Delta Unlimited … well, almost.

Once again Amazon has come up with something new, which may or may not help authors. They call it “Kindle Unlimited”, and they are offering of a 30-day free trial. If you sign up for it, you can ‘borrow’ an unlimited number of books (though a maximum 10 at any one time) and read them all for the low price of $10 per month. If you live in the US.

Any book you read at least 10% of, the author gets paid for out of a fund established for borrowing. The more borrows overall, the less per borrow the author makes. The authors’ share may be more or less than they would get had they sold the book instead of having it lent out.

Only books in “Kindle Select” (meaning they are exclusive to Amazon) are available for this program – at least for us little guys.

I’m a natural pessimist and I doubt this will do me any good, probably the opposite. However, for those Americans reading this forum, if you decide to take Amazon up on its 30-day free trial, you might think of the lowly erotica writers who post here. Check out our inventories, read a bit here or a bit there (at least 10%). Heck, you may find out you like some of the stories enough to read through, want to read again, and thus eventually buy.

I put all the stories that I could (I have a few of them up elsewhere, so they don’t comply) into Select to see what would happen. Once in Select, we have to leave them there for 90 days and promise to not publish them elsewhere for those 90 days as well.

Delta has 15 books in Select, and Echo has 2. As of this point, I have had 4 borrows all told. I’m curious to see if this post elicits any borrows. I’ll come back in two weeks and report on the results. And, hey, don’t forget my friends – they might be in dire need of a borrow or two themselves.

Okay, the flagrant mercenary business done, I’ll drift over to more of the soft-sell, which hasn’t done me all that much good. Doesn’t matter, I kinda like putting forth my opinion even if it helps not at all.

A fellow author came back from a Romance Writers of America conference with a rousing recommendation for a book on writing. It talks of how to engage the reader’s brain.

Mostly, I believe I picked up on most of the points during my reading – and writing – career. A lot of it seems obvious to me. Characters have a past (i.e. before they come into their first scene in your book) which colours how they look at things. The reader doesn’t have to know that past, but the author must. She can eventually let the reader know … or not. Sometimes it’s better to leave the reader wondering. Often the reader will make up a much more satisfying backstory for a character than the author would.

No, the reader isn’t more skilled than the author in this respect – well, at least not necessarily – but the reader knows how she feels about things, and what would make the best story for her. Not for anyone else, but for her, only. The author has to make a story work for a much wider audience.

Echo’s two Dark Damsel books, “Damsel in Distress” and “Betrayals” let us know that Detective Ray Barton has feelings for, perhaps is in love with, Dark Damsel. What exactly about her has caused this, we don’t know. As Echo, I do, but I ain’t saying. Some readers might suppose it’s because she reminds him of someone – and that someone will change depending upon how each reader feels about it. It could be his ex-wife (if he has one), his sister, his Grade 11 English teacher – whomever. And, because each reader will make his or her own assumption, it will be the best for the book. Were I to say, for example, that Dark Damsel reminds him of his sister – I might get the joy of those who appreciate the incest kink, but I’d lose many others. By not ‘coming clean’, those with an incest kink can believe she reminds him of his sister, those with a fetish for teachers, his teacher, and so on. Perhaps she reminds him of an old crush whom he never had the nerve to speak to, to tell of his feelings, and he finds himself in the same situation again. It doesn’t matter. I allow the reader to decide, and the reader becomes more closely bound to the story because of that. But I, as author, know.

On the other hand, when Royale disciplines Colleen in “Betrayals” – and apparently takes great pleasure in this – I want the reader to know why. So, when I’m in Royale’s mind, I let her thoughts guide the reader, let the reader know exactly why she glories in the taking of her partner-in-crime, in watching her being used, humiliated, and why Royale so enjoys the show she forces Colleen to put on for the onlookers. But I don’t come out and immediately give all that information. I allow Royale’s feelings to become known, causing the reader to wonder just what the problem is between the two, allow the action to go forth, and then, finally, explain it so the reader can say, “Aha! So, that’s it!” It also gives some insight into Colleen, which allows the reader to understand the type of person Colleen is – thus removing sympathy and allowing the reader to join Royale in revelling in someone ‘getting what she deserves’. And she does get it, all right.

It’s a delicate balance. As author, I should know something about each character’s past so I can present them in a coherent and consistent manner. As a reader, I want to be able to see consistency on the part of the character, but also be able to figure out why she does what she does – either through clues or merely by building my own backstory for her to fit the case.

Anyway, now you – if you’re a U.S. Resident, and if you accept Amazon’s free trial – can partake of the Dark Damsel stories for free, and feel good about yourself because you know I’ll get paid something anyway. If you do decide to take a look, even if the story doesn’t appeal to your particular tastes, scroll past the 10% mark before returning it.

And don’t forget some of the other authors whose posts you enjoy. Sample some of their works if they are available.

Your local neighbourhood Deltonian,


* * *
Kindle Unlimited Free Trial Sign-up info

Echo Chambers’ books

Delta’s Books

Once a Sex Worker…

Growth is painful. Change is painful.But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.
-Mandy Hale
I’ve stumbled across a lot of quotes like this lately, and maybe it’s my mindset, but I keep seeing what I need to see in them.
The most important thing is to keep the most important thing the important thing.
-Steven Covey

The things I once knew, and had forgotten. The things that got swept to the side, the things that were important but neglected.

The past few weeks have led to a lot of introspection about what I want in my life, and how to go about it. It coincidentally coincided with some fairly major life changes – I got married, lost someone I loved, turned 30, got suspended on Amazon, and finally, got a shitty raise offer at my corporate job.

The job I work over 40 hours a week on, and spend most of my time and energy being devoted to doing a good job at, to the expense of all other things, including my dreams and passions.

So, perhaps now you’re wondering why the title is about sex workers.

Before I took this corporate job, I was an ‘exotic dancer’. A stripper. A seductress and tease for the pay.

It gave me the freedom to work when I wanted and how I wanted. I am naturally a night owl, and it let me keep to that schedule. It was fun, and exciting, and frustrating and stressful all at the same time. I took this corporate day job for the stability and the security, but now I realize that that, as much as anything, is an illusion.

I’ve become money hungry and selfish. I’ve wanted more things, more trips, more extravagent living quarters, more friends, more stuff. I’ve been infected by those I work around, and find myself needy for their approval.

So, with that self reflection in mind, and the fact that writing has been pushed to the back burner, I’ve started to reassess my priorities and what I want to do, and I keep coming back to sex work. Becoming a cam girl, or stripping again, all while keeping my writing the main focus of my life. Really treating it as a full time job, and dedicating myself to it as fully as possible.

Surely if I were able to do that, if I were able to reclaim that 40-50 hours a week, we’d be able to make a living on this, right? And in the meantime, I can dance, and get back in touch with my sensuality.

But it’s a risk, saying goodbye to a salary job. Dancing, like writing, depends on how much work you put in, and some luck. Luck that the right person finds you at the right time when they’re ready to buy. You can put in more work to mitigate that luck factor, but it’s always going to be there.

But I’m not happy with who I’ve become with this corporate job, and how selfish and greedy I find myself to be. So maybe this is a chance, an opportunity, as my husband keeps saying, and we should take it.

In the end, the real question is… how much do I trust myself? And how much am I willing to risk it all, and throw myself back into a 100% sex work filled life?

[If you're a fan of us, and of our stuff, we've released a new podcast, and still need more supporters on Patreon to meet our goal.]

Mia Again


Yep, here I am again just in the nick of time – the eleventh hour.

I’m surprised to see that people are still linking up to my blog,; still checking to see if I’m going to post something because I have practically abandoned it.  I have to say marketing is such a bitch.  It is my detriment that I’m not the kind of artist who likes to connect to an audience.  The minute I hear someone’s opinion, whether praise or criticism, I’m completely out of my head and I start to question every fucking decision I make.

I finally started something new.  Trying to regurgitate the lost manuscript from last year but in a new and improved way and I have a clear picture of the whole story and all the chapters I have yet to write.  There’s something about being in this groove.  Spending hours writing like it is the easiest thing in the world, that is something I can’t really comprehend.  It doesn’t happen or it’s not supposed to happen.  I can’t will it to happen to save my life, and then I take a break and boom – I can do it.  It happens like some mystical magical other-worldly thing.

What is that?  It’s really, really weird.  And yet it feels very right.  It feels like I’m doing something important and special.  Yes, I realize that every other writer thinks the same thing.  They obviously do.  But I can’t think about them.  I’m not about the comraderie of the group AT ALL  It’s just not me.  If I was the only person on Earth and all I had were a few cats and my stories, and an internet full of porn, I’d actually be okay.  Is that sad or weird?

My new story may or may not have sex in it to tell you the truth.  I’m wondering about that.  What if I tell it without all the sex and as a crime story?  I’m leaning that way right now because it seems like the only way I can have what I want and make it something more people would want to read.

There are a couple days left to get my books at the sale prices.  Cinderella Club is only 99 cents.  I mean, I should have never done that, but I did and you can buy it plus the other two in the trilogy for $3.99 each.  Those are Kindle prices. The Createspace paperbacks are a lot more.  But we’re talking 400 plus page novels!  Putting the Madge in Danna is also only 99 cents.  It’s such a cute story, maybe not so erotic but I LOVE it and so did everyone who rated it on Goodreads (all 5-stars).  A Ghost’s Chance is also 99 cents (and a 4.96 on Goodreads).  But only until July 31st.  Then they will be back up to normal prices.

Okay, so I’m going to try to get back to writing.  I’ve been on Tumblr a lot re-blogging sexy bondage pics like cray-cray.  Check out my site here -

How to write a novel…

How to write a novel… it’s what you’ve always wanted to know, isn’t it? And now for the bargain price of $999.99, I’m going to let you in on the secret of my success…

Okay, once you’ve stopped laughing and cursing, let me actually tell you about this post. If you caught my last outing here, you’ll know that my so-called success is inversely in proportion to the amount of time I spend distracting myself on social media rather than writing. Status update: the social media’s going well. The writing? Meh!

Why? you might ask. Why, after last week’s admittance of your distraction habits, have you not now got them in check? The answer’s simple. I’ve discovered a new and exciting distraction: the infographic template. And so to celebrate, I’ve made you all a sexy little infographic called Creating the Novel!


(No, that’s right. I didn’t mention where I got the template from. Because I don’t want you all to realize how damn easy that was! But I’m not that mean either, so if you want details, just hit me in the comments. It was, in fact, like taking candy from a baby!)




Big in Canada

Winner Takes All by PJ AdamsThis month I had one of my biggest writing successes, and I’m still trying to work out why.

Winner Takes All came out in late June and picked up momentum quickly. Then in mid-July the book got slots in a few email promotions (My Romance Reads, Ereader News Today and a couple of others) and all of a sudden it was racing up the charts.

Peaks included good chart positions at Amazon for Romantic Suspense and Suspense, and in Amazon Canada the book topped a few charts and reached number eight in the entire Kindle store, sitting alongside books by the likes of Stephen King, James Patterson and Jodi Picoult.

So what actually happened?

Those email promos gave the book a big boost, but don’t explain everything. Winner Takes All was already heading up the charts and, in particular, was already in Amazon Canada’s overall top 40.

Thanks to distribution of some ARCs, the book had some great reviews from the off, which must have helped. But other than the email promos and the ARCs I didn’t do anything differently to when previous books came out: no blog tours, no hiring of publicists, no big social media campaign.

So I’m still struggling to identify what made this book such a success. In particular, what is its Canadian appeal? It’s set in Maine and New Hampshire: do Canadians like books that are almost, but not quite, set in Canada…? I can’t see anything in the book’s description that would make it either more likely to be found or bought by Canadian:

When a guy in a tux walks into a bar in the middle of nowhere, dripping wet from the storm, and pulls out a sodden roll of hundred dollar bills, you just know he’s going to be trouble.

Denny McGowan has lost his girl, his best friend and millions of dollars. All he has are the clothes on his back, the money in his pocket, an easy, wise-cracking charm that could melt the hardest of hearts… and two gangsters on his tail and out for revenge.

Cassandra Dane is down on her luck, and on the run from a father fresh out of jail. She’s probably the last girl you’d expect to hook up with someone as hot and exciting as Denny – and she knows it. But things are not always what they seem and sometimes you’re just on the tail-end of a string of bad luck and worse decisions.

When a one-night stand looks like becoming something more than that, Cassie must decide whether she can trust a complete stranger like Denny and work out what he’s really after. As matters of the heart become matters of life and death, Cassie has some tough choices to make.

And foremost among these: just how many chances do you give a guy like Denny McGowan?

Winner Takes All: the explosive bad boy romance from bestselling erotic romance author PJ Adams.


Do Canadians just have a soft spot for bad boy romantic thrillers?

I think momentum is a big factor. Once a book is heading up the charts, for whatever reasons, it tends to become more visible to potential buyers, appearing in the ‘also bought’ displays and in those ‘books you might like’ emails from Amazon and other sellers. Maybe it was just that I struck lucky early on and then the book had momentum and kept rising.

But what are the elements that contributed to the book striking lucky in the first place?

I’d love to hear if anyone out there has any more ideas about why books sometimes take off like this!

Anti-Social or Just Too Busy to Think?

I’m older than most indies and that means stuff like perspective, experience and our old buddy: hindsight.

I don’t know if there’s a strict advantage to being older (like generations before us claim). But I do know in the indie book biz, it doesn’t hurt to be younger.

If you were raised in the 1990s or beyond, you’ve got an advantage. Kids from that decade cut their teeth with the beginnings of real internet, video games and beyond. It seems young adults from that decade have a built-in skill set for the tech challenge and needs of self-promotion required to become a successful independent publisher.


In strolls chicks raised in the 70s, scratching our heads.

Formatting? (Not social media but horrible nonetheless.)




How, when and why? Well, it’s all about availing ourselves to our readership. (I didn’t include Facebook because I actually knew something for that one.)

When I began in 2011 and had my first manuscript to upload in my hand, I fashioned a blog, facebook fan pages, a twitter account and eventually stumbled through Pinterest. Why Pinterest when I could do Instagram or Tumbler… whatever? It seemed like the most fun. What’s not to like? I get to spam the world with my visual clutter. Dig it. It’s not about my thoughts or feelings, it’s about what I like to see. Reading without words.

Twitter is its own culture. Not sure if you’re aware. I wasn’t. I slowly got to know the ropes of how to use this new social animal and have been training my assistant on what announcements to make on my page. That’s right—assistant.

As far back as last November of 2013 I was looking for both a publicist and assistant. The thing some indies might not convey is the huge tech side of the job. It’s been only since May that I was able to finally hire those critical components to my career.

Anyone can write a book? Right? Sure—with a caveat: It’s a lot more work than it seems on superficial observation. A lot. More than writing a good book with a kick ass cover. More than great editing and that final, millionth read-through.

Back to social media. I like being social, maintaining my pages (two for each name guys), etc. However, after I got to more than 25 titles published, I stopped treading water and began to drown. Social media is important. Writing is more so. I have curtailed my presence on all my sites, streamlined the info. Dump, and kept my interactions personal.

Is that me you’re talking to on FB, or my assistant? Answer: me.


Is that me that’s thrown up that book number umpdee-squat is on sale this week? Answer: probably not. Guess what I’m doing instead of announcing a sale or book release: Writing. Or editing. Or reading through.

Who posts excerpts and quotes from my work to tantalize readers? I do.

Who sends out my newsletter with the new excerpt.

My assistant.


Essentially, social media is about information exchange. I was no longer able to give readers the news and tidbits to keep them informed about my work.

Now I can.

And the best news of all is I have more time to interact on a personal level with all of them. Social media is huge, readers expect authors to be available like never before, and authors want to be.

I’m so grateful there’s a way to touch base with my readers and to continue to write as quickly as they want me to. I feel like I’m finally using social media as the tool it is meant to be: interacting with my readers about The Work. Awesome!

So if I only pop up once or twice a week on Facebook to comment or share a quote from my work in progress, rest assured—I’m not anti-social.

I’m writing.

P4160033 copy

Write long, write hard. 

Violence is Worse Than Sex. But Fictional Violence Is Easier to Publish Than Fictional Sex.

Every time I try to publish something kinky and run up against one bookseller or another’s unwritten rules of acceptability (a fairly regular occurrence), it makes me sit back and think about what I could have published instead.

noblewomanFor example, A Noblewoman’s Fall as it’s currently written isn’t eligible for most markets because it involves romantic and sexual relations between a brother/sister pairing. (It manages to squeak into other markets via “pseudoincest” — a cheesy workaround wherein “related” characters aren’t technically blood relatives, usually thanks to adoption or some similar mechanic.)

Now, had I wanted to write a mystery about that same brother strangling his sister, that would have been fine. I could potentially have even billed it as a “cozy mystery” if the descriptions weren’t too graphic.

Alternatively, I could have labeled it “gritty” and had the brother rape the sister, but off-screen and before the action of the book begins, to be revealed only in an autopsy scene with a suitably grim-faced coroner.

Or I could have written about a brother and sister abducted by a tyrannical government and forced to fight each other to the death in a high-tech arena, and it would be billed as YA. Yes, for “young adult.” Emphasis on the “adult” rather than the “young,” amirite?

Any of those would have been fine. More than fine — they would have been all-audiences fine, which A Noblewoman’s Fall wouldn’t be even if I’d cut the incestuous overtone completely. Just your basic ol’ bodice-ripper qualifies for adult-content filtering, keeping it off most search results, before you even start getting into fetishized content.

A butter knife in the eye is literally more socially acceptable to read about than a penis in a vagina. Pause and roll that thought around in your mind for a minute.

It is a strange world where consenting sexual relationships — even odd ones — are considered more taboo than violent, non-consensual ones. We don’t blink at murder, while desperately walling off anything but the most conventional romantic and sexual relationships. Even depictions of rape get a pass as long as they’re in there to provide “character depth,” rather than titillation. (And by “character depth” we of course mean making heroines sad and villains extra-double-plus mustache twirly evil.)

“Kill the bad guys, kill ‘em dead. But don’t kiss the wrong person!” That’s the lesson behind what can be published freely and what has to dance delicately around a maze of invisible, unspoken lines in the sand.

I suppose I should be clear in closing here that I don’t think we should be banning violent fiction, or filtering it more aggressively. But I do think that any argument in favor of censoring erotic content is an argument that can logically be extended to violent content as well, and if we’re not going to do that…well…I’ve got books I’d like to sell, here.

Happy Birthday To Me

I am writing this on my birthday, the 21st, but when you guys read it my day will be over, on the 22nd.

The big 39. The year during which people will look at me funny, and the braver souls will ask, “And how many times have you turned 39 so far?”

Lol, I almost wish I could skip it and be 40 twice. No one thinks you’re lying when you say 40.


So, you poor guys get to read my birthday thoughts/ramblings as I turn a year older. I’m not taking the day off, after I get this post ready I planning on getting my “Shared” bundle up on Amazon.

I’m walking on my treadmill desk as I write this, not even taking the day off from that. It’s habit now, and I want to keep it up. It’s also mindless, which is nice.

The husband and I celebrated Sunday night, with a fabulous lakeside dinner at our favorite marina. Well, the night was fabulous, the food not so much. We definitely don’t go there for the food, or the prices, but it was a beautiful night sipping drinks, visiting with my baby and enjoying the breeze/water/people watching.

Wanna know something weird? I can’t wait to turn 40.

I’m not even sure why. You know those feelings you get sometimes, telling you that something you are about to do is either going to go very well or very badly? I JUST KNOW my 40′s are going to be GREAT. Like all caps great!

The last time I JUST KNEW about an age, I was waiting on 34 and 35. I met my husband at 34 and we married when I was 35. So…

Not to get all religious on you guys, but I totally believe in a higher power, and I’ve often JUST KNOWN things. I knew my kiddo would be a girl, and my sister’s would be a boy. I knew when my grandpa died before the phone call came. Stuff, ya know? So I am so psyched for my 40′s.

Other weird stuff happens, too. Like this one time in college, I came flying off a freeway exit way faster than my young self should have. There was a car. There was no way in hell I could stop without hitting it. I hit the brakes, feeling sure I was about to meet this person face to face after I joined him in his back seat.

Then this hand? wall? separated us somehow, and I felt the car come to a sudden stop where experience told me should have been in the place that car was already sitting, but no. A piece of papers worth of space was between us. It was very odd and has stayed with me forever.

Then, there was this guy I had met and was just starting to date. Our first real, getting picked up at the house, date was to be in a few days and I was getting this weird feeling about it. I woke up KNOWING I had to cancel and never see this guy again. Whatever had gone down in my dream state, I woke up in a panic. I was sick to my stomach and my whole being was screaming out, “Do Not Go!”

It wouldn’t go away. I HAD to call him and cancel. Then I saw that it was 2 am. So I said out loud, “I will call, I promise. But it is 2 am right now. Please let this feeling stop. I will call in the daylight hours and break this off, I will never see this man again, but please let me sleep/feel better. If I go to sleep tomorrow night not having done so, then you can make me feel this way again.”

The feeling went away, I slept like a baby, broke it off the next day, and have never felt like that about another person ever again. Of course, I have no idea what would have happened if I had gone out with him, but I’m fine with that.

I’ll give ya just one more. I was out drinking with a group, for my boyfriend at the time’s birthday. We had a designated, and we were all crashing at his friend’s house, so sky was the limit. I drank his ass under the table. I matched him shot for shot with jello shots. Now normally I don’t drink like that. I have my certain amount of liquor, I drink to a certain time, and am sober before I leave the bar. Responsible and shit.

But this night, the shots had ZERO effect. Nothing. I couldn’t feel them. He got so shit faced he broke his foot that night, and never felt it til morning. He spent time later at the friend’s house on the bathroom floor. We were given their kid’s room, (the kids were not there that weekend) which had two twin beds in it. We plopped him into one, and I took the other.

He was passed out cold. Some of the people we partied with that night were cops and medics, so I didn’t worry about him much, as a few of them stayed sober, and they kept an eye out.

Later, after the house settled down and got quiet, some guy let himself into our room. He was quite surprised to be confronted by a lucid woman. I KNOW the only thing that kept that from taking a bad turn was that I, who had matched my boyfriend drink for drink, was stone ass sober and awake when he came in.

So, the past is the past, and the future lies ahead, unknown. But for some KNOWN but unknown reason, I can’t wait for my 40′s.

Thanks for allowing me a birthday ramble, I’m sure my next post will be more erotica minded. If I haven’t bored you too much, any weird happenings you’d like to share? Either way, have a drink for me tonight, and always, ALWAYS go with your gut.


Betrayal is a nasty word, and being betrayed by a friend one of the nastiest feelings I know. That’s the major taboo of friendship. You may lie to your friends, keep things from them, let them down from time to time, but you don’t betray them. However, as we all know, taboos make for good sex stories. I could go on and explain that further, using my dry, professorial tone, but perhaps an example might clear things up a mite.

* * *

I looked up to see a wicked smile on her face, and I knew I was in trouble. Cynthia had been my best friend from grade school, through high school and college. We had been practically inseparable. I had asked her to be maid-of-honour at my wedding, and our friendship had continued up to the present. I had trusted her, confided my innermost feelings and thoughts to her – and she to me. But that look on her face told me that I had never really known her.

“Cat got your tongue, Linda?”

No, the penis gag had it. With my mouth wrapped around it, with it pressing down against my tongue, I could make no intelligible sounds – and grunts and moans didn’t cut it as far as she was concerned. She just didn’t feel like trying to interpret them. Or maybe she could, but pretended a lack of ability.

Her smile widened just a little, and she bent down and tweaked my already engorged nipples, causing me to strain against the bonds. But, with my hands tied together, and anchored above my head on the large bed, with my feet slightly apart and anchored to the bottom, I couldn’t escape. I squirmed.

“You look so pretty there,” she said. “So petite, just like a centrepiece on a table.” She glanced at the clock on the night table. “Well, we’d better finish up here, it’s almost time.”

She reached inside the bag she had brought, and pulled out two boxes. She showed them to me, and I swallowed. Two plugs. The models on the boxes were smiling. I couldn’t smile. Cynthia opened the first and my eyes widened at the size of it. It started off small, widened considerably, then had a sharp taper, ending with a patch such that it would be held inside me, but not slip all the way in. And I’d have great difficulty pushing it out. With my hands unavailable, I’d have to wait for help to remove it.

“Some lube, I think, though from the smell of things, you’re lubing up quite nicely as it is.”

I flushed. She told the truth. I felt all wet and gushy. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see her knowing smirk. Then I felt the plug at my lips, and Cynthia began pushing it. I gasped into the gag.

“Too big, too big,” I tried to say, but it didn’t come out that way at all, and Cynthia never stopped working it in and out until the widest part of the taper suddenly slipped in me. My muscles closed around it, and there I lay, plugged.

“Very good,” she chuckled. “Open your eyes.”

I didn’t want to open my eyes; I knew what I would see. A slap against my thigh changed my mind. I opened them to see the anal plug in her hand. It had the same sort of taper as the other, but smaller. I shook my head, no. It would never fit.

“Oh, it will fit, all right,” Cynthia said, grinning. “We’ll make it fit.” I closed my eyes again, and she laughed. She removed the anchors at my feet, and brought them up to my shoulders, such that my legs were spread and my feet were above me, giving her all the access she might ever want.

Nothing had been where she intended to put that nasty device, and I shuddered, fearing the pain it would cause.

“Good thing we cleaned you out, down there, hey?” She said with a little laugh as she pressed it against my anus.

I flushed again, remembering the enema that I had not wanted. But she had insisted, the witch. I tensed.

“Relax, and push out. It will hurt less.”

It didn’t hurt at all, to my vast surprise. She worked on me for almost ten minutes, pushing in just a little, then pulling out again. Each time, she stretched me just a little more, sometimes giving me a little breather before moving on again. It, too, suddenly slipped in, and my sphincter closed about it, ensuring it would go nowhere without aid. I felt very full indeed.

“There, almost done,” Cynthia crooned. She replaced the anchors – and my feet – at the bottom of the bed. “Just one more thing.”

“One more thing?” I tried to say, aghast. I didn’t have any more holes to plug.

“Well, two more things, but one can wait.”

Two more things? I shook my head. She laughed and piled the two pillows together. She lifted me, and placed them under my butt. Then she pulled something from the bag. A vibrator. That and a cloth wrap. I found myself sucking on the penis gag like a soother. I knew what she intended, and I shook my head, no. She ignored that.

Too soon, the vibrator rested where it would do the most good – or ill – and the bondage wrap around my thighs ensured it would stay there. She pulled the pillows from me and I settled back on the bed, truly trapped.

“Let’s see if it works.”

“Let’s not,” I tried to cry out. She showed no mercy, and turned it on. She sat cross-legged on the bed, looking down at me, holding my gaze as the vibrator worked its magic on me. My breath started to come in huffs, and my body lifted to her. She idly fingered my nipples, sending bolts of electricity through me. I couldn’t, I just couldn’t come in front of her.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said, as if reading my mind. Then that wicked smile came back. “When something is inevitable, you might as well just lie back and enjoy it. This is inevitable.”

She reached out and touched my chin, turning my face to her. I held back as long as I could, but my body tightened, my hips raised and I groaned around the gag. I began jerking as I came. Then the vibrator became too much and I thrashed about, trying to escape.

The vibrations died.

“Very nice, and just in time.” She indicated the clock. “He should be here soon.” She waited while I calmed down.

A knock came at the door. “Last thing,” she said, and put a blindfold over my eyes. Then she turned me over, the pillows now beneath my hips, raising my ass lewdly into the air. I felt her weight leave the bed, a pat on my ass, and then heard the door open.

“You have the money?” she asked.

“One hundred and fifty,” the man answered, quietly. I heard bills being counted out.

“You have an hour. Make the most of it. I think she wants a trip around the world.” She whispered something I couldn’t hear, and I swallowed again as I heard the door close. Cynthia, the woman I had called my best friend in the world, had left, and I lay helpless to prevent what would now happen.

A large hand came down on my ass and began rubbing in circles. The other hand wandered up and down my back, tickling, stroking. Then they departed, and I heard the sounds of a man stripping.

I felt him loosen the anchor that held my hands above my head, giving me some slack. With the slack, when he pulled at my hips, I came back, raising my head for him. He knelt in front of me, and I could smell his musky aroma. He pulled the phallus from the ring-gag that held my mouth open. Then his cock entered my mouth. I had no choice in the matter, I began to do the best I could, given the gag.

He gasped, but said not a word. I wanted to hear him speak, to say something, anything. I wanted to see his face, but the blindfold meant I saw nothing. He hardened nicely. I found myself glorying in my power to arouse this man – and then he withdrew. To my shock and dismay, he reinserted the penis gag before I could say anything, then pushed me back down over the pillows.

“Umph!” The vibrator had started. I heard a chuckle. Then I felt his fingers pulling at the large plug. He gently pulled until it slid out, and he slid in, in its place. His weight came down on me, his hands hooked under my shoulders and he pulled me back to meet his thrusts. Soon I chuffed into the gag again. The vibrator drove me ever higher, and his cock worked in and out of me, while my rear felt pleasantly full. I began to enjoy the feeling, knowing that my body would cause his to lose control.

When he started the hard, fast strokes I knew he was almost there. I wiggled for him, again feeling power. He groaned and slammed into me, then held himself there, spilling his seed inside of me. He collapsed on me, his weight making it difficult to breathe.

A slap on my ass told me he had risen. He moved to my head again, and pulled out the gag. He pushed himself in, and I could taste his juices mingled with mine. To my surprise, he hardened almost immediately. I dreaded what was coming, but could say nothing, for he replaced the penis gag immediately his cock left my mouth.

The butt-plug came out after a bit of working, and then he entered me. Slightly bigger, and much longer, I felt an entirely new sensation.

“I want to hear you,” he whispered, and unbuckled the gag. I spit it out just as he began to thrust once more.

No one had ever taken my ass. It felt … different. Not unpleasant. Especially with the vibrator still driving me. I bucked and twisted under him, but he rode me like a bronco, never letting me get away.

“Oh, God!” I gasped, the vibrator, and his cock, having pushed me to the limit. “Oh, God!”

He began thrusting like a maniac, and I came, shuddering. I tightened rhythmically, and that sent him over once more. The vibrator continued to buzz.

“Off, off, turn it off,” I begged. He complied, reaching down and stilling the devil’s apparatus.

He lay there, on me, still inside me. He unclipped my wrists from the anchor and I brought them down. He turned us both on our sides, with his cock still in me, though softening. His arm around me, held me close.

“Happy Birthday, darling,” I said. He began rocking his hips. Surely not again?

“The children?” he asked.

“Cynthia’s going to pick them up at school, then baby-sit them until we come home tomorrow.”

“One hundred and fifty dollars?”

I laughed. “I was too embarrassed to buy the toys. I sent Cynthia in. She picked them up on her card. Oh, and the room is on her – her birthday gift to you.”

“Nice to have a friend like her,” he said, nibbling at an earlobe. He continued rocking his hips, and I felt him beginning to harden once again. “If she’s got the kids, why only an hour?”

“Room service. We ordered a birthday meal for you.”

“Vixen. Well, in that case, I’d better take full advantage of your position.” He began moving in and out of me again. “Oh, and if the room is in her name, I think I’ll just leave you uncovered when room service arrives – a tip for the waiter.”

I goggled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

But he did. And we laughed about it for hours.

* * * *

Things are not always as they seem. Part of an author’s job is to deliberately point the readers in one direction while actually moving in another. The author gives enough information to ensure the readers have an idea about what is going on, but withholds enough to make a true analysis problematic. Oh, they may guess, but the better the writing, the greater the surprise and joy when that final piece clicks in place, allowing the readers a look at the whole.

If I had placed the above paragraph at the start of this post, where I had originally intended to place it, then all who read would have read with the goal of ferreting out my ‘trick’, thus spoiling the surprise. I’m not saying that some – or most – did not at some point intuit where the story was going, but if a reader allows him- or herself to be carried along by the flow of words, rather than playing detective, they’ll probably have a fairly good time of it.

A twist ending has to be set up so that everything that went before can be interpreted in two different ways. Is Cynthia a true friend, or a back-stabbing she-devil? Well, she’s part both, but mostly friend. Once she has Linda tied down to the bed, she takes a little advantage – who wouldn’t? And, we can assume, Linda secretly enjoys it. It adds a little spice to the whole thing. We know Linda wanted something like this, otherwise she could have put the toys in herself, and just had Cynthia tie her down at the proper time.

And my heading for the post: Betrayal? Well, that probably had my readers looking in the wrong direction. But the only betrayal that occurred is mine. I betrayed you by putting that title up. You trusted me. Your mistake.

The above didn’t come from any book. I wrote it just for this post — a two-hour quicky, you might say. So, your anger at my trick can’t be assuaged by leaving me a 1-star review on Amazon. You can, however, give this post a 1-star review. Heck, any review is a good review. At least it means someone read it.

Your local neighbourhood Deltonian,
Delta, (who also writes as Echo Chambers)

* * *

Echo Chambers’ books

Delta’s Books

Consent Issues in Erotic Fiction

I had a recent work of erotic fiction blocked by several sellers because it contained “rape” themes.

slut-state-smallThe work in question, SLUT for the State, doesn’t contain any depictions of physically forced sex. But it does contain cheesy sci-fi technology that makes some characters artificially aroused, which raises an interesting question: if booksellers are, theoretically, unwilling to sell rape-themed erotica, are they really willing to hold fiction to the standards of real-world rape?

Because don’t get me wrong, some of the sex in SLUT for the State is non-consensual, by any reasonable real-world definition of it. Multiple characters consent to sex while under the influence of mind-altering technology, and if you’re thinking “yeah, but what if they consented to using that technology in the first place?” (which they did), stop that. It’s still rape, from the moment their judgement was chemically impaired.

But by that strict definition, a lot of erotic fiction tropes are rape. Yes, the familiar “hulking, brutish man tears damsel’s clothing off and forces her to submit” is rape erotica. So is:

  • anything that involves mind control, hypnosis, or just your basic overindulgence in alcohol or drugs.
  • any depiction of consent under duress (nobleman offers to spare a woman from criminal conviction, or pay her family’s debts, or whatever, if she submits to his lascivious advances that she totally wanted all the time we promise double pinky swear).
  • any scenes involving corrupt cops or other authority figures being “bought off” with sex.
  • pretty much anything, for that matter, with a clear-cut power imbalance and any sort of reluctance on the part of at least one participant.

That’s a good thing to be clear on in real life. But if you eliminate all of those from erotica, you have a very slender catalogue of feel-good stories left, and the reality is that not everyone wants to feel good about their smut.

Some people like it wrong. Some people like it really explicitly wrong. Written fiction is a place where they can enjoy their fantasies, even ones that would be deeply problematic in real life (or else require elaborate staging by consenting participants) without anyone being harmed.

That’s fine, so long as booksellers are willing to include stories with things that would, in real life, be considered rape in their catalogs. (And they’re certainly not shy about rape as an emotional hook in non-erotic media – Game of Thrones, I’m looking at you.)

But when you eliminate from erotica everything that isn’t the open, informed, and enthusiastic consent that we all need to have in our real-life bedrooms, you’re telling an awful lot of readers that their favorite fantasies are verboten.

I obviously have a dog in this fight. I sell books with dubious consent themes. But I honestly don’t think vendors who have no problem with graphic depictions of rape for other purposes should be telling the select subset of readers that enjoys graphic depictions of rape for erotic purposes that they’re not welcome.

So just how little consent is too little, in erotic fiction? You tell us in the comments. For my part, I’d rather see a wide acceptance of non-consensual fantasies, especially when rape is so common in non-erotic fiction.

And, obviously, if you like sci-fi mind control erotica, buy SLUT for the State where it’s still available. Goes without saying, really.