Sadsack Blowback #Writing #AgeGap #Erotica

by Giselle Renarde

I don't tend to keep on top of things.

That's especially true when it comes to the daily drama of the romance world.

But I happened to notice everybody freaking out about a chart-topper on Amazon. Apparently this book featured father/daughter incest and underage sex. It's since been removed from sale because both of those things go against Amazon's terms of service. This book's also been banned by Smashwords, and Smashwords will sell you books about getting fucked by your mom, a bull, and the family dog. It takes some effort to get your book bounced from their system.

Bottom line is you can't publish erotic books featuring sex with minors. Ever. Anywhere. This is what we've all agreed to as authors.

So that whole thing happened.

But it didn't stop there.

Because after that incident, I started seeing authors hating on other books... books wherein the main characters were not related or underage.  Books about legal adults engaged in consensual sex.

Hoo boy.  Here we go.

Remember 10+ years ago, when authors supported each other?  Helped each other?  I do.  I was blown away by the kindness and generosity other writers showed me when I was starting out in this business.

Now what do we get?  Authors tearing each other down.  Authors scratching each other's eyes out.  Petty jealousies that turn into witch hunts.  That's what I've been seeing lately.

After the rapey child molester book was taken off the market, I saw authors calling for other books to be taken down too--pretty much any book featuring an older man and younger woman. Consenting adults with an age gap.  Everything must go.

Look, I'm kind of glad nobody in that romance world really knows or cares I exist (or they've hated me for so long that it's not even fun anymore), because I've written a ridiculous amount of age gap fiction and I'm not going to stop because a bunch of angry authors think it's "disgusting." 

Why do I so often write about older men and younger women?  Because I lived it.  You know this about me. You know I was involved with one of my high school teachers, a much older man, a very married man.  I've told this story so many times you're bored just thinking about it. So am I.

Through fiction writing, I'm able to process my experiences as a teen and young adult.  I'm able to think about that time in my life from every angle.  I'm sure that, in reading my fiction, readers who've shared similar experiences are able to process their shit too. I recently heard someone say there's no "junk food" when it comes to media consumption. Even if you think of some stupid TV show you watch as a guilty pleasure, it changes you.  Everything we consume (books, movies, TV, music) works inside our brains in ways we're not even aware of.

Okay, so one thing that attracted me to the older man I was involved with was that... this might sound a little strange... but he was just so sad.  Like, really really sad. Existential ennui, despair, suicidal thoughts. I was so drawn to that.  I just wanted to make him happy.  I wanted to use my body to make him happy.

I was drawn to other qualities, too.  He seemed so knowledgeable and wise. Nobody in my family had gone past high school, and he had a MASTER'S degree. Like, wow, so educated! *swoon* Smart and sad. Shut up and take my virginity!

Did I think our relationship was fucked up while it was happening? Of course not!  I'd have gone to the ends of the earth to defend the choices we made.  Looking back, do I think it was fucked up?  Hell yes. But does that mean I regret my life choices? No, not at all. And does that mean I shouldn't fictionalize my personal experiences? No. It's my life. I'm gonna use it in my books.

"Fine, write your life--but depressing litfic only. It shouldn't be presented in a positive light."

Haha. That was the hottest sex of my life. You think I'm not going to present it that way? My libido's waning by the minute and I very often wish there was some way to recapture those delicious years.  I can't recapture them in life.  I can in fiction.

Pretty much everything I write is massively fucked up.  I'd be bored if it wasn't.  If a bunch of other authors hate me because I write taboo erotica or student/teacher sex or adultery or age play, let them hate. I stopped caring a long time ago.

Except I guess I do still get riled up, or why would I be writing these words?

And why would I have decided to post my new adult novella CHERRY for free at Wattpad?

CHERRY is one super-smutty book.

It's about an 18-year-old girl who falls for her father's best friend on vacation. It's pretty much exactly the kind of book a lot of authors seem to want to burn these days. What I keep thinking is: if a book doesn't appeal to you, DON'T READ IT.  It's obviously not for you. It's probably for the person who's been through this--who's going through it now or who went through it when they were younger.  Or maybe it's just for the reader who wants to peep some hot sex between an older man and a young woman. Why so much judgement? Sheesh.

Anyway, today I posted the first chapter from CHERRY at Wattpad so people can read it for free. I'm going to post a new chapter every day until I'm out of chapters. More info here.

People who find this kind of book offensive can skip it. Or hate-read it. I really don't care.  I'm making CHERRY available FOR FREE for the people who want to read it--to process their experiences... or just to get off.

https://www.wattpad.com/456958988-cherry-chapter-one

Blueberry Brat #Dirty #Sploshing #Erotica

An excerpt from Blueberry Brat by Lexi Wood

The sign said OPEN, but the stand seemed closed. Then Karl spotted what he was looking for sunbathing on a lounger that must have been from the seventies. They didn’t make ‘em like that anymore.

But it wasn’t the chair he was interested in. It was the brat in the blue bikini, wearing sunglasses and chewing a licorice lace. He couldn’t believe the gall of this girl, lying out next to the road for every passerby to gawk at. Had she no shame?

No, of course she didn’t. That’s what brought him back to her.

Karl stood at the foot of the lounger, blocking her sun. She raised her glasses lazily, but she didn’t say a word. Just stared at him with those emerald eyes.

“Did your boyfriend buy that for you?” he asked, indicated the licorice lace.

She set her glasses back down and said, “Colin’s history. I bought this myself.”

“You sure get around.”

“I sure do.”

Karl watched the girl’s white stomach rise and fall with every breath. He wondered how she stayed so white when she worked in the sun, or at least lounged in the sun. He wondered why she wasn’t asking him what he wanted. Maybe it was obvious.

He hadn’t come back for the blueberries.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “Lying out here all alone, nearly naked?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of… anything, really.” Afraid of men, he meant, but he didn’t want her thinking she should be afraid of him in particular. She’d already called him a pervert once.

Once was enough.

He spent so long watching her breathe that his every inhale matched hers. She stopped chewing the lace and just sucked it. Her dark glasses reflected the brutal sun, so he couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or she had her eyes closed.

“You want more pie?” she asked.

He didn’t know how to answer that question.

Sighing, she slipped both feet over the side of her retro lounge chair and into a pink pair of flip-flops. She walked toward the whitewashed hut, swinging her narrow hips as she went. Flipping the latch on the door at the back, she turned to Karl and asked, “Your wife run off with another guy?”

“No.”

“Is she climbing Mount Kilimanjaro?”

“Hardly.”

“Is she dead?”

That question stopped Karl in his tracks, or would have done if he’d been walking.

“She’s dead?”

The way the girl said that word, so casual and yet so final, made him wonder who’d failed to teach her proper manners. “Yes, my wife has passed.”

“So your kids are orphans?”

“They’re not orphans. They have me.”

“So half-orphans.” She opened the plywood door. With the end of a licorice lace hanging out of her mouth, she said, “I’m a full orphan. Both my parents are dead.”

Karl felt strangely numbed by this admission, but he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
With a shrug, she said, “It’s better this way. Now it’s just me and my grandma—and my grandma doesn’t drink.”

Karl’s stomach knotted.

She stepped inside the blueberry hut.

When he didn’t follow, she stuck her head out and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

He was waiting to wake up from this strange dream.

They’d covered quite a lot of heavy territory, which weighed Karl down immensely. This girl seemed to hop over tragedy like a jump rope.

As he approached the white hut, he asked, “How can you be so cavalier about losing your parents?”

“It was a long time ago,” she said from inside.

“Even so…”

“If you had the kind of parents I had, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

When Karl arrived at the open door, his mind drew a blank. He forgot their entire conversation. All that remained was the image before him, of a naked eighteen-year-old surrounded by baked goods.

“Come in,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”

He did as he was told, though he knew no good would come of it. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside, all the while staring at the girl’s small white breasts with their soft pink peaks.

Her pussy was shaved bare, which he would have guessed after seeing her in a bikini, but she stood there like it was nothing. Like she hung out naked in the blueberry hut all the time and why was he making such a big deal about it?

She hadn’t taken off her flip-flops, and she hadn’t taken off her necklaces. The beads and feathers and strips of leather danced against her chest as she made space on one of the low shelves. Karl’s heart clenched as she jumped up on it, because he was sure it would collapse beneath her, but either the shelf was stupendously well-constructed or the girl weighed next to nothing, because she sat easily upon it, not a trace of worry on her face.

“You haven’t fucked anyone since she died.” The girl leaned against the wall, which was painted the same glossy white as the rest of the hut. Then she added, “Your wife,” as if he wouldn’t know who she was talking about.

“That’s right,” he said. “I haven’t. Haven’t even thought about it, to be honest.”

She opened her legs. “Until now.”

He nodded. “Until now.”

Her pussy lips were the most perfect shade of pink. Though the closed hut had no windows, enough light came in through gaps in the loose slats to make her juices glitter like diamonds. He’d never seen anything so alluring.

“Lick it,” she said, kicking off her flip-flops.

When he didn’t move, she walked her bare feet up his chest and pressed down on his shoulders with her heels. He let her move him down to the ground, which was the same glossy white as everything else. Felt nice and cool against his knees.

She slid her feet down his back and said, “I hope you’re good at this. There’s nothing worse than a grown man who can’t eat a pussy.”

Karl wondered if she was speaking from experience, and how much experience, but put the question out of his mind. He inhaled deeply between her legs. All he could smell was blueberries and pastry. Probably because there was an open pie sitting beside the girl and she was idly picking away at the top crust, eating it while she waited for him to begin.

“How do you stay so slim when you eat sweets all day long?”

She flatly said, “I’m eighteen. That’s how.”

At least she knew it wouldn’t last. Most girls her age didn’t realize there was a best by date on their effortless figures.

Karl extended his tongue and lovingly fed on the sweetness of this stranger’s pussy. An eighteen-year-old pussy was like nothing else in this world—not that Karl had any recent experience with young women. He was around them all the time. Taught them. Evaluated them. But he didn’t see them as potential sex partners. He was too shaken up after his loss to see anything. And, prior to that, he’d been so happily married he forgot other women existed.

Sounds impossible, but that’s how much he loved his wife. While she was alive, there was only her. His whole world was her.

And now his face was buried between the legs of an eighteen-year-old blueberry vendor. He really ought to have some feeling about that, but he didn’t. All he felt was arousal.

Wicked arousal.

Wild arousal.

He still had all his clothes on, but he was already so hard it hurt.

“What, are you hourly?” asked the brat.

“Hmm?”

“Lick my fucking cunt,” she said, over-enunciating every syllable. “I’m trying to get off, here. This isn’t charity work.”

“Sorry,” he said, and licked her clit with focused intensity.

“Better,” she said in a tone that sounded undecided. “But still not great. Try sucking it.”

Karl wrapped his lips around her perfect pink clit and sucked, but the slippery thing kept escaping from his mouth.

“Were you ever any good at this?”

He pressed his face between her legs so his cheeks touched her inner thighs. Wrapping his mouth around her bare pussy lips, he slobbered and sucked. She wiggled around on the counter, like she was looking for a better position, which meant he wasn’t pleasing her.
Picking at her pie, she said, “Oh, this is going nowhere.”

Every jeer was a challenge. He worked harder, slurping her pussy lips, sucking her clit with ever more force. He’d wanted to start slow and build up steam, but this girl was obviously looking for a cold, hard fuck.

Or, more precisely, a hot, hard mouth-fuck.

He stuck his tongue in her pussy and reamed her in and out.

“That’s just pathetic,” she said. “Get up. Get off me.”

He didn’t, and she kicked him with both feet to drive the point home.

As he gazed up at her from the floor, she slid down from the counter. She moved the pie she’d been picking at to the spot on the counter that was wet with saliva and pussy juice. Then she jumped up and sat in it.

Karl watched in awe as this sulky teen with the perfect pink pussy wiggled her butt in a blueberry pie. He didn’t know what to do or what to say or what this was all about. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

She gave him a stunned look, then hopped down from the counter. “If you left, who would lick all this blueberry pie from my ass?”

When she peeled the pan away, the bottom crust went with it. All that remained on her perfect porcelain skin was a slick helping of pie filling.

She leaned against the counter with her butt facing him and said, “You might want to take off your clothes. This could get messy.”

You can read the rest of this story in ebook form but I highly recommend buying my latest release Younger Women, Older Men: Scandalous Erotica, in which Blueberry Brat appears. 

This anthology, which includes erotic fiction from me and Lexi, is so new it's not even technically available yet.  You can purchase the paperback now (and you should!) but you'll have to wait until Friday for the digital version.

Purchase Younger Woman, Older Men in print from Amazon!