New Release: Dancing with Auntie Futanari

Crashing the wedding from behind…

Adam is trying hard to be excited for his dad’s second wedding, but he’s worried about what this means for the future. That all changes when he meets Rachel, his stepmother’s sister, a woman with a very friendly smile and a very unfulfilling marriage. The two hit it off, but can they take it anywhere past a forbidden kiss? Especially if Rachel is hiding a big secret under her dress?

Adam and Rachel might not be the ones tying the knot, but that won’t stop them from turning up the heat after the veil is raised. Desire is heavy in the air at this wedding that pulls out all the stops. This 5800 word, futa-on-male, cheating, oral, first time, taboo, romantic erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


Outside the window, the hotel crew is busy arranging white, plastic chairs into precisely angled rows facing a wooden arch decorated with white roses and draped with gold and emerald streamers. Cards proudly stating whose butt is to go into which seat are lovingly laid upon plush cream pillows. The backdrop is just right for a wedding: a proper beach, punctuated by the sand, the horizon, and the carefree yelp of seagulls.

And that’s just the ceremony area.

I turn and watch Dad still meticulously running his fingers through his hair, using pomade like a sculptor uses a chisel. I’m still working on getting the front tail of my tie to be longer than the back tail.

“There’s a lot of sag in those shoulders, Adam. One could almost think you were forced to attend your own father’s wedding. Aren’t you excited? It’s a whole new adventure. For the both of us.”

“Of course I’m excited,” I lie, “but you’re going to spend your honeymoon moving into a new house together. Don’t you think everything’s moving a little too quickly?”

“When have I ever moved too quickly?” Dad replies with a mischievous grin.

It’s an inside joke between the two of us. In the last year alone, my father has started a new business, converted to Buddhism, bought a boat, and then bought nine books about living life minimally. It feels like he’s taken it upon himself to be the main character in the movie of his life, and even though I give him shit for it, I admire that about him. To put it into perspective, I’ve been a bartender for the last three years.

I sigh, but regardless I get up and open a drawer to pop open my pre-wedding surprise. Dad whirls around at the sound of whiskey pouring into the glasses–already monogrammed with his and my new stepmother’s initials. The liquor is as deep and brown as the earth, and smells like a firebrick oven.

I hand him a glass, and he’s beaming so much, you’d think it was my wedding.

“It’s a little smoky, because I know you like smoky, but it’s also got a real fiery kick to it.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, no backing out now?”


Our glasses clink, a tiny noise in the storm. We down our drinks in one mighty gulp, and it turns my taste buds into a music festival.

Dad whoops as the whiskey coats our insides in the only way good whiskey can. He looks at his glass in amazement, like he couldn’t believe anything like that could be served in mere glassware.

“That almost tasted like barbecue sauce.”

“Oh yeah.” I catch sight of the two of us in the mirror, a picture that has been constant since I was a kid. “You want another one?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. I see his eyes water a little bit and I’m about to chastise him for crying (because if he starts, I’ll start), but then he places his hands on my shoulders.

“Whether as a son or my Best Man, I couldn’t ask for a better you, Adam. You’re probably more nervous than I am, but I just need you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a wedding, bucko. Try to have a little fun?”


It is amazing how quickly the white seats fill up. Mostly with Karen’s brood. If there’s one thing I know about my stepmother’s family, it’s that they’re a very loud people who have a very high opinion of themselves and their interpersonal drama. It’s like watching three soap operas going on at once and they’re all competing with each other. Not that our family is perfect, but they only get like that when they’re drunk. Which should be roughly an hour after the lovely couple says, “I do.”

Still, Dad stands under the arch, oblivious to the madhouse he stands in the middle of. I take a deep breath.

The other groomsmen seem to have been paired up with their respective bridesmaid. I hear that some of them are planning to dance their way down the aisle, and I feel embarrassed for them already.

I’m going to be the last one to walk out, so all I have to do is not trip on the carpet and I’m set. I just have to find the Maid of Honor.

That’s when I find her.

She’s standing alone, an older woman with her hands crossed in front of her waist clutching some flowers. The emerald dress to my (adequately tied) green tie. She’s like the eye of the storm compared to the rest of the wedding party, and as I look at her, all of the other noise seems to be muted out. When she spots me looking at her, her brows furrow, and as realization sets in, a tentative smile grows into a wide, happy one. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but attraction at first sight definitely exists.

I figure she must be Karen’s best friend or something.

I offer her my hand at the same time that she spreads her arms out for a hug. I blush as I change my approach to a hug and she extends her own hand. She laughs, and it’s bright and non-abrasive and reminds me nothing of my future step-mother’s family. She takes my hand and shakes it, simultaneously pulling me in for a hug with her other arm.

“That was about as awkward as you could ask for,” she says. She fingers the chain necklace around her neck.

As quiet as she seemed to be, there is a confidence supporting her voice.

“Tell me about it.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Maid of Honor, I presume?”

“That’s me. Nice to finally meet you, Best Man. Are you as excited for Bride and Groom as I am?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” It figures that I mean someone cute at the wedding and stick my foot into my mouth repeatedly.

The rest of the bridal party gets in line and Mendelssohn’s Wedding March starts to blare out over the speakers, which is our cue to get into serious mode. She hooks her arm around mine, as we join the queue. One by one, the pairs walk down the aisle, their previous plans to do something silly dashed by the heaviness of the moment.

“It’s okay, I was just giving you a hard time,” Maid of Honor says into my ear.

She pats my arm and gives me a reassuring look. I smile back.

“I’m Adam, anyway,” my whispers nearly drowned out by the March. “I’m Groom’s son.”

She giggles.

“I’m Rachel. Bride’s sister.”

I spend the entire time glancing over at Rachel, her silver chain necklace, and the bundle of summer flowers in her hand, paying only a token amount of attention to the actual ceremony. Sorry, Dad. I hope it doesn’t come across that way in the wedding photos.

The crazy thing is, I think Rachel does the same thing.


“I think all I have to say, the core idea I’m trying to get across, is that when I look at you, Eddie and Karen…”

Uncle Todd takes a deep breath and then coughs, which does nothing to steady his slur or his swaying in place but does accomplish him getting his germs all over the microphone. He takes another swig of his beer.

“When I look at the both of you, I can believe in love again. Just take it from me, a man who’s been married three times already.”

My look of wide-eyed shock makes Rachel laugh, another line in the quiet conversation she and I are having without saying any words. She and I are sitting across from each other at the head table, where the newlyweds are having to endure everything between touching well wishes to embarrassing, inappropriate stories. I love weddings with open bars.

The ballroom Dad reserved is as extravagant as the ceremony, if not more so. There is a handmade centerpiece on every table, bits of nature tastefully arranged by someone with a hell of a lot better aesthetic sense than I do. The flatware is flanked by utensils with emerald handles, and topped by gold napkins folded into cranes. Or triangles? Between this wedding and the new house I wonder if Dad and Karen have any money left.

I raise my glass of champagne to Rachel as the inebriated audience applauds Uncle Todd’s speech, or declaration about how the internet is ruining America, either description would be accurate. She raises hers back, and our gaze lingers on each other as we take sips of the bubbly drink. The smile never leaves her eyes. She sets her glass down, and sadness flashes across her face and she looks away from me, suddenly intent on listening to the next contestant on the microphone.

There’s a little nagging voice in the back of my mind. It tells me that Rachel is Karen’s sister, and that maybe I shouldn’t lock eyes with the bride’s sister. Especially if my father is the groom.

Rachel’s voice probably just told her the same thing.

The main course and the dessert seem to take forever. All I want to do is get through the whole cake thing, and then enjoy the rest of the night in a hotel room I couldn’t afford without strict budgeting. Maybe I’ll order a movie, order some room service beer, pass out, and by the time I wake up, I’ll officially have a new step-mom.

Eventually, Dad and Karen’s song starts playing, the lights dim, and the happy couple gets up and send shock-waves throughout the ballroom that sound strangely like people going, “Awww!” More applause and cheers close the first dance, and more and more couples start to fill the dance floor. I watch, helpless, as Rachel leaves the table. Her purposeful steps lead her to one of the other tables, where she’s grabbed an older man by the hand and cajoling him to go dance with her.

That’s when I notice the ring around Rachel’s finger. It turns out I’m the only one in this story who hasn’t said “I do” to someone. I feel like an idiot. I couldn’t plop myself down on my bed soon enough.

The man resists, and from here I can hear Rachel. She’s not exactly pleading with him. She’s trying to make it look like it isn’t a big deal. Even when the man, Rachel’s husband, flat out refuses, the humor gone in his face, the light-heartedness remains in hers. He turns away and resumes whatever idiotic conversation he was having with the table.

She glances at me at the end of it all, and feeling shame for the both of us, I look down. When I look up again, she’s walking to the other end of the ballroom, a table that everyone else has abandoned for the music. Her face drops, and I can’t see her anymore, hidden by the stupid–but extremely well-done–centerpiece. I’ve never hated foliage more.

I finger the room key in my front pocket.

The little voice asks, “Wait, what are you doing?” as I ask the bartender for two, strong cocktails.

It insists, “No, think about what you’re doing!” as I walk over and tap her on the shoulder with one of the drinks.

“Hey,” I say, offering her the second glass when she looks up, “you wanna go for a walk or something?


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New Release: Seduced and Filled

The adventure ends in an explosive release…

Cora has escaped the far-reaching futa organization, but her deep desire to be filled keeps the captors who turned him into a her at the forefront of her mind. That’s not to mention that if the organization’s plans come to fruition, the whole world’s men might share Cora’s fate.

A hot reunion is in the works because Cora, her army of transformed men, and her friend Barry are planning to slip inside the organization’s headquarters. The plan includes half of them opening up and offering themselves as a sexy and willing distraction while the others sneak in.

But there are futas everywhere, ready to whip it out and give intruders a warm welcome. Is Barry willing to risk himself for the cause? And will Cora be able to save herself and the world?

This 6200 word, futa-on-female, futa-on-male, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, group, voyeur, interracial, pregnancy erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


The spray of the shower sprays me gently in the face and fills the bathroom with a fine, sensual mist.

It’s funny. I close my eyes and my thoughts are still undeniably me. I have a secret love for ’90s gangster rap and fantasy novels. I firmly believe that pineapples have no place on a pizza. And I wish I had more time in my day to play video games.

Then I run my fingers down my body, and my hands brush over my slender shoulders, across my nipples (which are suddenly a hundred times more sensitive than they were before), down my flat belly, and finally to the tender folds of my womanhood. As I touch myself, I feel like I could get lost inside of my own sexuality.

I used to be Cole Porter, but then I was somehow changed into a woman by the strange powers of a golden idol. All because I had to stick my nose into the business of an even stranger organization made up entirely of women. I chased them to South America and back to find answers, but all I have is more questions.

Isabella, the leader of that organization, is the person who gave me my new name. Cora. I suppose I should be ashamed of it, right? But I can’t help but feel that Cora is who I really am now.

I don’t even call my body my “new body” anymore. This is me.

I give a cursory effort to drying my body as I step out of the shower. Barry’s modestly-sized apartment is abuzz with noise and activity. It’s never been that way in here. Barry prefers not having roommates, and he can have that preference because he managed to snag an internship that pays a king’s ransom. But now he has thirteen new roomies. Me and the other transformed women, a group of a dozen I freed from Casulo, have been trying to track down the organization, keeping an eye on missing news reports, scoping out the museum, and getting into the occasional argument about what to do next.

We settled on surviving. Until today.

I open the bathroom door and almost knock Barry down. He mumbles an apology, which disappears in his throat. I roll my eyes when I realize why. I might be comfortable in my body now, but I still forget that wrapping a towel around my waist has new ramifications.

“Barry, Jesus dude,” I say, crossing my arms. “It’s a fresh coat of paint, but it’s still me. You really have to get that through your head.”

“Sorry!” He looks away, then second-guesses himself and maintains eye contact with me. “I mean it’s one hell of a paint job. And now that you want me to call you Cora, too…”

He shakes his head and looks to the floor. “You just had everyone worried. Me included. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks so I don’t think I’ve told you that it’s good to have you back. Circumstances notwithstanding.”

I have to smile. Same old me, same old Barry.

“It’s good to be back. You know, a better friend probably would have called the police.”

“I panicked.”

“For an entire week?”

He shrugs, a sheepish and guilty smile on his face. “For all I know, those ladies could have whisked you off to some sex paradise. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

I jokingly punch him on the shoulder. “Well, you wouldn’t be half wrong there.”

I pull a dry shirt over my shoulders and jump into some sweatpants. I let out a deep breath, hesitating before walking out. Barry returns the punch and practically pushes me forward.

“Come on,” he says. “I’m going out there with you. You don’t need to go all Rambo anymore, you’re back in mother-fucking America.”

“Technically Rambo was still alone–”

“Not now, Siskel.”

The both of us stride into the living room, where the rest of the women have amassed for my announcement. Some of them are like me, settling into their new lot in life and actually feeling right for the first time. The rest had lives before this. Girlfriends, wives, families. While there might be a faint hope in some of them that there’s a way to reverse what had happened to us, we all agree on one thing: it might not have been our choice to become who we are now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make our own choices going forward.

I pull down a projection screen I installed the busy night before and kicked my laptop out of its slumber. A rough floor plan of Isabella’s mansion filled the screen, concocted from my own hazy memory and the original architect of the property. Life hack: posing as a student for any number of things can really go a long way. I point a laser pointer at the front door.

“This is where our first team–”

One of the girls, Sandy (who used to be a trucker named Nathan), raises her hand and says, “We’ve talked it out and we want to be called the strike team.”

I sigh. “This is where the strike team is going to enter. I’m going to need you guys to make it look good and convincing. You keep as many of them as you can occupied, and the rest of us will come in through the side door over here. When you get the signal, that means it’s time for us to get the hell out of Dodge.”

A round of nods circles the room, ending with Barry.

“You know,” he says, “I’m not getting my deposit back after they see what you did to the wall.”

I pick up the closest thing–a pillow–and chuck it at his face, and we all laugh, but I keep one wary eye on the map. There are parts of me that ache at seeing Isabella again.


“I have never been so thankful for rich people’s need to have really tall fences between each other’s property.”

Barry looks over his shoulder again, as if this time there will be a neighborhood watch dog looking at him disapprovingly.

“Isn’t your family rich people?” I ask, paying only half attention to him as I peer into the window. Isabella’s mansion is bigger than it was in my memory, and there are a lot more guards than my first night here. “Anyway, stop moving around so much. I can’t hear her.”

A crescent moon shines over our heads. It offers little light for anyone who happened to be looking down the side pathway of Isabella’s gated property, but as an added measure of security, the entire second team is dressed in black. As for the strike team…

Sandy’s voice crackles into my ear.

“…and we’re so, so sorry. We didn’t want to run away at all but she threatened us to go with her. We’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to return to you, but we got fed up and got that bitch blackout drunk ourselves.”

“Way to sell it, Sandy,” I mutter.

Two more voices, the women standing guard at the front doors, are picked up by the microphones hidden in Sandy’s clothes.

“It’s good to know that some of you are loyal to the cause.”

“Not so fast. Why didn’t you try to contact us? We could have extracted you ourselves.”

“She didn’t allow us communication with the outside world,” Sandy said, quick on her toes.

I held down a snicker. Sandy was the first one of us to make new social media accounts for herself. The one where she just posts pictures of herself so far has the biggest following.

“If you want,” Sandy continued, “we could prove our loyalty to you in other ways.”

A pause. I imagine the two guards exchanging glances in my head.

“Shit,” Barry whispers, “they’re inside.”

I see the two guards, a two fit women with curves you could taxi an airplane on, lead the strike team in. Sandy is smiling in the direction of the window we’re all hiding behind, though not exactly at us so the black is working. I smile at how modestly they’re dressed. One could almost mistake them for being innocent.

I hear Sandy sigh as she throws her arms around the guard in front of her. An amused smile forms on the guard’s face.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” the guard says. I can see a small tent start to form beneath her skirt. “You all have a long night ahead of you.”

“We’re just so glad to be back here,” Sandy replies. She kisses the other woman on the back of the neck.

“Get this woman a fucking Oscar,” I say.

Sandy’s hands slide down the guard’s blazer, the pads of her fingers disrupting the organization’s wrinkle-free facade, and pinch at the end of the skirt.

She continues, “And we’re even gladder to be back to these.”

The other guard uncrosses her arms as two members of the strike team start to unbutton her blazer.

The strike team works slowly, leaving dark hickeys on the two guards’ necks, planting wet kisses on their bare chests, and sucking on their fingers. They don’t take out the unsuspecting women’s cocks, not just yet. They move the night forward by inches, delaying the pleasure but still making as many sexy noises as possible. The audio porn is torture in my ears. It’s arousing watching strike team pleasure these women who have no idea they’re being watched.

“Are you sure we have to go on with the mission tonight?” Barry whispers, awe in his voice.

By now, several more women who have heard of the sheep who have wandered back to the flock gather in the room.

Sandy takes a look around the room and licks her lips.

“I don’t think we’re going to say no to more cocks.” She takes her coat off, being careful not to reveal the microphone set up within its folds, and throws it on the floor. Her dress follows not long after. “Take them out, girls, it’s been a long time since we’ve been properly fucked.”

The organization members surround them like a hungry kettle of vultures. Some of them merely raise their skirts, while the others take the time to take off everything below their waist, skirt and stockings and all. And Sandy and the rest of strike team is loving every minute of it.

The six of them are on their knees now, and even if the microphone has been buried under a pile of stripped clothes, I can still hear the divine sucking sounds of their mouths taking in the impressive cocks of these women.

More and more organization members wander in. But we can’t wait here for too long.

I turn, as difficult as it is to look away from the orgy happening just on the other side of the wall, and face the rest of the team. I notice some of the hungry looks on their faces, and I know that some of them wish they had volunteered for Sandy’s team now.

“Okay, strike team is really earning their name. It’s our turn.”

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New Release: Tempted and Taken

Too many questions and only one way to get the answers…

Cole, now Cora, has traveled to the steamy jungles of South America to search for a way out of his new, sexy body. But is that really what he wants? Men want him, women want him, and Cora doesn’t know about Cole, but she loves being wanted. It turns out the price for getting everything Cole wants is just a little skin, and he’s more than willing to give a sample to anyone who wants a taste.

That includes the mysterious all-futa organization hot on his tail that pulled him into this mess. Cole will have to face them in the secretive village of Casulo, but can he face two of them at a time? And what do they plan to do with the golden idol that caused his transformation in the first place?

This 6800 word, futa-on-female, futa-on-futa, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, magic, menage, exhibitionism, voyeur, DP erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


The road is muddy and uneven under us. The wheels of this thing are about half as tall as I am, but I can still feel every little rock we run over. The heat in this country is two notches away from unbearable, and I’ve been covered in sweat ever since we made landfall.

Not that the natives seem to mind.

I’m hitching a ride with the owner of this rickety ride, a re-purposed military pickup truck. He’s a fairly handsome young man, and he has pretty good English but not good enough to understand when I tell him I used to be a man. His face isn’t wide enough that I can’t see him staring at me out of the corner of his eyes. As a woman, I’m flattered. As a man… Do I still remember how to react to things as a man?

I am amazed that it’s only been three weeks since the fateful evening that my hormone-addled mind led me to a secret auction in the basement of the city museum. A golden idol, a little lady I only know as the Novodama, transformed me from mild-mannered Cole to mild-mannered but extremely attractive Cora.

Cora, the name given to me by Isabella, the woman who bought me at the auction. Also the woman who gave me the best sex of my life. I’ve thought about her cock the whole way over on the cruise from America to Brazil. That idol came from this country, specifically a village named Casulo, and I’m here because I’m crazy enough to think that I’ll be able to find answers as to why I’ve been changed into a woman and exactly what this ‘Project Erotes’ is.

My phone is off, so if my best friend Barry or, God forbid, my family has been trying to contact me, then they’re going to have to keep worrying. That’s turning into somewhat of a habit, now that I’ve disappeared from the cruise, too.

It’s been an interesting adjustment period getting used to this new body. I catch guys check me out all the time, whether they think they’re being stealthy or not. Some of them were even mid-sentence with women who were probably their wives or girlfriends. I am a liar if I say that I don’t like the attention, and I’ve certainly been using it to my advantage.

I don’t know what they tell the young men of Macapá about hitchhikers, but all I’ve had to do to ensure a ride north was to stand there on the side of the road with my top lifted. My breasts are quickly turning into my best friend and my worst enemy. I’ve already lost track of how many times I’ve tried closing the door on my own boobs. It’s ridiculous. But when I’m trying to make men do my bidding? It’s like my chest is a giant magnet and their eyes are filled with iron. I don’t even have to let them touch me. The idea, the possibility of getting to touch me is often enough.

I wonder how susceptible I was to this boob magic when I was a man.

The truck slows down, and it seems like we’re on the outskirts of somewhere called Amapá, a town with the same name of the greater state I’ve been traveling north through.

I look at my temporary driver, and return his wide smile. I confirm to myself for the umpteenth time this month that I’m not attracted to men.

“Okay, I stay here,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. Really milking the time I have left remaining in his truck. “So very sexy and pretty!”

“Aw, thank you!” I say as I grab my bag and exit his ride. I’ve mastered the ability to turn everything said to me into an innocent compliment. I give him a wave. “Bye!”

I watch him watching me as he turns into town, and I’m back to square one. I start walking north, looking up every time I hear a wheels rolling on the road. The majority of traffic is on their way south, but finally, I get a hit.

I’m in the middle of lifting my top when I realize it’s a woman sitting in the driver’s seat of a black SUV. Fancy for this side of the country. Probably has A/C. I decide it’s never too late for the old-fashioned way, and I stick my thumb out.

She stops, and the dazzling smile on her face lures me in.


My bag is heavy on my lap. There isn’t much inside, but this is a case of quality over quantity. I have two other changes of clothing, every dollar of cash I had in my bank account, and the little shock collar that Isabella locked onto my wrist before I was able to escape from her. I’ve been wearing its key around my neck ever since, explaining that it’s a promise key or some nonsense from some imaginary boyfriend.

Since everything I own under my own name (Cole or Cora?) is in the bag, the thing hasn’t left my side. I wear it on my front when I’m going through heavily-populated areas, I keep it inches away from the bathtub whenever I shower, and I wrap the straps around my arms whenever I sleep. It’s a level of paranoia that I’ve never had to deal with before.

I admit that I’m looking at my new driver a lot more than my previous drivers have looked at me, which is saying a lot. She speaks perfect English, although there is a trace of an accent there as well. It vaguely reminds me of Isabella. But I don’t think about her. Instead, I watch the jungle go by to the west and the hint of the ocean to the east as my driver and I talk.

“So,” she says, turning a thought over in her head before she speaks it out loud, “how often did your grandmother come to America?”

“Not often enough.”

I’ve been lying as often as I’ve been changing underwear ever since I turned into a woman. Cora is a blank slate. While Cole was awkward and kind of a doormat if I’m being completely honest, Cora just does not give a fuck. I don’t know if it’s because part of me thinks it’s all going to disappear when I get a chance to change back, but it’s been so freeing, and not only sexually.

I continue, “What I liked the most about Grandma–well, I liked calling her ‘Abuela’–was how stubborn she was. Once she got it into her head to do something, she would do it. I really admired that about her. Go to college? Sure thing, abuela. Marry this white man? Done. I guess that’s why I’m here, traveling to Casulo. I wanted to see her hometown and here I am.”

She laughs. “Here you are.”

She turns to me and catches me staring at her. She holds eye contact for what seems like ages, although it can’t be any more than a few seconds since we’re on the road.

“It seems very brave for a little white girl like you to be so far from the tourist areas.”

“Thank you,” I start, but she has more to say.

“But we are a proud and generous people, if anything. So proud, in fact, that I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t correct you for calling her ‘abuela.’ We speak Portuguese here. The correct term is ‘avó.'”

I feel a rock sink to the bottom of my stomach.

“Well, she… Uh…”

“And if your avó was as old as, how did you say it, old as the mountains, then she couldn’t have been from Casulo. It’s an entirely new settlement that me and my associates established only in the last decade. Most of the information on the internet referring to it is largely fabricated.”

She gives me the smile of a predator that’s cornered its prey. I try the door, but it seems like she activated some kind of child lock. I’m trapped. I feel like such an idiot.

“I don’t know why you bothered coming out this far, Cole Porter. You seem to be settling into your new body just fine.” She turns the SUV into a small gas station on the side of the road. “I know because I’ve been following you. So quick to show drivers a little taste of your body. Men make the sluttiest women, I find it amazing.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

I debate whether or not to try bribing her away from me, but something tells me Isabella and her goons aren’t in this for the money. Whatever ‘this’ is.

“Well, we’re going to have to send you back to America, of course. You gave Isabella quite the scare. You understand that we won’t be able to let you out of your cage for a while, because of this? Such a shame, but we can’t have you jeopardizing the project.”

“Project Erotes, right? What is it? What do you people want? Why am I a woman now?”

“You’ll get your answers very soon. For now…”

Her legs shift and I see the bulge rising between her legs. Her predator stare has turned into that of a ravenous beast.

“…I want to see how good your new mouth is.”


The gas station is out of the way, so it isn’t anything special. No frills. Not even a sign proclaiming the name of the place. If there was, it would say, “You don’t really have a choice.” There are a few gas pumps out in front. A small convenience store with out-of-date cigarette packs and microwavable snacks of questionable quality. It almost makes me nostalgic for home.

My driver, who hasn’t told me her name but I guess it doesn’t matter, pushes me past the main building and towards the back. None of the attendants are looking in our direction nor are they making any indication that they’ve seen us arrive. They know this woman. I shudder at the thought of how many people here are in on the organization.

The bathroom building itself looks pristine, to my surprise. There are some junk scattered on the floor next to it. Steel pipes, discarded mops, flat tires and the like. The inside is just big enough for two people. I guess if there aren’t many people using your bathroom, there aren’t very many opportunities to turn it into a mess. My driver unlocks it with a key from her own keychain. I spot the fob that locks and unlocks the SUV, and a plan starts formulating in my mind.

Not a very good plan, but it’s something.

I go inside first, and she flips on the light. If it was hot outside, it’s sweltering in the bathroom. I’m sweating like rain on the plains in fucking Spain, but my captor doesn’t look like she minds the heat at all.

“No need to be scared, Cole,” she says, stroking my cheek. “I’m going to treat you nice. I’m getting tired of calling you by your old name, though. What is it that Isabella named you? Collette?”

I am trying my damnedest not to give her the satisfaction of an answer, but all I can do otherwise is stare at the bulge rising from her jeans.

“She said that ‘Collette’ would be too easy,” I mutter. “Cora. She said my name was going to be Cora.”

“Such a pretty name for a pretty girl.” She unbuttons her jeans. I see the hint of pink, lacy panties underneath. “Look at you. I’ve seen pictures of you from before, you know. So… generic? I think that is the phrase. But now, Cora, you are a sexy little slut.”

She drops her jeans and steps out of them, keeping her sandals on. The rational part of my mind take notes of the jingle of keys when it hits the floor. Her panties can barely contain her, and my mouth is watering at the prospect of what she wants me to do for her.

“You’ve only been a woman for a few weeks, and you’re already an addict for cock, aren’t you?”

I don’t know if I am supposed to feel shame, but I don’t. I reach out and stroke her from outside her panties. She’s throbbing. Just for me.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I never even had fantasies of taking cock before, but now that I am who I am, I get so… aroused offering my body like this. People who would have never given me the time of day before are begging at my feet. I see people crane their necks to get a better look at me.”

I realize in that moment that I’ve never been able to really talk to anyone about what I am going through. I look at her, and there is a moment where compassion comes through on her face. Did she see what I was thinking?

I don’t care. I kiss her, and she grabs the back of my head and pulls me closer. Her tongue passionately writhes against mine, and her fingers find their way to where I am most wet. There is no foreplay, no taking it slow. Just desire.

“You’re so wet,” she whispers. “I’m going to enjoy fucking you.”

I plant greedy kisses down her neck and chest, savoring the cinnamon skin of a woman as sexy as she is. I pull down her panties and nearly poke my eye out with her rigid horniness. I could attach a flag to this thing and world governments would have to declare her a new nation.

My tongue runs up and down her size, the taste and the smell overwhelming me to the brink of dizziness. My fingers are furiously circling the center of my velvet folds of skin. I swear I am dripping onto the bathroom floor. I take her into my mouth, much to her satisfaction. She needs no further encouragement. She takes the sides of my head and bucks her hips into my face. She fills my mouth over and over, my moans muffled by her efforts.

I sense her trying to pull out, but I grab her ass and stop her.


I bob my head back and forth, swirling around my tongue like it was the hottest, tastiest ice cream cone, and as she starts to swell in my mouth she stops trying to hold me back.

She falls back against the wall as the first hot spurts of seed blast into my mouth. She’s cursing in Portuguese (and I learn a few new words) as she clenches her ass over and over. She fills my mouth and it only causes the fire inside of me to blaze with new vigor knowing how good I make her feel.

Before she has time to exhale, I push her away. I run to her jeans, scoop them off the ground, out the door, and lock the door in place with one of the steel rods on the floor. The last thing I see of her is the look of disbelief on her mug.

And that’s when I swallow.

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New Release: Transformed and Auctioned

Changed for the better and no going back…

Cole, an unsuspecting college student, is about to dive head-first into the adventure of a lifetime. An seemingly ordinary trip to the museum takes a sudden turn when he learns about a mysterious auction and a powerful organization made up entirely of sexy futa women. His curiosity is going to do more than land him in hot water when he finds a strange, ancient artifact that changes him into a her!

Now he’s playing a much bigger role in the auction, and there’s a sultry MILF futa determined to take Cole for her own. What’s really going on at the museum? Can Cole change back to normal? Or by the time the futa’s had her way with him, will he even want to?

This 6900 word, futa-on-female, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, older/younger, magic, first time erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking at for this one.”

Barry chuckles. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. I was being completely serious, though. The painting in question is a Dalí painting that’s apparently depicting Narcissus, an early example of the type of personality that takes way too many selfies. According to the Greek myth, the gods punish him by turning him into a flower. Which is kind of extreme, if you ask me. If it were me, I would have given the guy a chance to get his shit together but being sensible is not on the job requirements of being a Greek god.

Barry, the only other non-artist in Art History 3B, nudges me in the side as if I wasn’t already paying more attention to him than the tour.

“That’s him on the left.”  His voice is hovering above a whisper, but it’s fine because our tour guide’s voice is like a droning airplane engine. “He’s sitting butt-ass naked in the water.”

I squint. “So where’s his face?”

“It’s… that rock-looking thing. With the hair.”

“Why is his face a rock?”

“Symbolism, dude.”

“Symbolism of what?”

I hear our guide clear his throat. I clamp my mouth shut when I see that he’s looking right at me, but it’s too late.

“Would you like to take over from here, sir?”

Several of my classmates turn in my direction and I feel my cheeks turn a deep red. I hate being called out in public.

“Nope,” I say, a little too loud. “Sorry, sir. Just discussing the painting. We uh… think it’s pretty cool.”

I see and feel the rolling of a dozen eyes and my old hate for general education requirements comes back like a friend who’s overstayed their welcome on your couch.

The tour guide, an old guy who’s probably one of the few people I can take in a fight, settles back into his regularly-scheduled lecture. Barry leans in and says in a perfect impression, “Geez, Cole, seriously, do you want to take over from here?”

I bite back a laugh, which probably looks like I’m trying really hard to not go to the bathroom in my pants. Thankfully, we leave Dalí and Narcissus behind, and

That’s when I hear the clacking of several pairs of heels on the tiled museum floor. I’m surprised to see a large group of women–make that attractive women, all in skirt suits like they were here for a MILFs of Business convention–walking down the hallway, coming where we’re leaving.

I elbow Barry, and nod my head in their attention. His eyes widen.

“Too bad we’re not in their group, huh?”

“Wanna go check out where they’re going?”

He scoffs. “And miss out on the wealth of knowledge we’re receiving?”

The group of women pass by our group of bright-eyed college students. Now that they’re closer, I can see I wasn’t wrong about their physical beauty. Gorgeous women of all colors, enough to make me forget even the hot girls in class. Although something else they all share is this stone-faced, tight-lipped look. I get the image of a shark tank busted open in my mind.

It doesn’t deter me. I lag behind the rest of my group as the women pass us by.

Barry is incredulous. “You’re serious?”

The only answer I give him is a smile as I walk slower and slower.

Barry shakes his head and gives me a little salute that says ‘you’re in this one alone, buddy.’ Which is fine by me. I can give him the play-by-play later.

I turn and quicken my pace, and since I don’t hear anyone asking me where I think I’m going I can only guess mission accomplished. I try not to follow the MILF convention too closely, but something tells me they’re not going to care much about an unassuming college boy at an art museum. Skirt suits become my new favorite item of clothing as I follow them. There’s nothing else on Earth that accentuates a nice ass quite as well.

Their route takes them past the surrealists, the abstract-expressionists, and the pop artists, near the back of the museum. They make a beeline for a door, and I pretend to stop and admire some photos of sculptures done by a guy named Oldenburg. In my peripheral vision, I see them file one-by-one through the door. I’m sweating bullets, but I don’t think they’ve even looked in my direction.

Eventually, they’re all gone and temptation presents me with another choice. To go through the door or to not go through the door?

It’s gotten me this far.

I probably do the world’s worst job of sneaking as I make my way to the door. Sometimes it helps being so plain and normal. I’m surprised to find the door isn’t locked, and when I open it, I’m met with a stairwell descending into the dark. I think about how the smart decision would be to text Barry, find out where the group went, and hustle my ass over there so I can sponge up more info that’ll “surely be on the exam.”

And then I go down the stairs.


I wonder if every museum has a secret basement.

It’s like a whole other building underground, and as I walk down the dimly-lit hallway I pass by several branching ones. The path takes several turns. Thankfully, it’s straightforward route for all of its twists.

I don’t know where the ladies went, and I’ve lost even the click-clack of their heels. But since I’m down here, I might as well follow the yellow brick road to its end. Besides, if I get caught, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m white, I’ll probably just receive a slap on the wrist.

I hold my ear up against every door I encounter, but I don’t hear any indications of life down here. I shudder at my poor word choice. What am I expecting? Zombies?

The further I go down the hall, the more I hear this faint, rhythmic murmur. I think it’s a woman. The way the voice is talking, the more familiar it sounds. Not like I know who’s speaking, but just the way they’re talking. It’s this long, drawn-out jumble of words. A disembodied voice should really be giving me the creeps down here, but it’s almost reassuring.

Are they rapping? I swear, if I’ve followed a secret cabal of MILF rappers, then I’ll know I’m dreaming.

I spot a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. They’re partly open, and I can see light streaming out from the crack. That’s where the voice is coming from, I’m sure of it. I don’t see any shadows moving behind the door, so I walk right up to it and peek inside. My jaw drops.

There’s an entire auditorium down here. There are probably fifty or so rows of seats, but only the first few rows are filled up. I see a good number of balding heads, men in dark suits, and yes, the women from earlier. Up on the stage is a woman, and I realize I should slap myself for being so dumb. The rhythmic speaking she was doing was that of an auctioneer. There’s a statue of a nude woman next to her, and I see some of the ladies bidding on it.

I wonder if the museum sanctions these private auctions all the time. The rich have to buy them from somewhere, right?

Just then, three figures get up from their seats and start walking towards me.

I back away from the door, and without thinking, disappear behind the closest door. I can only hope it’s not a bathroom they were planning on using.

Closing the door behind me, I’m in shock again. The room is filled with large cubes, all of them covered in something that looks like a giant velvet tablecloth.

What really has my attention is the art piece at the far end of the room. It’s a sculpted woman the size of my arm, and she’s made entirely of gold. I feel myself drawn to it. I find myself unable to think of anything else but getting a better look at this thing. It’s on a podium, but there’s no glass case on it or anything. It’s so exposed. As I get closer–I don’t remember walking towards her–I see that she’s nude. Her eyes, nipples, and belly-button are embedded with some kind of tiny red jewel.

Is she singing? I don’t hear the auctioneer anymore, and the longer I stare, the more it seems like the sculpture is growing and becoming more life-like. I can’t tear my gaze away from her, and to my amazement, she holds out her hand to me. She has a golden smile on her face, and I don’t feel lust towards her. Instead, I feel like I’m coming home. I reach for her, and take her shining palm in mine.

The next moments are like a thousand different movie clips playing in succession.

I am in a small room, surrounded on all sides by that giant velvet tablecloth.

The walls dissolve, and I’m on the stage, grasping at metallic bars. The audience is looking at me, and they’re hungry. Their smiles are lecherous, but none more so than the group of ladies. One of them, an exotic-looking woman with brown skin and jet-black hair raises a numbered paddle. She’s bidding on me. She has the gaze of a shark.

The walls return, plunging me into darkness. I am wheeled away to the sound of polite applause.

I blink awake on a hard floor.  I’m in a different room now. It looks like someone’s office. There’s a lounge chair, several bookcases lining the walls, and an expensive-looking desk. I also realize I’m in a giant cage. I jump up to the door, and I try to force it open, but it’s locked down tight. My breathing quickens to the pace of a marathon runner, as it sets in just how much trouble I’m in. They’re a cult. They have to be. They’re looking for human sacrifices and I walked right into their trap. What the hell did I expect to happen, following those women? What is this, a porno?

There might be more people like me. More captured idiots.

“Hello?” I call out. And I gasp.

My voice.

I sound like a woman.

I back away from the cage door and look down.

It turns out I have a new set of breasts.

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New Release: Poolside Between the Brat and His Girlfriend

Nothing she can do but tread water

When the full heat of summer becomes too much to bear, Dylan and his girlfriend Sharon decide to strip down and cool off at the pool. But they’re not going alone. Danielle, a brat who’s packing some heat of her own is coming with them. Sharon has always been jealous of how close Dani is with her boyfriend, but they’re about to get a whole lot closer.

Dani has a little game in mind that will force Dylan to reveal just how much he likes the brat and how willing he is to turn his back to her. Sharon is just going to have to sit there and watch helplessly as Dani pleases Dylan in ways that Sharon never could. Sharon’s going to be lucky if she even gets the leftovers after Dani is through with her boyfriend.

This 6000 word, futa-on-male, crossdressing, cuckquean, oral, exhibitionism, public, taboo erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


Dylan wraps his fingers around the back of my neck. It’s all the encouragement I need to take more of him down my throat.

“You feel so good, baby,” I hear him say.

I put my hands on his thighs and look up at him. He loves it whenever I do that. He’s smiling down at me with a dreamy, blissed-out look on his face. He rubs my cheek and inadvertently strokes the side of his own cock from the outside.

We’ve been in his room all Saturday morning, welcoming the weekend with some playtime neither of us remember starting. The birds have been waking everyone in the world up and they’ve long since given up. Dylan and I would fit right in in the middle of a Roman bacchanal.

Our naked bodies are covered in sweat, but it’s not from our little romp. The city’s been in the middle of a heat wave that just won’t quit, the kind that pushes down your body and keeps you from doing anything but… well, sex.

My lips pop as I take my boyfriend out of my mouth and I lay my cheek against his thigh. I pant as I angle his cock away so I can look at his face.

He laughs, breaking the sexy, heat-of-the-moment thing we had going on that attractive 20-somethings always do in the movies. “What is it, a windshield wiper or something?”

He reaches down and mimics a windshield wiper with his stiff rod, and he makes the appropriate sounds with his mouth. He ends his impression by slapping his sizable cock onto my cheek. Now I’m laughing, and I almost forget what I wanted to tell him.

“You’re such a dork,” I say, punctuating my sentence with a quick lick. He groans in retort. “I was thinking, instead of melting up here in your bedroom, why don’t we use your pool? I brought my new one-piece with me. We can continue this in the water. Please?”

Dylan puts his hands behind his head and settles deeper into the mattress.

“I don’t know,” he says. I can practically see the debate going on in his head. “I think Dani’s home, too. Don’t you wanna just stay in here?”

Shit. I forgot all about Danielle.

Dylan’s dad had been single as long as we’ve been going out, up until our second year of college. That was the day, like the plot of a one dollar DVD rom-com, he met the woman of his dreams after rear-ending her SUV. It’s practically begging to be turned into a movie, I know. It turns out that the future Mrs. Atkins had a daughter who she had been raising as a single mother. Enter Danielle, the most spoiled, selfish, and entitled woman I had ever met in my life. How she and Dylan get along so well, I’ll never understand. He’s nothing like her.

I swing myself off the bed and look down into the backyard through Dylan’s blinds. Sure enough, under a white wide-brimmed sun hat is the princess herself. I catch her just as she’s taking a selfie.

“Sharon? You okay? You look like you just smelled a skunk.”

I shake my head. I’m not letting Danielle get in the way of my Saturday.

“I’m okay.” I start digging through my bag and fish out my bathing suit. “We spend most of our day inside lecture halls, babe. Let’s enjoy the outdoors while we can.”

“Alright, alright.” He gets up, and embraces me. I bury my head into his chest. He kisses my ear and says, “Just play nice out there.”

I scoff. “Just as long as she leaves me alone.”


“Well look who finally got out of bed.” I can hear the smirk on Danielle’s face as Dylan and I lay out our towels on the pool chairs. “Good morning, Dylan. Sharon.”

Dylan gives her a friendly greeting, but I just nod. She’s only a short distance away so I can’t even pretend not to have heard her. I can’t help but feel self-conscious around Dylan’s stepsister. She has on a bikini with floral lace trimmings which looks like it was ripped right out of the pages of a women’s magazine. Then again, so does she. She’s fashionable, skinny, and she has the brains to back it up. Rumor has it that the firm she’s interning at is already talking to her about taking her in full-time after she graduates.

“I wonder why you two are up so late,” she continues, sliding her sunglasses down her nose. She’s only addressing Dylan now, like I’m not there, and it infuriates me, as petty as that sounds. “You’ve been an early morning person since the day I met you. Spending a little quality time together?”

“That’s none of your business,” I say. I meant it to come out more playful than it did but I guess I’m just not as adept at hiding my true feelings.

“Meow,” Danielle replies, scratching in the air like a cat would.

Dylan gives me a reassuring touch on the shoulder, but the last thing I want to do is apologize in front of her so I keep my mouth shut.

“Very funny, Dani,” Dylan says. He takes his shirt off, and his masculine ruggedness is on full display in the sun. “Sleeping in every once in a while is good for you. Besides, the season’s over and I need a little break from the court. I love basketball, but it can handle me taking a few days off during a heat wave. I can barely sleep as it is.”

“You have to maintain a body like that,” Danielle says. I frown, making no effort to hide it. She sounds like a hungry lioness. Like an afterthought, she adds, “I’m glad Sharon’s giving you some exercise during the off-season, at least.”

I pretend to not hear her, and take a small orange bottle out of my bag.

“Hey babe,” I coo, kissing his bearded chin and putting on my best puppy-dog eyes, “do you mind putting some sunscreen on my back?”

Dylan blinks like he’s just waking up, and smiles at me.

“You bet.”

I lie on my stomach on top of the pool char and feel his strong hands untie the criss-crossing straps that keep my one-piece in place. The sunscreen is cool at first, but as he works it into my skin, I get lost in his electric touch. I cock my head towards Danielle but it’s hard to tell whether or not she’s watching with those damn sunglasses on.

Oh well. I close my eyes and enjoy Dylan’s attention. He’s the only man who can turn something unsexy like applying sunscreen and turn it into something sensual.

“Hey, Dylan?” Danielle’s voice is like a chainsaw through a glass tree. “When you’re done with her, do you mind doing me? It’s time for me to reapply and you’ll be able to reach all the places I can’t.”

A million objections fill my mind, but Dylan, in his ever-chipper emotional state beats me to the punch.

“Sure, one sec.”

Before I know it, the back of my one-piece is all tied up again, and my boyfriend is running his hands, those palms that were exploring my body, those fingers that were inside of me just ten minutes before, on Danielle’s back. Her lips are parted, and she’s making these disgusting sounds with her mouth like it’s turning her on.

But then what the hell is happening to me? As I watch, a familiar electricity sends jolts down, past my chest and my belly, and down between my legs. And I feel as if every petal on the flower just folded in rubbed against each other. I can’t believe how hot I’m getting over my boyfriend touching another woman. His stepsister, no less.

I want to close my eyes, to shut them out, but no, I’m going to do what I came out here to do.

I leave the chair and jump into the pool.


I’ve heard that astronauts who see the Earth from the International Space Station experience something called the ‘overview effect.’ It happens when you’re able to see the entire world from above it, far from all of our terrestrial problems and our inconsequential squabbles with each other. When you understand just how small this blue ball of dirt and water is in the void of space. Then perspective hits you like a mack truck driving at full speed.

I’ve never been in space, and I probably never will, but I like to think that being underwater has the same effect on me. There’s nothing but serene blue in every direction. Just my hair floating around my head like strands of music made visible. No sound, no smells, no tastes. No jealousy. No inexplicable feelings about your boyfriend’s stepsister.

I look up and kick my legs towards the light of the sun.

When I breach the water, I see Dylan still working on Danielle’s back. She has less of a behind than I do so I find it hard to believe that he’s not just lingering. They’re also laughing about something. It’s hard to think you’re not the one being laughed about when you feel like you’re the third wheel. I swim over to the edge of the pool and rest my elbows on the warm pavement.

“Hey, do you guys want to jump in?” I put on my best customer service smile, the one I reserve for the worst customers. “The water feels great.”

Danielle’s laughter dies down and she removes her sunglasses as she talks to me. “Oh, Sharon, you’ve got to help us resolve this argument we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

“It didn’t sound like you were arguing to me.” I brush a wet strand of hair out of my face. I raise my eyebrow at Dylan, who suddenly looks like someone who had their hand stuck in the cookie jar.

Another laugh from Danielle. “It’s all in good fun. Right, Dylan?”

“Yeah, Dani.” He gives me a look that tells me not to be serious, to play along, to lighten up. It doesn’t work. He sees that, and says, “It’s a stupid argument anyway, Sharon.”

Danielle waves him to shut up. She says, “We were talking about my bikini–”

“You asked me if I thought you looked good in it,” Dylan butts in.

“–whatever. And you got so weird about it.” She deepens her voice, in an inaccurate impression of her stepbrother. “‘Duh, we’re not supposed to talk about stuff like that, we’re step-siblings now.’ So then I say, ‘Well, if we weren’t, then you would still find me attractive, wouldn’t you?'”

“And I said I wouldn’t.” He says this looking right at me for emphasis. I notice that his hand still hasn’t left her back.

“And I,” she says, getting up on her elbows (making the faintest effort to cover her nipples as she does so), “think that’s crazy.”

“Why?” I demand. “Not every guy in the world has to be attracted to you.”

“And I’m one of them.” Dylan gives me a smile, but it’s not easy giving him one back. He gets up, wipes his hands on the front of his shorts in typical Dylan fashion and heads over to join me in the pool.

“Wait a minute.” We both look back at Danielle and she’s tying her top back into place. “How about a little wager? I bet you that Dylan is for sure attracted to me, and I’ll prove it by getting him hard.”

Dylan’s jaw drops. “What? Dani, that’s weird. Sharon–”

“Go on.” My jaw feels tight. “What happens when we win?”

“Confident. Quelle surprise, Sharon.” She takes off her sun hat, and her silky hair falls down her back. “If you win, then I’ll go out and you two can have your sweet couple time all alone.”

“What are the rules?”

“Sharon, getting into it. I like this side of you. Okay. I’ll only give myself a minute. And I won’t touch him or anything.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, this time looking at Dylan. I cross my fingers and hope that he’s telling me the truth. But if he wasn’t…

“You don’t even know what happens if we lose,” Dylan says. He chuckles, unsure of whether or not we women are serious. “Besides, don’t I get a say in this?”

“Not today, my little basketball player,” Danielle says. The confidence in her voice is going to make it all the more sweeter when she leaves the pool.

All the same, I now wish I finished sucking him off before we came out.

“If you lose,” Danielle continues, “then Dylan gets to be my boyfriend for the day.”

I keep the smile on my face but my gut drops as I feel myself falter. “Fine.”

“Now it’s a deal,” she replies. “Sit down, Dylan.”

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New Release: A Model for Stepdaddy

One way to get mounted on the wall…

“Duality.” It’s a concept that’s been played on again and again since the dawn of art, but I have the perfect model.
She has the beauty and confidence of a woman, but what she has between her legs puts her above all the rest. And I adore her for it.
I need to make Jean all mine, but there’s just one problem: she’s my wife’s daughter. I shouldn’t feel the way I do about her, but I do.
And by the time this photo shoot is over, she is going to do more than just pose for me.

This is my chance to be something more than just a fashion model. This could be art.
But can I really pose nude if I’ll be photographed by Otto? His glance alone drives me crazy.
The thought of taking direction from him, being completely at his mercy, blindfolded, with my hands tied…
It makes a certain part of me feel like it’s ready to burst.

This 8300 word, futa-on-male, BDSM, rope bondage, submission, oral, sensation play, older man younger woman, taboo erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!




“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” I say, “but I think you would be ideal for this project. For obvious reasons.”

I take another sip of the whiskey, the ice clinking in the glass as I set the glass back down on the end table. Condensation drips down its side, and if I were a different man, I would say it was like sweat down my forehead. But I am not that kind of man. I can’t be if I’m going to ask Jean to do this for me. She sits in the lounge chair, raising a glass of water to her own lips as she thinks. Her legs are crossed, twin streams of fresh cream and just as sweet.

“Forget ‘uncomfortable,'” she says, picking at an invisible spot on her flawless knee only she can see. “If I have to squeeze into another wannabe designer’s hack job dress, it’ll be too soon. I’ve been looking for a gig like this forever. It’s funny that it’s coming from you.”

She tilts her chin down and raises an eyebrow, the ghost of mischief hinted in her smirk. It is a look of flirtation, but it is one that she can default to. A side effect of making a career out of getting dolled up and looking as desirable as can be for the camera lens.

“Are you sure you’re worried about my level of comfort, ‘dad’?” she asks with a giggle. “How comfortable were those nude models you shot in the snow? Or the guy in that blindfold project? You know, if it were any other man, people would raise their eyebrows if they heard he was photographing his stepdaughter in the nude. It must be liberating to be the infamous Otto Bray.”

“Nowhere near as liberating as it must be to be Jean ‘Wilder,’ the tabloids’ favorite model.” I take a breath and let it go. She is trying to get a rise out of me, and I am not going to bite. I’ve always known the type. Artistes who thought they knew everything about composition and the fragile poetry of light just because they had been shot by a few big names in the industry. It’s an argument I’ve had with Jean herself a few times in the past. Who is the one who holds the paintbrush? The model or the photographer? But I’ve barely had even one full glass of liquor tonight so I steer clear of that road. I continue.

“Good and evil. Hot and cold. Day and night, yin and yang, male and female–you see examples of duality everywhere you look. I can’t name one other theme that’s cropped up more in every piece of man-made media between film and dusty comic books. There’s that old saying. ‘Opposites attract.’ It’s a natural thing to question where you are between black and white. Where am I on the spectrum of good and evil? Where are my beliefs? How do I fit into the grand, cosmic scheme of things? That’s where you come in.”

I pause to reach for my glass, and I find Jean gazing at me with the kind of admiration you reserve for your favorite professor. Her lips are parted in fascination and her body draws toward me like iron to a magnet. She seems so susceptible to instruction in this moment. So vulnerable to corruption…

I am suddenly aware of the heat, even in our dim, sunset-filled living room. I am suddenly aware of the loose shirt Jean is wearing. Her legs rub against each other, and the sound of her flesh grinding against her own flesh is like an autumn fire. Does she know what I see when I look at her? Can she hear the thirst in my voice when I speak to her? Maybe. But I do not break. I am calm and collected, even sitting before this vision in front of me.

“You’re the perfect model for this project,” I say. “You are both man and woman, and as a result are someone who transcends both genders. When I look at you, I can see the two sides of the same coin at once. Love and war. Mars and Venus. Power. Submission. I want to capture that. The other photographers you’ve shot with have only seen your outer appearance. All of your potential, wasted on flared jeans and denim jackets. Listen, I’m having a gallery show next week and I’m making this an addition. It’s last minute, and I know that, but you… inspire me.”

That was close. For a moment I think she noticed my hesitation, but whether it’s her lack of care or her ego that blinds her to it, her face breaks out into a smile. She uncrosses her legs, the black nail polish on her fingers and toes like dark orbs floating in the darkness, and strides to my chair. I don’t know if she’s going to slap me or kiss me. The horny, all-too-male side of my brain hopes it’s the second one.

“Don’t knock the denim jackets, old man.” She holds her hand out. “But when you put it that way, I’m your girl.”

I allow myself a smile as I get up and take her hand in mine. But we don’t exactly shake. At least, it doesn’t seem that way to me. Instead, we feel how we fit in one another’s hands. The subtle grooves and lines crossing each other and creating a friction that only makes me hotter. Such a simple thing, a handshake, but how sensual it can be under the right circumstances. Or it might just be my whiskey-buzzed brain sending all of the wrong signals down the nerve that leads to my cock.

“We’ll start work tomorrow,” I say, towering over her petite frame. “First thing in the morning. You won’t regret it.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, like she is having trouble finding what to say before settling. She lets go of my hand and gives my beard a friendly (too friendly?) scratch.

“I know I won’t. Good night, Otto.”


What the hell did I agree to last night? And why am I so nervous now, as I step into Otto’s studio?

This is what I do for a living. I get put on an outfit (or take off the one I brought) and then I remind the camera why it loves me. True, I romanticize the job from time to time, but it’s still my job. Day in, day out, nothing special. So why do I feel like my first day being a model?

My stepfather’s studio is a room in the backyard, separate from the rest of our house. I used to refer to it as The Greenhouse. The walls were all floor-to-ceiling windows, no panes, able to take advantage of natural light when it was needed and plenty of curtains if it wasn’t. The glass ceiling itself could be covered at the whim of our master photographer. The Greenhouse was a little bubble that shut out the rest of the world, the wind, the rain, a 3-dimensional picture that Otto could afford. Today, the curtains surrounding me are a deep purple, and my scene partner, a proud, dull-red wingback recliner, is centered on the floor.

I have on nothing but a robe as he fiddles with his camera. I am proud of the way my body looks. I’m strong like a dancer, tight like a hairpin turn, and graceful like the tornado. I look nice, goddammit. But what will Otto’s camera lens see? What will his steely eyes, set beneath his salt-and-pepper hair, find in me? I can ask as many rhetorical questions as I want, but the truth of it was I was too willing to say yes. Too ready to bare myself in front of him.

“Are you alright, Jean?” he asks, looking at me through the camera. His eye is the lens, and I almost feel better. “You look like you have something on your mind. It’s not too late to back out.”

He reads me like a book and he has the gall to ask me to turn tail now. He knows as well as I do that I never go back on my word.

“Funniest joke you’ve ever told, Otto.” I gulp, a physical reflex that betrays me, as I drop the robe to the floor. It tickles my nipples and kisses my mushroom tip on the way down.

He stares at–admires?–me for a moment, his brow furrowed. There really is no going back now. Every inch of me is exposed. I’m sure he must have seen my work in the past. How could he not, in this business? But it’s a stark difference in the here and now. His discerning eye dissects me like some kind of animal, and maybe that’s the best comparison. If we were wolves, then he would be the alpha of the pack, trying to decide whether to send me away or rip into me. I like it. My mother would kill me if she ever heard me say that, but God rest her soul, I like it.

His gaze travels from my neck, to my breasts, to my cock. Yes, the main star of this show, in the flesh and hanging low. I shaved this morning. I’m so smooth, rain wouldn’t stick to me. I turn my body and I can feel myself swinging into my thigh. It’s a nice, reassuring feeling. I’m still 100% percent here.

“So are you doing alright yourself?” I ask. If he wasn’t going to put the ball back in my court, then I would take it. I reach down and give my member a playful yank. “You act like you’ve never seen a dick before.”

“We’re just a family of comedians, aren’t we?” he says as he resumes his place behind the camera. His face is hard to read. I can’t tell if he’s bored or merely acting bored. If Otto ever became bored of photography, then he should consider entering show business.

He points to the recliner, looking at me through the lens again. As if he wanted to distance himself from the reality of what was happening. Or because he’s a photographer and this is his fucking job. I’m starting to think I over-think things.

“Sit in the chair. Let’s start with something strong. I want you to think high status. Royalty. Ownership.”

I kick my robe away and somewhere deep inside me, the little woman flicks on the switch that makes me feel at home in front of the camera. I sit on the chair, my legs wide, and I raise a foot up onto the seat. I lean back, my body a straight line from my chest to the tip of my cock. The soft caress of the fabric on my underside stirs me to somewhere between half and full. The line grows, so to speak.

The camera takes one, two, several pictures. I play with the pose, spreading my legs further, raising my arms over my head, and biting my lip. It feels like an act. I knew who was really in charge here.

“Let’s try something different,” he says, his voice a notch quieter than it was. As if he read my mind, he says, “Show me vulnerable.”

I clear my throat. “I think I’m already pretty fucking vulnerable, chief.”

He frowns at me. “Are you going to joke about this all day? I thought you were serious about this?”

My shame burns red on my cheeks and without another word I slink into the next pose. I curl into a ball on the wingback. The feeling of the chair on my bare skin is ecstasy but I shrink out of a very real shame.

“Good,” he says, “that’s really good. Keep going. Don’t give me scared. You’re at the mercy of something stronger than you.”

I turn away from him, the camera clicking away, until my back faces him. I get halfway up and place my hands on the back of the chair, my legs slightly spread. I look back, a look on my face that accepted punishment. I try to fight myself limp, but… well, it’s hard.

Otto’s picture-taking becomes less of a frenzy. He times the shots, waits for the right moments. The perfect pout, the perfect angle. The next time he speaks, his voice is even softer.

“Now give me both. Strength and weakness.”

At first, I freeze. My body doesn’t know how to take that direction. But I want to please him. More than I have for any other photographer I’ve worked with. And I see the picture in my mind.

I bend over a little bit more. I’m still on the seat, but my knees are on the edge and my breasts are arched against the back of the recliner. The tighter the muscles in my back get, my cock responds harder. I reach down and stroke myself, running my fingers along the engorged veins with the loosest definition of a grip. My tip rubs against the chair and the shock of pleasure makes me scrunch my toes. The camera is going off like a madman, and every click captures me in the progression to an orgasmic state. I moan, losing myself to my own play and wonder.

The camera stops. I don’t know if it’s Otto or me that’s heavily breathing.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he says, suddenly.


“Good job. I’ll see you for dinner.”

He rushes out of the studio, his camera in hand, and I’m alone in the greenhouse.

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New Release: Mrs. Johnson and the Girl Next Door

The cougar is in heat…

The summer’s here and there’s nothing this experienced MILF loves more than feeling the sun’s rays on her skin. And Mrs. Emma Johnson isn’t afraid to bare it all because what she has, everyone wants. Next door, an innocent coed named Valerie is home and when she finds who’s suntanning just over the fence, new, dirty thoughts and feelings start to come into the light.

Mrs. Johnson gives Valerie a little show when the younger woman won’t stop drooling over her tight body. But Mrs. Johnson isn’t going to stop there. She is going to teach the coed what it means to fully submit to the older woman, and they’re going to leave red-hot marks in and out of the house before the sun sets.

This 6500 word, futa-on-female, first time, spanking, voyeur, oral, submission, MILF, coed, neighbor, public erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


Mrs. Emma Johnson threw open the curtains, letting the July sun pour in through the tall, glass windows. The world outside was quiet, but the suburbs were never noisy. The whole neighborhood was constructed in a way that would fool photographers for decades on end. The same sidewalks running up and down the lane. The same palm trees gently wafting in the breeze. The same model houses, row after row, repeating in a pattern of Mediterranean, Colonial, Tudor, Colonial, Mediterranean over and over as far as development dared to go. Take a picture in 1996 and compare it to one taken in 2006 and put them side-by-side with the 2016 photo. Provided the gardeners were doing their job properly, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

Emma would agree with her colleagues when they said that her neighborhood was a blight on the city’s face. But she didn’t love living here because it was a quiet life. Far from it. The more spic-and-span the front of your property looked, the more secrets you kept behind closed doors. Gossip. Wine stains. Naked, hungry bodies. Legs spread open in the desire to be filled. The people were dirty. Those private betrayals and indecencies slept under the snow of winter, only to reemerge again, still alive and looking for blood, in the spring. And it was summer in the suburbs.

Summer for Mrs. Emma Johnson meant hanging up her college professor hat for two months before reporting back for duty in September. Summer meant young men and women wearing as little as possible in their hormone-induced fever for the opposite sex. But most important of all, summer meant relaxing.

Her oblivious husband and her useless stepson both worked during the week, which left her with plenty of alone time. Being alone meant more time to think, and more time to think meant being bored.

She breathed in the dark scent of her morning coffee as she looked down into the backyard. The pool, reflecting the blue of the sky overhead, called to her. There was that new pair of sunglasses she picked up the other day… A quick search through her closet for her most revealing swimsuit and a thorough application of sunscreen later, Emma stepped outside, feeling the intoxicating blast of warmth on her skin. It was like a relaxing breath, blowing across her body from head to toe, loosening every muscle along the way.

Almost every muscle.

Something inside her bikini bottom stirred and hardened, but it was held back. So early in the morning? Emma smirked. She would have to take care of that.

A pool float shaped like a hot pink flamingo bobbed on the water’s surface. She thought back to the time she forced the “man” of the house to buy it for her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the money to buy it herself, but it was so easy to make her husband bend. She only used the flamingo for one picture. It received a decent amount of attention, but she never figured she would use it again.

She sat down and pushed her and her vessel away from the edge of the pool with her foot. The flamingo floated towards the center of the pool, and Emma laid back. She looked down through the dark lens of the sunglasses and admired her own prodigious bulge stretching her bikini bottoms to their limits. It was a beautiful cock. She ran a finger from her balls to the tip of her shaft, and it sent a shiver of anticipation that scrunched her toes.

That’s when she saw movement coming from the next door neighbors’ backyard. The two households had always been good friends, and last year the sturdy fence between their two properties was torn down and replaced with a shorter steel one with plenty of gaps. Emma saw through these gaps now, and learned that their neighbors’ college-aged daughter, Valerie, was also home. The young woman was kneeling in the dirt of the neighbors’ garden, de-weeding the arrangement of flowers.

Valerie was a Renaissance woman, as Emma remembered. An excellent scholar. A decent athlete (which was obvious at first glance thanks to the tank top and the short shorts). Into hiking and travel. Even dabbled a little bit into the arts of sculpture and modeling. Emma liked an ambitious young woman, but that wasn’t the only reason she kept watching the coed.

With her sunglasses on, Emma was free to stare directly at the beautiful young woman. And Valerie just couldn’t stop glancing over at the older woman wearing nothing but sunscreen and a bikini in the swimming pool next door.


Naughty girl, Emma thought.

Valerie’s gloved hands were barely moving with half of the effort they had before. Emma spotted her wiping a sweaty strand of hair out of her eyes. Presumably to get a better look.

The older woman appraised her from afar. Maybe Emma had been reading one too many romance novels. Or watched one too many porn videos. Valerie didn’t have to be interested in her. The college student might have been disgusted because she was showing so much skin. Emma knew that the neighbors attended church regularly, so it made sense for the daughter to have the parents’ beliefs.

But no. Emma knew the look in Valerie’s eyes all too well. She saw it in her students, the college freshmen and sophomores especially who sat in the front row. She saw it in every waiter (and some of the waitresses) who had ever had the pleasure of serving her in a restaurant. It was a look of lust.

If Valerie didn’t look away now, there was no way she was going to finish the rest of the yard work. So of course Emma had no choice but to take it one step further.

She reached behind her, and undid the tie that kept her bikini top securely in place over her breasts. With a flick of her wrist, the top flew over the pool and landed squarely on the seat of an empty pool chair. Her generous breasts, freed now from their prison of fabric, basked in the light of the sun as much as the rest of her was.

Emma could hardly contain the smile when she saw Valerie drop the spade she was clutching in her hand. The metal head of the tool clattered against the cobblestone floor. Valerie scrambled to pick up the spade, and like the good girl that she was, went right back to work. Emma could hear her internal screaming. How could I be so obvious, she probably asked herself. Now she knows I was watching.

You’re mostly right, Valerie, Emma thought.

Try as she might, the college coed couldn’t keep herself from sparing herself another look. And another. When was she ever going to get a chance like this, after all?

To Emma’s disappointment, she watched as the young woman suddenly jumped to her feet and ran inside the house. She heard the back door open and close with a slam, the young woman forgetting all of her manners in her haste.

Emma was about to give in and paddle back to dry land when Valerie reemerged. This time, sporting a big pair of aviator sunglasses. It was all Emma could do to keep from laughing. And they say a college education isn’t any good these days.

She would have to be rewarded.

Emma’s hands drifted down her curvy body to the ties on either side of her bikini bottoms. With two, curt pulls, the ties were undone. Emma watched Valerie’s neck crane just slightly, desperate for a better look.

Emma was going to let her hidden, suburban secret do the rest of the work for her. For the first time since setting eyes on the college girl, she stopped watching her and transitioned into admiring her. Spry legs that wouldn’t look out of place on a dancer’s body rose up from the worn hiking boots. The legs led to an ass that walked, squatted, and knew every other butt exercise in the book. Valerie had a cute tummy–it wasn’t completely flat, but there was more muscle than love handle. She was a woman who knew when to indulge, and when to work. A woman after Emma’s own heart.

Emma’s favorite thing about fucking women was pushing down on their stomachs to stimulate their G-spots from the outside. Get the angle just right and you’ll be on their mind for… Well, until you do it again.

She imagined doing this to Valerie, laying her down and taking her in the neighbors’ garden. Her cock thrusting in and out of her nubile body. Valerie always called her ‘Mrs. Johnson,’ and that’s what she would moan when she was being fucked.

Emma’s fantasy worked fast. First, the bikini bottom merely twitched. Then it unfurled. Emma exposed herself to Valerie as her full, hard length rose from her pelvis. She became very pleased with herself when she saw Valerie bite her lip.

Even if she had sunglasses on, there was no doubt that every ounce of attention was being sent to the sexy older woman next door. The older woman who had a cock bigger than any of the college boys who fruitlessly sent her nudes. She wanted nothing to do with those jokers, but in the house next to hers was a queen.

Emma reached down, and parted her lips when the soft, moisturized flesh of her hand met with the rigid member between her legs. She stroked herself with slow, loving strokes. It didn’t do very much for the professor–she like it rough, after all–but this was about putting on a show for the young woman lusting for her.

She played it up. She moaned loud enough for Valerie to hear her. She arched her back and cursed as her fingers played with every agonizing centimeter of her big, hot rod.
Emma saw Valerie’s thighs shift. The flowerbed was all but forgotten.

And as Emma’s hand moved faster, gripped harder, and as her legs went over either side of the pool float and disappeared under the water, and as her moans became more like bestial growls of desire… she stopped.

Mrs. Emma Johnson paddled the flamingo float back to the water’s edge, gathered her things, and disappeared inside the house.

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