Scroll down to read the first chapter of each of the four novellas.


 Chapter 1: Blue Steel

David: Hey sexy. Have time for a convo?

Me: No. Husband’s calling in 5 minutes. What’s up?

David: I’d rather talk than text

Me: Call you in 30

David: OK beautiful

“Hello dear,” said my husband, as he struggled to get his phone oriented correctly for our video chat, “How’s the novel going?”

“Great! It’s really coming together. Hope you aren’t too lonely down there.”

“Nope. The aunts are keeping me busy,” he said, chuckling. “Did you see your friends this week? Play any golf?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I’m spending most of my days alone at the cottage trying to finish the first draft.”

Our conversation meandered around the same topics Allen and I always discussed in our weekly catch-up call. It had been almost 10 years since I had spent my summers in my hometown in Nova Scotia, and was so grateful he was fine with me starting up that tradition again. Allen had never been dependent on me for anything and never complained about the separation; he agreed our time apart made our reunion all the more special. But what Allen didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was there was something very different about this year’s return to Canada that made me anticipate it far more than any in the past.

Over the previous year, I had been in a relationship of sorts with a super fan of my racy novels. It started innocently enough: comments on my blog and then some emails bouncing ideas off him, but it’s not surprising the salacious nature of the material brought us closer in a way that Huckleberry Finn never could have.

David liked to push me to write subject matter that was just beyond my comfort boundaries. It typically came in the form of a question such as, “Did you ever kiss a woman?” or “Does Allen ever tie you up?” or “Ever been with more than one person at a time?” My answer was always no. I couldn’t relate to any of it, because I hadn’t done any of it, and so I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be good at writing any of it. But over time, I became desensitized to David’s persistent prodding, and I allowed my imagination to wander into those possibilities.

David: So a threesome doesn’t appeal to you?

Me: I’d be nervous but I guess I could watch

David: Watch what?

Me: A man making love to his wife maybe? What about you? What do you like?

David: Women’s lingerie

He told me he helped his wife on with her bra in the morning and off with it at night, just so he could get close to her heavy breasts. I thought that pretty mundane, kind of romantic and sweet actually, and I considered working it into one of my stories. But then he added some unnecessary detail: she hadn’t been as available to him as she had in the past, and so that helping hand he was giving her frequently found its way to his groin.

 One early morning in the middle of a busy work week, David pinged me during a meeting.

David: What are you wearing?

The question and the timing made me uncomfortable. Luckily, my coworkers were oblivious, complaining loudly about some idiot policy the CEO wanted to force down our throats.

Me: Red dress

And then . . .

David: I mean underneath

I turned as red as the dress itself and flipped the phone face-down. When it buzzed again, I vowed not to respond, but I took a quick peek. It was a picture of him from the waist down, stretched out in a chair, his zipper open, his thumb and third finger at the base of his veiny cock; it looked like it had been cast from blue steel.

And with that, our relationship escalated.

For the next eight months, we continued the back and forth, and by now I knew everything about him and his devotion to his family, and particularly to his wife, Sue. But every few weeks, typically late at night when our spouses were sleeping, David would reach out to me, and for one express purpose.

The audio eventually morphed to video, and aware of his fascination with ladies underthings, I would occasionally model various items from my top drawer. He had a particularly strong reaction to a pair of leopard print boy shorts – said he wanted to sniff them and wear them. And so, after pleasuring myself in them while he looked on, I wrapped the damp, fragrant panties in pink tissue paper, placed them in a satin gift bag, and mailed them to his office. It took awhile for the package to travel from Homosassa Springs to Halifax, but three weeks later, David pinged me with another provocative photo. It was the same composition as the previous, his fingers supporting his rock rigid Rodney, but this time in his office chair wearing my undies, and this time, I didn’t hesitate to respond.

Me: You still in your office?

David: Yes with the door locked. Damn baby, can you talk?

Me: No, but I can text

David: OK sexy, text me good. I’m stroking

Me: OK imagine this. I show up at your office wearing a suit with a short skirt and a very low-cut jacket, pretend to be there on business, get on my knees

David: Mmmmmmmmm yesssssss

Me: Take that glorious blue steel in my mouth and choke on it while you struggle to carry on a phone call with your boss

David: Oh FUCK yeah!

Me: I’m serious


Me: I rented a cottage in Lunenburg. I’m coming up there for the summer

And so it came to pass, just as I had suggested. What began in the lobby with a fake name and a firm handshake, ended behind David’s locked office door, me under his desk, my big bare titties in his lap, and a load of his high fructose porn syrup on my lips. 


First Period: Hand Jive

“Dad, this is Ryan,” said Sarah proudly, raising her voice above the din of the masses. The Amalie Arena was at full capacity and charged with expectancy as the fans waited impatiently for the hockey game between the Lightning and the Capitals to begin.

Donald Robinson struggled to wedge his 6-foot fleshy frame from his seat, then rose to greet the latest object of his daughter’s fascination.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Ryan, shaking his hand.

“Call me Don,” he replied, loudly, “What’s that on your head?” he added, stifling a smirk.

“I’m originally from Baltimore,” said Ryan, smiling, placing his hand on his Capitals cap, “but guessing you already knew that.”

“Yes, Sarah told me,” said Don, smiling back, “No doubt having you here will make for a more interesting evening.”

There was another few minutes of friendly back and forth, then realizing he’d forgotten something important, Don turned to help the woman next to him to her feet.

“This is Maxine.”

 Ryan shifted his gaze to Don’s wife – a petite woman dressed all in black, save for a delicate pink sweater. She looked up at him from under the brim of her Bolts cap; she was white as a sheet.

 “Mrs. Robinson,” said Ryan, a surprise in his voice and behind his light brown eyes. He reached around Don’s humpty-dumptiness for her limp wrist and shook her hand. She nodded weakly then addressed her husband.

 “I’ll go get us a couple beers before the game starts,” she said, stumbling past them, then she fought her way to the aisle and took off like a shot.

 “I’ll help her,” said Ryan.

 “Thank you, son,” Don replied, patting Ryan’s shoulder.

 Sarah smiled at her dad as they watched the thoughtful young man weave his way methodically towards the Promenade. At 33, she was still seeking that special someone and she hoped she had found him in 37-year old Ryan Axel. She had really talked him up before this ‘Meet the Parents’ event, and obviously he had made a fine first impression on her father. As for Maxine, when she learned Ryan was a bartender at the Slipshot, she’d become steadfast in her opposition to him.

 Ryan waved up at Sarah and her dad as he approached the entrance to the concourse; hold it together, he told himself. When he was finally out of their purview, he darted into the herd of hockey hounds, and before too long he spotted his target.   

 “Roxanne!” he yelled, and Maxine slowed, spun, and readied for the dreaded exchange.

 “Well well well,” he said, resting his hand on her lower back and guiding her crosscurrent through the crowd and up against the wall. He leaned to place his palms on the concrete on either side of her shoulders, pinning her.

 “So Roxanne, the bewitching barfly, is really Maxine Robinson, a respectable married woman and my girlfriend’s mother!”

 “Stepmother,” Maxine said, flatly.

 “So tell me, stepmother, what did your husband think you were doing all those Sunday afternoons?” he said, jutting his chin towards hers.

 Maxine looked down.

 “Bible study,” she said, quietly.

 “BAHAHAHAHA! That’s fucking hilarious!” he said, slapping the wall beside her head. It startled her and she ducked, attempting to get out from under his detention, but he caught her by the arm and pulled her back. She looked somewhat frightened; this was not his intention.

 “The bar isn’t the same without you,” he said, softly, “We’ve . . . I’ve missed you.”

 Ryan gazed dreamily into Maxine’s green eyes and came in for a sweet kiss, but she turned her head, and his lips swept her cheek.

 “Do you know what it was like, week after week, watching you leave the bar with some ol’ geezer?” he continued, “Wanting so badly for it to be me, knowing I could keep you cumming long after their droopy dicks dried up!”

 “Ryan, please,” Maxine said, knitting her brows, frowning.

 “Then one night you stay until closing,” he added, “and I finally get my big chance with the ravishing redheaded Roxanne. Then PFFFFT, you were gone.”

 Ryan threw up his hands.

 “It’s Maxine!” she blurted, “and I’m sorry, Ryan, but this is not the time for a trip down memory lane!”

 She got around him and took off again and once more he made chase. She rounded a corner and joined one of several long lines of thirsty fans, and Ryan positioned himself directly behind her. He was close, too close, making it difficult for her to ignore his possessive presence.

 “Those men,” she said, over her shoulder, “They just walked me to my car for safety reasons. That’s all.”

 She shrugged.

 “What? No kiss?” Ryan asked, as he swept her copper mane from her shoulders, then bent to peck her neck with his soft full lips.

 She inhaled sharply and shivered.

 “No ass grab?” he added, palming her backside stuffed into stretch black denim – definitely NOT mom jeans.

 “Stop it, Ryan,” she whispered, flexing her hips forward and sweeping her hands behind her to knock his away.

 “No brush of your breast?” he continued, skating a hand up under the back of her jacket, “Because that’s what I got when I walked you to your car.”

 Ryan petted around the pink cashmere on his way to a titty squeeze; he didn’t make it. Maxine whirled and raised her hand to smack him. He caught her wrist and pulled her close. It was a risky move, but no one noticed. The throng around them had thickened, the music was amped, and the scene somewhat chaotic – the pregame show was about to begin.

 “It was one time and I was drunk!” she whisper-yelled, “I wish you’d just forget about it!”

 “It was magical,” he said, refusing to yield, “and drunk or not, you wanted it and I wanted to give it to you.”



Chapter 1: Jacking and Jilling

I had been married for 33 years when Covid began to change lives and ours was no exception. While my husband proceeded to deepen his relationship with alcohol, passing out in his lazyboy by seven every evening, I found a new and arguably just as dangerous interest – chatting online. At first I used it as a research tool, well, that’s what I told myself. It made sense since I taught Psychology at a small community college in Florida. But soon I found myself making friends, good friends, friends with benefits.

There was a particular fellow who I found to be a good match. He was intelligent, accomplished, and had a great sense of humor, an attentive husband and father who, like myself, was missing the passion he had once enjoyed with his spouse. Steve lived in Richmond Hill, just a two-hour drive from my hometown, a town in a country I’d been unable to visit because of Covid.

A couple months into our tenuous relationship, we began to ask what-if? What-if, after this pandemic, I returned to Ontario and we decided to meet? Would it be a friendly hug, then lunch and a few laughs? Maybe a kiss goodbye? Or would we cross that proverbial line? The virtual back and forth had been hot, the way he whispered, the things he said he would do to me – things my husband didn’t want to do. It was thrilling to think about a face-to-face being a real possibility.

The months ticked by with every week or so punctuated by a late-night text from him accompanied by a notably artful photograph: one delicate iridescent drop slipping from the slit in his soft pink tip, coaxed from the compression of his hand around his shaft. I never got tired of looking at it; I wanted to frame it. And then, finally, the Canadian travel restrictions lifted, and in May of the following year I was on my way back to Ontario and to my familiar pattern: bunking with my childhood chum, Bea, in her lovingly restored early 1900’s Four Square home on Lock Street, teaching summer session online.

And the what-if became a now-how?

 “It’s not a good idea, Shannon,” Bea said, as we finished our morning coffee. “Not only are you both married, but this what’s-his-name could be another Ted Bundy. You binge watch Forensic Files; haven’t you learned anything?”

“I guarantee he’s not a Ted Bundy,” I said, rolling my eyes, “and his name is Steve Smith.” I walked my coffee cup to the sink, rinsed it, and set it on the ledge under the window. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Oh gee, Steve Smith, how could I forget?” She smirked and handed me her cup so I could clean it for her. “OK I’m off,” she added, heading out the back door for work, leaving me to prepare for class. Then she spun around and came back.

“I almost forgot the-”

“Egg salad,” I said, completing the sentence, passing her the sandwiches wrapped in a brown paper lunch bag.

“Thanks friend,” she said, “Wouldn’t want to have to come back here in the middle of the day and surprise you, eh?”

But it was she who would have been surprised.

Up until that year, my summer days at Bea’s had been relatively uneventful. I’d work in the morning then watch the clock in the late afternoon, anxious for her to get home so the fun could start: beer-infused golf mostly, followed by some bar hopping – there were three in town, including the Legion, and then dinner at home and late-night TV in our separate bedrooms.

This year, however, I wasn’t waiting for her; I was waiting, and breathlessly so, for him.

As soon as my three-hour lecture on Abnormal Psych concluded, I’d lock both doors then call Steve. We’d spend lunch time together with our pants down around our respective ankles, jacking and jilling off, and after the dust settled, arranging the tricky particulars of our impending rendezvous.

I was happy when he agreed a hotel room would be too risky and too high pressure.

There’s a bed in there for God’s sake!

And it couldn’t be anywhere we might be recognized. So we decided to meet at a truck stop on a lonely highway northwest of Toronto. We’d have a beer and a bite to eat and see where it led – perhaps to the back of his king cab, perhaps not. But when I pitched the plan to my bestie, she shot it down, then recommended a far more creative alternative.

Bea was the accountant for the Great White Limo service headquartered in our tiny town. If I was damned and determined to go through with the meetup, she suggested I surprise Steve with a limo ride that she would arrange and at a deep discount. No drinking and driving and no prying eyes, and if we wanted to take it all the way to boomtown, which of course she advised against, there was plenty of room in there to get busy.

“Who’s going to drive?” I asked, concerned, “Obviously, it can’t be anyone who knows me, and everyone around here does.”

“We got a new kid who commutes from St. Catherines,” Bea said, “Remember our old chauffeur, Albert? It’s his grandson. Lawrence doesn’t know anyone here, and besides, it’s none of his damn business what goes on in the limo. If he does ANYTHING unprofessional, I want to hear about it.”

The big day finally arrived and Lawrence was at the house 15 minutes early, standing soldier-like in his black and white uniform at the side of the great white limo, clearly determined to make a good impression.

“Hi Lawrence,” I said, friendly, as I approached the vehicle.

“Ms. Grove,” he said, tipping his hat, his toothy grin magnified by the contrast of his chocolate skin. He opened the side door for me and I crawled inside.

“You have the address of the truck stop, right?” I asked.

Why is my voice shaking?

“Yes ma’am,” he said, “We should be there in about an hour.”

Lawrence maneuvered his long, lanky frame into the driver’s seat, rolled up the blacked out window between us, and eased from the curb, and alone with the unexpected and unwelcome anxiety, I decided to focus my attention on the space, this place, where Steve and I would very likely do something we never would have considered if Covid hadn’t come along.

The limo’s interior was as expected: lots of black bench seating, a massive moon roof, and a bar back-lit in blue lights. It smelled cleanish, but not enough to overcome the stale cigarette smoke that lingered in the leather and in the red carpet that ran the length of the space – an ash burn visible in the ‘L’ of the Great White Limo logo.  

I’m about to have sex with someone other than my husband.

Suddenly, the prospect of a real carnal encounter sounded very scary and very wrong. The limo interior began to shrink towards me, my breath shallowed, and my heart began to beat in triple-time.

Bea had placed a cooler on the back seat and I moved next to it; I needed a drink. Buried in ice were two six-packs of various craft beer singles, plus two bottles of pricey champagne – a thoughtful selection, but neither strong enough nor fast enough to settle my nerves. Luckily, there was tequila in the small cabinet under the bar. I tossed one back, winced and waited for the burn to pass, then chased it with a second, and shortly thereafter, I began to unwind. Still, something was missing: music. I paired my phone with the limo’s Bluetooth system and The Chairman of the Board – Swoonatra – wafted through the space in surround sound.  

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread
And so I come to you, my love
My heart above my head
Though I see the danger there
If there’s a chance for me,
then I don’t care

Those lyrics: so apropos. It reminded me of a remark my father-in-law had made many years previous before he had passed away.

“In the old days, all you had to do to get a girl in the mood was put on one of his albums; Frank did all the work.”

And damned if he wasn’t right.

Look, this was simple: I wanted to feel wanted again. I needed an infusion of passion, a thrill that only newness could inspire. Steve was the ideal man for the job and this the ideal circumstance. And it wouldn’t be an affair – no – it would just be this one time – that’s all – just one incredible, unforgettable fuck.



Chapter 1: Risky Business

“What can I get for you tonight, Mr. Dollington?”

Ken Dollington scratched the chin beneath his gray goatee.

“It’s Ken . . . and you know what I want, Vinnie.”

“Spaghetti and Meatball Pizza? With extra sauce?”

It was an easy guess. Ken Dollington and his cadre had been coming to Murals, the quaint family-run Italian restaurant in Cranbury, New Jersey, for 20 plus years, and nine times out of ten, they ordered their preference, which the oldest son of the owners had memorized. Vince had made it clear to the other waitstaff that if he was on shift, he and he alone would be the server for these heavy tippers.  

He turned his attention to Ken’s wife, Krystal, a 50’s-something bottle blonde who took great pride in her oversized saline nubes.

“And for you, Mrs. Dollington?”

Krystal put her menu down and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She arched her back just slightly, then looked up at Vince with her signature coquettish expression. He smiled, his eyes resting on her deep decolletage, his shiny black hair coming loose from behind his right ear and swinging onto his sweaty cheek. He tucked the hair back into place.

“Oh what the hell,” said Krystal, slapping the table, “I’ll just have what I always have.”

Vince nodded as he took note, Veal Saltimboca, then made his way around the table collecting the orders from the additional two couples.

Like the Dollingtons, the Carys stuck to their script. Barb, a scant 4 foot 11, 90-pound vegan, would eat only one quarter of her personal pan gluten-free vegetarian pizza with no cheese. Being more moderate in his nonetheless healthy choices, her husband, Blake, ordered baked salmon, but with double the salad in lieu of pasta – dressing on the side. And Jeni and Tom Jones? They split a Greek pizza, a surprise departure from their usual Margherita-style pie.

“Magnum carafe of Chianti Classico?” suggested Vince, as he harvested the menus.

“Oh yeah!” exclaimed Krystal, with two thumbs up. She’d pre-gamed at home with a half bottle – it had tasted like more.

“And five glasses,” said Vince, smiling at Blake Cary, for he’d never seen the man consume alcohol.

“Sparkling water no ice for me,” said Blake, as expected, and Vince high-tailed it to the bar to get the order in, beating out his younger sister who was waddling her way there with an order for a table of 10.

“So,” said Jeni in a low whisper, “Pam Anderson told me that she and Andy took a bottle of wine to their new neighbors, the ones who bought the yellow house next door to them, and get this!”

Jeni leaned in to further mask the salacious gossip she was about to impart.

“They have a welcome mat and a garden flag with an upside-down pineapple on it!”

Just then Vince appeared with the wine, prompting Jeni to sit back in her seat. The couples were quiet as Vince filled their glasses.

“Upside down mats and flags,” shrugged Ken when the coast was clear, “So they’re halfwits – so what?”

“It’s a signal,” said Jeni, “It means they’re-”

“And sparkling water for you, Mr. Cary,” said Vince, once again interrupting Jeni’s revelation.

“It means they’re swingers!” she blurted when Vince took leave.

“Wife swappers?” asked Barb Cary, her makeup-less face almost the same shade of gray as her long braid.

“It’s more than just wife swapping,” said Jeni, “They mentioned a place they went to recently – it’s in Cancun – Cupidity I think the name is. It’s a clothing optional resort for couples in the lifestyle.”

Jeni air quoted ‘the lifestyle.’  

“We’d never heard of it until I did the research,” said Tom, “but apparently there’s a whole subculture of folks who go out to dinner just like we are now, then go back to someone’s house for playtime.”

Like his wife, Tom was a chronic air quoter, so naturally he emphasized the word ‘playtime’ in this way.

“Here we are,” said Vince, as he lowered a large tray onto the buffet behind him, and having positioned the plates in front of their rightful owners, he executed a marginal bow.

“Buon Appetito,” he said, and he scurried away.

While the others adjusted their plates and manipulated their cutlery, Blake considered whether or not to wade into the lifestyle conversation. Like Tom, he’d done some research, but for a very different reason.

“From what I understand,” he said, treading carefully, “it’s a very respectful community of monogamous couples who just want to spice up their sex lives.”

“How do you know anything about it, honey?” asked Barb, as she separated one slice of her pizza from the other three, then pushed her plate away.

“Yeah, Blake, how do you know anything about it?” Krystal teased with a wink.

He blushed.

“Just some article I stumbled on,” he said.

“They’ve put in for a membership at the club,” said Jeni, “I think we should warn the neighborhood.”

“Nah,” said Ken, wiping red sauce from his chin with his palm, “Just don’t accept any backyard barbeque invitations, or you might find an unexpected wiener in your buns.”

He chuckled.

Krystal rolled her eyes.

“I want to hear more about playtime,” she said, as she poured herself another.

“Playtime happens in playrooms,” said Tom, “There’s mattresses and swings, and ropes and chains, and rocking horses with dildos built into the saddle, and who the hell knows what else!”

Jeni put a finger to her lips to shush her husband and he lowered his voice.

 “Sometimes the room has a theme,” he said, leaning in, “like B…D…S…M.”

“B…D…S…M.,” said Ken, nodding, “I’ll bet everyone here knows what it is, but not a one of us knows what the damn acronym stands for.”

“And I’ll bet you’re right,” said Tom, his eyes traveling around the table, “Anyone?”

Of course Blake Cary knew what it stood for, but he declined to enlighten his friends.

“I think the ‘D’ stands for dog collar,” said Jeni, with a smirk.

“I think the ‘D’ stands for disgusting,” said Barb.

Blake frowned.

“And I think you’re all under the wrong impression,” he said, “It’s not a free-for-all; it’s really quite civilized. There are clearly defined boundaries – no one does anything they don’t want to do. And when playtime is over, everyone leaves with their respective partners.”

Blake dipped his fork delicately in the Italian dressing and speared some house salad with it, then thought better of his impassioned defense and added, “At least that’s what I gleaned from the article.”

“I just can’t imagine prancing around sans panties in front of a bunch of strangers and especially at our age,” said Jeni, “Tom and I don’t walk around naked in front of each other and we’ve been married for 35 years!”

“I think it all sounds terribly exciting,” said Krystal, with a shoulder shake, “and if everyone’s naked, I’m guessing the nudity becomes a non-issue very quickly.”

She drained her glass, and anticipating her next move, Ken placed the carafe out of her reach.

“I tend to agree,” said Blake, “And it could be argued that clothing just camouflages the true individual underneath, and by stripping down, one is really stripping away that unnecessary layer of distraction.”

Ken gripped Blake’s shoulder and squeezed it.

“Are you suggesting my shirt and trousers are more distracting than my hairy chest and swinging dick and balls?” said Ken.

Laughter ensued.

“Well, I’d have no problem taking my clothes off,” Krystal said, bending over the table, her bowling ball boobies pendulating up towards Blake Cary’s face as she snatched the carafe from in front of him.

“I guess I’m driving . . . again,” snarled Ken.

“Of course I wouldn’t engage with anyone but you sweetie . . . well . . . unless you wanted to.”

Krystal kissed her index finger then tapped Ken’s nose with it.

“My wife refuses to act her age,” he said, sitting back in his chair, his uncomfortably full belly preventing him from crossing his arms over his barreled chest.

Krystal furrowed her brows.

“Act my age?! Look who’zzzzz talking,” she slurred, “It’s like being married to my frickin’ grandfather!”

“OK, that’s enough you two,” said Jeni, wagging her finger at the Dollingtons.

Barb smiled and put her meatless arm around her husband’s shoulder.

“Blake and I are old souls,” she said, stroking the strands of salt and pepper hair above his left ear, “We don’t need the lifestyle or whatever other tricks people come up with to keep a marriage going. We’re happy just being together, aren’t we dear.”

Blake smiled softly at his wife and patted her hand, then felt a foot against his shin.

“Can I get a box?” said Barb, turning in her chair towards Vince as he passed by their table, and Blake realized then, that said foot, the toe of which was now lifting his pantleg, was not attached to his wife. He raised his gaze and met Krystal’s crystal blue eyes; they widened and narrowed, pulsing some pattern which he struggled, unsuccessfully, to decipher.

“And the checks too please, Vince,” shouted Tom.