LSF Publications: spanking fiction ebooks

Chapter 1: Blue Collar Fantasies
I was working out at the gym with my best friend Marcie. We were checking out the guys lifting weights, when I asked her about the new man in her life.

She told me her boyfriend, Daryl, was studying yoga with a Zen master. "He's got me doing breathing exercises and chakra merging. It's an incredible high," she gushed, describing the elevated state of consciousness they achieve when making love. Apparently, once he's in her, he barely moves and they can go on like that for hours! I believe the correct name for this is coitus reservatus. Marcie called it "Tantric bliss".

"Different strokes for different folks," I shrugged, unable to share her enthusiasm. "Call me a Western vulgarian, but all that Eastern stuff about spirituality and elevated states of consciousness doesn't really light my fire."

"No?"

"Nah."

"What does?"

"I like my sex down and dirty, shameful and salacious. Or should I say 'liked'," I groaned. "Seems like such a long time ago."

"Don't worry, Andrea. You're gonna meet a guy soon who does that down-and-dirty stuff you crave."

"Me? No way."

"Mark my words!"

"What am I doing to find him? I don't even have a search strategy for Gawd's sake. Nope, I'm afraid I've grown cynical about true love in my old age."

"That's a natural reaction to your divorce. How old are you?"

"Thirty."

"Lots of time. You'll get over it."

I shrugged, unconvinced.

"Now tell me - I'm dying to know - what do you mean by shameful and salacious? What's that all about?"

"My lips are sealed."

"Why?"

"Too embarrassing - way too embarrassing."

But it's where this story begins, dear reader, so I'll have to tell you. Thank goodness I don't need to do so in person - I'd never stop blushing!

---oOo---
I've always had a 'thing' for blue-collar roughnecks. Go figure. An upper class Jewish-American Princess, Harvard graduate, gets all hot and bothered imagining herself being ravished by a denim-clad dude with a high-school education and a crucifix on his chest! I used to have the hots for a Polish guy who was my auto mechanic. He had washboard abs, a barrel chest, huge hands, and an accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. Every time he fixed my Porsche, I'd imagine him lifting me up by the waist with his greasy paws, plunking me down on the hood and having his way with me.

Can you guess what happened when I hired Rosie - the Italian Stallion - to renovate my house? I prowled his workplace - my kitchen - like a tigress in heat, purring my appreciation for his carpentry skills while ogling his sleekly muscled body. When I tell you the lengths I went to entice him, you're gonna think I'm a tramp!