From the author who brought you last years smash hit novel, BROKEN VOWS, comes a sizzling new collection of steamy erotica stories. With a uniquely dark perspective on human sensuality, Pitre expertly weaves impressive character-driven adventures. Receive an all-access pass into an exclusive swingers club. Be the fly on the wall in the mansion of the beautiful and abused trophy wife. Find out what happens to a sex-starved housewife when she is caught being naughty on a lonely Louisiana interstate.
Naiomi Pitre possesses a startling ability to draw you into her characters lives and not let you go until you've turned the very last page, hungry for more. Readers will not be disappointed in this latest release from the woman who has hit the literary world like a lightning bolt. Order your copy now!
THE AUTHOR
What a day… I drag my tired bones through my pretentious hotel suite, depositing my recently emptied champagne glass on the end table by the couch. My blood red lipstick leaves my mark, like a scene in one of those predictable television police drama series. Could've been better, could've been worse…
The women who composed the African American Womens Literary League of New York (AAWLLNY) were boisterous, full of questions, and always ready to laugh at one of my witty jokes. They were also the cheapest gaggle of women that I had encountered since I began my book tour earlier in the year.
You would think that a group of women who had hounded my publicist for months to have a chance to meet with me would have come better prepared once I got here. Sure, they had foot the bill for hotel accommodations, airplane tickets, and the limousine that had picked me up from the airport, but I hadn't sold one damned book all day! For a self-published Black author, these out of town book signings were your bread and butter. Organizations that booked you to come and speak to their members usually made arrangements to have several people who would be interested in purchasing your book in attendance. On one recent journey to the West Coast, I had sold five hundred and twenty-three books (a net profit of over eight hundred dollars) in one day to the newest influx of University of Southern California students.
My motto in life had always been to "make my own way". Success comes in so many different forms, and by so many different routes. Some successful writers went mainstream right away, after long hours spent submitting manuscripts to literary agent after literary agent, and after years of receiving stack after stack of rejection letters. Others, like me, were natural born hustlers who self-published and made good. I went the road of Mary B. Morrison and Zane, and hawked my own wares to become known in this field. No one thought I'd get this far in the biz by myself. No one but me, but that's all I needed.
Once I had displayed the ability to maintain a strong audience, the publishers came nipping at my heels, but I had chosen to stay published under my own label, SBW Press. (The SBW stood for Strong Black Woman.) The difference was the money that translated into my pockets. White authors didn't understand the hustle like those of us who have trekked down this lonesome road. In the African-American erotica genre, you couldn't always wait for a publisher to accept your work. Most often, you had to take your fate into your own hands. It was difficult, yes, and you had to endure the likes of AAWLNY, yes, but at the end of the day, I was better for it. So was my bank account. One day, I would get tired of doing these appearances once and for all, and I would accept one of their proposals. For now, I had to admit that it still gave me satisfaction to be able to pocket the money from direct sales and have real constant interaction with my audience.
The head of AAWLLNY was a matronly, heavy-set, dark-skinned woman who insisted that you called her, "Miss Doris", despite the fact that she had been married for over forty years, and we were far from the proper politeness of the South.
"They just loved you today, Ms. Natalie," Miss Doris had crooned after the event, patting me on my back like a small child. "I hope that you aren't discouraged that there were no actual sales…"
"No. Of course not," I answered a bit too quickly to sound genuine. She nodded and walked away, going to tie up any loose ends with the head librarian. No, not discouraged at all… I love flying all over the country to bullshit with a bunch of no money, low intelligence, gum-smacking whores.
Nothing irritated me more than to cast my gaze out over an enraptured audience while I was reading aloud from one of my latest best-sellers and catch some classless brute smacking away at their Bubble Yum like a donkey who'd just been fed some sweet smelling hay. But that's neither here nor there.
I lit a Newport and took that calming first drag. I had sworn to myself that I would quit these things one day, but the more I tried to quit, the more it called to me. I finally resigned myself to the fact that every man and woman had their personal life's poison, right? For my fat ass sister, it was anything she could stuff in her fat ass mouth that was greasy, cheesy and sleazy (including her newest boyfriend, Bo) – and for me: Newports. Hell, I'm a world-famous, Essence Magazine best-selling, #1 Amazon.com 2007 new release holding, author. If I want to slowly kill myself with the sin sticks, then that was my own damn business. I dare someone to try and take this pleasure from me.
You're getting too stressed out. You need to relax… I tried to slow down my racing heartbeat and calm my erratic breathing. I managed to breathe in wrong, and the next thing I knew, I was having a terrible coughing fit near the doorway to the massive bathroom. Once I'd recovered enough to press the smoldering cigarette butt into the fancy ivory ashtray on the credenza, I wiped my watery eyes. Fuckin' allergies…
I made my way into the bathroom and turned the water off in the bathtub. The level was just about right, and the steam rising from it told me that it was just about the right temperature, too. Letting the plush, white hotel robe fall from my shoulders and drop to the ornate ceramic floor, I gingerly stepped into the water and allowed myself to sink in up to my neck and knees.
Just as my eyes began to close, and just as I felt my consciousness slipping away, I heard a soft beep as someone used their keycard to gain entrance into my hotel room.
"Hello?" I called out, nervously, pulling myself from the beckoning sleepy dreamy land that I had been lost in just moments before. I realized, with considerable dismay, that in my exhausted state I had forgotten to engage the security latch on my hotel door when I'd returned this evening. "Hello? Someone is in here!"
I gasped when I received no answer, but saw and heard the door being opened slowly. I had neglected to close the bathroom door since I wasn't exactly expecting visitors. I made out a tall man's shape in the dim light of the table lamp in the main room.
"Hello!" I called, my voice filled with a growing panic as I stood and reached over quickly to gather a towel around me. Someone's head is going to roll for this one, I thought indignantly. Hotel security is so lax these days. It's despicable!
The man finally turned towards me, and then I could see that what I had mistaken for a dark head of hair from afar was actually a jet black ski mask that he had pulled to completely cover his face. Without taking even a moment to think, I began screaming as loud and long as I had ever screamed before. He rushed towards me, and I fell in the bathtub in my attempt to flee. For a frightening moment, the danger of drowning in no more than eighteen inches of near-scalding bathwater was more imminent than the intruder who loomed above me. I scrambled wildly, a blur of flailing arms and legs, cursing myself for my clumsiness. Swallowing huge gulps of water and feeling my nose fill with the steaming hotness of it, I shut my eyes tightly and prayed that God would help me.
The masked predator grabbed me forcefully under my arms and lifted me straight up out of the water, probably saving my life just to take it from me as easily. I allowed him to lift me, but when he pulled me forward, towards him, standing on the tiled floor, I finally came to my senses and began to struggle.
"You let go of me, you pervert! You fucking perverted mother fucker!" I screamed obscenity after obscenity at him, and in the end, his strength and large build won over my petite and fragile frame. He soon had his hand clamped over my mouth and nose until I was sure I would pass out from lack of breath, and he deposited me with a soft swoosh onto the silky comforter of the bed. I tried to kick and fight him, but it was of no use. I knew that my time had come, and there was nothing that I could do about it.
Trying to yell out was not an option, as he quickly shoved two of my trouser socks into my mouth so far that I began to gag involuntarily. On one hand, I was relieved that he no longer covered my nose, and I could breathe. On the other hand, the sweaty taste of the fabric disgusted me. When I began to look up at him to try to get a glimpse of my attacker's eyes, my upper face was suddenly covered with a thick strip of black tape. Then another, and another. I tried to get off the bed, but he was sitting on my torso, and I could not move but to punch and claw at him uselessly.
After what seemed like hours of struggling with him and pulling my hands and feet out of his grasp over and over, he had finally managed to tie my wrists and ankles to the four bed posts. I was now naked, tied, gagged, and blindfolded, and there was no one to help me. I painfully regretted how I had made a huge scene in the lobby just yesterday morning, as I checked in at the front desk.
"I need a suite, and I want a floor to myself. You don't understand my fans. They are ruthless," I exaggerated. None of my fans had ever tried to locate me on one of my appearances at the hotel. I just didn't have those kind of fans. Maybe Stephen King. Maybe Dean Koontz had fans like that. Not Natalie St. James, the author of the sizzling and sensual Preston Thibodeaux Devereaux series. "You'll need to check me in under an alias. Use Piper Laurie. I always loved the named Piper. I need a floor to myself; do you understand, little girl?"
I was now ashamed of how I treated the charming little college student who worked the front desk during the summer break from school. To her relief, and mine, there were only four Prestige Suites that made up the entire eleventh floor, and none had been booked this weekend. In other words, no one can hear you scream, Piper dearie…
I tried to quiet my crying, since I no longer felt the man's dirty hands groping my vulnerable body. He had no reason to continually paw at me now – I was tied and gagged. He could have me at his leisure. I tried to listen hard and discern his position in the room, but my heavy, labored breathing made that nearly impossible. I felt cold and defenseless, and now I had the time to feel shame, as well.
During the entire seven years of hell that I was married to Griffin, he never saw me completely nude. If I didn't have on my lacey bra, I had on my boy-short panties. If I didn't have on one of his t-shirts, I had on my favorite 'round the house' uniform: a white tank top with baggy, red flannel PJ pants. If I were accidentally naked, in all of my nude glory, you’d best believe that the lights were out and there was no trace of moonlight falling through our windows. I would cry out when Griffin would enter the bathroom and I was in the shower, which was why I had our master bathroom renovated to include a ceramic half-wall in the shower, so that he would never see more than half of me nude at a time. I didn't risk taking baths unless I was sure that Griffin wasn't home, or I had enough bubbles to be discreet.
Now, all of my dignity had been stripped away, and I was on display like a Hawaiian roasted pig, waiting to be devoured. The continuous stream of tears that flowed from my eyes pooled in my ears and overflowed to wet my hair and the comforter below. How will I explain the scuff marks on the bedposts to the housekeeper? Oops, sorry, Griselda, but the dirty old fucker that attacked me last night wasn't courteous enough to bring silk scarves to tie me up with. Good old rope is a sure bet every time!
I was losing it. The silence and the waiting were harder than just getting it over with. Kill me, fuck me, maul me, torture me. Just do it, for Christ's sakes!
And in the end, he did.
The first thing I felt was the warm and wet sensation of his mouth clamping down on the mound of my vagina with a suction to rival the three-thousand-dollar Kirby vacuum I bought last weekend. I cried out and writhed underneath him as much as I possibly could manage in my predicament. It wasn't an immediate pleasure – in fact, in the beginning it felt closely related to pain, as he sucked and sucked, opening his mouth wider and wider over my entire pubic area. I felt my face contorting with horror as I pictured what this must look like in my minds eye. He had obviously taken his mask off (the better to eat you with, my dear), and from feel of the skin on his arms and hands that wandered over my thighs as he slurped away at me, I could tell that he wasn't wearing his shirt now either.
It was an alien feeling, because I was accustomed to the way men would normally approach cunnilingus, licking and kissing your genitals with a gentle begging posture. Every once in awhile you would catch a true professional, and he would use his fingers in sync with his tongue and lips, and you really got a treat. But this… this was … this was strange. The constant sucking, and the gradual engulfing of my entire vagina with his intruding mouth… I could have lived my whole life without experiencing that and been just fine. It was as if this monster had been described the technique of eating a woman out, but had never had any hands-on practice.
When he had tired of that, I felt him pull away, and things were quiet again. Now, I wasn't begging for him to just get it over with. Now I wanted him to keep things quiet, like they were now, and just leave me alone. Take my money, and my jewelry. I know that's what your delinquent ass wants anyway. Want my hard-earned…
The familiar feeling of a large dildo being shoved into me interrupted my thoughts. I sucked in a quick breath of air in surprise and my inner muscles clenched to prevent the assailment. I felt him drive it further into my canal, and I screamed against my socks. I was wrong – it wasn't a dildo. It was an all out vibrator, because once it had been jammed as far as it would go inside of me, he turned it on, and the sensations whirred through me all at once. My clit was being pulsed by some object on top of the vibrator as beads within the shaft turned and shifted deep within me. I moaned without wanting to, and my back arched up, driving it further still.
While my body was frozen in that awkward position, my limbs tensed against the ropes and my back arched maniacally upwards, he used two of his fingers to penetrate my virgin butt hole. I slammed my body back onto the bed, releasing me from his devious grip. I could feel his fingers probing underneath me, digging for me, searching for the entrance once again, and I squirmed. I tossed my body back and forth, side to side – anything to avoid that stinging, ripping feeling he had caused.
His fingers found me again, and this time he held me still. He leaned on me with his body and dug his two fingers into my ass over and over until it seemed to get easier for him. The tears really fell now, and I could feel the moisture in my nostrils. I grew panicked, sure that I would suffocate myself on my own tears and snot.
Then, strangely enough, he stopped and eased off of me. I drew in large, wet pulls of air through my nose and steadied myself. My muscles were all tense. I was waiting for his next move. He pulled the vibrator out of me with one swift motion, and my pussy contracted immediately at the loss.
He was down there again with his mouth, sucking and sucking, as if he were draining the life from me. And maybe that was what he was doing, really. Draining me of the woman who I had become and leaving an empty husk of a woman – one who would be afraid to leave her home, one who would never drive alone, one who would cry into her pillow at night.
I was tired.
I wondered if this was the end. I wondered if he would continue to abuse my body until morning, having his way with me and sucking at me like some kind of demented starving demon baby. Would that be it? Or would he end it all for me for good? Would he have his fun, slit my throat, and leave me to be found in the morning by the maid, drowning in a pool of my own blood and feces? I didn't know, and I was starting not to care.
Then his technique changed. He began to lick at me in that old familiar way. He began to tease my clit from under its protective hood with his lips, and then with his teeth. But gently, gently nibbling and coaxing it out of its hiding place. Once my pearl stood at full attention, he took it into his mouth and sucked it softly like a pacifier. Without thinking, my body was reacting like it was on fire. I felt my butt cheeks clenching up and squeezing my pelvis towards his face, inexplicably wanting more. I was horrified when I felt those familiar butterflies crawling up my legs, into my thighs and fluttering through my stomach. It was amazing, and when he began to slowly ease one finger, and then two into me while he sucked on that little pink pacifier, I came.
I came like I had never come before. I bucked like a wild stallion that had never been broken. I shuddered, and the tingling just would not quit. I forgot all of the danger and the worry and the craziness of my situation for just one brief moment, and the pleasure enveloped my entire being. In that vulnerable moment, he ripped off the tape. He pulled the gag from my mouth, and he waited for me to open my eyes.
When I finally did ease my tender and swollen eyelids open (hey, you try getting your eyelashes ripped out by electric tape), I gawked at what I saw before me.
Griffin sat back on his calves, smiling sweetly at me.
"Gri…." I frowned at him.
"Natalie," he smiled still, and it was unbelievable. Why had he done this? My mind tried to piece it all together, my thoughts running a mile a minute. Griffin was originally from New York and had always had family here, even when we were married down in the bayou of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He had always talked of moving back here one day. It would have been easy enough to happen across an advertisement for one of my events. He knew the alias I always used when I would stay overnight in the hotels I visited across the nation. Call it a naive girls wish to cling to something she had lost, but I had shown my biggest emotional misjudgment when I had decided to keep my ex-husband's last name after the divorce. While our marriage had been well-publicized, I had ensured that my publicist had kept the divorce strictly 'hush-hush'. Griffin must have given his identification and claimed to still be betrothed to me. It wasn't a hard stretch to believe that the young clerks hadn't known that I no longer warmed Griffin St. James' sheets at night. Oh yeah, heads really are going to roll on this one.
My anger flared, and I demanded an explanation. I felt the old ire returning to me, and I spat cuss words at him like a sailor. "You'd better untie me this fucking instant, Griffin!"
He did, and he began to explain. He told me how he still loved me, had always loved me. He told me that he missed me – how the last two years without me had been a constant sorrow. He begged for me to listen to him and to listen, not with my ears, but my heart. He talked about how inhibited we both had been in our marriage, and how he always longed to spice up our love life, but had never had the nerve. He cried as he recalled the fact that I would never permit oral sex in our marriage because I had wanted to keep things between us pure. Little did he know how I had experimented afterwards, and how many tongues had tasted of the ambrosia that I had once denied him.
"It can kill a man, you know? Wanting something so badly and not being able to have it!" he insisted. "It killed something, alright, but not me. It killed our marriage."
I remembered his face as it had looked when he had walked out of my life twenty-five months ago. I remembered how tortured he had seemed, and how I had cried, wondering what I could have done to make him stay.
Griffin sniffed, through hot tears, “Don't you see? I would have never really hurt you, baby. I just wanted you to see… I just wanted you to know that I could really do it. I could satisfy you. You just never gave me the chance...”
In this heartfelt romantic memoir, Harry and Elizabeth share their passions and feelings about the poignant events that brought them back together after being divorced and estranged for almost twenty years. Filled with emotion, suspense, and humor --
In this heartfelt romantic memoir, Harry and Elizabeth share their passions and feelings about the poignant events that brought them back together after being divorced and estranged for almost twenty years. Filled with emotion, suspense, and humor --
