Clarissa Stone never thought she had a chance to make it on stage, but a strike in 1907 at the music hall in New York City opens up a door, and Clarissa races to it. The path isn’t easy, and especially not after catching the eye of William Berling Ferrismore III. Money and power have gone to his head and he uses that to his advantage, sating his sexual appetite with the women on stage. Clarissa won’t be caught so easy, but William doesn’t play by the rules. How can she prove her worth as an actress with his defaming ways?

“Quiet. Wait ‘til I have you in the motorcar, then you may speak freely,” he told her, helping her into his vehicle.

“Do you even know how to drive?” she asked when he was at her side.

“I drive this motorcar the way you drive me mad—with precision and a punishing force.”

She gulped and took to holding her wobbling knees.

“Tell me now—you will not leave, will you? Once I have you in my home, you will not desert me?”

“Why would I? Unless you mean to massacre me.” She chuckled, and it was nervous sounding.

Probably because the butterflies dancing in her stomach had taken to other parts of her body.

“I mean to devour you, lick you in the basest places and dig my fingers into you. I think you can withstand it—my cherry girl is built for my onslaught.”

She sucked in a tight breath, her abdomen caving in with the action.

“What if I taste wretched and am unflattering on the tongue?”

He laughed, and it was unsettling how free he sounded over these vulgar things they were discussing. And why did she want more of this type of talk?

“Oh, little cherry, how you amuse me. Have you forgotten so soon I have already had your cream on my taste buds? It still lingers and drives me to distraction. I want that flavor coated on my cock.”

“Oh, almighty Jesus,” she whispered under her failing breath.

“Oh, yes, I shall have it, too. Before you sleep this night, you shall do exactly what I say.”

She gripped her knees harder. They were close to shaking—her hands were not much steadier.

“I shall not request your obedience—I shall earn it and demand it. In return, you shall have unending adoration flung at your feet as I worship your gorgeous body built for my hands to explore. I shall respect you, find every way possible to keep you happy, but you will be mine, and you will submit,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

His voice was hoarse, and his hands clung to the steering wheel. The pulse at his neck was visibly racing.

“When you say these things to me—do you expect me to respond?”

“Yes, but not with words. Those are unnecessary. I already know how you feel. I can taste it in the air surrounding me. I can hear it in your exaggerated breathing and in the grip on your legs. You are ready to drip at my command. And I can barely wait to give that order.” He turned to look at her, and she froze. “You may use words right now if you wish, though. So, say it . . .”

“Say what?”

“Say you are afraid of me. That you think me an unholy bastard. That you want to run right this instant and flee my wicked presence and salty tongue.” He turned his head back to the road, but she could still feel him watching her out of the side of his eye.

“If I said any of those things, would you believe them? And would it even matter? It is not as if you would take me back home,” she said.

The car jolted to a stop. He turned at the waist and braced her with his grip on her shoulders. “I will never take you against your will. Never. I am not about that. I want you to want this, too. I want your body vibrating with excitement and unadulterated bliss. I will find a way to get those reactions from you if it forces me to rip my bones out of my body. That is how committed I am to you.”

She dropped her gaze at his lap. She did not mean to. Her eyes just went there to his prominent bulge.

“Do you desire me that much?” She kept staring.

“I desire you more than a man should. You”—he swallowed hard—“will be my unending addiction I shall never break free from.”

CONTENT WARNING — This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Story includes anal sex (use of implements in the anus as makeshift butt plug toys), bondage, crude language, dubious consent and a primitive type of Dom/sub arrangement involving consensual sex. There is mention of rape and abortion—both more than once, but it is not shown. There is an attempted, unsuccessful rape scene that is thwarted. There are also punishment scenes with whipping and spanking some might find offensive, along with violence with fist fights. Characters portrayed are 18 or older.

Genre| Historical Erotica
Expected Release Date|December 29th 2013


Chanse Lowell grew up in the desert southwest and still lives there with her husband, children, and pet cactus. She’s addicted to three things—reading erotica, writing erotica and sandwiches with a side of erotica to aid with digestion. She grew up watching programs with science fiction and historical fiction themes, and is determined she can combine her three favorite genres, creating a new breed of novel with scifi, historical and smut sandwiched in the middle.

The last thing she ever thought she’d do was pursue her dream to be a writer since her family tends to keep her busy. When she was introduced to fan fiction, she realized she wanted to see more science fiction and historical fiction to fill in the gap with lots of naughtiness thrown in, of course. Her true passion is creating her own worlds from scratch, letting her imagination go and take her to another place.

Having recently entered the BDSM lifestyle and discovering she’s a submissive herself has opened her eyes to how few stories there are exploring the softer side of the lifestyle. She enjoys chatting online with others with similar kinky interests and has advisers in the lifestyle that help make sure her stories remain true and don’t veer off into outer space. Although aliens probably enjoy kink, too, since they like to dress in rubber fetish-wear while traveling. At least that’s her argument for why her new genre she’s created is valid.

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At the age of thirteen, Angelina Clark followed in the footsteps of her ancestors by casting an Appalachian love spell, which promised she would blossom into a beautiful and gifted woman who would find her true love. A young Angelina had been thrilled to participate in the sacred ritual, but through the years, her father’s untimely death and her mother’s failing health have shaken Angelina’s magical faith to its core. As her twenty-first birthday approaches, she refuses to practice her supernatural gifts and no longer believes in the love charm.

That is, until Dylan Thomas arrives on her front porch.

Dylan, a Nashville writer, travels to the mountain town of Maple Ridge to unearth the family’s supernatural secrets. While her clairvoyant mother is convinced that Dylan is her daughter’s soul mate, Angelina refuses to see the nosy reporter as anything more than a nuisance.

Despite their constant bickering, sparks fly.

Dylan admits he feels strangely drawn to Angelina and is in no hurry to leave Maple Ridge or publish his magazine article. Fearful that his emotions are being influenced by the spell, a stubborn Angelina struggles to fight her own budding attraction to the reporter.

The two inevitably grow closer just as her mother’s health begins to deteriorate, and Angelina is faced with the possibility of selling the family’s music shop to pay the mounting medical expenses. Desperate to help the woman he loves, Dylan explores his own family tree and finds support from an unlikely source. Can he finally prove his love is real—spell or no spell?

A story filled with love, friendship, family, and just a hint of Appalachian magic, Mountain Charm will leave you spellbound.

Genre| New Adult/ Supernatural
Expected Release Date| July 2nd 2013


“It’s your birthday?” Dylan asked.

“Yes, and it was blissfully uneventful until you showed up.”

“Beautiful and infuriating,” Dylan muttered. “Look, Angelina, I was just given this assignment yesterday. I don’t have a clue about Appalachian magic tricks or devil-worshipping or whatever it is you do up in these mountains, but I have a story to write. Just let me interview you and your mom, and I’ll be back on the interstate before you can say abracadabra.”

Instead of pointing out just how ignorant he sounded, Angelina decided what he truly needed was a strong dose of fear.

“Actually, I do have something you need to see. A family heirloom. Wait here?”

Excited for any useful information, Dylan’s eyes lit up and he nodded enthusiastically. Once again, those good manners kicked in, and Dylan opened the door for her.

Angelina raced inside the house. She hadn’t touched it in years, but she still remembered where her father kept the key to the case. She grabbed what she needed and quickly made her way back out to the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her.

Dylan jumped out of his chair. “What the hell?”

Angelina lifted the rifle and pointed it straight at him. He didn’t need to know the safety was on—or that the chamber was empty.

“This is a Remington, passed down from my father and his father, also known as an Appalachian magic wand. Just watch. It’s going to make you disappear.”

Angelina thought it was almost comical, hearing him curse and watching him leap off the porch. All the commotion caused her dog to chase after him, which only made Dylan sprint faster until he reached the sanctuary of his vehicle.

“Are you insane?” Dylan yelled.

“I tend to get a little crazy when someone trespasses on my property. Leave my family alone and don’t come back!”

He slammed the door and had to do some fancy maneuvering to get around her car, but within seconds, the only sounds Angelina could hear were Dylan’s squealing tires, her dog’s noisy bark, and her mother’s hearty laughter.


Sydney Logan holds a Master’s degree in Elementary Education and lives in East Tennessee. With the 2012 release of her novel, Lessons Learned, she made the transition from bookworm to author. Her second book, Mountain Charm, was released in 2013. She is also the author of three short stories. When she isn’t writing, Sydney enjoys playing piano and relaxing on her porch with her wonderful husband and their very spoiled cat.

As the Newlyweds embark on the erotic adventure of their honeymoon the sexual tension threatens to bubble over. They have endured a selfimposed sex embargo, part of an erotic pact that dares the Bride to expose her gorgeous body publicly; a pact designed to add a little fire to their honeymoon.

The Bride is full of life and energy, “…exquisite, still cocooned in the flowing white lie, a sterile illusion betrayed by her green eyes, a sparkling window to a soul exploding in colour.”

Erotic sparks begin to fly from the moment they are in the limo to the airport and continue throughout their international flight as they tease each other with scorching erotic fantasies and confessions.

Little do they know it will ignite an erotic inferno.

The enigmatic Groom is torn between his erotic fantasies of wifewatching and his possessive tendencies towards control and jealousy and his Bride knows it.

The Bride nervously fulfils her dare and finds her exhibitionism surprisingly fulfilling. Her Groom hahoped it would give her selfimage a boost and him a thrill but he gets more than he bargained for.

The Bride rebelliously fuels the inner battle in her new husband when they meet the charismatic alpha male Lancelot and the desirable Paulo, drawing her into an exploration of her own long suppressed erotic desires and sexual taboos.

Lancelot seems to understand her hidden needs better than she does and enjoys the challenge of forcing her astray, “a wedding ring is the ultimate sex toy and you already have one of them.”

Sexual boundaries are tested and then smashed as the Bride is taken to new erotic heights. “Inch by meaty inch they drag her to the peak of her private Everest.”

And what of her Groom, handcuffed and cuckolded, will his inner conflict destroy him? Will this white hot erotic affair destroy their one day old marriage?

Genre| Erotica
Expected Release Date| 12.5.13


And when we finally hit our hotel room, exhausted, we had not slept at all on the plane and we are both acutely aware of the terms of the dare so we abstain, enjoying the burn. It sharpened our edge.

We had purchased a white one piece swimsuit tagged “Warning, fabric becomes see through when wet.” Unknown to Marcella I had painstakingly cut away the lining in the crotch designed to protect her modesty. I do my best to distract her by kissing and fondling her as she pulls on the swimsuit hoping she won’t notice the absence of the lining.

If she did notice, she didn’t protest.

Marcella is nervous and aroused as she walks along the beach with me trailing anonymously some distance behind.

I admire her audacity as she spreads her towel amidst a “Target Rich Environment” of fit looking men.

I settle down about twenty meters away, as agreed, to hide our connection.

I watch as she timidly approaches the waves, even dry, the fabric was fairly transparent and men are straining their eyes to soak in the delights of her body. Marcella emerges from the water a short while later. She drops back into the water as soon as she sees just how see through her swimsuit has become.

Taking a deep breath, she holds her head up high and her shoulders back as she walks up the beach, fighting back the urge to run. Marcella is hyper-aware that every detail of her body is on display, from her standing out pink nipples to the miniscule strip of short dark hair running vertically upwards from the top of the crease in her mound; an exclamation mark!

Her cheeks and neck blush on the redder side of pink, embarrassed but demure.

She is stunning.

She averts her eyes, only occasionally meeting the lustful looks of the admiring men with her fluorescent green eyes.

Laying on her back propped up on her elbows she spreads her legs just enough for her show. Men, trying to look casual, circle for a closer look.

Audacious men approach her at different times, I am deaf to what is said but I can see the erections they are sporting. So could Marcella, she wasn’t even pretending not to look. I knew she would be wet.

A twinge of jealousy pulls on my heart strings at the same time squeezing my balls as I watch some of these strangers make some obviously lewd suggestions to my blushing Bride.

The plan was that Marcella would signal me when she had had enough. The signal never came.

When a muscular Latino looking stud with long dark hair drops his towel in front of her to reveal his complete nudity, Marcella ogles his stallion-like cock and approves his request to join her.

This was not part of the plan. She must have asked him to wait and she hurries in for a very quick dip just to freshen the transparency to make sure he gets the full visual. Then on her return, with him sitting, her standing, she makes a big pretence of drying her hair with a towel, displaying her pussy at eye level just in front of his face.

Even from side on I can see his big knob climbing over his thigh like the sun rising over the horizon. Jealousy wraps its big fist around my stomach, and clenches when Marcie looks, and looks, and looks again at his stiff cock and sits down on his towel close beside him.

Her head turns slowly my way to check if I am watching, I see the glance coming and look away quickly, looking disinterested not wanting to betray the battle I am waging within to contain my jealousy.

Marcella casually drops her towel in his lap and when she licks her palm and secretes her hand under the towel I know she is saying a tactile “hello” to his cock.

My stomach is practicing judo breakfalls. Picking itself up then slamming itself back down on the ground.

When he spreads the towel out across her lap as well, I see her head tilt back and her hips tilt forward and know that his fingers are probing her cunt.

Now my lungs down tools and refuse to do their job.

Angrily I ring her phone. “Yes I’m fine Dad” she says sarcastically, “no need to worry, gasp, I can handle it, gasp. I’m just rubbing some sunscreen in now. Giggle. Gasp. I’ll come soon. Bye Dad. Gasp.” She turns my way and glares.

He pulls out his phone and they probably exchange numbers. He takes Marcella’s phone puts it under the towel and hands it back to her. Then she takes his and puts it under the towel between her legs then gives it back.

Damn they are taking photos of their genitalia to for each other.

My heart takes a running dive off the springboard that my cock has become, bouncing high in the air, completing a triple piked somersault with a twist on the way down. Splash!

I pounce to my feet and stomp along the beach, a thunderstorm in my eyes as I pass the front of their feet. She metaphorically kicking sand in my face by pushing her towel from their laps exposing her fist wrapped around the shaft of his shiny cock and rapidly sliding up and down it. Her other hand covers his, urging his fingers deeper into her damp cunt. Mine was not the only radar that locked in on their heat-seeking hands either.

I wait, pacing back and forward further down the beach, still in sight, steaming. When she finally joins me, Marcella is giving me contrite little “am I bad” looks with her big green puppy eyes. As soon as she feels I have dropped my anger she holds a portion of the towel to my nose. The undeniable smell of a man’s come, and jealousy turns the vice on my balls.

“And did you?” I ask meekly.

“Come?” she asks, “not quite but I was sooo close,” she adds without a hint of remorse.

I make a mental note to delete his number from her phone before she could go back for more.

“Do you even know his name?” implying she should be ashamed.

“Paulo”, she replies with a “so there” kind of attitude.

‘Right Paulo your fucking number is gone baby!’ I think to myself. My jealousy transmutes to anger and I can’t contain it. “What the hell? You are cheating on me and we haven’t even been married a day.”

“Whoa!” she says, as if trying to pull up a bolting horse. “It’s what you wanted isn’t it?”

She is right I had fantasized about seeing her with another man but I had never for a moment thought it might happen. I had urged her to expose herself on the beach but I thought I would have more control. I realise I have no control.

Marcella fires at me, “What do you fucking want from me? What does this fucking marriage mean anyway?”

“There has to be rules”, I say.

“Fine! Rules. What fucking rules? Your rules for me? Is that it? What if I want my rules for you?” she snaps.

“Um I think we should have THE rules.” I am struggling, searching for calm logic.

“Yeah, well who decides THE rules? The law? Fucking society? The church? I want NO fucking rules”, Marcella counter-punches.

“What about we have OUR rules, we can negotiate them?” I offer weakly.

“Fuck off” she says, and she fucked off.


My suffering for my art began at a tender age when I first started my research into erotica undressing a Barbie doll to explore her firm but nippleless breasts, resulting in a fair slapping from my mother when she caught me in the act.

Only temporarily deterred, puberty found me secretly and enthusiastically studying the erotic novels my parents kept hidden in their sock drawers.

By my estimate I have dedicated around 40,000 hours to erotic fantasies, um, research, since those first tentative steps.

The Bride Unbridled is my first novella, born from the seed Barbie helped plant all those years ago and which I have diligently nourished daily ever since.

The Bride Unbridled is the beginning of a series of Transformational Erotica.



I can be contacted by email at damon.starc@gmail.com and welcome constructive feedback and suggestions.

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