What Happens to Sex When the World…Ends? A Guest Post by Megan Crane

25 Jul

by Megan Crane

A while back—after rashly agreeing to write a series of dystopian romances centered around futuristic Vikings because sure, that sounded like fun—I had to ask myself a very serious question: what would sex be like after the world ended?

megan crane head shot

Today’s guest poster, Megan Crane

In my Edge series, the world is ravaged by high seas and decades of terrible storms. It’s a long time after any of the civilizations we know have disappeared, leaving only remnants and faded memories. There are greedy men in power who do as they like and sets of harsher rules for everyone else, especially women.

Same old, same old.

But the more I thought about it, the more I figured people were likely to just go ahead and be people no matter the state of the world. The truth is that everything around sex can be political and often is. The way we think about it. The way we discuss it. The words we use and who uses them, and when and how and why. In the Edge word, there are institutions in place to monitor sex, supposedly because everyone’s focus needs to be on repopulating the drowned earth—but maybe also because certain kinds of men like to control women’s sexuality whenever possible and certainly to advance their own interests and scratch their own dirty little itches. The trouble is, while it’s easy to sit around, fully-clothed, debating what’s good for humanity and how sexual acts might contribute to that good, the act itself strips these things away. Sex is private (unless it’s enthusiastically not, but that’s a different discussion). It’s not always controlled, focused, and for the greater good—or any good, for that matter. Desire, hunger, and unconquerable passion are what rule truly naked encounters, no matter where or how or between whom.

In other words, the world might end, but sex is still pretty much sex. In all its raw glory.

Edge of Temptation

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One of the best things about writing erotic romance—especially in a dystopian future world I got to make up in my head—is getting to play around not only with fantasies as wild and as out there as I could manage, but to follow them to logical conclusions in ways I couldn’t do if I was tethered to the contemporary world as we know it. In my futuristic world, dark fantasies create the landscape and my characters live and breathe and drive each other wild within the architecture of sexual desire, need and hunger and carnal greed writ large.

A society that piously demands that sex be performed a certain way and for reasons, after all, can be certain that there are a whole lot of people doing pretty much the exact opposite of what they’ve been told to do. Especially women, whose resistance often involves their bodies in intimate spaces.

Edge of Obsession

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What happens if you have the hots for the big, hot, kind of scary Viking-ish dude who kidnapped you and holds your life in his hands? Especially when his version of sex is nothing like the tame, sanctioned, good for humanity sex you’ve had before? Is it Stockholm Syndrome if he’s actually the man you’ve been dreaming of all your life?

Or what about if you’re a submissive who’s kept her truest, deepest surrender locked away inside her—only to find her true master in the terrifying man who wants to sacrifice her? Would you quibble about the sacrifice part or would you do what you could to experience your deepest desires while you could?

And what if you’re one of the few women in a starkly male dominated world who’s fought hard to be an equal to the hard ass warriors around you, and succeeded—but you only find what you really want and who you really are while you’re undercover pretending to be the sort of supposedly weak woman you always thought you hated? With the only man who’s ever made you feel like certain kinds of weaknesses might be strengths after all?

I’ve never written futuristic, dystopian stories before, but I’ve loved writing this series. Not just because of the many ways imagined futuristic sexual politics infuse any reimagining of sexual boundaries, though that’s a lot of fun.  But because writing about what happens after the world ends, in all its harsh splendor, feels like the best kind of second chance. For all of us. Because the thing about humans is that we keep keeping on.  Loving, fighting, living. No matter what.

And oh yeah. There’s hot alpha male futuristic Viking craziness and smoking hot sex, too. If that’s more your jam.

USA Today bestselling, RITA-nominated, and critically-acclaimed author Megan Crane has written more than fifty books since her debut in 2004. She has been published by a variety of publishers, including each of New York’s Big Five. She’s won fans with her women’s fiction, chick lit, and work-for-hire young adult novels as well as with the Harlequin Presents she writes as Caitlin Crews. These days her focus is on contemporary romance from small town to international glamor, cowboys to bikers, and beyond. She sometimes teaches creative writing classes both online at mediabistro.com and at UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Program, where she finally utilizes the MA and PhD in English Literature she received from the University of York in York, England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with a husband who draws comics and animation storyboards and their menagerie of ridiculous animals. Find out more about her and her books at http://www.megancrane.com.

Hello Lady Smutters! This is Kiersten Hallie Krum, back from my Californication and the Romance Writers of America national conference. As you may have guest, here at Lady Smut, we’re big fans of Megan Crane and her sexy books. Check out all the hot action in the following posts:

Edge of Control

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Be sure to check out the latest release in the EDGE series, Edge of Control, available now.

Follow Lady Smut. We’ll bring you to the edge of everything you’ve got.

Servant of the Undead, erotic zombie horror free read

24 Jul

Isabelle Drake’s Servant of the Undead

If you’re new to this serial, you can start with Part 1, “Do it.”

Part 11: “I’m glad you’re enjoying the challenge.”

Hayden snatched up his scarf then circled the bed so that the view from the window was clear. “Rule one—do whatever I say.”

ServantRachelle stretched out, spreading her arms across the coat beneath her as she tilted her head back and looked up at him from half-closed eyes. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Sit up and take off the bra.”

She did.

“Give me your hands.”

She offered him her hands, and he wrapped the scarf around her wrists, looping it between her hands so that when he tied the ends to the bedpost it would be harder for her to get free. Once her arms were securely tied above her head, he went back to the foot of the bed to retrieve one of the stockings.

“What are you going to do with that?” she asked, her voice a curious purr.

“Rule number two.” He tugged on the stocking. “Don’t speak unless I ask you to.”

She chuckled. “Are you serious?”

He intentionally ignored her question as he wrapped the stocking around the base of his stiff cock then tugged. The pressure increased, and he moaned with the need for release. With each thump of his heart, the hot blood flowed in his veins, the pressure building, blocking out everything else in his mind. He lowered his other hand and caressed his shaft. The skin under his fingers was on fire. Even the lightest touch made his nerve endings skitter. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, and he continued to stroke himself, feeling the last shreds of his human control slipping away.

Rachelle sucked in a sharp breath. Her shock motivated him to show her more. He wrapped the other end of the stocking around his tip. Once it was secure, he tugged lightly. The stab of pressure took his breath away, and for a split second he was lost, a captive of himself. He tugged again, almost hoping he would pass out from the force of the sensation. But the pain only served to heighten his awareness of Mattie’s stare through the window, reaching him, touching him, even though she was yards away.

Finally, he loosened his grip, dropped his hands. His cock was impossibly stiff and tight, aching with need. “Do I look serious?” he asked, shocked at the roughness in his voice.

Rachelle’s mouth opened, but just as quickly, she snapped it shut and nodded.

Hayden grabbed the second stocking, moved back to the side of the bed then wrapped it under her breasts. He secured it tightly, feeling the solid bones of her rib cage give slightly as he tugged. Her tits lifted and her nipples tightened. He licked the peaks. She arched her back and shoved more of her tender flesh between his teeth. Once he was sure, her nipples were moist and hard, he took the other stocking and wrapped it above her breasts, again tightening the silk and applying gentle but firm pressure on her well-rounded mounds. There was enough length remaining from each stocking to secure them together in the center of the front. He wrapped the ends around a couple times. The final knot applied enough pressure to separate her breasts and create a pulling-pushing effect.

Her nipples were pointed and hard, her flesh firm and motionless. He reached forward and tapped each tight peak with his finger. “Do you like it?”

She nodded.

“You can speak when I ask you to,” he said.

“I like it. Very much.”

He reached between her legs, stroked her soft pussy through the black lace.

“See if you can get your panties off.”

In response, she tugged on her arms, silently asking him to untie her. He shook his head. “Without your hands. If you want them off badly enough, you’ll find a way.”

She squirmed and the waistband twisted, exposing a tiny bit more of her smooth skin. She wiggled more, lowering the panties over her hipbones just an inch. After several sideways attempts to lower them more, she lifted her hips and scooted down as far as her tied arms would allow. Then she crept up, using the curve of her ass to force the sheer fabric lower. Each time she lifted her body, her back arched, forcing her breasts up, closer to his face.

Hayden gripped his shaft and stroked. The tight, warm skin felt good in his hand. Firm and alive. Very, very alive.

Still lifting and lowering, Rachelle started twisting her legs, bringing her knees together as she writhed on the bed. Most of her ass was exposed and the sloping curve of her pelvic bone and the light patch of hair were beginning to appear above the band of the panties.

Hayden continued stroking his cock, watching Rachelle struggle with her task. Her head was thrown back, her lips open and moist, and the scent of her arousal filled his nostrils. As he stared, he was aware of the darkness swirling in his soul.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the challenge,” he said, admiring her long, fluid motions.

She turned her head and their gazes connected for only a heartbeat before hers dropped to his hands. Hayden let go of his cock, took the panties in both hands, and yanked. She shifted, bringing her legs up so the scrap of fabric slid to her calves then over her feet. He shoved her legs apart, then climbed between her knees.

Want more? The next part will be here next Sunday. Or, you can come over to the Servant of the Undead Wattpad page and read more for free right now. Unfamiliar with Wattpad? It’s an online community for readers and writers. Its filled with free fiction of all kinds. It’s easy to log in and get started; you can use your Facebook account.

Until next time, follow Lady Smut, we’re always here to inform, entertain, and keep you up to date.


Isabelle Drake writes erotica, erotic romance, urban fantasy, and young adult thrillers. Best Friends Never, her newest release is the first in the Cherry Grove dark YA series.

EXCERPT: Sex on the job erotica from sexual fantasy book Begging for It

23 Jul

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

In lieu of the usual Lady Smut Sexy Saturday Round-Up, today we are running a very hot erotica excerpt. Hope you enjoy it!

Begging for It: Erotic Fantasies for Women

Begging for It: Erotic Fantasies for Women

Blurb: What would you give — or give up — to fulfill your most cherished sex fantasy? In this Cleis Press collection, erotica editor Rachel Kramer Bussel brings us femme fatales and shy women, women on a mission and women opening up to new worlds of discovery: women who know what they want and are not afraid to beg for it! Let yourself go with these 20 tantalizing tales of tortuous longing and release.


I edited my new anthology Begging for It: Erotic Fantasies for Women with one goal: to showcase the wide range of women’s sexual fantasies in erotic short story form. Of course, a single anthology cannot cover the extremely wide range of our naughty imaginations, but I love the way all 20 authors took that theme and ran with it. Below is an excerpt from a story in which a woman is granted a wish by her husband of anything she wants for her birthday. What she picks, furtive public sex at the Fix It Depot where he works, is hot hot hot. Check out this steamy snippet below.

From “Morning’s Come” by Sommer Marsden in Begging for It:

My fingers were shaking and it was making tying my shoes damn near impossible.

“Morning’s come,” Riley said softly in my ear. “And soon so will Meg.”

I blushed. The heat in my cheeks made me feel light-headed.

“What if we get caught?”

He shrugged. “We’ve never gotten caught before, but if we do…”

I waited, watching him as he laced up his work boots.

“Then I find a new job,” he laughed.

I smiled. I’d feel awful if that happened, but this fantasy was a craving, a craving that seemed to go right down to the core of my bones. “I’m excited.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Me, too. Happy birthday, baby.”

The drive to work took forever.

“Good news is, we’re short staffed, today,” he whispered, leading me down the wide cold aisles of the store. Overhead, no-nonsense steel shelves towered, holding everything from plumbing pipes to bug spray to lightbulbs. The store was big and impersonal and perfect.

In his section, there wasn’t a person to be found. But every so often, from the maze of aisles, came a random customer. And that was what got my blood flowing fast.

“The one I was telling you about is right…here.” Riley pulled me around the corner and we stopped together, right there, in front of a spectacular gray-speckled marble shower display. The doors were open but when he pushed them shut they were thick, textured glass.

My mouth popped open in surprise and awe. I loved it. Riley laughed, and pushed my mouth shut. “You’ll draw flies.” Then he stepped inside and pulled the doors shut. I could see him…but not. He was a figure there behind the textured safety glass. Clearly a person but not clearly identifiable, not even by gender.

He pushed the door open and winked at me. “Coming?” Then he laughed at his own joke and said, “Well not yet. But soon. However”—he put a hand out to me—“that will only happen if you join me.”

“Are there cameras?” I asked, reaching for his hand. My shaking had turned to a more significant tremor as adrenaline flooded my system. My nipples peaked, stiff and tender inside my bra. My panties grew damp from arousal that had built from the moment I awoke. I was having trouble drawing a deep breath.

He tugged me into the shower stall and pushed me to the smooth, cold wall. “Yes. There are. But they aren’t at an angle where they’ll pick this up. Not even us entering the display.” Riley popped the button on my jeans, drew down the zipper. “Speaking of entering. I’d l like to enter you very soon, birthday girl. Slide into that wet, slick cunt of yours.”

I hummed softly, so turned on I was reduced to noises and not words. I pushed my hand down into his jeans and wrapped my fingers around his cock. I started a slow, easy stroke until he said, more than a little breathless, “Take it out.”

We warred with each other and our clothes until I found myself laughing. But then Riley pushed his fingers inside me and started to thrust and all the laughter died on my lips. I arched my hips, with my jeans pooled around my legs, and met every single stroke of his fingers.

“Hurry,” I said, my pussy slick and swollen from wanting him.

Riley was there too—at that sweet spot where desire met need. Turned on, scared, worked up. He nodded and said nothing. I noticed he hadn’t shaved and pulled him down for a kiss. The kiss turned fierce, his stubble scratching my face until it burned. He had his jeans down, his cock out and his hands on my hips, pinning me to the wall.

Voices drifted from far off, licking at my ears, amplifying my pleasure.

“—Anyone working in this section?”

And an answering voice: “Guess not.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Turn around,” Riley growled. “Put your pretty hands up on that wall while I fuck you.”

A shiver marched up my spine, and I obeyed him. Putting my hand with my wedding rings on top of my other hand, I braced myself as I pushed my ass back toward him, teasing him. Tempting him to enter me.

His fingers breached me again, one fingertip finding my clit. He kept me there, heart pounding, suspended in pleasure just a heartbeat away from coming.

I hiked my top up and pushed my upper body to the cool marble for a moment as he ran the tip of his cock along my drenched slit. His other hand came around to the front to stroke and tease my clitoris.

“Hello?” someone called outside the shower stall.

“Hurry,” I gasped, my cunt pounding in time with my heart. This wouldn’t take long. Not long at all.

People were circling his department. It was only a matter of time before someone found us. Or saw us through the pebbled glass. The realization forced a wave of breathtaking excitement through me.


Begging for It is available now in print and ebook from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, your local independent bookstore and for Kindle, Nook, Google Play, iBooks and Kobo.


Sommer Marsden (sommermarsden.blogspot.com) is a professional dirty-word writer, gluten-free baker, sock addict, fat wiener dog walker and expert procrastinator. Called “one of the top storytellers in the erotic genre” by Violet Blue, Sommer’s the author of numerous erotic novels including Lost in You, Restricted Release, Restless Spirit and The Accidental Cougar.


Rachel Kramer Bussel (rachelkramerbussel.com) is a New Jersey-based writer, editor, blogger and erotica writing instructor. She’s edited over 60 anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 1; The Big Book of Orgasms; Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica and others. Find her @raquelita on Twitter, at her blog Lusty Lady and at eroticawriting101.com.

We’re All Kinky Monsters. Yes, We Are.

22 Jul

By Elizabeth SaFleur

I have no frickin’ idea how to start this post, except to tell you the truth. I was minding my own Internet business doing research when I came across  this Psychology Today blog post talking about how fetishes aren’t so, well, fetish-y anymore. It’s a fascinating short read in which I learned in some parts of Japan you can find vending machines that sell used school girl panties. Ya know, to satisfy that on-the-go panty fetish urge.

giphy (2)

But after reading said post, a question arose. Are there any sexual taboos left? Any more sexual proclivities one wishes to keep secret? Like not out in public via vending machine where anyone with a phone can snap a pix of you burying your snoz in a girl’s thong?

Let us review. A decade (or two) ago, being gay was considered scandalous. Five years ago (okay, maybe ten), most people were aghast at BDSM. The Fifty Shades phenomenon cured that last one — sort of. So now? I ask, in my best Carrie Bradshaw voice, are there any sexual activities left that cause scandal? Or have we all woken up to the fact we’re all kinky monsters at heart?


According to Psychology Today, fetishism is “sexual attraction to objects, situations, or body parts not traditionally viewed as sexual.” This definition did not help at all in discovering who might fall into the kinky camp.  I turned to the diagnostic criteria for 302.81, a.k.a Fetishism, from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition, Text Revision, Copyright 2000, by the American Psychiatric Association. (We at Ladysmut like to be all official-like with our references.)

Criteria, by the Big Bad-Ass Psychology Community, for being a fetishist:

  1. Over a period of at least 6 months, recurrent, intense sexually arousing fantasies, sexual urges, or behaviors involving the use of nonliving objects (e.g., female undergarments).

Does a vibrator count? Because that pretty much puts most of the female population on this list.

  1. The fantasies, sexual urges, or behaviors cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

Well, that depends. Define impairment. Like think about it all the time? Wouldn’t that put most males between the age of 12 and, oh, 70 in that category because they have sex on the brain?

  1. The fetish objects are not limited to articles of female clothing used in cross-dressing (as in Transvestic Fetishism) or devices designed for the purpose of tactile genital stimulation (e.g., a vibrator).

So, I guess dressing up as a woman if you’re a man and using a vibrator isn’t a fetish? And if I’m a woman who worships her vibrator like the God-given-best-thing-man-ever-invented-since-fire miracle that it is,  I’m off the hook, too? But if I throw in some stuffed animals (plushophilia) or other objects, I’m a deviant? What about foot fetishes (podophilia)? They’re human (partly) and not an object. (I’m not gonna lie to you, I want to do Alexander Skarsgard’s abs as seen in Tarzan like nobody’s business.)

Further research only confuses things. You  can find reams of studies that show kinky sexual fantasies are super common, how some kinks (such as cuckolding) are growing in popularity, and  how even the Big Bad-Ass Psychology Community has been re-assessing its viewpoints on BDSM (not considered a kink by many, but close enough for our purposes).

giphy (4)

Bottom line, there seems to be a growing acceptance that if something turns you on and you’re not hurting anyone (including yourself), have at it. Okay, then. Carpe the fucking diem out of that turn-on.

Yet perhaps something even more important is going on. We’re growing to become more of who we really are and not society’s version of who you should be?  Sorry for the Dr. Phil moment. But, really, addressing your desires, even the dark scary ones that some Big Bad Ass Psychology Community has deemed “not normal” can be empowering and healthy (once again provided it’s safe, sane and consensual). In fact, many new studies have shown people who engage in BDSM are happier and healthier than most people. Why? Because they’re being themselves.

Psst. In case you’re absolutely convinced you’re 100 percent vanilla, I don’t want to burst your bubble. But if you are turned on by hot men (or women) pictures you might fall into pygophilia, the love of buttocks. Or, perhaps you love muscles? You have sthenolagnia. Sicko. Then, of course, most males would fall into having mazophilia, which is worshiping breasts. Geez, get out the straight jackets.

Personally, I think we should all adopt erotophilia: Positive attitude to sexuality (opposed to erotophobia). Here, let us help:


Follow Ladysmut. We don’t mind if you’re kinky. We love eeeeeverybody.

Speaking of which, check out Rachel Kramer Bussel’s latest anthology, Begging For It.

What would you give — or give up — to fulfill your most cherished sex fantasy? In this Cleis Press collection, erotica editor Rachel brings us femme fatales and shy women, women on a mission and women opening up to new worlds of discovery: women who know what they want and are not afraid to beg for it! Let yourself go with these 20 tantalizing tales of tortuous longing and release.


Elizabeth SaFleur writes contemporary erotic romance and she’s not afraid to get a little graphic about it  — “it” being the smex, the BDSM or Washington, DC society, which she regularly features in her series, the Elite Doms of Washington. She also is super proud of her erotophilia and sthenolagnia.

The Lobster: Most Un-Romantic Movie EVAH!

21 Jul

Would you fight to the death for this man?

WARNING: DO NOT GO SEE THIS MOVIE ON A DATE. Use extreme caution when seeing the movie on a couple’s date-night, and avoid completely if you happen to be angry at your significant other.

In fact, shy away from the film if you’re feeling positive and optimistic about the world and just want to hold onto that feeling for a while.

It’s a weird movie, people. A good movie, okay? but very, very weird. So weird, I’m thinking if you’re not an art-house movie lover, you’re probably not going to see it.   Not to worry, cause I’m here with massive spoilers for one and all.

In the first place, this movie tries to make Colin Farrell look unsexy, so WTF?

What a great cast--with women carrying as much of the movie as the men.

What a great cast–with women carrying as much of the movie as the men.

In the second place, it’s hilarious.

Thirdly, like the best satire, it sticks the knife deep into everyone’s pretensions, then walks away leaving a high body count and enough gory tragedy for a greek chorus at the end.

The premise of the movie exposes the tyranny of society in its attitude towards singles:

In the near future, in a drab city landscape, all people who are single must go to the “hotel” out in the country side, where they will attempt to find a partner. If they do not succeed, then in forty-five days, they are turned into an animal.

Are you with me still? Colin Farrell’s character has decided that if he doesn’t find someone, he’d like to be turned into a lobster.


At the hotel he shows interest in three women: one of whom suffers excessive nosebleeds, another who would rather be turned into a pony than be matched with a man who might go bald in the future, and a third who is a sociopath.

The movie ridicules couples who get together – showing off their righteous preening, and yet as the hotel manager explains, if it looks like they cannot survive being alone together during the trial period, they’ll be given a child to help them stay together.

Farrell’s character, facing down a ticking clock, after being rejected by pony-girl ultimately chooses the sociopath.  Farrell shares a room with her and his brother–who as a failed single is now a boarder collie.  However she’s suspicious that Farrell’s not really a sociopath, and attempts repeatedly to prove it, in order to thus reveal that they clearly have nothing in common.  She tests Farrell one last time by killing his brother–slaying the mild boarder collie one night in their bathroom.

Farrell is enraged.  Although the sociopath tries to go on the hunt for him, he is the one who captures the sociopath, knocks her out, then drags her off into the room where people are changed into animals and does who knows what to her.

The narrator certainly doesn’t know.  She’s played by Rachel Weiss and is one of a band of rogue singles who occupies the forest where they are hunted daily.  Farrell joins their guerilla force, eluding the hotel guests armed tranquilizer guns. The singles who are brought down during the hunt are bagged and tagged and then brought back to the hotel.  To be killed? Turned into golden retrievers? Who knows?


CAUSE LOBSTERS DO IT FOR LIFE.The movie sticks it to all the singles eager to hook up as well, those who’ve drunk the magic cool-aid and now go through awkward attempts to form or pretend to form a lasting bond over the most banal commonalities.

But the roque singles have their revenge.  (This is so funny.) They go on special ops retaliatory missions where they invade the hotel at night, hold the couples at gun point, and get the couples to reveal relationship hypocrisies, as well as other petty lies, and betrayals.


Even when he’s not acting, he’s lighting his co-stars up. #ColinFarrellisASexyBeast

Shockingly, there’s a rather tender love story at the center of all this anti-romance.

The moment Farrell joins the feral singles, he falls in love.

His feelings, along with the jealousies that arise as a result, are hard to control and place him in great danger, since all sex and love is forbidden in the forest.

Rachel Weiss is his love interest, and the movie goes on to show that as they forage in the city malls for grooming supplies, they work together as a faux couple to avoid capture with intuitive cunning. Effortlessly they project paired contentedness, falling madly in love as they do so.

All this is good, but of course there is a price to pay.  The other single women find evidence of their attraction, and either jealous of Farrell or politically against anyone else being happy in love, they exact a brutal revenge, making Rachel Weiss their target.

Colin Farrell’s character nevertheless keeps trying to make the relationship work, as if he were a broody animal with an evolutionary imperative to do so, while his higher order brain is blinking DOOMED at the audience.


There’s a way in which Farrell is either a really good actor, or (more likely?) well directed. He plays his character in such an even way that we don’t really like him, but we don’t particularly dislike him either.  Yet ultimately, I was pulling for the man.  You cannot despise a character who falls in love, the way someone might be accidentally swept over a waterfall. He keeps trying to continue the romance in his life when things go badly, even though he is forced to recognize that his worst enemy is himself.  The movie shows how he wants to sacrifice for his one true love—in a monumental way—but he’s just not feeling it at the moment.

At times this satire hacks and slashes with brutal awkward gestures.  At times it creeps on velvet feet with devastating finesse.  Ultimately it glories in exposing the inevitable betrayals committed in all relationships when push comes to shove.


As an excruciatingly happy couple, my sweetie and I walked out of this movie a little stunned.  He wanted to go home, draw the covers over his head and find a happy rom-com to watch as a sort of exorcism to remove the movie from his brain.

At the same time I ruminated on the finer truths the movie presented –acknowledging them–because I do believe that in any long term relationship there will eventually be some betrayals both small and large.  I also believe that this ultimately doesn’t matter in most cases.


You have to look at excellent relationships (ones that are more than ten years old,) the way archeologists look at a 4,000 year old Grecian Urn. Yeah, it’s got a lot of cracks in it. So f***ing what? That’s the point: how something this fragile has survived for so long.

It’s a species of miracle, and should leave us in awe, rather than in a state of suspicious skepticism. Happy couples don’t necessarily lie to themselves about what’s going on.  We see the truth–and then we make the decision to move on, even if it’s a little ugly.  Happy couples know we’ve sinned as much as we are sinned against.

Also, some of us refuse to abandon our significant other when mistakes are made. In a crisis, some of us can do nothing but cling to each other like the good lobsters we are.

Follow us at Lady Smut, where we’re a whole ocean of wonderful.

Madeline Ivaimgres writes fantasy, paranormal, and contemporary romance.  Her novella ‘Sexsomnia’ is available in our LadySmut anthology HERE, and her fantasy romance, WICKED APPRENTICE, will be out Fall, 2016.



Sex And The Smartphone. Modern Three-Way

20 Jul

By Elizabeth Shore

Whenever I have the opportunity, I like talking walks by a lake. The tranquil setting – swans gliding along the water, frogs sitting still as statues half buried in mud, the calls of ducks and geese – is like mainlining serenity straight to my jugular. I observe nature, am reminded of the beauty surrounding me, and presto-changeo, I transform from stressed New Yorker to California Cool. As blogger Jamie Wallace pointed out in a recent post, the solitude is needed time just to chill out and think.

On a recent walk, however, my quest for inner Buddha was rudely interrupted by streams of tweens streaking past me, each and every one of them staring at their phones. Instead of enjoying the idyllic natural setting, their reality was augmented by overlaid cartoon monsters they relentlessly pursued. Yes, you guessed it, they were all playing Pokémon Go. Actual reality plays second fiddle to those virtual reality enthusiasts. And it wasn’t just the gamers who had no need for the actual world around them. I saw couples and small groups of friends standing around facing each other yet not saying a word because everyone was just staring at their phone. Surrounded by all those people, I’ve never felt more alone.

With that rather distasteful experience, it’s no wonder my attention was drawn to a recent article in Psychology Today about how smartphones are invading and sabotaging couple’s relationships. The device that has made communication so much easier in many ways has done the very opposite with personal interaction. It’s shut it down, interrupted it, overtaken it. Smartphones have degraded personal communication to the point where, according to the article, the lulls in everyday conversation – the ol’ comfortable silence – no longer lend themselves to opportunities to share personal reflections, or offer new topics of conversation, or simply grow closer as a couple while basking in the quiet. Instead those very lulls, once a pathway to openness, are now instantly shut down by one or more of the couple grabbing for their phone. The comfortable silence no longer exists.

Researcher Brandon McDaniel calls the omnipresent smartphone and what it does to relationships “technoference,” which according to him is the “everyday intrusions or interruptions in couple interactions or time spent together that occur due to technology.” The smartphone, it seems, has become as forceful an addiction as chocolate cake to a sugar addict or cocaine to a druggie. Merely having one’s phone in close proximity means attention is at least partly devoted to the compulsion to check it, taking focus away from the person you’re physically with. It’s the “instant charge,” according to a businesswoman quoted in the article, of discovering what people are talking about, tweeting about, posting about that’s nearly impossible to resist, much to the detriment of couple communication.

Part of the problem is that paying attention takes effort. You have to consciously devote your focus onto another person and away from yourself. You must be an active listener. And unlike technology, gratification for your troubles isn’t necessarily instantaneous. You may have to listen for awhile for someone to get around to the heart of whatever they want to talk about. Ay yi yi – the agony! You could have checked Snapchat, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and read up on the latest headlines in the time it’s taking your partner to get to the point. People who absolutely cannot resist the urge to pick up the phone and begin checking sports scores or texting other people are addicts who can’t survive without a fix. Their drug of choice – technology – can irreparably damage or ruin their lives just as surely as a needle full of dope.

What to do? The article quotes psychology professor Katherine Hertlein of the University of Nevada as offering some tips. Included among them, have a discussion about how to handle technology in your lives once you get to the point where you’re serious about the relationship. Talk about things like whether or not you’ll share passwords with one another. Whether you feel like you must reveal to your SO whom your texting. When is technology off limits? (such as dinner time, for example). And how much checking on each other is OK?

There’s one piece of advice she gives that I find a bit curious. She states that if you’re having a fight or otherwise trying to solve a problem, it’s better to do it via email versus texting. I would agree with that – lots of room for interpretation over texting. But why not just, you know, actually talk?

A big piece of technoference, at least for some couples, is of course porn. But it can also be a good thing, as I’ll talk about next week.  Stay tuned.




You, Tarzan; Me, Conflicted

19 Jul
An impressionable girl's first Tarzan. As I recall, he was quite articulate and well spoken.

An impressionable girl’s first Tarzan. As I recall, he was quite articulate and well spoken.

By Alexa Day

I’m coming home from the RWA National Conference as I write this, and after several days of immersion in the industry I love, I’m asking myself tough questions and making big plans.

When can I finish that extensive set of edits?

Which of the many projects in my to-do list should move up to the on-deck circle?

And most importantly: should I go to see Tarzan?

I want to be okay with Tarzan. Hell, I want to love Tarzan. I’ve always wanted that.

But let’s be honest with each other. Tarzan is kind of a racially complicated story.

Tarzan has had my attention since I was a little girl parked in front of Saturday morning cartoons. That sort of adventure spoke to me for some reason. I’m not sure if I was sucked in by the settings or the characters or what, but I wanted to be part of Tarzan’s world. Young Alexa’s mind worked in weird ways even then, I guess.

This is where the trouble starts.

For a story set largely in Africa, the Tarzan of days past was kind of light on black people.

This is probably something else I can blame Hollywood for. I haven’t read Tarzan in the original Burroughs, but I understand the movies get a couple of things wrong fairly consistently. The Tarzan of the original stories spoke beautiful English, for example. My understanding is that this Tarzan lived in an Africa populated by black people, although I also understand that these are the sorts of characters I spend lots of time complaining about. A paragon of race relations Burroughs was not, or so I hear.

By the time I discovered the lord of the jungle, he lived in a pretty monochrome world. At the time, that didn’t bother me quite so much. Honestly, at the time, there wasn’t anything on TV with an appropriately diverse cast. While it annoyed me a little that Tarzan’s love interest had to be flown in, I wasn’t shocked by it.

Today’s Tarzan is definitely more diverse, at least superficially. I’m still not sure I want to see it.

Why am I still so conflicted about this?

It sounds like Jane is the sort of feminist who’s been written by men who don’t really understand what a feminist is. Sure, she’s waiting to be rescued — but look! She talks back!

I think I’m supposed to be encouraged by Samuel L. Jackson’s appearance in the film, and Jackson himself has said that he hopes to draw viewers’ attention to the real history of Belgium’s destruction of the Congo and of George Washington Williams. Williams is exactly the sort of historical figure I keep saying I want to see in the movies, a Civil War veteran whose writings chronicled black history in America and exposed the Belgian depredation of the Congo. The director suggests in this Los Angeles Times article that Williams is the real hero of the film. That position seems somewhat inconsistent with press coverage, which does little to identify Jackson’s character.

And is there really not a way to place a black female character somewhere in this story? Really?

There is, of course, the matter of Alexander Skarsgard in a most unseemly state of undress. It would be wrong to overlook that.

In fact, let’s pay attention to that right now. Check it.



And how about this?

Yes indeed.

Yes indeed.

Let’s don’t forget this important point.

Well, all right then.

Well, all right then.

Now that we’ve reviewed that, well, I’m not sure I need to give anyone good movie money to see the rest of Tarzan. I can perform some of that hot writerly magic and lift what I need out of the story — little known black history plus shirtless Alexander in an untamed world — and then do something with it that works for me. Or I could see Star Trek Beyond twice. Or maybe I could do both of those things.

I am, however, open to suggestions. Am I wrong about Tarzan? Do I need to come off that money? Is there some other way to see shirtless Alexander? How about shirtless Djimon? Why aren’t we paying more attention to shirtless Djimon?

Sound off in the comments. And follow Lady Smut. It’s cooler out here.

Alexa Day is the USA Today bestselling author of erotica and erotic romance with heroines who are anything but innocent. In her fictional worlds, strong, smart women discover excitement, adventure, and exceptional sex. A former bartender, one-time newspaper reporter, and recovering attorney, she likes her stories with just a touch of the inappropriate, and her literary mission is to stimulate the intellect and libido of her readers.

Servant of the Undead, erotic zombie horror free read

17 Jul

Isabelle Drake’s Servant of the Undead

If you’re new to this serial, you can start with Part 1, “Do it.”

Part 10: “I’ll follow your rules.”

Hayden set his book bag by his desk and started shrugging out of his coat. Once he had it off, he peeled away his scarf, gloves. Kicked off his boots. Then he tugged his sweater up and off.

Rachelle had rolled onto her side. Her bra twisted, and one of her nipples showed above the lace. When she started to gather the coat to toss it to the floor, he shook his head. “Leave it.”Servant

As she shoved the fur beneath her, he threw his shirt down, kicked off his pants.

Rachelle pulled her knees up, let her legs fall apart, and then closed her knees again. “I stayed around even though you kept fucking me vanilla-style because I just knew you had a dirty side.”

Mattie’s green gaze flashed in his mind, and he remembered the other girl lifting her miniskirt for him, right there in the middle of the library. The tight grip of her slick, wet channel and the way he pumped into her right there on the library table.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said, his gaze going to the window. The blizzard was still fierce, but thanks to the street lamps, he could see into the swirls of snow. He crossed the room and peered out, looking right, then left, searching until he found her.

Still hunched under the eave, she crept forward, sneered, and then inched forward. Hayden breathed in through his nostrils and let the air out slowly through his mouth. Outside, the thing nodded, assuring him she was going to get what she wanted. Again, she crept closer, smiling in her unsmiling way, as she moved sure and steady like the storm.

Hayden moved away from the window, spinning on his heels so the window was at his back. He could block the creature from his sight, but not from his mind. She was already controlling him in ways he was only beginning to suspect. The image in his mind of what he wanted to do to the girl in his bed was just one of those ways.

Rachelle lay before him, opening and closing her legs, showing off the smooth skin of her inner thighs and the delicate lace covering her pussy. No matter that she was, in truth, a spoiled daddy’s girl, she didn’t deserve this. What he was doing was wrong and he knew it. Yet he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Maybe the effect the creature was having on him could actually be a good thing. Revealing it to Rachelle would show her she needed to leave him, and she would be free of the danger.

“Take off your stockings,” he said, nodding to the black silk skimming her thighs and calves.Part 7

Rachelle was quick to do his bidding, unhooking the garter tabs with an unsuspecting smile. She rolled the right stocking down, shook it with a flick of her wrist tossing it toward him. It landed near at the foot of the bed, a sheer snake stretched across the cream velvet cover. She took off the other in the same way, removed the belt, then dropped back onto her elbows.

Hayden had taken off the rest of his clothes and stood naked, his body tense, his soul clouded. He picked up a stocking, slid it across his palm. “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked, pulling it taut with his fists.

“Yes Sir.”

“Let’s start with a couple rules.” He set the stocking back down and took a step forward, conscious of his hard dick jutting out in front of him. “I have two.”

“Not three?” She cocked her head and looked sideways at him. “Don’t rules always come in threes?”

“Not from me. I have two.” Hayden came around to the side of the bed. “Do you agree?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what they are?”

“Nope.” He thrust his hips forward, and the tip of his shaft pressed against her lifted leg. “You agree to follow the rules, then I tell them to you, then we go ahead.”

She pouted, her pink lips forming a soft rounded hole he thought about shoving his cock into. “And if I don’t?” she asked. Already he knew she would obey. It was obvious in the quick rise of her chest and the dark, lust-filled gaze of her eyes. She had no way of knowing he intended to push her far past her limits.

Hayden rocked his hips again, quicker than the first time so she couldn’t miss the incredible stiffness. “You’re going to agree to whatever I say. We both know it. But I want to hear you say it.”

“I’ll follow your rules,” she said.


Want more? The next part will be here next Sunday. Or, you can come over to the Servant of the Undead Wattpad page and read more for free right now. Unfamiliar with Wattpad? It’s an online community for readers and writers. Its filled with free fiction of all kinds. It’s easy to log in and get started; you can use your Facebook account.

Until next time, follow Lady Smut, we’re always here to inform, entertain, and keep you up to date.


Isabelle Drake writes erotica, erotic romance, urban fantasy, and young adult thrillers. Best Friends Never, her newest release is the first in the Cherry Grove dark YA series.

Cover Reveal and Sm3xy Excerpt – Get Your Fire On

16 Jul

No Sexy Saturday Round-Up today. The minion SSRU smutters are taking a little break. Rather, we give you a cover reveal and hot excerpt!

Perfect cover_SaFleur_

Story Blurb
Sometimes the perfect man is the one who’s most forbidden.

After her husband’s death, Isabella Santos fled Washington and its bruising memories. But estate matters force her to return and fate gives her a chance to connect with a man she’d always secretly longed to call Master—Mark, the brother of her late husband. Mark, retired from his black ops career, grabs the second chance Isabella’s sudden appearance in D.C. presents. He’s never forgiven his late brother’s neglect of Isabella, a woman he’s loved from afar for ten years. Now reunited, he’s determined to earn her heart and submission. As their forbidden love blooms, they forge a perfect domestic discipline life that provides a feeling of oneness, completion and a healing of wounds neither knew they had. But her family’s opposition and demons from her husband’s past have different ideas. In the end, Mark must become more than her Master. He must use all his training and skills to become her savior.


How do you like your erotic romance? Five alarm chili-hot or just a little spicy? Personally, I enjoy the heat, which is why this fireplay excerpt from PERFECT, book 3 of the Elite Doms of Washington books, was so much fun to write. This second chance romance includes domestic discipline, as well as a few surprises. Enjoy!

Excerpt from PERFECT, an Elite Doms of Washington erotic romance

Warnings: fireplay and a smexy, adult situation

When Isabella entered the Library, her spine snapped straight. Mark sat in a tall-backed, velvet chair. His arms draped casually over the armrests like a king settled into his throne. He didn’t turn when they entered. His focus remained on a nude, statuesque redhead who lay face-up on a table.

“Who is that woman?” Isabella had to know.

“It’s not what you think, Isabella. Charlotte is under his protection.” Alexander understood her unspoken question. Why is he with her?

A dark haired man peered down at the porcelain-skinned woman. Her fiery hair and lush figure left Isabella feeling small and ordinary, like a daisy to a bird of paradise bloom.

The man turned, dipped two cotton-tipped wands into a shallow dish and then waved them over a pillar candle igniting their ends.

She startled.

Alexander’s arm descended on her shoulders. “You’ve seen fire play before?”

“Yes. I’m not—”

“Fond of fire. Do you wish to leave?”

“No.” She jerked her gaze to his face.

Alexander cocked his head at her vehement tone.

“I mean, I’d like to stay. Thank you.”

While she wasn’t a fan of edge play, no one else seemed alarmed. Rather, they appeared riveted by the scene unfolding before them. She wouldn’t flee like a coward. Instead, she’d simply channel the courage Mark displayed.

The other Master’s face glowed in the amber light as he waved the fire sticks over the woman’s body as if preparing her for a fiery impact. “Charlotte,” he growled.

The redhead’s lips moved in response. “Master.”

The one word ran through Isabella like a storm. She flushed. Why did she feel her presence interrupted a private moment? Even surrounded by two dozen people, she sensed the Master, the woman and Mark had secreted to a private world.

The dark-haired Master drummed the wands of fire up the woman’s belly to her breasts. She arched into the flames! Why?

The woman turned her eyes to Mark and sent him a contented smile. The side of his mouth arched up, and he dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

Her face softened with a palpable gratitude.

The other man smoothed hair from her dampened forehead while tapping one breast lightly with the lit wand. Her mouth dropped to an “O” and she arched again toward the flame. The Master glanced up at Mark, who had leaned forward in his chair, his gaze sharpening on the woman’s reaction.

The other Master caught Mark’s glance and stilled. Mark nodded and the man resumed his actions.

Isabella’s stomach flipped over. There was no way this was not what she thought. Mark most certainly was with this statuesque firewoman. Though the other Master held the fire, Mark’s command of the scene was unquestionable.

“Why is he . . . ?” Her breath hitched.

“Mark is introducing Charlotte and Master R to fire play. It’s her first time.”

As if that made it okay?

Mark leaned back into his chair. His fingers relaxed over the ends of the armchairs. Even from the side, she caught the tiny flashes of firelight glinting in his eyes.

Again, more swipes of the fiery wands captured her attention. They made soft yet sharp sounds, like freshly laundered sheets flapping in the wind.
In her periphery, she was aware that the five or six people, who milled a respectful distance away, had shifted and separated. Couples leaned into one another, as if they’d grown embroiled in the intimacy woven between Mark, the other Master and Charlotte.

She tuned into her body. An undeniable feminine ache settled between her legs. Well, her response to the scene was merely the Club’s atmosphere. Accendos’s very air hung heavy with contagious, sexual arousal.

She shifted her focus to the woman now glowing in a sheen of perspiration. The fire matched the red in her hair, and she seemed to grow almost liquid in her undulations.

Mark’s consideration remained on Charlotte squirming under the attention of two Masters. Charlotte. The name sounded soft, pliable and pleasing, yet it meant “strength.” It was a name given to royalty—to duchesses and princesses.

Princess Charlotte gasped. Mark sat back, as if released from her behest that he provide her his full and undivided attention.

An orange flicker flashed across the woman’s chest and earned a throaty sigh from her throat. The Master then drummed the wands faster up her body.

Isabella nearly tipped backward. Good thing Alexander’s arm kept her upright.

“He’s not hurting her, Isabella. Imagine someone tapping a large, hot Q-tip over your skin.”

She could imagine such a sensation.

“It’s more mind play than anything,” Alexander continued. “Many people are afraid of fire. Are you?”

She slowly nodded. Like most people, she understood fire’s utter indifference to whatever lay in its path. Fire didn’t care if you lived or burned. Yet, today, its warmth called up a strange fear in her that exhilarated rather than paralyzed.

Charlotte seductively licked her lips and peered up at the Master. He cupped a handful of her breast and tapped her nipple with the wand. She cried out lightly, ending in a coo playing on her lips. There was no question she loved the sensation. The Master appeared to love her reaction to what he did.

Isabella took in Princess Charlotte’s assets, adding up her points. At least ten years younger than her. Taller. Breasts more firm. Can withstand fire. Did that last quality win her the crown?

She sent an invisible plea to Mark. She mentally begged him to angle his chin a fraction so he’d catch her in the doorway. If she could just see his confident and stoic face.  . . Alexander had said the redhead was merely under his protection, whatever the hell that meant. In the community, people bandied labels about like confetti.

A loud pop from one of the wands startled her. The flames attached themselves to Charlotte’s skin for the briefest second and then vanished like orange and red ghosts.

She pulled her blouse free from her clammy chest. The slight waft of cooler air did nothing to dissipate the heat growing where it should not be growing. She hadn’t been aroused in . . . how long?

How about in Mark’s kitchen? Or the bridge? Or . . .pick any other time you were with him? Shut up, she told her internal voices. Perhaps she should have tried edge play before. Then Marcos would watch her that way, wouldn’t he?

She projected herself onto the table. If she asked, the flames could land on her skin, make her arch her back that way. Even before she’d been widowed, she hadn’t had a Master’s touch in far, far too long.

Perhaps Marcos could . . .

Stop. She shouldn’t yearn to be in Charlotte’s position. So just don’t think it.

Ha! Like that would work. Her traitorous mind conjured pictures of herself splayed out, nude and writhing, as Marcos, and only Marcos, mastered her body’s reactions. The flames danced over its princess as if alive. Oh, to feel that alive. To have fire skip over her skin. To be the object of Mark’s attention.

He stood. Where was he going?

He strode to Princess Charlotte and smiled down on her. She sent him an adoring look. The kiss he laid on her forehead said everything. He was her real Master, wasn’t he?

Mark sat back down and nodded once. The Master resumed, thrumming the lit wands up the beauty’s legs. The fire skittered across Charlotte’s skin.

She twisted and moaned. More licks of warmth reached Isabella’s skin.

She searched the quietest corners of her mind for the bits of peace she’d stitched together in the last few months. The cool, empty places that didn’t need so desperately. They were no help in settling the arousal growing inside.

She turned and looked up at Alexander. He looked over her head and nodded in Mark’s direction. She didn’t dare turn her head.

Alexander gently turned her so she once again faced the scene. “Mark has requested you stay.”

“You got all that from a nod,” she whispered to the center of the room. She didn’t need to pose it as a question. The elite Dominants at Accendos had an uncanny understanding of one another. Their near clairvoyant abilities were part of their allure. They watched out for each other, as they watched out for their charges. Only she wasn’t anyone’s responsibility. She had no Master.

At that instant, her soul felt thrown to the periphery, outside wherever Mark, the other Master and the Fire Princess lived. The detached feeling should have numbed her body. Instead, she was overcome by a sense of loss.

Why had she come back? She should have never returned to D.C.

She glanced up at Alexander once last time, and then fled.


PERFECT is a stand-alone novel in the Elite Doms of Washington series and will be available on August 22.  Follow me on Amazon if you’d like an alert when it’s out. In the meantime, stay cool and follow LadySmut.


Elizabeth SaFleur writes contemporary erotic romance and she’s not afraid to get a little graphic about it  — “it” being the smex, the BDSM or Washington, DC society, which she regularly features in her series, the Elite Doms of Washington.

When A Book Just Sucks Too Much

13 Jul

By Elizabeth Shore

One aspect of the romance writing community that forever keeps our spirits buoyed is the unfledgling support we give and get from one another, like a big beating heart of love for those of us who write about it. That support can be a lifeline when doubt or rejection or eroding self-confidence come knocking at the door. It can also help beat back the judgmental scorn we sometimes get from ignoramuses who dismiss the romance genre as so much bodice-ripping trash for desperate women craving mommy porn. We’ve heard it all before and we’ll hear it again yet we persevere and push on, knowing our peeps will have our backs at all times.

Except when we can’t.

Enter, the Unsupportable Book.

The UB is a book that, no matter what, you just can’t get behind. In theory you’d like to. You’re a writer, after all, and you support your fellow writers, even if just on principle. You know the effort it takes, the sacrifice needed, the hours and hours spent cooped up alone in your home when everyone else is basking outside in the summer sun. It doesn’t matter if another writer’s genre is vastly different from your own. You write romantic suspense and your fellow ink-spiller delves into paranormal? No problem. The support is as solid as your hunk’s marble chest. But such is not the case with the Unsupportable Book, because the UB’s got something in it that’s objectionable beyond redemption. The UB taints other books in the genre, putting a blight on us all and giving romance naysayers fuel to keep supporting their derision. I recently came across one such UB, a book that made me both sad and furious for all the reasons cited above. I almost didn’t finish it, yet I gamely trudged on, reading all the way to the end in the hope that it would get better. Instead, it got worse.

In the spirit of Lady Smut practice, I’m not going to name either the book or the author, but I’ll tell you this. It’s a paranormal vampire romance, the first in a series, it’s indie pubbed, and the author is listed as a New York Times bestselling author. Oh, who happens to be a guy. Ironically enough, I didn’t notice that last point until I was nearly finished with the book. But toward the end it occurred to me that the author’s voice really didn’t seem like a woman’s, and I wondered who it was. I pulled up the cover to look and ho and below (as my bff’s mother says), this UB was written by a dude. That in and of itself should be of no import as there are men out there writing good romance. But as one of my objections to this UB is gender-based, the fact that the author is male adds an interesting point to consider.

The book’s heroine is a Colombian prostitute who started turning tricks at age 14. The book begins with her in the U.S. illegally, but we learn that back in Bogotá she was sold to ply her trade to a drug cartel pimp. Of course she was. She’s Colombian, after all, a country of nothing but drug pushers who also, according to the book, “aren’t known for advance planning and organizational skills.” Yikes. What a charming little quip of racist commentary. With eyebrow raised, I nonetheless pressed on. To my detriment.

The biggest problem with this UB was two-fold. One, the misogynistic descriptions of the heroine. When she’s first sold to the cartel drug guy – I repeat, at age 14 – she’s made to sit naked around his house for three straight weeks while cartel guy invites friends and family over to sample her goods. So, in other words, repeated rape of a minor girl. O-kaaay. Then a few pages into the book is a really long, really graphic sex scene between our heroine and a female client. Nice messy violent lesbian sex, just what romance readers typically go for, right? And the hits just keep on coming. The second big problem with this UB is the frequent racist remarks. To wit: The female client is described as Asian American with her ancestral roots being Vietnamese. But she’s referred to as China girl.  Of course, who can blame our ignorant little Colombian whore, right? All those Asians look alike. An NYC taxi driver is alternately referred to as the “Abdul-Camel Jockey” and “the Jihad cab driver.” Never mind that he does nothing to indicate fanatical leanings and his ethnic background remains unknown. Silly details! Those NYC cabbies do seem a little suspicious. Everyone knows that.

The sad truth is, this UB wasn’t badly written and the heroine was likeable. But the barrage of racist remarks was too tough a hurdle for me to climb and there’s no way I’d recommend this book to anyone. Ever. Thus my support for this fellow romance writer’s book is, unfortunately, shelved.

Have you come across any Unsupportable Books lately? If so, what were the problems to put that book in the shameful category? Let us know in the comments below, and be sure to follow us at Lady Smut. We’ll support that.

Elizabeth Shore writes both contemporary and historical erotic romance. Her releases include Hot Bayou Nights and The Lady Smut Book of Dark Desires. Her newest book is an erotic historical novella, Desire Rising, from The Wild Rose Press.




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