter, when there is snow and ice outside, boys come to class in basketball shorts and flip-flops.

I worry about their feet, their poor little toes. Helicopter parents e-mail me for information about their children. How is my son doing? Is my daughter attending class? I encourage them to open lines of communication with their children. The child rarely consents. There is nothing new in the new town, and I know no one. The town is a flat, scarred strip of land with half-abandoned strip malls. And then there is the corn, so much of it, everywhere, stretching in every direction for miles. Most of my colleagues live fifty miles away. Most of my colleagues have families. I go north to Chicago.

I go east to Indianapolis. I go south to St. I take up competitive Scrabble and win the first tournament I enter. In the last round, I encounter a nemesis who gets so angry when I beat him he refuses to shake my hand and flounces out of the tournament in a huff. The sweetness of that victory lingers. My own parents ask, How is my daughter doing? I offer them some version of the truth. Sometimes, when students are doing group work, I sneak a look at my own phone like I am in a cone of invisibility. I am part of the problem.

I try to make class fun, engaging, experiential. We hold a mock debate about social issues in composition. We use Twitter to learn about crafting microcontent in new media writing. We play Jeopardy! Every day, I wonder, How do I keep these students meaningfully engaged, educated, and entertained for fifty minutes? How do I keep them from staring at me with dead eyes? How do I make them want to learn? There is a plague on grandmothers.

The elder relations of my students begin passing away at an alarming rate one week. I want to warn the surviving grandmothers, somehow. I want them to live. The excuses students come up with for absences and homework amuse me in how ludicrous and improbable they are. They think I want to know. They think I need their explanations. You say it best when you say nothing at all. I try not to be old. I try not to think, When I was your age … , but often, I do remember when I was their age. I enjoyed school; I loved learning and worked hard. Most of the people I went to school with did too. We partied hard, but we still showed up to class and did what we had to do.

They are not necessarily incorrect. I wish there were viable alternatives for students who would rather be anywhere but in a classroom. Just enough time for you to go to some office to complete the paperwork and for me to make a phone call, and we were on our way, on a long, unexpected, delicious Christmas Eve journey. We had reached a hill. You slowed down, had to change gear, your hand left my knee for a moment, then swiftly returned. I thought that for a lorry driver your vocabulary was quite charming. And I loved the way you thought.

I looked back at you and drowned my gaze in your deeply lined brow. I had always known vile seducers had wrinkles just like yours. And I allowed myself to be seduced…. I put my hand on yours. It was warm, strong. I pulled my skirt up and encouraged your large hand to shed its innocence and explore further. And we sealed our complicity with an exchange of meaningful looks and smiles.

Our hands are old enough to look after themselves.

In The Night Kitchen (Read Aloud)

Especially yours. I did not answer but pulled my buttocks up, and pulled off the piece of underwear obstructing you. And wedged myself deep into the seat, opened my thighs and again closed my eyes. Your hand sported intelligence. At first, it made no demands. Wandered quietly over my fur, knuckles slowly skimming over its surface, a pleasing caress.

It was like a sort of telephone switchboard in my lower stomach, impatiently awaiting calls and demands. I did not misunderstand your request. All you wanted to hear from me was how I felt right then. You found it amusing to enter and withdraw from me in a slow, gentle rhythm.

I slipped my hand under the palm of your hand, still warming my mons, found my bud and delicately landed on it, careful not to rush anything, to make this holy moment last as long as possible, this very instant when imagination moves residence and settles in highly secret places. My dreams were at sea, balanced on the waves. My cunt was the sea, waves crashing against each other, ebb and flow, ebb and flow…. I was in the depths, dark, salty, wetter than wet and my stomach was initiating a new, steady pulse, ever increasing in strength: hold back, hold on, hold back, hold on… I was becoming an underwater cave, a dizzy abyss.

Soon I would require something stronger, something to war against, to fight back, to digest. I beckoned the myths of the great sea serpent, the indefatigable swimmer, the steel-membered Argonaut. I begged to be taken…. You were still driving, your eyes on the road, a foreigner to all that was happening between my thighs. You kindly offered me another finger. It was welcome, but the angle of penetration slowed its movements, causing pain in the midst of pleasure. I thought of mooring bitts. I placed my left hand on your flies. You raised yourself slightly to allow me to unbutton your top button, as it was too tight.

The rest came easy. I quickly found you. Can drive you mad. Several places, even. This was the moment when I realized how perfectly we complemented each other. This cock I held in my hand, I wanted to take it everywhere into me, wherever it might fit. I also felt like devouring it, an imperious desire, a ferocious appetite, a pressing need to be one with it, to commune in agony.

But if I bent towards you, you would have had to let go of me, and I did not want that. The explosion was approaching, I could no longer control it. I looked around at you, disturbed. As you would put a friend at ease. The kindness of this permission reassured me and banished all the mental storm clouds away. And you understood so well both the situation and the urgency clearly, and your fingers pursued their passionate, dizzy journey inside me, this hesitant waltz strong enough to melt all resistance, travails worthy of Sisyphus and the ocean and handfuls of planets.

I held your cock tight in the grip of my hand, froze, winced, riding the crest of the giant tidal wave lifting me up, sitting on the throne of an eruption of sheer undiluted pleasure, cushioning all its aftershocks…. You parked smoothly on the side of the road, switched off the engine.

I turned towards you, short of breath, still boiling. Yes, yes, you were quite right to do so! I bend toward you. Your cock had a heady smell. Reminiscent of the corduroy fabric of your trousers. But also the smell of man. I laid my tongue on the tip of your cock. It was slippery. A thin, appetizing, salty stream pearled out of the thin hole and I spread it all over the pink, round, bare, stirring glans. My cunt is still quivering. The threats had the desired effect. You laid me down onto the seat, down on your knees on the other seat you pulled me across, pushed your trousers down… Lust stabbed through my heart.

You move into me like butter. I can almost feel your taste. Eat, feast yourself, my little animal! I swallow you whole with torrid pleasure. Your cock is hard, I can feel it butt against my walls, at the back, and the soft blows reverberate all the way through to my arse. And with my left hand, I held your balls, heavy, thick, gorgeous. My imagination is on fire thinking of them, swollen and creamy.

Eat, kiddo, eat! Soon it will be time for dessert… This guy is soon about to spurt all the way into you, the way you like it! My brain grows more excited as it pictures visions of eruptions surging upwards at the speed of light. I naively press hard against your balls, as if to empty them. You are obedience personified. My desires are orders. You stab my arsehole with your thick, aggressive, fiery thumb.

It scares me and fills me with joy at the same time. I feel only you. You fell upon me. And so much more gentle, too. When I opened my eyes, the snow had stopped falling. You caught your breath back, readjusted your clothing, settled again behind the steering wheel. My chest is still resonating, my ears too, full of the roar of the giant wave that has washed me away.

With sharp burns everywhere, their scars gradually declining and being replaced by a wholesome feeling of lassitude. You indicate the cot, behind the front seats. I will not sleep. And the journey continues, quietly, slowly. From time to time, you stop. People wish you a merry Christmas. We go again. There are bells in my head, champagne flowing through my body, and my heart.

Small bubbles sparkle and tickle me everywhere. Where do you want me to drop you? I was going to spend Christmas there. I was scheduled to sleep in Lyon. Gave him the chance to spend Christmas Eve with her. He was pleased. Yesterday, I went to a funeral uptown. When I left my apartment in the morning, it had been the proverbial spring day, birds chirping, daffodils blooming in the park — the works.

Naturally, by the time I came up from the subway station an hour and a half later, it had begun to rain. Funerals are a bit like rain dances in that way; people gather together in mourning, and the earth itself cries. The dead guy, Marten Santos, had been notoriously rich and depraved while he was alive. He had never tried to pass as righteous, though, never pretended to be perfect. We all knew about his peculiar tastes and erratic passions, and loved him for that.

He was a man who was going to be missed by a lot of good people. In life, Mr Santos had been one of my favorite tricks. When he died suddenly of a heart attack three days ago, the newspaper said that he was pushing seventy. It says a lot that after all these years I was moved enough by a sense of loss to attend his funeral. The shame of that slip-up on my part, and a difficult scene he put me through in a cheap hotel room, had caused us to part on uncomfortable terms.

Still, it made me no less fond of him. I work in a respectable office and I earn a respectable living. The frantic, frenetic survival skills acquired by all New Yorkers makes the town a forgiving place. This was back in the 80s, when a whole lot of people had money to burn. Mr Santos was friends with the owner, Hajid, who was one of my regulars, too. Hajid liked getting blow jobs behind the desk in his office. His office was in the basement of the coffee house.

It was decidedly downscale in that dark, damp, vermin-infested cellar. However, a simple blow job, as long as I was willing to have my pants around my knees and keep my naked ass out for his viewing pleasure, lasted only about ten minutes and garnered me two hundred tax-free dollars, so I found ways to make even that ratskeller seem erotic. The evening I met Mr Santos, I was actually just having coffee. Hajid and I were on friendly terms. He introduced me to Mr Santos, with a nod and a wink, and Mr Santos pulled up a chair. He got right down to the business of getting to know me better.

He ended the meeting by paying my modest tab and then asking me for my phone number, which of course I gave him since it was obvious he was loaded — even more so than Hajid. Our trysts started out simple and straightforward. The people he knew went on extended vacations, traveled on business to faraway places, or had primary homes in other countries.

Mr Santos was married back then, and apparently he and his other married male friends formed a cozy circle of infidels, each leaving the rest of the crew a key to his empty apartment for extramarital liaisons in his absence. I was never to touch anything, never allowed to get too comfortable in the jaw-dropping luxury of our trysting places. Mr Santos liked anal and that was pretty much the sole basis of our get-togethers, at first.

Without fanfare, he would unzip his trousers; let them fall unceremoniously to his ankles, along with his boxers. He fucked me like a man who had important meetings to get to, so he usually came pretty quickly. I simply had to show up with an absolutely clean asshole, bend over and let him ream me; that was all he required. He never said anything like. I remember when we had our first real conversation. It was a day when he seemed to be at leisure. It was a day when he wandered around the spacious apartment we were using, looking for the perfect place to bend me over, making small talk, making jokes.

Pull up your skirt. No, we can find something better. But the thought of church seemed to make him feel even more jovial. He sank to his knees and rimmed me, his hot, wet tongue expertly stroking my puckered hole. It felt sensational. I actually moaned and felt like touching myself. Having his nose in my ass seemed to arouse his passion, for that day he fucked my ass especially vigorously, nearly knocking me off the stool several times.

The mounting pressure of his thickening hard-on sucking in and out of my ass made me cry out. Thanks, kiddo. His breezy pre-sex conversing, combined with his sudden rugged manner with me during sex, made me see Mr Santos in a different light. He was a handsome man, I decided, as I watched him zip up his trousers and go off in search of the toilet. I still had my panties around my knees when he came back into the room.

I was lingering in my little swoon. Snapping out of it and feeling embarrassed, I moved to pull up my panties. You feel like making a little extra money today? I was caught off guard. He fished out his wallet and surveyed its contents. I never, under any circumstances, came with a trick.

But Mr Santos intrigued me. What do you say to that? I was feeling game. I liked Mr Santos. He told me to step out of my panties completely, then to squat down on the parquet floor. He told me that under no circumstances should I touch myself; he wanted to do all the work. He lubed two of his fingers, squatted down next to me, held me around my shoulders to sort of brace me, and then he stuck the two lubed fingers up my ass. He wiggled them vigorously in there, pushing hard against my perineum, rubbing the wall of muscle with all his strength.

Let everything go. We can clean this up later. Bear down on me. I did as he suggested, pushing my asshole down around his hardworking fingers, never dreaming that I could be launched into orgasm like a rocket without direct pressure applied to my clit. But it happened. My thighs shook as I squatted and bore down, more fluids gushing out of my open pisshole. My body was overwhelmed by waves of pleasure as his fingers rubbed more vigorously against the pressure of my now frantically contracting sphincter. When I was through hyperventilating and convulsing like a lunatic, Mr Santos was still holding me, smiling.

He continued to pay me whenever we got together, but we talked more, he took more time with me, he felt challenged to give me orgasms in unexpected ways. He introduced blindfolds, light bondage, and spanking to the list of things we were now doing with each other regularly in a lavish king-sized bed. I looked at him uneasily, not at all pleased that the world of my other tricks was even remotely entering into our time together. You and every other trick on earth , I told myself. The last thing I wanted was to bring another girl into our scene, a girl who might prove to be more novel than me, a girl who might walk off with his number in her purse and then I would lose my favorite trick.

Mr Santos was now the man I fantasized about when I was home alone in bed. He immediately piqued my interest. Occasinally, we get together when our spouses are otherwise detained and we have sex. I told her about you. How much fun you are. How amenable you can be. And whose idea was it to make it a threesome, I wondered suspiciously, hers, or his? I would really like to see you eat her pussy. And I think she has an idea of a scene of her own. Or to have any kind of sex with her, for that matter. She sounded harmless enough. Still, I agreed to do the three-way. We made an appointment for an afternoon the following week.

For some reason, we were meeting in a tacky hotel in midtown — gone was the luxury of the king-sized bed, the crisp white sheets and room service. Mr Santos had asked me to bring along an outfit that would be suitable for a naughty little girl routine. He was nothing like an average trick. So when I knocked on the hotel room door that afternoon, I was already horny, already sopping wet between my legs. Until Mr Santos let me into the room and introduced me to his woman friend. I was certain it was her. If she did, she never once let on. But I knew it was her. She was simply using a fake name, like a lot of tricks do.

I had that feeling of panic in my gut that I used to get in my early days of hustling; I wanted to bolt. It would be worth it. But I saw immediately that it was going to be just that — work. I figured that if she knew Mr Santos, she must have money, too, and that always helps women stay good-looking. Perhaps for the sick thrill of tormenting teenagers? He was leaving me alone with her. The dreaded moment was starting to look even worse.

Not only would I have to get naked for Mrs Hamilton, I would have to be completely alone with her while it happened. No horny Mr Santos around to use as a buffer zone. The implications of that thought creeped me out. I had to force myself to keep my mind a blank. Mrs Hamilton was going through my bag, pulling out my change of clothes. She seemed to recognize the uniform for what it was — something real girls wore in real high schools. She eyed me coolly, taking in that last remark. She was actually making me nervous. But I went over to her. Without hesitating, she began undressing me.

She had my shirt off. She was moving to unfasten my bra then, her fingers were touching the skin on my back, her face was close to mine. But consider yourself warned. I deal with your kind every day. My bra was off. My tits were right there in front of her, my nipples shivering to stiff points from the sudden change in temperature. How many times had I bared my tits for strange clients? But this took the cake for strangeness. I felt exposed. She barely even paused to look at my nakedness. She was already on to my tight jeans, unzipping them, tugging them down to my ankles. I was in that state of half-undressed nervousness when Mr Santos came back to the room, carrying a fifth of gin and a large carton of Tropicana OJ.

Jesus , I wondered, how trashy are we going to get? Where was the top-shelf bourbon, or at the very least, some cheap champagne? Anyone want a drink? We all did. Mr Santos played bartender while keeping a keen eye on us. Mrs Hamilton had me completely undressed, except for my panties. Those she seemed to want to take more time with.

She lowered them slowly, anticipating the unveiling of my neatly trimmed snatch. She was actually squatting down in front of me, apparently wanting an up close and personal view. I was suddenly wet again. She looked up at Mr Santos, who was now standing next to us, offers of drinks in his hands. I took my drink from Mr Santos and gulped it down. I needed fortification. Mrs Hamilton was fucking hot. And now she was licking me, her mouth was actually on me down there, and I was getting off on it. Jesus, I wondered; what was going to happen here?

Alone, unsupervised with two horny tricks who could get me this worked up; two people apparently intent on doing a pseudo-incest scene, with me playing the part of the helpless bottom, two tops wanting to have their way with me, and all of us downing cheap gin? I was light-headed. She held tight to my ass cheeks, her mouth flush with my mound. She moaned as her hot tongue slid eagerly around in the folds of my pussy lips, occasionally landing directly on the tip of my clit.


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  8. I was soon so aroused by the lusty sounds she made, that I actually held on to her head to keep myself steady. It all seemed so decadently tawdry. The horny bitch moaned even more. Mr Santos lit a cigarette. He stood close to us, watching it all unfold, feeling up my titties while he watched — taking firm handfuls of titty flesh and squeezing, kneading, then tugging roughly on my stiff, aching nipples.

    He took a drag off his cigarette and then put his mouth on mine, forcing exhaled smoke into my open mouth along with his tongue. But Mr Santos had his thoughts elsewhere. He pulled away from me the second before I had a chance to come. The sound of his voice seemed to bring Mrs Hamilton back to earth. She got up from between my legs abruptly, her mouth a slick mess. She went straight for the drink awaiting her on the dresser. I could see her mentally pulling herself together; reminding herself which one of us girls was on top.

    Within moments, she was in stepmother mode. Your father and I want to be alone. I did as I was told, stopping first to refresh my drink. I closed myself up in the small, ugly bathroom and got into my uniform. Outside, I could hear the lusty sounds of them going at each other. Had they managed to strip out of their clothes in record time and begin fucking?

    Were they only partially undressed and sucking each other, or — just what were they doing? I was not only keenly curious, I was also jealous. But that was all part of the scene. Naughty girls went wide-eyed into every opportunity to misbehave. I quietly cracked open the bathroom door and peeked out at them.

    They were fucking, all right. But they were, for the most part, still dressed. Mrs Hamilton was bent over the foot of the bed with her pants tugged down to her knees, while Mr Santos, cock out of his unzipped trousers, rode her hard from behind. I was transfixed — they were in such a frenzy of lust. Plus the cheap booze had gone to my head.

    Her white ass looked huge, sticking out like that. I worked my hand up under my skirt and inside my white panties. I wiggled my clit furiously as I watched them fuck like dogs. As if on cue, Mrs Hamilton glanced over at the bathroom door and caught me spying on them. It seemed to make her ass jut out even more, if that was possible. I quickly closed the bathroom door and tried to mind my own business. Naturally it was too late, and the incest-punishment scene was in full swing. There was soon a knock on the bathroom door.

    She looked good naked, but she looked angry. As I went to her, there was a fear in my belly reminiscent of what I had once felt facing actual punishment as a child. I was hoping he would force me to make it up to him somehow — all his disappointment in how I had misbehaved. But for now, the emphasis was on Louise. This was decidedly her scene, the part she was paying for.

    I stood directly in front of her, cowering in my schoolgirl uniform. I gave it some serious thought. Mr Santos, however, was in the throes of lust. He was watching it all while avidly stroking himself. I was playing my part to the hilt now and Mrs Hamilton had succumbed completely to the erotic pull of her role.

    She was so obviously entranced by the power of her anger. You need a good spanking to teach you a lesson. Get over here, right over my knee, young lady. She grabbed me and pulled me over her knee, positioning me across her lap in such a way that everything between my legs would be facing Mr Santos. She lifted my skirt. She held my wrists tight and then gave my ass a resounding spank.

    My ass burned. I tried to wriggle away from the aim of her blows, but it was to no avail. She pulled gently but firmly on my hair, forcing me to look up into her face. Daddy had gotten off the bed and come around in front of me. He was slowly jerking himself off in my face. I looked up at him, now, too. God, he looked hot. Daddy seemed to be in a swoon. He stuck the head of his cock between my lips. Arching my head back uncomfortably with one hand, he worked his thick tool in and out of my mouth.

    Louise worked two fingers up my hole then, giving me a thorough finger-fucking while Daddy worked on my eager mouth. Within moments, Daddy had pulled a condom from his pocket. No fingers, just lick her. Lick her while Daddy punishes you. Louise was laying flat across the bed now and I knelt between her spread legs. I began licking her swollen pussy with gusto, centering on her tiny, erect clit. He went at my hole aggressively, going in deep and pulling out slow, thoroughly opening the hole, giving me the fucking of my life. She kept my face pressed close to her mound while my tongue licked furiously at her clit, wiggled it and swirled it.

    Daddy was grunting, seriously riding my ass in the depths of his own orgasm when Louise came in my mouth. I came just moments after she did, feeling positively delirious. But the downside of it all was that shortly after this little explosion of mutual climaxes, they paid me my fee and told me I was free to go, even though it was obvious that they were in no hurry to leave.

    I was still just a hooker to him, just one that he had an unusual amount of fun with. It had been a rude awakening for me, one that made me less inclined to arrange many trysts with him afterward. I never let on to him that Mrs Hamilton had once been my high school teacher, or that it had been an unnerving liaison for me in a number of ways. I kept my thoughts to myself and went through the motions of earning my five hundred bucks.

    Eventually, I stopped seeing him altogether.

    The other girls I can barely remember, her I can never forget.

    I was going to miss that guy. Lying in bed alone and half awake, hand cupping her cunt, she enjoyed an orderly remembering of the extraordinary week that just ended. She was in love — again. Things so often go slower these days, she thought, given AIDS and the age, not to mention their age. With an inadvertent smile, she tried to account for their not jumping into bed on the first or even the second date.

    Sex on the fourth date was something of a rarity in her experience as opposed to the more common variety — the slam-you-up-against-the-wall, I-could-fuck-you-right-here first date kind. With Josh, it was four dates before they got to bed. A week later, now that she was spending every night with him, it seemed both fast and slow. But what mattered, was that they got there at their own pace, and that was so right, she thought, feeling a ripple of desire course through her stomach.

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