A New Title

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Rumors are powerful force, and Lara uses them to her advantage. This contemporary erotic m/f story explores how far one young adult will go to both fulfill her sexual desires and take revenge on those who have spread lies about her. Blackmailing her much older nextdoor neighbor allows Lara to punish her rumormongering ex boyfriend, as well as lose her virginity to her ideal man.

Expect voyeurism, barely legal sex, and everything from the perspective of a virgin.

Taboos

I was considering posting my thoughts under "Ravings Of A Mad Writer" because it would seem that my thoughts belong there. I'm feeling an internal rant coming on; cresting, roaring, breaking like Mother Nature's most wicked fury. But this isn't just my issue. This is AN issue. Prepare yourself for my long explanation and anger. I hope some of you can share my anger. Warning: I say fuck a lot.

Taboo: 

Noun - a social or religious custom prohibiting or restricting a particular practice or forbidding association with a particular person, place, or thing.

Adjective - prohibited or restricted by social custom : sex was a taboo subject

ORIGIN late 18th cent: From Tongan tabu'set apart, forbidden' ; introduced into English by Captain Cook

Ok. So I'm really hating this Captain Cook guy right now... Not because he coined a word to encompass all the things that are socially or religiously unacceptable, but because he coined something in the 18th century. It might not be all that rational to dislike like this guy based on his time period, but I just can't help it. I honestly feel the taboos relevant to the 18th century are still relevant today. Herein lies the problem.

All religious notions aside; God fucking help us.

I'm so angry with the modern world right now that I could spit tacks. I find myself cursing when I search out publishers to submit my newest completed work to. One tiny moment at the very end of my story (A Normal Girl) will be the sole reason my fiction is rejected before anyone has even given it a chance.

Reading through submission guidelines, I run across things like:

1.  "No scat or depictions or misuse of excretory functions." Does that mean poop or pee?
2.  "No deprived acts" What the hell does that mean? Depravity has no bounds...
3.  "We do not accept bestiality (does not apply to shapeshifters), rape, etc." The Shapeshifter bit makes me laugh because THEN bestiality is OK, but what the fuck does "etc." mean? 

Really. If a publisher can't clarify something on their webpage as important as to what is admissible or not, then they shouldn't be a fucking publishing house!

I began writing my story to prove a point and drive home a message important to me, and now I struggle with the possibility my story will never be read by mass readers. All the other struggles aside; submitting, competing with other authors, making it through the cracks and not being cast into the unholy slush pile of disregarded and forgotten manuscripts... Geeze. Like it's not already hard enough. Now I get to deal with not belonging in the "published by a publishing house" category because my subjects of fiction are taboo.

What makes something taboo? Who says what topics aren't ok? Who has that power? Why? My story's taboo is used to make a point, not to titillate. But that's beside the point. Even if I had taken a taboo subject and glorified it, made it sexy, it shouldn't fucking matter. Apparently because it's fiction, it's just not OK.

Pisses me off that the rules aren't the same for non-fiction. You hear about autobiographies from so-and-so all the time about their time in captivity during war and the atrocities they went through. You read about rape and incest survivors and hear about how well their stories sell in the book stores. Why is what I'm writing about different? Why am I not allowed to write and publish what I want because it's fiction and taboo? Does a true story have more merit than the creativity I pull out of my head?

I don't think so. FICTION. Sweet mercy, people. Do we really live in such a world where ancient taboos are still modern? How many hundreds of years have to pass before writing--free to write, free speech and all--is really allowed. How dare anyone tell me or anyone else what's not OK.

So fuck you backward thinking publishing houses. OH! And fuck you Amazon. Fuck you for banning books based on societal taboos. Fuck you society for making anyone feel ashamed about reading material. I don't condone underage sex, incest, rape, bestiality (with or without shapeshifters), or other "depraved acts," but I do condone writing about them, however you fucking want to write about them. Your own personal thoughts and opinions, especially in fiction, is a god given right.

I'll continue to write what I want and how I want. I might not reach the masses with my story's message, but I might reach one or two. I'll still be heard, and maybe my message will make a different in the life of those willing to overlook the taboo.

Something New In the Works

My latest piece, A Normal Girl, is done and with beta readers until I decide what to do with it. For now, I've started on something new. Not sure exactly where it's headed, but it's surely going to involve lots of kinky sex and classic Angora Shade revenge. My favorite.

Excerpt from "The Real Fruitcake" by Angora Shade

“Annabeth!”

I race into his office feigning shock. “Everything okay, Mr. Blake?”

Fucking priceless.

I watch his expression first read anger, and then morph into surprise, followed by emotions that slither back and forth between lust and confusion. He must like my new outfit. My lime green blouse dips low over my small bust, and is transparent enough to show my bra is made of lace without getting me sent home to change. If my mini skirt were any shorter, I’d attract enough negative attention that I would be. I can’t sit down without first smoothing and rounding the fabric over my backside. And don’t mention walking. If you can stand at the copy machine and bustle back and forth doing errands for nine hours in four inch heels, then you’re damn goddess.

Boo-Ya!

“Those…” He clears his throat and rubs at his stupid goatee, covering his sick smile. “Those papers for the Mahathy Case. Where are they?”

I was waiting for him to yell about it.

“Here,” I tell him, approaching his desk with a brown envelope filled with papers. “I’ve just made the copies.” I plop them down on his desk, inching in closer to him, my deliberately free hair cascading over my right shoulder and falling an inch from his body. Surely he can smell me.

His fucking aftershare reeks.

He clears his throat again, leaning toward me and grabbing an eye full of my chest. “Do you have a date after work?” he asks me casually.

“No,” I laugh, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I saved up enough to stop shopping at the thrift store.” I make sure to make eye contact with him, and then look down at the floor as if I’m embarrassed to say, “And, I thought I’d buy something I knew we’d both like.” My voice rings in the air like a siren’s song.

I have to force myself to not recoil in disgust as I feel his hand slip around my midsection. Instead I smile shyly and open the folder.

“Here’s the witness list, the deposition, police report…” I flip through showing him I’ve missed nothing.

Suddenly I feel his hand sliding from my waist to my backside. I refrain from shaking as his slimy hand rounds over my ass and slips under my skirt. He brushes my thigh with his fingertips, exploring my pantie-free zone. His thumb and his pointer finger drag toward one another to the middle of my warm, naked slit, and I have to close my eyes. I pretend he’s someone else. I want to hate it, even when his attentions feel so good. A finger enters me, and I sigh, allowing myself to feel the tingles of pleasure he makes with his thumb, rotating over my clit, while he slowly drags his finger in and out of me.

I bite my lip and breath deeply. I’m quickly made slick, and feel that imminent climax upon me, cresting like a wave about to break. It’s been too long. Several weeks. I need a release caused by someone else more than I need anything else. I crave it. I starve for it.

Makes me hate him even more.

“Blake, I need those--” Dave breaks off in mid-sentence as he bursts into the room.

At the end of the hall, my boss’s office looks out from heights of skyscraper splendor with floor to ceiling windows, but there are no windows in the front. The location is part of my prison, making me less visible to others.

I look up at Dave’s face and see him grin, and feel my climactic moment become a forgotten pain and frustrating memory as willing fingers retrete from my slippery, wanting desire.

Dave’s voice fills the room again as I straighten up. “Did L.A. call about the Talton case?”

I sigh deeply and close the envelope on the desk.

“Yeah, they did,” Mr. Blake says, casually scratching at his annoyingly angular black goatee as he stares at me like a piece of meat. I cringe under his probing eyes and think I miss dressing more conservatively, even when I’d resembled a nun. I had bought pant suits on sale in the women’s section, hoping that he’d be turned off to something my mother or grandmother might have chosen; old fashioned, full coverage, shoulderpads, dull blue, and boring.

But no. It hadn’t helped. I had been only meat to him then, just as I am now. It might have played to my ego to think I could make wearing a stinky potato sack sexy if I were seen in it by anyone else.

“Bring me another coffee, Annabeth,” he says as he reclines back into his chair.

I can still feel his gaze on me as I fake a smile, turn, and leave his cushy office.

Right on my ass.

The fucker.

It’s all good. He’ll get his and I’ll get mine.

All part of the plan.

I walk toward the break room down at the end of the hall. I’m invisible to the other employees at the law firm. The lowly secretary I am. Not for long. Everything is flexible, and I’m on my way out. No one knows it just yet. I intend to make some waves first; before saying a hearty, Fuck you, Peter Blake. I’ll have a very cozy existence in my future, living off the fruits of my torture.

Yup. Torture. That’s exactly what this is for me.

He’s a liar and a cheat; a good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch, fucking *@*(*#$!!

He’ll sell some story to his wife on the phone about working late, and then run off to dinner with some oily and pretentious slut. There’s more than one. He makes me pick out gifts for them or send them flowers. I’ve even walked in on him with them--clients too--one or the other of them bent over his desk.

Yuck.

I’m the one who gets stuck cleaning up; reorganizing the desk, the papers that fall to the floor, reprinting the ones that get… soiled.

This all happens of course when his attentions aren’t focused on me. He makes it clear he wants me on his menu, licking his lips while undressing me with his eyes, blatantly stroking his cock through his designer suit pants while watching me do some chore in his office. And he’s never done with ordering me around.

He’s a terrible human being.

I’ve noticed little things in his work too; inconsistencies. I’ve heard his conversations with clients, heard the advice he’s given them, and I’ve seen the results. He’s sly, sneaky, corrupt. I’ve even seen him partake in that stereotypical back alley deal involving large amounts of cash.

Yes, cash. Big out-of-the-movies briefcases filled with sequential bills under fifty.

But I keep quiet. I have to. I’m a victim of blackmail.

It’s not even such a big deal. I could just quit playing secretary and nothing much will come of Peter Blake’s threats, but I have to make him believe it’s a big deal to me. I have to make him believe I don’t want my secret made public. As if exploring my own sexuality could be frowned upon in modern society anyway. Really.

Moonlighting as an escort had always been a fantasy of mine, and that fantasy had become real for five fantastic months. Different men--and sometimes women--every weekend had not only been entertaining, but eye opening as well. I’m not saying I’m a slut and I slept with all of my clients, just that the option had been there if the chemistry had clicked.

And it had. Often.

I like the oddballs. I like the ones who like things other than… the typical. Take me home, tie me up, force me to cum exponentially as tears stream down my face from the whip repeatedly striking my ass. Let that great big cock thrash my insides.

Pure joy.

Sometimes playing games is nice too. Please Daddy, I know I’ve been a bad girl, but don’t take my panties away from me. I need them. Otherwise I’ll be so… naked.

Boo-hoo. Give me more.

Strangers with different sexual tastes are like fine wines; sinfully delicious, delightfully exotic, and expensive.

Or at least I am… Was.

Until my stranger became Peter Blake--Mr. Peter Blake.

But I couldn’t bring myself to fuck the bastard. No. The idea makes my skin crawl. I told him to get lost, find another “date.” Naturally, he hadn’t been pleased, and threatened to have me fired. I returned with a threat of my own, saying how I would expose him for hiring an escort. I asked him about what his wife would think, what the firm would think. I remember his laughter, slyly suggesting he had only been ‘meeting a witness’ or maybe ‘acquiring a new client’, and not out for ‘sex’ with anyone. That’s what he would tell people. That would be his explanation.

Right.

But I found his weak spot.

Exposing all his crafty under-the-table and questionable actions at the firm.

I knew I had him when I had watched him blanch. He couldn’t really have believed I was blind to it all. Saying nothing earlier in our working relationship about the things I had seen him do doesn’t mean I’m not capable of saying something now.

But he still had tried to play his cards. I would have to keep quiet about him, about everything. How dare I threaten him at all over anything. How dare I believe I had the upper hand over someone as powerful as him. I remember him being angry--clearly frightened--and for the first time, turned off. I still feel good visualizing him running off beat red. There’s a certain power in making a person want to fuck you, and an even greater one in making them want to kill you.

Back at the law office, running his errands, pretending like nothing had happened, I had already moved past it and put it out of my mind. But he had pulled me aside. He must have been sick with worry to continue to threaten me. He must have thought a lot about what would happen if his back alley deals and unlawful ways were found out. I know I had. It had been a sick little daydream for me to imagine what would happen to him. Some people have the inner strength to deal with prison, but Peter Blake has the bowels and the backbone of a weasle. It’s easy to visualize him becoming the meat, sizzling like raw, juicy bacon in a frying pan, rather than being the one eating it. Surely a successful lawyer has a string full of enemies already waiting for him on the inside, lying in wait.

Fear makes a man crazy.

He threatened to have me fired by the firm if I decided to say something, as well as reveal my escorting history. He threatened to have his shady contacts hurt me, make me pay.

I now have to let him think he’s wounded me, has a hold on me. I have to let him think being his secretary, or my personal hobbies made public, means any kind of shit to me. It doesn’t. Not really. Even the idea of having the shit kicked out of me doesn’t bother me much. I know the deep dark secrets of all the people he’s involved with. Have to keep all aspects in balance.

Touche.

I might not have fucked him as his escort, but he still managed to screw me over, mess with my sexual fun.

Fired. I had showed up for work the following weekend only to be told to get lost.

No more lovely strangers to teach me new tricks and entertain my boring weekends.

The sleazy fucker.

So I’ll pretend to be cornered, tied evenly in a stalemate.

Pretending is something I’m good at. Pretending is something I can do, am still doing, and will continue to do until my plan is seen through.

I take a cup out of the cupboard and fill it half with coffee and half with milk, and add a packet of sugar. Just how Mr. Peter Blake likes his brew. I work up a bit of saliva in my mouth and hack it in, giving it all a good stir. I wonder what vengeance tastes like.

“Extra flavoring in your coffee this morning?” Dave jokes, seeing me and my bodily fluid addition. I spit in Peter Blake’s coffee everyday. I don’t try and hide it from Dave anymore.

“It’s the little things that make a great cup of coffee,” I joke back. Giving him a side hug, I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh. “Just a few more days until the party, and then it’s goodbye.” I feel Dave squeeze my midsection with his hand, and snortle.

“Right,” he admits. “I can’t wait.”

Neither can I.

The office holiday party is something the firm’s senior lawyers take turns hosting every year. Peter Blake couldn’t weasel his way out of it if he tried. I made a deliberate remark--loudly--to him about it while he was on the phone with his wife. She overheard and instantly became ecstatically excited.

Wow. She’s in for a treat. And not the fruitcake kind.

With only a few days left to put my plan into action, I loath what I have to keep doing; stereotypical sexy secretary outfits, no more disgusted looks, no more avoiding him when I don’t absolutely have to. Short of flinging myself at him, I have to imply I had only been playing hard to get in the beginning, when the threats had all started. I have to make him believe I regret failing to escort him, regret trying to blackmail him, and not fucking him silly while I had the chance.

Dave will help. Dave’s in on it.

He’s no idiot. He’s seen the looks, the suggestive actions, and he had confronted me about it. He had told me to file a suit, get paid. But I need more than that. I need divine retribution. I don’t just want money, but a smug satisfaction in knowing I’ve ruined a man who thought he could ruin me.

So I spilled my guts. I told Dave everything. Good thing Dave is only a mildly crooked lawyer. He had always been suspicious of Peter Blake’s “legal” shenanigans, but could never prove his faults the way that I can. I have actual, physical evidence. Dave’ll help me and I’ll help him. I’m free soon, moving on to bigger and better things.

Dave too. There’s a cushy chair with his name on it when Peter Blake vacates. One less dick to worry about.

I take my coffee and strut out of the room, feeling Dave’s smile mimic my own.