Violated by the Elven King – $2.99

Callie, alarmed by her deep dissatisfaction when her mystery man fails to log in one night, decides to make their next game their last.

However, the old, cliche scenario she intended to be the send-off to their awkward relationship only ends up making her yearn for more…

11,000 words of BDSM rape-play, suitable only for mature audiences.

Interested? Buy right now at Smashwords. Or, for an excerpt, continue reading…


“So this is probably like, ‘dog ate my homework’ kind of shit to be hearing, especially when it wasn’t like we made plans together, but since I usually see you Friday night I guess I kind of assumed? And then I saw your message after? And I felt like shit because it must have seemed like I was ghosting you?”

“Which you weren’t,” I say, wryly. “Seeing as the dog gave you a concussion.”

“Cat, actually,” he says. “They’re all cats on that side of the family. They all act like the dominance shit is beneath them, and then it’s like, oh, ‘dad, Marco was looking at me’ or something equally stupid, and then it’s World War 5.”

“Soooo,” I say, “I’m guessing you wanna play?”

Yep. I try to tell myself it’s not near-desperation for a good, like a really good scene driving me to swallow this sort-of-true-sounding story, or to not even push back on Simon84’s assumption that we even have enough of a connection that his not showing up might mean he was ghosting me, but…

“Holy fuck yes,” he says. “One sec, gotta strip.”

For a moment I think of making a crack about how it’s nice that the weather around here decided to give everyone with a sim couch the free sauna experience on top of everything, then I remember, with a sudden surge of embarrassment, that he mightn’t necessarily be in the same city, or on the same frigging continent as me. Same planet, sure, interplanetary net links are so fucking pricey it’s not even a question, but other than that?

It’s true that the company I sim with touts localized matchmaking as some kind of extra perk of simming through them, but it’s not like the region I’m in is all even in the same weather band, or like it’s impossible that you’d come across some game that’s set up to pull in players from more than one region. So I really need to stop imagining all sorts of crap and otherwise operating in this not-relationship based on data that’s like 99% likely to be false.

“What game were you thinking?” Simon84 says, under the hokey little progress bar he pasted up, which, if he’s not gaming it somehow, shows that he’s still in his socks and t-shirt. “Same engine as last time?”

I’m not going to ask him what region he’s in. I might—might—let myself take a gander at his profile later, to see if he’s got it listed, but anything more than that is just sad. “Same engine,” I say, and, for symmetry, post my own progress bar.

“Oh, hello,” he says, and either he’s already mostly patched in, or he’s having the chat program vocalize for him. The voice he chose suits the (probably bullshit) story he told me earlier: low, growly, the way people like to imagine a sexy werewolf on the edge of turning would sound. Which isn’t at all realistic, but it fits, and for some absurd reason, it makes me grin and shuck out of my panties that much quicker. “Mmm. You getting wet?”

“Just a little,” I lie. I don’t even know why I do it; it’s not like he’d think he was hearing the absolute truth if I told him I’ve been wet all day, or if I told him just how smoothly my plug-in dildo is going in. This is why I don’t like pre-gaming in chat; I just can’t get into the kind of back-and-forth and ‘ooh yeah baby’ some people like. “You okay with getting a little weird?”

“How weird we talking?”

I pause for a second, settling back against the cooling mesh of the couch. I know I’m stalling as I readjust the dildo, reposition my legs, tweak the straps, and stretch my neck a bit beneath the helmet I’ve just strapped on, but it’s a few moments before I can make myself respond to it. “Dirty Modern Elven King.”

He laughs. It’s just an ‘lol’ or two typed in, but it stings anyway. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, “I just don’t, it’s not that it’s that weird, it’s just, I’ve always seen you as like, super experienced? And it’s kind of—”

“Noob magnet, I know,” I type, very carefully. Which is why I don’t bother running it, for the most part; anyone I ask to go custom with always fucks it up somehow. There’s a lot of play in there, so much room for surprise, and yet it’s always like, hello, here’s a pop-up asking permission to shove in some kink I explicitly passed on, like I’m so bored I’ll change my mind. “Let’s say I’m nostalgic, okay? Do a short custom run?”

For his response, he simply sends me a link to the scenario, one clearly modified to run on the high magic version of the engine we used last time, and though I’m wary when I load in to his custom setup room, that all fades away when I see that he’s facing a full-length mirror, cycling rapidly through minor appearance tweaks for his tall, buff, dramatically pointy-eared avatar. “Script pref?”

“Um,” I say, “B2 okay? The extended version?”

“Somehow I knew you’d want at least one repeat,” he says, flashing me a quick, slightly alarming grin over his shoulder. This elven king he’s building has some weirdly long, sharp incisors, at least for the moment. “Extras?”

With this particular scenario, ‘extras’ can mean only one thing: how many other participants, whether NPCs or actual players, get to rape the main female character. And now, with just that one word he said, I am suddenly extremely aware, even through the slowly increasing, sensation-dimming sim fog, of just how wet, how ready I feel.

“I’d like at least one full one,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You can add on more, just, well. Four people is my hard limit, if we’re gonna do repeats.” When he turns around to face me, I flinch a little, half because he’s worked up one nicely imposing elf, and half because my half fearful, half excited reaction to his avatar makes me remember that I didn’t do much work on my own. “Shit, I haven’t—”

“Don’t,” he says, taking an abortive half step toward me. “That’s like, roughly what you wore last time, right? With darker skin?”

It is roughly what I wear every damn day, IRL, only with the default blankly cute face, and miraculously smooth, rounded flesh where there’d realistically be flab. Somehow, telling myself that doesn’t make me feel less flattered. Not even when he tentatively requests that I make my boobs a little more, uh… Because, after I dutifully up the slider, he flushes, and mumbles that that wasn’t what he meant, and then spends a very embarrassed couple of minutes having me dig through the slider presents before opting for the first pair of tits with large, puffy areolae.

“You sure you still want to go with B2?” I can’t help but ask, teasingly. “I mean, if you’re that particular, we really should do an M-variant—”

“Naw,” he says, shortly, turning back toward his mirror. “You know how crap milking is in this thing. B2’s fine.”

I find myself opening his profile to add a me-only note about his preferences before I remember what I immediately decided when I first saw him come online: that I’d allow myself one more go-around with him, just because I know I’d be cranky tomorrow without a really good go, but. Afterwards, after we sign off and log out…

“It’s not even like I don’t know, like really know that how large the areolae are has nothing to do with any of it,” he adds, giving his avatar one last, fiddly, largely unneeded tuning pass. “I blame what’s-her-name, the middle sister in Milkmaids 4020. All those frigging closeups of her spraying and writhing can’t have been good for my common sense as a kid.”

If I were going to play with him ever again after this, now would be a golden opportunity to dig in, shoot the shit a little bit, laugh about the moments in movies and so on that had turned us on to our kinks, but since I’m not planning to play with him again after this, all I can bear to say is: “Hey, not to rush you, but…”

“I know, I know,” he says. “Just one more pass. More gut, less gut?”

“More,” I find myself saying, instead of the much, much safer “doesn’t matter to me”. I hate that I like the fact that he didn’t assume I’d go with the popular option (less. Always less). “Nice, I like it.”

He grins again, and both the mirror and the vague gray boundaries of the room magically expand and stretch so that he can waggle his eyebrows at me without turning around. “Shadow effect?”

“No.” I’ve almost always found it much more menacing to see my attacker in full detail; my second run-through of this scenario (two minutes after my breathless first run) had me fiddling with the then-limited options to try to turn off the heavy-handed false shadowing the game liked to use during the rapes. “All good?”

“Actual last thing: slight accent, or…?”

“Slight’s good.” Except for a couple very specific ones, accents are almost always a huge turn-on for me. And it’s not like it’s an uncommon thing to be into, so I don’t mind letting him know about it.

“Huh. Okay, I’m officially way too nervous, now.”

“But it’s not, I mean, the opening’s not really complicated.”

“Exactly,” he says, in the Elven King’s low, cultured voice. “So if I fuck it up, it’ll make me look even more of an idiot.” Then, after sliding me an evaluative glance, again without turning around: “Well then. Shall we?”

As the game starts, I already know my resolution to put him on ignore after it’s done is crumbling.

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Forced on Camera – $2.99

It’s been a week since Callie was taken by a hot, domineering mystery man in-game, a man she’s encountered before. Bored and itching for another chance to be at his mercy, she reaches out to him with an invite for another scorching session in a more modern setting.

She is not disappointed. The tawdry, run-of-the-mill setting of a porn shoot gone deliciously wrong only serves to highlight just how deeply her mystery man understands what she craves…

10,000 words of hot BDSM rape-play, featuring groping, embarrassment, sex drugs, kinky auditions and a heaping helping of degradation and filthy threesome action during a sexy photoshoot.

Interested? Buy right now at Smashwords. Or, for an excerpt, continue reading…


The next free weekend, I’m in the mood for something new. Not the same medieval scenario generator I’ve been so thoroughly enjoying these last few months, with brief breaks for different things. I just want something a little more modern. Something grounded enough in the familiar to really absorb me, but with its own nice bits of weird.

It’ll be rape again, of course. Some form of it, something nasty and degrading.

I take my time combing through the catalogs, browsing the “also played” and “also enjoyed” lists. I think, briefly, of some sort of religious setting, then just as quickly dismiss it; priest stuff gets tedious with repetition, especially when you’re cycling partners, and so the wicked Father Hamilton isn’t the same Father Hamilton that raped your tight virgin ass just last week.

Which gives me a thought. That orc I ended with last time—the guy that played him, rather—well, he’s in my friends list, and it looks like he’ll be out of the thing he’s playing in the next few minutes. I’ve never spoken to him outside of the context of a scene, but, well, it’d be stupid not to try it at least once. That’s how me and Freddie ended up initiating each other into the glories of lactation (Freddie’s thing) and tentacle play (my thing, if briefly); we happened to play together a bunch, got talking, friended each other, and the rest is history.

Not that we’re dating, or really anything to each other than a fairly occasional, on-and-off sexual connection. But it did work out, and it only ever got anywhere when Freddie pinged me out of the blue one fine Sunday, asking if I wanted to try out a new game with him.

So. I pick an old favorite game or three, copy the links, and cram them in while saying hi and tweaking my message so I’ll know immediately if it’s read, as well as giving the person I send it to the option to send it back with a form refusal. Simple. Not that it’ll make rejection easier to take, but at least it can be a nice, obvious, fewer-hurt-feelings kind.

I worry for a few moments, after getting the read receipt, about what could happen if Mr. Orc turns out to be the kind of asshole that derives the most pleasure from fucking around with people’s feelings in any number of unpleasant ways, but then his response comes in, and I don’t worry for too much longer.

He wants to play, and he has more suggestions.

“If it’s degrading you want,” he says, “there’s always ‘porn shoot gone wrong’. This game I know has really great scaffolding for it.”

I know the game he means; the priest stuff I was briefly into was run off of the same engine. The same super intense, really almost overwhelming engine, that included weird religious highs and ecstasies along with all the delicious noncon. So I wait a suitable pause—I hate myself a little but for it, but there’s no sense in looking too eager—and allow that I wouldn’t mind a trial.

It’s simple. Maybe too simple. I’m a poor, pretty girl—ripely built, brown-skinned in a smooth, luscious way. What I’m wearing is right on the edge of trashy, a thin, lacy top, a short skirt and knee-high, high heeled boots, and I get to see all of it because the grizzled porn director I’m privately auditioning with is turning me around in front of a floor-length mirror to the side of his desk. As I turn back to face him, he hums under his breath, making a low-voiced comment about how I’m just a little too thin, but could otherwise work for the shoot he’s got in mind.

“I can bulk up a little, beforehand,” I say, softly, off-script. “If that’d help.”

The director—it’s Mr. Orc playing him, obviously, and I really would just start calling him by his screenname, except for the fact that this game doesn’t do nameplates. Anyway, he smiles down at me, approving, though all he does is shrug in response, as if he likes the idea, but knows enough not to expect much of my attempt to ripen up in time for the shoot.

Really, he tells me, warmly, what’s most important is how believable I can be, during it. The script breaks in to remind me that it’s a deliberately soft-core shoot I’m auditioning for: I’m supposed to maybe get either half-naked or fully naked while my important bits are draped or shielded, and of course I’m supposed to look like I’m enjoying being photographed nearly naked on a fake beach. Or on a fake bench on the beach, the game’s translation engine isn’t the best.

“Pose for me,” the director says, giving me a gentle push towards his desk. “Make me see it.”

It’s in the script that I strip down to my bra and panties and clear a place on his wide wooden desk, lounging provocatively. The game engine does the rest of the staging: it’s cold in his office, cold enough that my nipples have been hard the whole time, even while I was dressed, and of course the silky, strapless bra I’m wearing up top does nothing to hide that. Gooseflesh breaks out all over my body, as if the clothes I shed had some sort of heating mechanism built in; I shiver a little, unable to help it, even as I arch my back and settle my hips and toss my hair and look over at the director, deliberately biting my bottom lip.

“Adequate,” he says, nodding slightly, but it almost sounds like he’s patronizing me, metaphorically patting me on the head while thinking to himself of the next girl, the next one that will come in after me, and steal away this job I desperately need. “Is it too cold in here, for you? You look a little cold.”

The script has this line as an obvious come-on, but Mr. Orc is playing it differently. He just sounds vaguely, pleasantly concerned, all while the expression in his eyes gets just a little contemptuous, as if he resents having to be the one to hint at our upcoming, customary transaction. As if I should have been the one to say something about being cold, about needing to be warmed up, so all he has to do is step forward and take advantage of me.

I’m supposed to hesitate now, feeling caught and guilty and worried all at once. Instead, all I feel is an enormous, nearly terrifying anticipation, because I realize that Mordred or Orc dude or whatever he calls himself means this whole thing to be a true, full test, and not just of the game mechanics, the sensations that this particular sim can elicit. The sensations, after all, are nothing without the ugly, filthy, coercive motivation behind them, the kind that we both crave.

“I’m,” I find myself saying, hesitantly, “I guess I am a little cold.” But I don’t arch the way the script wants. I just look up at him as he steps closer, only not managing to cringe because I’m holding so very still. “I can take a little cold, though.”

“I’m sure you can,” the director says, his cool, measuring gaze lingering on my breasts, and then moving slowly to the place where I’ve crossed my legs. “However, for our shoots, we usually require a little more than that.”

“Like…?” I say, trying to sound encouraging, but still having to suppress a shiver when his warm, dry hand lands on top of my left knee. “I’m not—I haven’t been cleared for, um, physical work. I’m not in that guild just yet.”

“We wouldn’t film you fucking,” he says, matter-of-factly. “But we do need you to look a little more ready for it.”

His hand is heavy, and doesn’t move, while he reaches with his other hand into a trouser pocket, fishing out a small, standard pillbox. “If you wish to get anywhere in this industry,” he says, popping the top and shaking loose a couple pills into his cupped fingers, all of it one smooth, practiced motion, “guild or no guild, you’d better become very familiar with all the various fuck drugs.” He offers me a pill; hesitantly, I sit up a bit so I can accept it. “Ideally, you’ll want a formulation that reliably leaves you wet and pliant, but doesn’t take you too far away from yourself. This is A71, what we call the beginner strain. Nice and mild, for most everyone. So mild that some people don’t feel much of anything, while they’re on it.”

I hesitate again before I take it. The pill melts in my mouth, fizzing a little; it’s not an unpleasant taste, just a mildly sharp one, like some vaguely unripe strawberry-esque thing. I shiver a little as the director tosses back his own pill and pockets the pillbox, then moves his hand from my knee to my lower thigh, and gently forces me to spread my thighs wide apart for him.

The drug is working. I feel entirely too calm about the fact that he’s staring down at my panty-covered crotch, though I suppose the fact that he isn’t doing anything but staring is perhaps in his favor.

My heartbeat seems to slow a bit. I feel, intensely, each breath of too-cool air that I take in, and the fact that it’s slightly warmer when I let it out. I’m frightened, deep down, that he’s going to do more than stare at me, that he’s going to take a hand off one of my spread thighs and reach out and curl his fingers around the crotch of my panties and pull them down and away from me.

I keep seeing it. Imagining it. I know it’s just the game, but I like it, I like the idea of such a thought getting stuck in my brain and making me acutely self-conscious, so much so that my pussy begins to ache and moisten inside, as if preparing for it, for the worst to happen. It’s a few more breaths, a few more silent, terror-filled moments, before I realize that I’m now thoroughly wet, that my panties are visibly getting damp.

“Not bad,” the director says, and his low, grudgingly approving tone feels almost too loud, in contrast to the former silence. “Nice fast response.” And then he does it, he just reaches out and sticks his fingers into me, not even bothering to push the damp cloth of my panties aside.

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Ravished by the Orc – $2.99

Callie loves being overpowered. Too busy for real life encounters, she settles for whatever she can find online, letting herself be taken by brick-jawed elves in her favorite game.

Sometimes, she gets lucky.

Sometimes, she surrenders to someone special, someone who deeply understands the brutal domination she craves…

WARNING: 7000 words of BDSM rape-play, suitable only for mature audiences. Features brief xenobestiality, public use by nefarious bandits and other passers-by, sex in restraints, knotting, and, finally, a hulking orc rescuer that demands to be very thoroughly rewarded.

Interested? Buy right away at Smashwords. For an excerpt, continue reading…


I come here to be raped. Not like, really truly raped; it’s the fantasy kind. My favorite, fucked up sim scenario goes something like this:

I am a poor young farm girl, rebelling, naive, or maybe just restless. I escape my farm and my village, going out onto the Great Plains of Dazur-Ish’tal (the names in this game are never good, just bear with it). My favorite thing isn’t to fall afoul of anyone or anything straight away; I love playing my character as somewhat unskilled, but with good instincts. Competent in a pinch. Worried, of course—you don’t sneak by a riotous centaur band celebrating their raid’s success without feeling at least a little concerned on behalf of your technical virginity—but not too worried.

After all, I made it past the Bright Wizards’ blockade. I know how to handle trolls—they avoid trying my lonely campfire at night, and in return I leave my most pungent pair of underwear behind, along with a handful of credits, and all is well. I took down a Ravening Cockscomb nearly right out of the gate, and thought, of course, of what it would feel like if I were depraved enough to demand the victor’s price, which is what they call the defeat rape in this particular slice of the game universe.

I didn’t demand anything like that, of course. I picked carefully through the Cockscomb’s generous loot table, and made it all the way into Colmey Forest largely off the back of that haul. Sometimes I like to take my journey even farther, take my character all the way through to the Free City to be scandalized and tantalized, and only return to the forest once I’ve had a season or two of experience hiring out as a caravan guard, or perhaps even a mercenary.

Tonight, though, I’m too impatient to do more to set things up; I want action, not just the fevered anticipation of it, so I guide my poor farm girl through Colmey Forest on slightly unsteady legs, watching, as always, for the signs that show that I have wandered just a little too far afield. Thick, ropy webbing hanging from dark branches. A strange, spicy smell that intensifies in the clearings and diminishes among the trees, but never quite goes away. Sometimes, I can hear the spiders coming—hear, at least, the slight rustling that often precedes their pouncing on you—but most of the time, it’s a delightful surprise.

I always have my character try to fight back. Try valiantly, and fail, falling to my knees, my clothes torn and sticky with the webs that have constrained my frantic, desperate movements. I don’t bother going with the whole egg impregnation thing, because that sequence takes too long, and anyway I prefer my attackers to be a little less mindless.

Such as the grizzled, shady adventurers that are often the first ones to come upon the naked, web-bound body of my avatar. The best thing is the moment they see me, the way even the supposed good guys can’t help but eye me up, their heated gazes lingering on my bare, swollen breasts, or, even better, on my spread, trembling thighs.

This particular iteration, the spider left most of my loincloth intact. There really is something about being only partially covered, partially shielded; I can’t help but lie there in my webs and think of how I look, how anyone who sees me must be thinking that it’s obvious what happened to me, despite the thin barrier of the cloth that shields my sticky, aching pussy from view. They know I’ve been taken already. They know I’ve been crammed to the hilt with spider-cock. They know that, even if I didn’t want it, even if I fought to my last breath, I’m slick now, slick and empty and aching to be filled again, high on the pheromones from all the spider’s secretions.

Only once have I ever had someone come upon me while the spider was still at it. That was almost too much—they killed the spider and wrenched it off away from me, but not until they’d crept in close, their hard-on visible in their breeches, their interest in my helpless struggles beneath the spider’s frenzied thrusts all too clear.

They raped me, of course. Right there, right next to the steaming corpse of the spider, their breaths unsteady with eagerness, their few intelligible phrases all revolving on the theme that I really, really should be thanking them for saving me. That I couldn’t blame them for wanting—needing to be thanked.

Which was all close to the line but in a really enjoyable way, until after, when it became clear that they were taking my polite refusal to RP1 as their new slave for a scene or two way too personally. We had words, I blocked them, end of story.

I think about them still, sometimes. Like right now, while a tall, rugged elf runs his hands up and down my avatar’s prone body, murmuring words of reassurance, warming my skin with attempted healing spells that founder due to the spider pheromones. That Guy, as I mentally refer to him, was also playing as an elf.

Not like this—he was far more aggressive. It feels like it takes fifteen minutes for this elf to realize that his heals aren’t doing shit, he can’t cut through the webbing and I haven’t just been moaning because of the medical help he’s been trying to give me. His OOC2 channel is turned off, too, so I can’t even give him a hint.

Finally, he “succumbs” to the latent spider pheromones in the air, and sinks his thick, rigid cock into my cunt. I moan, weakly. I work his cock as best as I can, mostly for my own benefit, because he’s playing at reluctance, at slow, shallow thrusting, and while that could definitely have been interesting in another context, especially combined with his tortured expression, it’s really not doing much for me right now.

He finishes, and it’s quite good—elves come a lot, and at least half the draw of this fantasy is about the feeling of being full, of dripping, of feeling that surge of unwelcome warmth inside me.

Next, some few minutes after Mr. Guilty Elf has laced up his breeches and shaken his head over me and gone guiltily on his way, some bandits arrive, and I brace myself.

Never can tell whether it’s all NPCs3 in a band or not; there are some really quite seriously devoted RPers who live for blending in. I’m raped quite thoroughly; they set up camp and draw lots and fill my mouth as well as my cunt—a dead giveaway, in some game engines, for real RPers, but not something you can rely on in this one, since the NPCs here will fuck any hole you opt into, rather than just the default.

My favorite moment with these sorts of groups isn’t the approach—it’s not at all in doubt what’ll happen, there’s no thinking or hesitating on their part, it’s all just raucous laughter and excitement followed by their fingers thrusting deeply into my cunt. They play with me there, slapping and squeezing and sucking my tits while they all unbutton, and while that’s good, it’s, well, it’s common enough that I no longer feel that squirmy, guilty frisson when they start in.

No, my favorite thing is when I pass out from being used—which doesn’t always happen, seeing as it’s not often that the game will even offer the option. That moment of knowing, just knowing it won’t stop them, that it might only make them more brutal, more eager, now that my limp body offers not even a token resistance… That always makes me come.

Better yet is the moment I wake up. Occasionally, I’m still being used, and it’s obvious I wasn’t passed out for very long, and that means an instant, almost involuntary orgasm, because I know I’m in for a long, hard ride.

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  1. RP: abbreviation for ‘roleplay’.

  2. OOC: abbreviation for ‘out of character’.

  3. NPCs: abbreviation for ‘non-playing character’. Gaming slang for the characters in games that aren’t currently being controlled by a player.

Unexpected hiatus drawing to a close

Or, an end to formality.

Or, this post has been in my drafts for like, five fucking years, omg. It’s time to let it out!

Basically, I was gone but now I’m back. I purged emails from my old-ass newsletter (there were only two, lol), and I’m publishing new stuff! As well as slowly updating my backlist so they have fancy Smashwords-specific .doc files.

I’ve no idea what kind of publishing pace I will keep to. I do know that there’s four more stories in the new series I’ve started, and that there’s maaaybe one or two more stories in the Shared series, but that’s it. If I disappear again, this time I will let you know.

Claimed by His Friends – $2.99

Close-up of man and woman about to kiss
‘Claimed by His Friends’ by Fiona Coulby

It was supposed to be just one night of wicked fun, of being touched, spread and used by her boyfriend Jun and his two best friends. Alice lets herself dream of doing it again, but she’s given up on getting Jun to discuss the idea without teasing her about her constant, shameful hunger to be dominated by all three men.

When Jun finally admits his taboo desire to share her again, Alice feels torn between anger at his hypocrisy and a seething, all-consuming lust. Will she resist her urge to give in, or will she let him and his friends give her the rough treatment that she craves?

This 18,000-word novella is the second story in the Shared series. It is suitable only for adults. Want a taste? Continue reading Claimed by His Friends – $2.99

Seduced by My Gorgon Boss – $2.99

Sexy picture of woman caressing a snake
“Seduced by My Gorgon Boss” by Fiona Coulby

Never get involved.”

That, in Joan’s opinion, is the best way to handle the constant sexual tension that comes of working in an office full of dangerously insatiable males of her own race: gorgons, a strange, sensual, half-alien people. Traditionally, gorgon males do not cope well with the constant, maddening arousal of their irresistible monthly cycle, and their secret attempts to sate their urges often result in exactly the kind of torrid interpersonal drama that she strives to avoid.

So, when Joan walks in on the highly respected, coldly efficient Mr. Hashizaki in the throes of an embarrassing cycle-induced display again, she knows that the right thing to do is turn around and leave, just like she did the first time. Instead, she finds herself inching forward, her mind full of filthy fantasies, her body aching to revel in his forbidden touch.

Can she fight her own primal need to submit to his greedy, dominating grasp, or will she end up crossing the line?

Warning: this short, erotic 18,000-word novella contains rough, secret office sex, multiple male orgasms and bdsm roleplay. It is suitable only for adults. Want a taste? Continue reading Seduced by My Gorgon Boss – $2.99

Dominated by Strangers – $2.99

Man and woman embracing sexily on the cover
Dominated by Strangers by Fiona Coulby

Evie has always wanted to be taken by more than one man at once, and the high-tech simulation she signs up for promises exactly that. Will the twisted nature of her chosen scenario end up being too much to handle, or will she find that her taste for depravity runs deeper than she thought?

Warning: this short, erotic 9,000-word story contains rough sex with multiple partners, bdsm roleplay, and werewolf knotting sex. It is suitable only for adults. Interested? Continue reading Dominated by Strangers – $2.99

Somehow managed to bludgeon LaTeX into making a passable ebook file. Now the Great PDF Edit of my first few stories can begin.

Taken and Used – $2.99

book cover for 'Taken and Used', a woman surrounded by grabby men
“Taken and Used” by Fiona Coulby

When Becca’s sexy girlfriend suggests that they splurge on a high-tech gangbang simulation, she is loath to agree, afraid that her taboo desire for the rough embrace of faceless men may drive a wedge between her and her lover.

Then, as she sinks into the gritty fantasy of the scenario they ordered, Becca realizes her girlfriend has left her to fend for herself among strangers who seem only too eager to push her over the line. Will she give in and allow herself to be used by all, and how will her girlfriend react when she sees the filthy evidence of her forbidden desire?

Warning: this 7,000-word story contains rough multiple-partner sex that includes public exhibition, light BDSM, and double penetration. It is suitable only for adults. Want to take a peek? Continue reading Taken and Used – $2.99

Shared With His Friends – $2.99

cover image for 'Shared With His Friends', two men caressing a woman
“Shared With His Friends” by Fiona Coulby

When Alice’s sexy boyfriend suggests that they embark on a night of unrestrained debauchery with his two best friends, she almost turns him down, fearing that she’ll enjoy the frantic action a little too much.

Will she give in to her taboo desire to take on all three men at once, and how will her boyfriend react when she loses all control?

Warning: this 8,000-word story contains rough foursome sex, light bondage and double penetration. It is suitable only for mature audiences. Want a sample? Continue reading Shared With His Friends – $2.99

Devoured – $2.99

cover image for Devoured, man and woman necking
“Devoured” by Fiona Coulby

Gina has always wanted to take a bite out of Danny, her hot, half-vampire neighbor. Sadly, they’ve known each other forever, and he’s never been one to take her torrid teasing seriously.

Then, one warm summer night, Gina drops by, only to find Danny can’t take his hungry gaze off her. Suddenly, it’s up to her to keep a lid on the scorching tension between them, or risk being devoured in more ways than one…

Warning: DEVOURED is a short, erotic 7000-word story that contains hard vampire sex, biting, and oral sex. It is suitable only for mature audiences. Interested? Continue reading Devoured – $2.99