Being an author is not for sissies. You pour your heart and soul into your stories. You spend hours of your scarce time and more money than you can afford on marketing. With each new release, you hope you’ll finally grab the attention of the book-buying crowd, that you’ll get the readership and the remuneration you deserve.
If that doesn’t happen (and given the number of people publishing books these days, odds are that it won’t), you’re stuck with the bitter knowledge that all your passion and effort were for nothing. This can be deeply demoralizing, even if you’re not trying to make your living as an author. If you depend on your writing to pay your bills, you’ve got financial anxiety added to your frustration.
I know this frustration only too well. My books receive consistent five star reviews, but somehow I’ve never been a commercial success. Thus, Damned If You Do is a rather personal story.
What would I do if I could magically turn my books into best sellers? How much would that be worth to me? That’s the question my romance author heroine faces when a mysterious stranger shows up waving a contract and promising her fame and fortune, sensual pleasure and the fulfillment of her most secret desires.
All he asks in return is her soul.
Crazy. Dangerous, maybe. But so, so tempting!
The smoke-tinted windows created a perpetual twilight within the vehicle. An equally dark barrier separated the spacious back seat from the driver in front. No one could see the lewd manner in which Mister B dragged her shirt up to her armpits and her bra down to her waist, exposing her ample breasts. When he twisted her nipple with impeccably manicured fingers, lust poured through her, as though he’d opened a spigot. Her pussy overflowed to further drench her already-sodden panties. She squirmed on the slick seat, hungry for stimulation.
Without releasing her breast, he rubbed two fingers along the damp seam of her jeans. Wendy couldn’t suppress a desperate moan. He chuckled as he sniffed his fingertips. “Your fragrance is exquisite, my dear.” Cupping her pubis, he ground the heel of his hand against her clit while his fingers beat out a frustrating rhythm against the tightly stretched denim between her thighs.
She hadn’t been this turned on in months—no, years. The substantial bulge at his fly told her he was also aroused, but somehow she didn’t dare touch him. Though he had yet to give her any orders, he had made it clear she had to obey him if she wanted to reap the benefits of this strange arrangement.
Meanwhile, an odd passivity had taken her over. He’d told her not to think, but only to feel. Her rational self, the part that screamed warnings about engaging in sexual trysts with total strangers, had retreated to some distant corner of her mind, leaving only a hunger to be touched, a craving to be filled, a shameful desire to be used and even abused.
“I know what you want, Gwen. What you truly need. I’ve read all your stories of implacable masters and eager slaves. But you never go all the way in your tales, do you? You don’t dare show the world the true depths of your depravity.”
His words inflamed her almost as much as his actions.
“I—oh!” He ripped open her fly and forced his hand down the front of her jeans, under the elastic of her underwear, into her soaked and swollen cunt. His fingers were like tongues of flame as they probed her cleft and teased her clit. “Oh, please…I can’t bear it…”
As quickly as they’d arrived, his fingers were gone, leaving her empty and aching. She gazed at him in a state of horny disbelief as he used a monogrammed hankie from his breast pocket to clean her juices from his elegant hands. “I shall decide what you must bear, my sweet little slave. Now I believe we’ve arrived at your abode, where we can explore this question further. You should fix your clothing.”
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