Tag Archives: Emerald

Emerald Talks about SAFE, Her New Collection of Erotic Stories

Emerald SafeThanks so much for having me today, KD—I’m so delighted to be back at A Hopeful Romantic talking a bit about my brand new short story collection, Safe!

When I first submitted a short story collection for consideration to 1001 Nights Press earlier this year, it was as a manuscript that contained seventeen stories, six of which were new and exclusive to the collection. I knew the book as a whole would be considered erotica and would not be marketable as erotic romance. This was mainly because of how a few of the stories ended.

As I’ve shared now a number of places, I interpreted Sharazade, the proprietor of 1001 Nights, as coming back with the suggestion that the manuscript be divided into two books. Essentially, upon our agreeing to do so, what I had submitted became two collections divided generally along the line between the erotic romance pieces and the erotica pieces. If… Then: a collection of erotic romance stories was released in September and has ten stories, including two of the new ones the original manuscript contained. (I got to go back and add three previously published stories I had pulled from the full manuscript due to length concerns. Yay!) Safe: a collection of erotic stories came out October 15 and also comprises ten stories, four of which are the remaining new tales from the original manuscript.

I feel much appreciation for Sharazade’s recognizing that the manuscript I submitted may work better as two books. Since I knew the intention with which I had written each story was along a similar line that made them all fit together for me, it is true that the outward tone and direction of some of the stories seemed different from a number of the others. Basically, I feel Sharazade was correct that the volume could be pretty distinctly divided between the erotica and the erotic romance stories.

I was and am aware that the audiences for erotic romance and erotica are different, and while I have seen the term “erotica” seem to be used as synonymous with “erotic romance,” I personally see the two as distinct and consider such a conflation a misnomer.

Probably the most tangible difference distinguishing erotic romance from erotica, as I see it, is the requirement of a happy ending. In my understanding, anything labeled “romance” (of whatever sub-genre of romance it is) must have the requisite happy ending. I completely understand this requirement of the romance genre as one that both draws readers and that readers expect. I also respect it and feel no desire to mislead anyone into reading something that may not interest her/him/them. I am delighted that I have a collection specifically for a romance-reading audience that embraces the personal connection and conscious commitment of romantic relationship in the context of erotic writing.

More subtly, I actually perceive the happy ending requirement of romance to be a happy ending of a rather specific type: that in which the main characters, who have been or are romantically involved, are implied to continue or remain that way (contentedly!) for the foreseeable future. Characters in my erotica, for example, may well end up happy as well, but it’s often had little to nothing to do with any kind of ongoing or developing relationship between them. Their sexual interaction may have left them quite content, but they may feel no desire to continue that interaction or develop a romantic connection. Many stories I’ve written have had these kinds of endings, and there are some with this type in Safe as well.

Perhaps most atypical of much of the contemporary erotica I have read, however, Safe also has stories that do not have particularly “happy endings” as they have often seemed defined in literature. And here there may be some readers of erotica as well who digress in preference from this occurrence. To some readers, as I have interpreted it, erotica is for purposes of arousal, and some don’t consider a serious or poignant ending to lend itself to such.

I can understand that perspective—though I will admit I don’t share it. For me, erotica (both reading and writing it) is for more than arousal. In writing erotic fiction, I aim to explore the human condition, connection, experience, and evolution via the force and energy of sexuality (one that is, it seems to me, to be reckoned with!). I experience Safe as an embodiment of my aim to do this.

Emerald Safe3As such, there are a few stories in <>Safe that do not end neatly and/or with contentment and satisfaction. At no point did I write anything for Safe (or do I feel compelled to write anything in general) that ends tragically or wrenchingly simply for shock value. That is not at all the point. Rather, the stories “end” as the closing of what we have glimpsed of the characters lives, and sometimes what appears to be going on in those may encompass challenge, pain, and/or loss.

I don’t want to give the impression that all the stories in Safe end poignantly—they don’t (from my perspective, anyway!). A few of them, as I see it, do. Personally, I understand the desire to read something I know is going to turn out a way that won’t likely elicit a challenging emotion in me. I have sought out that kind of work in the past and felt that way often. As an author, however, I also appreciate exploring what appears to me to authentically reflect the facets of human experience that come through me as I’m working. As I see it, that is one of the fundamental purposes of art.

Ultimately, the aspiration in me in writing every story in Safe was to explore and display the power of sexuality to heal, connect, awaken, and elicit growth. This is how I see the purpose and power of sexuality in life, and as an author of erotica, that is what I am aiming to write. Sometimes the result may seem uplifting, and sometimes it may seem painful. Sometimes, as in life, if we pay a particular level of attention, we may see both at once.

Blurb for Safe: a collection of erotic stories:
In this collection of ten erotic stories, attraction, heat, and connection serve as catalysts to take characters to places of climax, revelation, transformation, and abiding – sometimes all at once. From hypnotizing dreams to life-changing tragedies to moving on after the end of a relationship, Safe explores the power of sexuality in its myriad forms and manifestations.

“To Make It That Way” shows older woman Cole taking young Zack on a seductive and wild ride, exposing him not only to a considerable sexual education but to more subtle life lessons as well. “Power Over Power” channels the intense energy of a martial arts session, while “Hers to Keep” offers Leslie a surprising lesson in so-called “casual” sex.

Polyamory, masturbation, and BDSM all make appearances in <>Safe, as do scorching vanilla sex and budding romance. These stories reveal how eros has the power to bring us back to ourselves, propelling us ever deeper into the journeys of both sex and life.

Excerpt from “To Make It That Way” in Safe:

Cole’s eyes glinted. “Sex,” she said, “has the potential to encompass and represent all human experience. All the nuances, all the understood and not understood, may be experienced through sex. And that means there’s a whole realm of it we’re not going to understand. It’s beyond our common forms of understanding.” Her eyes bore into me like steel. “But it’s not beyond our experiencing.”

After a moment she broke her gaze, and I noticed I started breathing again. I also noticed my cock was rock-hard.

“The key,” she said, lifting her water glass from the end table near where we stood, “is in awareness, respect, openness, authenticity. We don’t have to understand it all, as long as we’re aware of ourselves. As long as we respect our partners. As long as we approach with openness what is happening between us. And as long as we are authentic in our dealings, our experiences, our examinations. If something is uncomfortable, examine that and see what it teaches you. If it feels inauthentic, stop doing it. ”

“That wouldn’t account for a lot of abusive situations where sex is concerned,” I countered. “Lots of people may think they’re aware of and like what they’re doing, but it hurts someone else or is even criminal.”

“Yes,” she agreed, setting her water glass back down. “But that means at least one of those pieces is missing.”

I pondered that, as she didn’t appear inclined to expound. She moved toward me and caught my mouth with hers, and I caught my breath at the suddenness, at the heat that zipped through me like lightning at her touch. She backed me up against the couch until I fell onto it, my hands groping her breasts. Pulling my cock out of my jeans, Cole dropped her head and sucked with fervor, going after my cock like she was possessed, as though she was taking something from it she needed.

With a final pump, she paused, running her tongue up the length of my shaft. Her cat-like eyes gazed up at me, hard lust and a hint of something else glowing in them. Abruptly she stood up on the couch, towering over me as she pulled off her shirt and stepped out of her jeans. Underneath them she wore an impeccable red lingerie set, glimmering bra, thong, and garter belt with rhinestones embedded around the rims and matching stockings. I caught my breath.

Cole didn’t need lingerie, but she sure knew how to use it.

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Emerald safe2About Emerald:
Emerald is an erotic fiction author whose short stories have been featured or are forthcoming in anthologies published by Cleis Press, Mischief, Logical-Lust, and Sweetmeats Press. She is an advocate for sexual freedom, reproductive rights, and the rights of sex workers, and she serves as a Facebook group moderator and assistant newsletter editor for Marketing for Romance Writers (MFRW). Her first single-author books, If…Then: a collection of erotic romance stories and Safe: a collection of erotic stories, are out now from 1001 Nights Press.

Emerald links:
Website: http://TheGreenLightDistrict.org
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/Emerald_theGLD
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/EmeraldAuthor
Google+: http://plus.google.com/+Emeraldauthor
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/652859.Emerald
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/emerald
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/EmeraldAuthor/

Niagara Falls and Writing on Non-Demand by Emerald

It’s absolutely my pleasure to welcome one of my favourite sparkling jewels, Emerald, back to A Hopeful Romantic. Emerald and I met at the Erotic Authors Association Conference in Las Vegas two years ago and, for me, it was love, respect and admire at first sight. Welcome back, Emerald!

Deadlines guide me. They structure me, help me, seem sometimes like they are the very foundation of any productivity from me. I appreciate them greatly, and I don’t feel it’s an exaggeration to say that they are the reason I’ve written a number of the stories I have.

In order to have a deadline, however, I have to have someone demanding it (self-imposed deadlines have not seemed to hold the same sway for me, sadly). That means that if ever I want to write something just because I want to write it, rather than for a specific submission call, deadlines become suddenly absent.

Emerald_NiagaraFallsThere are a lot of historical patterns in my psyche that make productivity without a perceived external obligation challenging for me, but the point, when it comes to writing, is that sometimes writing that doesn’t have this external demand doesn’t get done. Writing that is “only for me,” as it may seem, is something a part of me has been known to say is a waste of time, an indulgence, not something I should be allowing myself to do (even though philosophically, I truly find that nonsense).

For some time, I had been noting this internal phenomenon as I recognized that there were specific stories I wanted to write that weren’t for an editor or a publication or a deadline. The very strict patterning in my psyche seemed determined to bombard me with messages that there was invariably something else on which I should be working (these “something elses” need not necessarily be fiction or even related to writing at all) whenever I contemplated working on them. Thus, the long and short of it was–they weren’t getting written.

At the same time, Niagara Falls had been calling to me for a few years, ever since I read a particular novel that was set there. I had been there once, many years ago, and didn’t really remember it very well. It had become unquestionable that I wanted to go back.

So I researched, and budgeted, and yearned, and stalled, and got distracted, and researched more, and yearned more, and wrote other stories, and did other things.

And eventually, I put the two together.

I planned my trip for February. The off-season definitely has advantages, the first being price. The room where I stayed was $435 a night in July and August. (I probably won’t be planning a trip to Niagara Falls in the summer any time soon.) While I was there, it was considerably less than half that. My criteria were that I wanted a room that viewed both the American and the Canadian Falls, and I preferred that it have a refrigerator so I could more easily keep food in my room and not have to leave every time I got hungry. Literally the only plans I had besides eating and sleeping were to be in my room virtually the entire time–three days and three nights–and write. (I will admit I took small trips down to the pool to sit in the hot tub periodically when I wanted a break.)

Emerald_NFroomMy room was breathtaking—even without the even more breathtaking view out the wall-sized window. I got upgraded to a whirlpool room when I arrived, and I was put on the 34th floor. It was everything I had wanted and more.

Still, even I was surprised by how well this plan worked. It still surprises me now as I recall it. The effectiveness of removing obligations and external demands and, perhaps more importantly, giving myself internal permission to work on nothing but the specific fiction I was there to write was staggering.

There was a story for which I had had the idea for about a year and a half or maybe two years. Despite that, I had not gotten around to beginning it. In Niagara Falls, I wrote a draft of that story, start to finish, in four hours on my second morning there. It is that time comparison that most starkly outlines both my procrastination tendencies and the effectiveness of giving myself permission: Something I had had on the back burner of my consciousness for a year and a half emerged from it in four hours when I allowed myself to truly focus on it.

When I look at it this way, I wonder how I have ever managed to get anything written! But one more thing this trip was for, and which I would do well to recall, was to remind myself of what I could do. To remind myself that what I love to do is write, and when I clear the rest of the shit that fires off “shoulds” and “don’ts” and “buts” with dubious frequency from my consciousness, writing is what has been known to emerge.

One of the stories I worked on there, a version of which was written years ago and which has been given an update to incorporate an erotic focus (I first wrote it before I wrote erotica), takes place partially in Niagara Falls. In addition to the aforementioned reasons I wanted to be there, having the opportunity to see what my characters saw firsthand as I was writing the story was an inspirational bonus. This story, “Shattered Angels,” has not been published, but here is an excerpt of it that takes place before the characters have embarked on their impending anniversary trip to Niagara Falls. Our heroine, Shelley, has both joyful and challenging associations with the Falls, and she is struggling with this as their departure time draws nearer.

Excerpt from “Shattered Angels”:

Kenny held her gaze a beat longer than usual, and she knew he sensed her discomfort.

“You still want to go, right?” His voice was non-confrontational, and she understood why he asked. She nodded as she draped her coat over a kitchen chair.

“Of course.”

Her eyes were downcast as Kenny approached and gently slipped his arms around her. His fingers skimmed over her back, and she leaned into him with a sigh as his hands moved up to her neck, massaging lightly. She was surprised to find that his gentleness, into which she usually melted, seemed to increase her edginess. Her husband’s fingers progressed to her scalp, drifting slowly through her hair.

Shelley caught her breath as she realized she wanted him to pull. Desperately.

She didn’t realize she’d murmured the sentiment out loud until he paused and said, “What?” While hair-pulling wasn’t something they’d never incorporated into their sex life, Shelley could understand his surprise that she wanted it at that moment.

She did, though. More than almost anything she could think of.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Shelley started to twist away, not knowing how to explain herself. But Kenny held on. She struggled for another second before dropping her head against his shoulder, suddenly at risk of falling if her husband hadn’t held her up. His breath was in her ear, and Shelley couldn’t keep from squirming a little. She didn’t have the energy to try to articulate what she wanted, though, and soon she stood still, waiting for him to let her go.

Instead Kenny stilled, and she sensed the moment when he understood. All the breath left her body as she felt surprised and not surprised at the same time–of course Kenny knew. He almost always knew.

Silently he slid one hand back up to her hair. Gathering a mass in is fist, he gave the slightest pull. Shelley’s breath scurried out of reach, staying suspended until he re-grasped a fistful and pulled for real–a sharp, quick tug accompanied by a short exhale into her ear. Shelley’s breath shot out as her attention was pulled to her body.

And it was such a relief. Shelley clutched at her husband, pushing herself against him as tears rose in her throat. He lowered her to the floor, and she felt as though she were sinking into the carpet as he covered her body with his. Kenny tangled a hand in her hair and pulled again as he kissed her relentlessly, reaching to undo his pants with the other hand. She felt his erection against her thigh as he pulled her skirt up and wrested her panties off.

Despite the firmness of his actions, which Shelley knew he knew she needed right now, she could feel the tenderness in every move he made. She pressed her eyes shut against the tears that pushed out of them, gratitude that her husband knew what to do almost overwhelming her.

“Kenny pushed into her, his fingers wrapped in her hair as he kissed her neck, her cheek, her mouth. Her body tingled, coming out of lockdown as tension woke up and dissipated throughout her. The relief brought a sob to the surface, and she wrapped her arms around Kenny’s back, squeezing him with arms and legs and cunt as though she could compress the tension out of herself like juice from an orange. Kenny pushed into her harder, his body solid against hers as she willed him to thrust deeper, deeper, to where he could shove all the fear and dread and grief right out of her.

Instead he did what he’d always done–met her where she was, without flinching, and helped her be there too. Shelley held onto him tighter still, burying her face in his neck as she let herself be swept by the sensation in her body.”


Niagara Falls still calls to me. I find myself wanting to go back at least every other week or so, and now that it is the off-season again, that may happen in the near future. Or maybe not. But what seems to me one of the most valuable offerings I could embrace from that magical trip is the essential reminder that this is what I do. And I can do it whether a pristine view of world-class magnificence is right out my window or I am sitting in my chair in my office. Whatever is outside me, the inside is the same.

Thanks so much to KD for inviting me here today, and to you, lovely reader, for reading of my adventures in sitting in beautiful hotel rooms! Speaking of extraordinary places that I adore, before I go, I’d like to mention that on Friday night of this week, I will be in Las Vegas for the first ever Hot Mojave Knights romance reader event! If you’re in the area (or feel like booking an impromptu flight to Sin City!), it’s not too late to join us—you can register here, and you can also find a couple of my posts detailing my participation here and here. Naturally, we would love to see you there!

EmeraldAbout Emerald:

Emerald is an erotic fiction author and general advocate for human sexuality as informed by her deep appreciation of the beauty, value, and intrinsic nature of sexuality and its holistic relation to life. Her work has been featured in anthologies published by Cleis Press, Mischief, and Logical-Lust, and she serves as an assistant newsletter editor for Marketing for Romance Writers (MFRW). The latest release containing her work is The Big Book of Orgasms; find an excerpt of “Payback,” her story within it, as well as buy links for the anthology here.

Website: http://www.thegreenlightdistrict.org
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Emerald_theGLD
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EmeraldAuthor

Emerald Talks about Pink Floyd, Being Tied Up, and Her Amazing Story, ‘With Random Precision’

One of the highlights of the Erotic Authors Association Conference in Las Vegas this September was meeting Emerald and being totally enthralled by her beautiful bondage story, With Random Precision. I’m very excited that Emerald has agreed to be my guest and tell us the story behind With Random Precision.  Welcome, Emerald!

“With Random Precision” is titled after a lyric in the Pink Floyd song “Shine on You Crazy Diamond.”  The song plays a central role in the story, which seems fitting since it is published in the Love Notes: A Music & Sex Anthology, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Ravenous Romance.  Even before I ever saw the call for Love Notes, though, the music in “With Random Precision” was deeply connected to the story.

Virtually the entire bondage scene in “With Random Precision,” as well as the reference the Pink Floyd music therein, is autobiographical. I was tied up quite intricately several years ago by a friend of mine who has studied and practiced bondage extensively.  In a way he was practicing on me, but we’d also both agreed I might find the experience interesting.  I did—so much so that even as it was happening, I knew I wanted to write about it.

So much about the experience was noticeable—the silence in the room, his intense concentration, how strange being touched by rope felt, the absence of being touched by someone else’s flesh.  Things like how striking it began to feel on the occasions his skin did connect with mine jumped out at me, and some of what is in the story started writing itself in my head as I stood there while he wound yards of purple rope around me in silence.

Where the autobiography stops, perhaps ironically, is in the indescribable experience the narrator, Amber, has as a result of being bound.  What was not there for me when I was tied up that night was sexual attraction between myself and the person tying me up.  We were friends, but the experience for me wasn’t a sexual one.

I felt all the other things the narrator describes in the scene—the silence, the intensity, the uncertainty, and definitely the apprehension when the moment of finally realizing she is bound hits home.  Where the actual sexual attraction wasn’t there, there seemed (still seems) a part of me that inexplicably knew the potential that scenario held had the addition of attraction, that unique intensity enmeshed with a desire for intimacy and a mysterious and unquestionable trust, been there.  Even at the time, that vague understanding captured my attention.  Later, as I wrote the story, it came forth via my imagination.

There was also the music.  The description in the story is quite how it was—it was quiet, and all of a sudden I noticed it, and it captured my attention.  The degree to which it seemed to perfectly fit the atmosphere seemed extraordinary, and I was intrigued when he told me it was Pink Floyd.  I was almost entirely unfamiliar with them at the time.

To digress slightly, I met my partner a few months later.  Pink Floyd is his favorite band, and when he mentioned them to me, I found the timing striking.  I said I had only recently been properly introduced to them (beyond the radio play of “Another Brick in the Wall Pt. II” and “Money”).  My partner continued that introduction with impressive thoroughness, and Pink Floyd is now one of my favorite bands too.  Everything the narrator in “With Random Precision” indicates about how she feels about the band is autobiographical.

When I started to write the story, shortly after the bondage experience had occurred, it didn’t seem hard to recall how it had felt to stand there, how quiet the room was, what the rope pattern looked like, how I had felt being tied up.  It wasn’t hard either to remember what had occurred to me about what might have happened if the person tying me had been someone I felt that attraction to, to whom I knew I wanted to surrender what I vaguely—even unconsciously—could feel was there to be surrendered.

I wrote all that.  I didn’t have to think about it much—it was all right there and came out as my fingers typed.  When it came time to actually go further than where the bondage scene ends, to show what happens between Amber and Max, I grew continually stuck.  I tried writing that interaction countless times, with it feeling dissonant each time.

Finally, I realized I simply didn’t get to know.  Not only does the reader not see what actually transpired that night, I myself as the author do not know.  The interaction is a mystery.

As is what the experience might have been like for me under other circumstances.

When I finally let go of trying to create what happened between Amber and Max that night, the final scene of the story, the present-day one that Amber narrates, came about as effortlessly as the first part of the story had.  That scene, to me, expresses the understanding in me of the potential of what that experience could have been had something more been there.  How it could have—perhaps inevitably would have with the characters that came forth in the story—added up to an unequivocal, irrevocable surrender unlike anything I (and she) had before experienced.  The understanding, as the scene, is indirect—it was not seen by the reader, and for me it was not experienced directly.  But some awareness of it was, and still is, in me—even if not (yet…) consciously.

“With Random Precision” remains one of my favorite stories I’ve written.  I don’t know exactly how to describe why, but it has always felt very close to me.  It brings a number of things together—autobiographical experience, speculation of a potential by which I feel deeply intrigued, the opportunity to offer homage to a musical artist that moves me greatly, and the manifestation of something I feel or recognize only on a level beyond my ordinary consciousness.  Thank you so much, K D, for inviting me to talk about it here today.  It’s been really a pleasure!


Our favorite music inspires us to move, dance and, yes, get busy in more intimate ways. Love Notes celebrates dancing queens, rock stars, groupies, anthems and more as the characters stroke each other to the sounds that make them soar. One woman masturbates to her favorite song while a stripper slinks her way into a man’s life. From Madonna to Shania Twain to Led Zeppelin and beyond, they channel their favorite music to make love to.

Love Notes celebrates the erotic power of music to move us, whether it’s listening to a lover rock out, fantasizing about your rock star crush, or making the sweetest and sexiest of music together. Singers, sirens and dancing queens get busy to a sex soundtrack ranging from heavy metal to classical and beyond. Get ready to get serenaded, seduced, and smitten with Love Notes.


With the final silent, firm tug Max gave the rope that secured me to the ottoman, I realized the precariousness of my position.  I had known at the beginning that this was a significant undertaking for me.  But the full realization didn’t materialize until parts of my body, parts I was used to being able to move at will, were bound in place—and the corresponding understanding that he was now in control of that part of my existence.

I couldn’t move.  I was, quite literally, bound.  I thought about what would happen if I suddenly couldn’t breathe, if the claustrophobia of my youth returned, smothering me and taking my oxygen as I lay there unable to do anything to save myself.  I thought of demanding that the rope be cut, screaming at Max to get the binding off me as quickly as possible.  Would he do it?  I wouldn’t be asking—I would be desperate, drowning, screaming inside with not only desperation but the revulsion of knowing that I was utterly, completely dependent on him.  That he could choose to disregard me if he wanted to.  To not take me seriously.  Even as it flitted through my consciousness, the liquid hatred of the idea rose inside me and started to course through my body.  My eyes were closed, but the darkness I was seeing was more than physical—I believe I would have seen it just as much had they been open, staring at the candlelit white ceiling of Max’s living room.

He touched me.  My eyes flew open.  Max was not looking at me.  Rather, he was examining the twists of rope at my left hip, his fingers resting softly on my left thigh.  The contact had brought me from darkness to the surface like a flash of lightning.  I inhaled deeply.

“That’s better,” he murmured in a tone as soft as the pressure of his fingers on my thigh.  “You okay now?”  Still he did not look at me.  His attention stayed on the purple silk strands around my hips and up across my abdomen, as though there were some imperfection there he was fixing.  And I wondered how he had known.


Max shifted his hand.  I felt the knot I had noticed earlier move slightly against my clit.  The jolt of arousal that flooded through me stunned me as much with its intensity as with its unexpectedness.  I looked at Max, who met my gaze and knew what he saw there.

He smiled.  “It’s not about fucking tonight, Amber.  Don’t you know that by now?  You think that’s what you want, but what you want is so much more.”  His voice was quiet, a contrast to the newfound desire pulsing through me that didn’t feel quiet.  Confusion gripped me, twisting my inside with a movement my physical body wasn’t at liberty to reflect.

Max stood and walked until he was no longer in my field of vision.  I heard him kneel behind the top of my head, and his warmth reached me before he did as he slid one hand through my hair against my scalp and the other gently around my throat from behind.  His lips touched my ear as he whispered into it.  The sensation jolted through me like a gunshot, starkly contrasting with the barely existent contact of his flesh to mine.  What was he doing to me?

“Let go.  Let go, Amber.  Do you hear me?”  His voice ran like liquid silk, its gentle seamlessness giving no hint of the boulder-like intimidation of the order as my mind perceived it.  The voice was gentle, lulling, leading where it wanted to take me, knowing that was a place I wasn’t sure I had ever been.  So much so that I didn’t know where it was or how to find it.  The fierce resistance inside me reappeared, surging furiously and searing my senses.  A snowy fuzziness filled my vision.  An acidic sour seeped into my mouth as I raged against this position he had me in.

And somewhere even deeper, I saw that I was really in a battle against myself.

The voice knew that too.  The grip on my throat tightened ever so slightly.  The heat of his breath coursed through me via my ear:

“I know you don’t know how, Amber.  That’s what I’m here for.”


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Emerald is an erotic fiction author and general advocate for human sexuality as informed by her deep appreciation of the beauty, value, and intrinsic nature of sexuality and its holistic relation to life. She holds a particular interest in the connection between sex and spirituality and deeply reveres sexuality’s inherent sacredness.  Her erotic fiction has been published in anthologies edited by Violet Blue, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Kristina Wright, among others, as well as at various erotic websites.  She is an advocate for sexual freedom, reproductive choice, and sex worker rights and blogs about these and other topics at her (NSFW) website, The Green Light District: http://www.thegreenlightdistrict.org.