Was this book based on a true story? #lesbian #ageplay #bdsm #erotica

Someone very dear to me recently asked if my lesbian ageplay book NANNY STATE was based on a true story. Ha! Don't I wish! My life isn't that interesting.

More specifically, I was asked if Sweet made me get rid of all my thongs and switch to granny panties--which is the rule Victoria imposes on Summer in the book. She didn't. I've still got a vast selection of thongs stored away for a time when they feel relevant once again.

Having said all that, Nanny State did alter and improve our sex life. While we've never delved into ABDL, the book did inspire us to incorporate spanking into our repertoire, and spanking quickly became a go-to for us.

So, while Nanny State was not inspired by true events, it did inspire us to shake up the sex we were having. Just one of the many ways this little book of lesbian domination and submission changed my life!

You can find your copy at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789

In case you've never read it, enjoy the first chapter!

Chapter 1

“Victoria?”

The lights were off when I got back to the house—very unusual, because my strict landlady Victoria was pretty much always around. She’d converted the extra bedroom into an office years before I came out here for school, and that’s where she worked as some sort of typist. I never asked for details about what she did for a living. I didn’t really care.

I know that sounds mean, but Victoria was hard to sympathize with. At times, she was unbearably controlling. She demanded I come home promptly after class, and I always resented the way she’d stand in the living room with one eye on her watch, asking, “What time do you call this, Summer?”

Victoria was an old friend of my mom’s, but the longer I stayed with her the more she acted like she owned me, like I was a little kid in need of protection. Who did she think she was, bossing me around in that passive-aggressive way of hers?

“Victoria? Are you up here?” I climbed the stairs, turning on every light as I went.

As much as I complained about Victoria breathing down my neck every hour of the day, I hated being alone in the house. It gave me the creeps. If I could afford it, I’d get a nice little apartment of my own, but that would mean finding a job. After getting fired from my last two restaurant gigs I couldn’t get a reference to save my life.

Anyway, until I finished university it was better to focus my time on writing papers and studying for exams. That’s a big part of the reason I transferred schools and came out here to live. Back home I got way too distracted by hot friends and good times.

In fact, the thing I missed most about my freedom was all the meaningless sex. Under Victoria’s roof, I couldn’t get away with shit. School and home, bedroom door open at all times. She even had the parental block set on the TV so I couldn’t watch anything with “mature themes.”

My poor pussy was craving attention, and the most I could give it was a little stroke in the shower. Even then, Victoria timed me as if I was wasting water. After five minutes, she’d be knocking on the door, hollering, “What are you doing in there?”

I stood at the top of the stairs, gazing into open, empty rooms. “Victoria?”

No response.

That settled it—she wasn’t home! No way I was going to miss this opportunity to do something naughty. Racing into my bedroom, I shut the door and pulled my laptop out of my bag.

My heart thundered in my ears while a thick heat pulsed low in my belly, spreading all the way down my thighs. I couldn’t wait.

“Gimme the good stuff,” I said as I clicked on my favourite porn site. It had a feature where you could search out what you liked best.

I typed in lesbian orgasms.

There was nothing I loved better than watching real girls come, and I looked through the thumbnails for one where the women weren’t bleach blondes. Girls with tattoos got me off almost immediately, so when I found a porn clip starring one inky vixen with hot pink streaks in her hair and one innocent looking redhead, I was all over it.

When the video began, the tattooed girl was already sucking the redhead’s tits, thank god. I hated when lesbian clips started with ten minutes of kissing. Sure kissing was hot, but when I watched porn I wanted it to be on fire.

This clip definitely fit the bill. After fifteen seconds of ogling that leather-clad punk as she suckled the pallid redhead, my panties were soaked through. I reached under the elastic waist of my Uni track pants and cupped my mound overtop of my juicy, soaked underwear.

Victoria had disposed of all my sexy thongs the first time she did laundry, replacing them with white cotton undies. Totally not sexy, but I never did like going commando so I just grew extra cautious about letting people get an impromptu look at my panties.

“Fuck yeah!”

The chick with the ink planted rough kisses and love bites down the redhead’s paper-white belly. God, they were hot together. I hadn’t eaten pussy in months, and I missed it so bad I could almost taste that heavy, musky aroma at the back of my throat.

“Yeah, lick her hard,” I told the girl onscreen. “Suck her clit, you fucking slut.”

I didn’t mind calling instructions out to my computer. Didn’t make me feel crazy or anything. I figured, hell, if I had the house to myself for once I should take full advantage and make a little noise. When Victoria was home, I always had to be quiet as a church mouse and it was driving me nuts.

When the tattooed girl lunged against the redhead’s bush, a growl rumbled deep inside of me. I wasn’t sure who I should be more jealous of: the one doing the licking or the one getting licked. Fuck, I loved the look of that bright red pussy hair. So many girls in porn were shaved—hell, so was I—but it really turned me on to see a full cloud of pubic hair between a woman’s thighs.

The tattooed girl seemed to like it, too. She ate that redhead’s pussy wildly and without remorse, like a wolf tearing into a bunny rabbit. The redhead reacted in a big way, shrieking and whimpering, her voice mellifluous even when she grunted and groaned.

I pushed my bottoms to the floor and spread my legs for the girls onscreen. Parting my smooth lips, I traced my middle finger round and round my sensitive clit, pretending they could see me.

“You like my pretty pussy, huh?” I smacked it for them, jumping in my chair as the slap to my clit rang through my body. “Look how much you turn me on, you little sluts. I’m all fucking wet for you.”

Stroking my clit with one hand, I pulled up my t-shirt with the other. It was tight enough to stay there, hiked above my breasts as I tugged my tits out of my bra. When I pinched my nipples, a surge of electricity zapped down to my clit. If only I could do what the redhead onscreen was doing, bringing her breasts up to her mouth and sucking them, but my boobs were nowhere near as big as hers.

“God, I love your tits,” I told her, pretending she’d heard me and that smile on her plump pink lips was acknowledgement.

The girl between her legs ate her hard, ravaging her clit. She hugged her tits and shrieked. Planting her feet against the mattress, she bucked up against the tattoo girl’s wet face. Watching her lips contort with blissful agony set my belly ablaze, and I scoured my clit so hard and so fast I came when she did—and I came hard!

But once was never enough when I was getting myself off. I cupped my mound, squeezing it in my hot hand, feeling my slick inner lips pound and pulse against the outer ones.

When the porn clip finished, I reached for the touch pad on my laptop. My goal was to get the cursor to a thumbnail of a naked blonde and an Asian woman with giant boobs, but my fingers were wet and my aim was off. I ended up clicking another video instead.

My belly flip-flopped when the clip started. It was another lesbian scene, but I’d never come across anything like it before. There was a woman in her forties, I guess, wearing a prim dress unbuttoned at the front so her big naked breasts were fully exposed. In her arms, she cradled a girl who was probably about my age. Like a baby. So much like at baby that the girl was wearing a diaper!

“What the fuck is this?”

I’d seen some kinky-ass porn in my day, but nothing had ever made my heart clench and my stomach wrench like this did. It seemed really wrong, and I urged my hand to click another thumbnail, but my fingers would not obey.

When the younger woman took the older one’s nipple in her mouth, my pussy gushed with juice. There was something mesmerizing about the way she sucked that woman’s tit, like she derived more than just sexual pleasure from it. And the woman in the dress—wow! The look on her face was so serene, so loving, that my heart warmed as I watched them together.

“Fuck, I can’t be turned on by this.” I spoke more to myself than the computer this time. “This is some crazy shit.”

Even so, my fingers parted my smooth wet pussy lips, tracing up and down my slit and bursting inside while my thumb found my clit. My whole body surged. Sure I’d just come, but that wave of orgasm was still close at hand. Stroking my clit in tight circles, I thrust my fingers languorously in and out of my pussy, savouring the wet squelching sound they made in there. It wouldn’t be long until I was riding that wave of climax again.

I watched the scene on my computer more intensely than I’d ever watched any other porn clip. Mainly, I think I wanted to understand why I found it so arousing. And at the same time, of course, I didn’t want to know at all. I just kept fucking myself and toying with my clit as the maternal older woman stroked the younger girl’s fine blonde hair, rubbed her back, and caressed her thigh.

It all looked so intimate and serenely sensual that I wanted the same thing, though I didn’t know why. I loved the way the younger girl’s smallish breasts pressed against the older woman’s bare belly, just above where her dress was still buttoned up.

“Suck my tits, baby.” I pinched them one by one, imagining those pretty pink lips against my nipple, that velvet-soft tongue licking it, bringing it into her warm, wet mouth.

A surge of energy pulsed through my clit, and my pussy muscles tightened around my fingers. I was going to come watching this crazy fetish porn. I was going to come watching that pretty young woman suck those big, beautiful tits. This was unbelievable.

“Summer!”

Every muscle in my body clenched. My heart seemed to stop beating, and still I struggled to extract my fingers from my pussy and turn off the porn.

Too late anyway. I’d been caught red-handed. I’d gotten so involved that I didn’t even hear the door open.

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Victoria hovered just inside my room, hands on hips. She hadn’t even taken off her leather boots.

I quickly pulled my t-shirt down to cover my boobs, though my bra was still lodged beneath them. My face felt burning hot. It must have been red as a beet! Still, I couldn’t let her know how embarrassed I felt.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I scrambled into my track pants. “I’m trying to get off—and you’re no help, standing there like the wicked witch of the west.”

Was that the bad one? I couldn’t remember.

“I have absolutely no intention of helping you in that twisted endeavour.” Victoria’s gaze kept darting to the computer screen, where the younger woman continued to suckle to older one.

“Besides,” I said. “My door was closed. Don’t I deserve a bit of privacy in my own damn bedroom?”

Finally, she let out an exaggerated hmph sound and pushed my wheeled study chair clear across the room. By the time I’d turned myself around, she’d closed my laptop and was trudging out of my room with it.

Now my blood was really boiling. That laptop was my private property! “Where the fuck do you think you’re going with that?”

Victoria gasped, spinning on her heels. Her face was like marble, hard and white and frightening. “Mind your language, Summer. This is still my house, after all.”

“Yeah, no shit!” I couldn’t control my anger. The power she wielded like a weapon just made me so damn mad. “You remind me every day: ‘My roof, my rules. Your mother sent you here for a reason.’ I’m so sick of you.” Grabbing hold of my computer, I yanked it from her hands. “I take all my class notes on this laptop, and I do all my reading on it too. It’s not a toy, and even if it was, it’s mine, you ugly bitch.”

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that. I held my laptop so close to my chest I could feel its warmth against my pointed nipples. My breath was coming so fast after all that screaming I worried I might hyperventilate, but I worried even more that Victoria would hit me with something.

It wasn’t right of me to call her an ugly bitch. I knew that. And it wasn’t even true. She was the kind of woman whose skin didn’t know her age, except for the laugh line to one side of her mouth and the crinkles she got around her eyes every time she smiled. But she sure wasn’t smiling now, or laughing. I’d never seen her looking so… hurt.

“Wait,” I said as she walked to her bedroom across the hall from mine.

She looked at me, seeming small, gaunt, powerless. She didn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry, Victoria.”

But it was too late. She’d already closed her door.

Nanny State is available as an ebook and in print from retailers such as...

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540

Here's the direct link to that video: https://youtu.be/tRvEN550944

And, once again, some buy links!
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20

You Can't Score Off Me Unless I Want You To ( #Excerpt #Baseball #LoveOfTheGame #Feminism #Threesome )

By Annabeth Leong

Guys, it’s always been hard for me to stand up for myself. And I’m not sure what to say about that right now--it’s been a long couple of weeks. So I’m going to cop out a little and share an excerpt from my story, “Fast Pitcher,” in which my main character, Margie Underwood, does know how to stand up for herself. I wrote this during a time when I was listening to baseball on the radio just about daily, and I really loved playing around with how dirty baseball language sounds. :)

If you want to read the whole thing, “Fast Pitcher” appeared in Harley Easton’s Love of the Game anthology.

I’ll try to have more to say next time!


***

Phillips had stayed late too, eschewing the team's afterparty in order to participate in Margie's tête-à-tête with Pete Muñoz. She knew she needed a catcher, but part of her wished it could have been just the two of them.

She braced herself for more nonsense from Phillips as she stepped onto the field, but her pitch earlier that evening seemed to have made him a convert.

"I've got two bills down that you strike Muñoz out. He's lucky this isn't official, or you'd be messing up his precious over-.300 batting average," he said.

"Nah, man. Margie's good, but she's about to give it up to me. I think she's going to let me take her deep." Muñoz spat in the dirt at his feet, then squinted out at the empty park.

Margie squared her shoulders. She recognized Muñoz's trash talk for what it was — challenging, not sexist. He was chirping at her the way he would have with any hot pitcher. Telling her that she wouldn't be able to keep him from hitting long and hard, far out into the outfield or maybe even over the fences. When he hefted his bat, however, he glanced at her with meaning in his eyes. Margie's mouth went dry. It wasn't just the language that seemed sexual. Muñoz obviously planned to take her deep off the field even if he didn't manage the feat on the diamond.

She glanced from one man to the other, and heat gathered between her legs. The night was cool and clean, and she was drunk off the feeling of standing on a pro diamond and hanging out with men who played ball for a living as if she were one of them. Margie adjusted her baseball cap and raised an eyebrow at Muñoz.

"You boys can bet all you want, but neither of you is going to score off me unless I want you to."

Phillips let out a whistle. "You want to put your money where your mouth is, Underwood?"

Every line of his body was arrogant, but there was something appealing about him, too. His brand of cockiness looked like it could be a lot of fun. He was a big, strong man, thicker than Muñoz but no less cut.

She tossed her head. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"I'll do you one better," Margie said.

"How's that?" Both men spoke at once, their faces sharpening.

"If either of you can score off me? Well, then you can score off me."

"Not that it's going to matter, but what's in it for you? What do you get if we can't hit?" Phillips grinned.

"Then you can tell everyone else on the team tomorrow that you struck out trying to get me to give it up."

She couldn't suppress a little surge of hope that the pitching coach would overhear, and one thing would lead to another.

"Fair enough." Muñoz laughed. "How many tries do we get?"

Margie tossed the ball into the air and caught it barehanded, pondering how lucky she felt tonight. She had that sense of fate and magic she'd become acquainted with in baseball, a sensation that sometimes came to her as she stepped onto the mound. It was a sort of full-body knowledge that resided outside of her head or heart or gut. It might have been written in the red stitches snaking over the surface of the ball, or perhaps it resided in her joints. Tonight, she was in control. She knew down to the tips of her toenails that tonight she could put the ball anywhere she damn well pleased.

"Three," she said. "You'll each have an inning to yourselves."

Phillips raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? You haven't got any fielders to help you work around the hits."

"I'm not going to need them," Margie said, and even with the premonition she was having she had to work to summon confidence to her voice. "Neither of you is going to be able to touch me."

She knew what she was risking, but it didn't matter just then. She was good enough that she could make a serious contest out of this, even if they wound up besting her. She wanted to win for the glory, but the more she stared at Phillips and Muñoz, the more she thought she might enjoy losing for the pleasure.

Phillips started out catching, and Margie took her position on the mound and breathed a few times to steady herself. She was pitching to Pete Muñoz, listed by multiple sites as one of AAA's top prospects for the majors.

She struck him out swinging, and then she struck Phillips out looking.

"What's the record for a woman throwing fastballs?" Phillips muttered as the ball smacked into Muñoz's glove again and again. "I swear to God this has to be some sort of record."

"No one bothers to measure most of the time," Margie told him. "Ila Borders used to throw just over 80, but she's one of the only women who actually got a chance to play."

The conversation must have distracted her, and Muñoz hit a couple of fouls off of her before she managed to set her anger aside and return to that pure place of connection she’d had before. A screwball retired him a second time, and Phillips looked at two more pitches.

"You've got to try," she told him. "It's no fun if it's too easy."

Phillips scowled, but her admonition made him marshal something. He stayed alive off fouls for a while, and then she threw a few outside, tying them up at a full count. He made her work for it, but she made him struggle just as hard, and the push-and-pull between them charged the air around him.

He brought his body closer to the plate than she would have liked, and Margie remembered that she needed to work him over a bit. She placed a couple pitches high and tight, forcing him to continue hitting fouls. When he backed away, she sent a beauty to the outer edge of the plate, just inside the strike zone but out of Phillips' reach.

Muñoz returned to the batter's box, new respect glittering in his eyes and his mouth curved upward with a smile.

"You said we wouldn't score off you unless you want us to. I guess the question is, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you want us to?"

Margie ignored the question, winding up, knowing her speed alone could stop him. Muñoz swung on the heels of the pitch, but still a fraction of a second too slow. She glanced at Phillips and saw the lust in his eyes, but this night had become about more than an individual's desire. There was raw hunger between the three of them. Together, they could have eaten the world. Margie thought about what it would be like to step deeper into that mood, to tear into the two men with all her need.

Phillips tossed the ball back to her. Instead of winding up again, she let her glove fall off her hand and onto the mound. The ball fell beside it.

"Yeah," she said. "I want you to."

Muñoz waved his bat. "Then pitch to me. Let me take you deep."

Margie grinned and shook her head. "Nah. You can't touch the ball. I'm not giving you that satisfaction." She reached up for her hat and swept it off her head. "Satisfying myself, though... That's another story."

***

And if I'm going to self-promote, I'll go all in. Here's that link to the book again.

Fiction in Truth ( #Confessions )

By Annabeth Leong

We’ve talked a lot about the truth in fiction, so I want to talk about the fiction in truth.

Interlude: Lisa and Rob

We all used to hang out at an open mike night. Rob was known for his joyful covers of “Brown Eyed Girl.” I sang a cappella versions of my poems. I don’t remember Lisa performing, though she was always there. Mostly, I remember her for handing out pills.

On this particular night, we went back to my place after the open mike ended, probably to smoke (more?) marijuana. But as was often true during that era, I wasn’t very patient with the conversation. Rob, particularly, seemed to be the type who got high and wanted to discuss mind-blowing, half-baked theories about quantum mechanics, and the more he waxed philosophical about The Dancing Wu Li Masters, the more I wished I’d left him out of the invitation.

Lisa saved the day by asking us to do her a favor, something she loved but hadn’t gotten to try in a long time. She wanted us to drip candle wax on her bare back, blow on it until it dried, and then peel it off and blow on it some more. I was down for just about anything that involved people taking their shirts off, so I quickly agreed. Rob was down as well, probably for similar reasons.

Many candles adorned my room, so we had the materials at hand. Lisa stripped down to her bra, and Rob and I took turns going through the wax procedure with her. I remember my fascination with the texture of her skin and the way it reddened in response to the heat. I have a major thing for freckles and moles, and I can still recall one just beside her bra strap and how badly I wanted to touch it. I’ll also never forget her gasps and moans.

After she said she’d had enough, I decided I wanted to try it. I never wore a bra back then, so my torso was entirely bare when I peeled off my shirt. The scald of the wax felt sharp and itchy at first, but as the heat spread over and through my skin, it settled into a squirming warmth that transformed into an erotic sensation. But there was also the matter of the breath. Cool or hot, soft or strong, different depending on whether it came from Lisa or Rob—it landed with an unbearably pleasurable shock each time, on raw, nervy skin stripped of defenses.

Rob tried it, too, though I remember having the sense that he was perhaps not as much of a masochist as Lisa or I, and was largely enduring pain in the interest of having two women touch his back and bring their lips close to it.

We did several rounds of this, and, predictably, the scenario evolved into heavy making out. I remember kissing both of them and playing with Lisa’s breasts. Pants didn’t come off, though I’m not sure why—I’m sure I would have gladly removed mine. At some point, Rob and Lisa went home, and I went to bed.

Oh, and by the way, I had a boyfriend at the time, who would have been extremely unhappy to know what I’d gotten up to.

The next week, I arrived at the open mike to find Rob waiting with one rose for me and one for Lisa. I remember thinking the roses showed a certain sort of naivete. He had no idea, I thought, of who Lisa and I were and what that night had actually meant. I don’t recall if we ever discussed things, but nothing erotic happened again with that particular configuration of people.

***

So, that story is as true as I can make it. I’m sure I’m representing the events and facts accurately, and I’ve represented my thought process to the best of my ability.

However, whenever I tell a story, I’m aware of all the choices I’m making about what to say when—just as I do when writing fiction.

For example, above, I waited until the end to mention I had a boyfriend who wasn’t present for these events. If I’d mentioned that up top, though, it would have colored the entire story and made it “about” cheating in a way it isn’t if I reveal that fact at the last minute.

I spent paragraphs on the sensual details of the candle wax and glossed over the kissing and conversation. That’s an implicit decision about what constitutes the “important” part of the story.

I also left out the context and back story for my friendship with Lisa, which involved a complex love triangle between me, Lisa, and Lisa’s best friend, not to mention previous ambiguous sexual encounters and a lot of drugs I felt ambivalent about taking. I wonder if that back story and context is part of why I didn’t do more to escalate the situation between me, Lisa, and Rob. In a similar situation with different people, I might have been much more into making a triad out of it, but I already had reasons I felt reluctant about getting more deeply involved with Lisa. If I’d put all that, the story would have been more complicated, but maybe it would also have been more revealing?

There’s also the urge to make some sort of meaning out of the story, another thing familiar from fiction. So what is that story about? Is it about the fucked up things I did back when I used drugs? Is it about my discovery of the kinky uses of candle wax (something I still enjoy in BDSM play)? Is it about a missed opportunity at an interesting three-way relationship? Is it about my willingness to explore sexually? About infidelity? About how Rob maybe deserved better than to make out with someone who didn’t care about his interest in quantum physics? About how Lisa and I really should have talked about what we wanted from each other? About how an open mike is a good place to hook up with kinky people? About how I’ve wised up? Or how I’m still the same?

I could write the story to match all those things and more.

This says a lot about writing, both fiction and nonfiction. Perspective is inescapable. Opinions get infused.

Right now, though, I’m more interested in what it says about life and how I look at myself. I can shift the true stories of my life in all sorts of ways. I could use them to tear myself down for sluttiness and risky behavior. I could use them to portray myself as an interesting, adventurous, experimental person. I’ve done both. And sometimes I wonder if there’s any really “true” way to see it all. It’s a true story, so there are true things about me in it. What those things add up to, though, is complicated, and, to some degree, chosen. I’m a writer, and it seems like I do get to write myself, depending on how I tell this and many other stories.

Threesome? What Threesome?

Writing group sex is not something I'm new at. My first book included a 40-man orgy. One of my first stories published by ERWA included a bunch of aliens getting it on as the universe came to an end. I've written about all sorts of arrangements from M/M/F to F/M/F/F to F/M/? and even some M/?/F/B/3/!, plus a few things that may not have been invented yet. It's one of the benefits of writing science fiction erotica. The types of partners and arrangements thereof are as infinite as the stars.

I once wrote a story about conjoined twins hitting on someone with multiple personalities. I loved that story.

But in my personal life, I've never indulged in more than one partner at a time. At least not in the bedroom. In my writing though...

It's not a partnership like what some folks here have. There are actually three writers involved in this situation, but we're not writing together, we're podcasting together (yes, that kinky fetish of mine, podcasting, rears it's ugly head even here, but bear with me). Last November, feeling the strain of being a writer on her own, I decided to reach out to a fellow writer for a special project. You see, writing is often a masturbatory experience, where you spend a lot of time by yourself, pounding out your own twisted little fantasies on the computer. But I was getting a little tired of playing by myself, so I got in touch with Nobilis, a fellow podcaster and erotica writer. Since we both already podcast erotic fiction, we decided we wanted to do a podcast on what it's like to be an erotica writer. Nobilis contacted Ann Regentin, and before you knew it, we had a threesome. The Write Threesome!

In some ways, the Write Threesome is much like Oh Get A Grip. We don't write erotica together, but we do sit down once a month and shoot the breeze about what it's like to do what we do. We sort of keep a blog, but it's mostly about getting together via Skype to discuss what's on our minds regarding our favorite genre. It's not sex, but a conversation that usually devolves into an orgy of words and ideas that leaves me mentally buzzing for days. It's the kind of intimacy that can only occur between writers talking about what they love, with the added excitement of exhibitionism thrown in. Everything we discuss gets recorded and sent out to the web for anyone to hear, and the things we say in our talks might surprise you.

So it's not what you would typically think of when thinking of menage, but it is a relationship I haven't had anywhere else, and I'm pleased to share it with you. Checkout the podcast, take a listen, slip into bed and let the three of us whisper naughty thoughts into your ears. I promise, we'll be good. Or we'll be bad. But we won't be boring, because a threesome is never boring. Especially when it's the Write Threesome.

Helen, Nobilis and Ann (erotica makes for strange bedfellows!)