~Olivia~
So, this is my life.
I realize this statement sounds like a complaint, when in reality I have nothing to bitch about. I’m twenty-seven years old and I write best-selling erotic romance novels under the pen name Autumn Winters. I know it may sound cheesy, but I’m attached to the seasons, what can I say? I live on the East Coast, my home a penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan with my beagle, Charlie.
I’m not whining. Really, I’m not. I get to live in my own little world, a fantasyland inside my head. It certainly beats the reality of my life. My characters are absolute perfection. The females are always smart and beautiful, well endowed, curvy, relatively carefree. Of course, they aren’t the ones I fall in love with. The ones I fall hard for are tall, dark, and muscular, have kissable lips, the perfect V, and the rest—let’s just say I have a vivid imagination.
Sounds like a good life, right?
It was perfect until twelve months ago… but I’m over that now. I’m done trying to have serious, long-term relationships. What I’d give to be like the heroines in my novels. The ones that get fucked by gorgeous men with huge cocks, their bodies lavished with so much attention that it sends them to another world. Who needs flowers and candy? Not me. Not anymore. What I want is a nice, thick cock to fill me to the brink of ecstasy.
Therein lies the great irony of my life. I write hot, sexy, romance novels, yet my existence is anything but. I’m not carefree like the women who grace the pages of my books. But then again, that’s probably why I write them. I can live out my deepest, darkest fantasies.
That’s what happens when you grow up in Wisconsin with two strict parents and attend catholic schools for far too many years. You become repressed, and then you rebel against your repression by writing steamy romance novels.
Or at least I did.
The family picture on the dresser comes into focus: my parents and two younger sisters. My stomach twists. I miss them terribly, but I had to get away. I couldn’t handle all the rules, the expectations that I could never live up to no matter how hard I tried. And believe me, I tried.
I giggle, thinking about how my parents would respond if they knew my secret, but it’s a sound tainted with bitterness. They actually believe I’m a vice president for a cosmetics company. It’s laughable, really. But considering my mother’s reaction when she found the Judy Blume books I’d been hiding under my mattress as a teenager—she grounded me for an entire month—this definitely wouldn’t go over well. They might even disown me.
I sigh before stepping in front of the ornate, wooden, full-length mirror in my dressing room. There she is. Olivia Redmond. The image staring back at me is plain, nothing out of the ordinary. My brunette hair is piled atop my head in a tight bun, my waist and legs swathed in a long, blue skirt. A white blouse, buttoned way too high, I might add, adorns me, and not in a very flattering way. Thick, black, wire-framed glasses hide my deep, blue eyes. Jesus. I look like someone’s secretary, and not even a hot one at that.
Letting out a frustrated groan, I shove my skirt down my legs and throw it across the room. Charlie cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out what my problem is. “Well, Charlie, I need to get laid. For an entire weekend. Can you make that happen?” I huff, my hands propped on my hips. He stalks off into the living room. He’s fed up with me, too.
With a nimble finger, I roll over every hanger in my oversized closet, finally settling on a black, knee-length, pencil skirt. I leave the blouse on, but unbutton it just enough to show a bit of cleavage. After all, I’m a C cup, might as well exploit what I’ve got. The black sling-backs are calling my name, so I slide them on before turning around and taking another look in the mirror.
Definitely better.
Now for the hair. The bun isn’t working. I look like someone’s grandmother. Reaching up, I unclip it and let my dark waves fall over my shoulders, hanging down to my breasts.
Something’s still missing.
I’m not one for wearing a lot of makeup. I much prefer the natural look but maybe I need to switch it up a bit. Strolling into the bathroom, I pull my makeup bag from the top drawer and dig through it. It’s fairly sparse but I manage to pull out some lip-gloss, rose blush, and eyeliner.
After a few minutes of perfecting my pout, dusting a pink glow on my cheeks, and making my blue eyes pop, I’m ready. I put my glasses back on, simply because it helps me sink deeper into the role I play. Taking one last glance in the mirror, I actually manage a smile. I don’t want to get too carried away, but this is a sexy look for me. I suppose there’s only one way to test that theory.
I check my suitcase one more time ensuring everything is packed for the quick trip to Boston, then shake my head and sigh. Another writers’ seminar—translation: one boring day of listening to people drone on about technique. I write erotic novels, there is only one technique that I really need to understand intimately. From the plethora of people buying my books, I’d say I have that in the bag. Okay, in my head I do.
With one last look around the penthouse to make sure I’m not forgetting anything, I walk over to Charlie and give him a kiss, then a pat on the head. My friend Vanessa is staying here for the weekend, so he’ll be in good hands. “Later, Charlie. Be good. Wish me luck. Pray for cocks to rain down on me.” I wink at him as I make my way out the door into the night.