Category Archives: Naked Montreal excerpts

Fall Into Romance blog hop and fabulous prizes #HopswithHeart

Fall-Into-RomanceToday I’m participating in the Fall Into Romance Blog Hop, organized by Jane Wakely.

There are a couple of prizes awaiting you at the end of this blog post, including the chance to win a $75 Amazon gift card, so stick around for some fun.

Now apparently in some U.S. states, September is already cold and blustery, with falling leaves and chilly temps. Not so, here in sunny SoCal, where we’re actually enduring a heat advisory this week — how ironic!

However, in the spirit of Fall and romances that will warm you up on a cold autumn night, I’ve decided to include a snippet from my erotic novella, Naked Montreal. If you can name a romance or erotica story set in a colder place than Montreal, I’d love to hear about it.

For those who’ve never visited in the chilliest of months (February is usually the iciest), Montreal can get downright frigid, with temperatures hitting –40. Just one of the many fun facts I learned while living in the Sin City of the North is that –40 is the point at which the Fahrenheit and Celsius temperature scales align exactly. BRRR!

So let’s heat things up with a brief excerpt from Frankie, the narrator of Naked Montreal and a sexy tour guide by trade. She’s just entered a strip club with a client, and she’s going to show him just how things are done in her line of work.

Excerpt from Naked Montreal

Be a doll and order me a Cosmopolitan, won’t you darling?

You’re a darling, so you do. I wink at Ms. Sugar Tits, who is squeezing them for all to see, pulling down her bra and layering on the whipped cream.

Who’ll be the lucky boy this evening?” she’s yelling over the bump and grind of Aerosmith or G’N’R or some other stripping cliché.

And the men are on their feet, cheering, clapping, hooting and hollering. Some are waving their hands in a “Pick me!” gesture. Wolf whistlers are blasting in my ear. I’m the only one calmly seated, a half-smirk upon my face. I’ve seen these dogs do these tricks a million times. It’s half comedy and equal parts tragedy, so Shakespearean as they strut and fret on their own little stages, day in and day out.

Ms. Sugar Tits is licking the cream off her own bouncing bosom, to much more hooting, hollering and cheering from the crowd. She is making to-die-for O-faces, and they are sweating and stammering and yelling “Yeah, baby! Lick them titties!” and then she points at one of them, who jumps up on the stage, only to be pushed away by the fabulous Sugar Tits, who shouts “Not you, HER!”

I’m pulled up onstage again. It happens every time – a classy dame in a place like this? It’s a given. I accept my fate. I pretend to blush, hold a hand over my mouth in an expression of false modesty. Sugar Tits leans her heavenly, creamed bust down to me (she is Amazonian in her high glass heels), the cherries on top poking through the layer of foamy spray, and I slide my tongue slowly out to meet them, eyes closed but peeking, heading closer and closer as the men roar in excitement for this faux lesbian fantasy playing out before them and BAM! Contact. I’m swiping through the mountain of whipping cream with my tongue, clearing a path with my hands, sucking down those taut titties as Ms. Sugar Tits moans with fake delight and slips a hand down her panties. We writhe on the stage in this stunning facsimile of sex as the men’s howling sounds more and more like wolves braying at the moon until finally the spotlight drops and we are plunged into darkness.

Show’s over, fellas. Sugar Tits whispers “Thanks, doll!” huskily into my ear and pats me on the rump. “I’m off at three if you want another piece of this.” I can see her wink even in the darkness, and I just smile and wipe my mouth daintily with the back of my hand.

Another day in the life of The Fixer is just beginning.

The Giveaway

And now, the bit you’ve all been waiting for: fabulous prizes!

If I’ve caught your attention and you’d like to win your very own copy of Naked Montreal, you’re in luck. One fantastic reader, chosen at random, will win a digital copy of the book just by commenting on this blog post. All you have to do is tell me where you’d most like to go on a romantic getaway and why.

To enter to win the Grand Prize sponsored by the hop, use the Rafflecopter below.

Good luck!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

On the second day of XXXmas, my true love gave to me…

On the second day of XXXmas my true love gave to me…

A two-fer of Where to Get Laid in Montreal and Top 5 Reasons You Can’t Get Laid in Montreal!

Grab two of my “quickies” (erotic short stories) for one crazy price: FREE! Learn where the locals like to make love, and how to avoid alienating them in your search for sexual satisfaction, with this cheeky duo of excerpts from my serial novel, Naked Montreal.

Download them both at Smashwords, using the coupon codes GR45U for Where to Get Laid in Montreal and AJ89S for Top 5 Reasons You Can’t Get Laid in Montreal.

AND in case you missed yesterday’s freebie, click here to grab the First Day of XXXmas giveaway!

Merry XXXmas, and stay tuned for 10 more days of holiday surprises through December 25 right here on the blog.

P.S. Sign up for my mailing list so you won’t miss a single XXXmas freebie!

Montreal from A to Z: Sarah B. absinthe bar

S is for Sarah B.

sarahb

Sarah B. is an absinthe bar in Montreal. I set a scene from my novel, Naked Montreal, in a fictional version of the bar, so I thought I would share that excerpt with you today. Please note that the following is most likely NSFW, as the subject matter involves sex (or at least the prelude to it) and the book itself is 18+, so proceed accordingly!

Chapter 3: Ladies at Play

When we finally arrive back at the W, where the girls have booked themselves a sweet-ass room with a view, I propose a round of drinks at Sarah B.

Where’s that?” they ask.

Just up the street,” I say. “It’s an absinthe bar. Super posh, very romantic, and very much guaranteed to free you from the pesky bonds of sobriety.”

Ooooh,” they murmur.

It’s so French,” Kelly sighs.

Will there be any hot guys?” Jenny asks. She’s been missing her ex, which is never a good thing on a Girls Only weekend.

I can guarantee at least three very hot guys,” I say, texting my friends Jean-Marc, Maxime and Luc with “URGENT: Sarah B. absinthe and lady-boners STAT!” The three of them party together most nights and love to entertain my female clients with their French accents, ripped bodies and ridiculously good looks, so they only need one reply between them: OUI MON AMOUR!!”

Anybody need the ladies’ room?” I ask, herding them back towards the door.

Oh, wait, I forgot my lip gloss!” Kelly squeals, rushing back toward the bathroom to grab it.

Ready? Good. Let’s go!” I say, leading the parade. We sashay past the front desk, and I wink at the bellhop who opens the door for us like the classy ladies we are. He tips his cap almost imperceptibly, unable to hide his grin. I’m pretty sure we’ve met before, based on his reaction, though I can’t place him. It helps to have a photographic memory in this town, but a quick trip through my iPhone’s address book, annotated with mug shots of everyone I’ve ever met socially, ought to do it. Oh yes, the cute musician whose band I complimented a few weeks ago. He thinks he’ll get lucky because we’re in his hotel, and he has some vague idea what I do for a living. Keep dreaming, mon ami.

Sarah B. is, as always at this time on a Friday night, swinging. Though the bar itself is buried in the Hotel Intercontinental, its reputation for excess is legendary and its patrons are willing to line up in droves. The green fairy is the drug of choice for all manner of would-be artists, much like its original, more lethal predecessor from the mean streets of the Sacre Coeur and its epicenter, the Moulin Rouge. Only nowadays, the bohemians are known as hipsters, they’re much better dressed, and they’re living off mommy and daddy’s money while they flirt with taking a music, acting or writing degree at McGill. Everybody loves a trust fund baby.

Especially when the trust fund’s paying for drinks.

Jean-Marc, Maxime and Luc are good salt-of-the-earth working-class types who earn their own cash, so I must admit I prefer their company to that of the hipsters, though money is money when business is business. Okay, so they usually earn their cash in unorthodox ways that would make their parents blush, but at least they work for a living and pay their own way. They’re also gentlemen, beneath their wild-child exteriors, always opening doors and pulling out chairs for their lady friends. You’ll never catch them leaving without the girls they came with, though they may also be leaving with many more. They’re perfect, professional dates.

And you can typically see their sweet asses shaking it on stage at La Cage Aux Follies or Solid Gold, because lord love them, they’re some of the finest male strippers in town.

I told you their bodies were tight, didn’t I? You don’t get washboard abs from lying around the house eating bon-bons.

Jean-Marc is your standard hustler, slathering on the French pick-up lines that make no sense in English like “Est-ce que tu laver tes pantaloons dans le Windex? Parce-que je peut me voir dans le reflexion!” (Translation: “Did you wash those pants in Windex? ‘Cause I can see myself in them!”) Cute, if you haven’t heard it all before, and most touristas haven’t, so he gets away with murder by flashing his winning smile. He favors black turtleneck sweaters in winter, black V-neck shirts in summer, and khaki chinos all year round. Looks like an angel, but turns into a real devil in the sack.

Maxime. Dark hair, dark eyes, a brooding poet with a penchant for quoting Rilke, he’s a favorite with gothic types. He’s rarely seen without a Moleskine notebook and fountain pen, copying down a few lines of poetry (along with his number) for his chosen prey. He’s full of pithy one-liners as well, but they tend to appeal more to the bookish types, and he’s been known to make love to women atop books of poetry, drunk on the sound of his own voice.

Luc is my favorite of the three. He’s a curly-haired dirty blonde that gives Justin Timberlake a run for his money. Thin and buff, he favors the typical French club gear of leather pants and black mesh shirts, but somehow he pulls it off and still manages to look très sexy despite the cliché. He’s an incredible dancer, and given my uncoordinated ways, I’ve always been impressed by his ability to talk dirty to even the most spastic of women while making them look like liquid sex on the dance floor as he quite literally charms the pants off them. Picture Dirty Dancing in a packed club full of 80s-night ravers and you’re getting warm.

Although these fine gentlemen are paid to entertain women, they’re also straight-up lady-killers in their own right. They may come off a bit cheesy at times, due to their constant hustling, but they’re also oddly sincere. They can’t really help it: they love the ladies, whether they’re paid or freelancing. Which is what makes them perfect for my business, since they’re up for anything, and sometimes even waive their fees.

As they say in New Orleans, these lads like to laissez les bons temps rouler.

When Julie, Kelly, Stacy and I finally make it past Sarah B.‘s green velvet ropes, the boys are already waiting for us in a private booth at the back.

We hope you don’t mind,” Luc says, “But we ordered a round of their finest.” He kisses Jenny’s hand and she blushes furiously.

I’ve never had absinthe,” she whispers. “Isn’t it supposed to drive you mad?”

Mad as a hatter!” Maxime jumps in. He wiggles his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

It’s all lies,” Jean-Marc scoffs. “Probably made up by the British to squash our impertinent French desires.”

Ah yes, the British plot against the French!” I say, feeding his separatist fantasies. “Everyone knows the Brits are a stodgy pack of puritans.”

I wink at the ladies to let them know I’m kidding. They giggle politely.

But Ms. Parker, isn’t that why America broke away in 1776? To escape the tyranny of the Anglophone empire and their highly taxed tea?” Jean-Marc presses.

Perhaps they just preferred coffee?” I reply, pinching his right nipple.

“Et toi?”

Moi aussi. Tea is for stuffy English grandmothers.”

So we are agreed: absinthe will not drive you mad. It will only set you free!” he proclaims as the drinks are delivered by a nattily attired waiter.

Have you drunk absinthe before?” the waiter enquires.

“Bien sûr!” the boys chorus as the ladies shake their heads in counterpoint.

A brief primer…” the waiter begins, showing them how to layer the special spoon, the sugar cubes and the liquor. He demonstrates and has them each build their own.

The ladies sip their drinks delicately, as the gents watch for their A faces. It’s almost as if they’re watching them orgasm. First the look of astonishment, then the look of sweet, drunken pleasure. The boys clap their hands and shout for more. The waiter shoots me a look of indulgence, and I slip him a twenty.

Another?” I ask.

More, more, more!” the boys chant. They toss their own drinks back hastily, as though they must burn through several rounds before they can afford to savor the sugary, licorice taste.

I sip a club soda and vodka, wary of getting hammered with my clients. It’s not something I can afford to do, as a drunken guide is an unreliable narrator, not to mention a danger to herself and her charges. Besides, I’m not here to party; I’m here to serve. I hail cabs, escort women to powder rooms and buzz off over-eager suitors in search of drunken prey carrying far too much American cash.

As the ladies get soused, Jean-Marc, Maxime and Luc make their moves. Soon Jenny and Luc are making out at one end of the booth, Kelly and Jean-Marc are quickly making their way to third base, and Stacy is allowing herself to enjoy the pleasures of Maxime’s hand on her thigh as he recites Leonard Cohen. When I finally catch her eye, I tap my wrist to indicate it’s almost time to make our way to El Greco’s. She whispers something in Maxime’s ear. He grins and looks at me with a questioning glance. I give him a wink. It’s on.

I herd the ladies like drunken, drowsy sheep and manage to get them all to stumble back to the hotel room in once piece. No one vomits, a plus. No one begins crying, another plus. The gentlemen allow the ladies to lean their heavy heads on their shoulders and help to support them as they trip over their own stilettos, and prevent them from wandering out into the crosswalk before speeding cabs.

I love these boys.

-=-

Want to learn more about Montréal’s Underground City? My book, Naked Montréal is now available at Amazon! Click here to download your copy now. (NOTE: This title is 18+.)

Naked Montreal: Excerpt 8

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5. And 6. And 7.

"Injustice Can't Be Stopped By Inaction" (photo by Flickr user Viewminder)

Injustice Can’t Be Stopped By Inaction” (photo by Flickr user Viewminder)

The bouncer man will tell them to step right up, have their $5 entry fee out and unfolded, and will tell them to watch their step, as this freaky dive is actually above ground, and the steps are steep. I guess the idea is that you’re climbing a stairway to Boobie Heaven? (Actually, that would be a great name for a titty bar, come to think of it. “Boobie Heaven? You can’t miss it: that’s the one with the flying jugs out front.”)

We climb the stairs all the way up, up, up and there’s another doorman. He takes our five-spots, and if you offer him another couple of bucks (or 20), he’ll seat you right on Perv Row, front and center, as the ladies go at it onstage. Want to lick the whipped cream off their 24 fabulous titties? You’ll need front-stage access. No tip? You’re back at one of the cheapskate’s mini-stages in the darkest corner, furthest away from the action. You are face-to-crotch with the oldest, skankiest looking strippers in the place; the lifers who could be 30 or 65 from the looks of things. No, my high-roller, you don’t want that! Stop being a cheap chump, and hand over that twenty, for fuck’s sake!

The doorman tips an imaginary hat to you, and motions for us to follow. We perch on Perv Row, and the strippers wink at me as we get settled.

Be a doll and order me a Cosmopolitan, won’t you darling?

You’re a darling, so you do. I wink back at Ms. Sugar Tits, who is squeezing them for all to see, pulling down her bra and layering on the whipped cream.

Who’ll be the lucky boy this evening?” she’s yelling over the bump and grind of Aerosmith or G’N’R or some other stripping cliché.

And the men are on their feet, cheering, clapping, hooting and hollering. Some are waving their hands in a “Pick me!” gesture. Wolf whistlers are blasting in my ear. I’m the only one calmly seated, a half-smirk upon my face. I’ve seen these dogs do these tricks a million times. It’s half comedy and equal parts tragedy, so Shakespearean as they strut and fret on their own little stages, day in and day out.

Ms. Sugar Tits is licking the cream off her own bouncing bosom, to much more hooting, hollering and cheering from the crowd. She is making to-die-for O-faces, and they are sweating and stammering and yelling “Yeah, baby! Lick them titties!” and then she points at one of them, who jumps up on the stage, only to be pushed away by the fabulous Sugar Tits, who shouts “Not you, HER!”

I’m pulled up onstage again. It happens every time – a classy dame in a place like this? It’s a given. I accept my fate. I pretend to blush, hold a hand over my mouth in an expression of false modesty. Sugar Tits leans her heavenly, creamed bust down to me (she is Amazonian in her high glass heels), the cherries on top poking through the layer of foamy spray, and I slide my tongue slowly out to meet them, eyes closed but peeking, heading closer and closer as the men roar in excitement for this faux lesbian fantasy playing out before them and BAM! Contact. I’m swiping through the mountain of whipping cream with my tongue, clearing a path with my hands, sucking down those taut titties as Ms. Sugar Tits moans with fake delight and slips a hand down her panties. We writhe on the stage in this stunning facsimile of sex as the men’s howling sounds more and more like wolves braying at the moon until finally the spotlight drops and we are plunged into darkness.

Show’s over, fellas. Sugar Tits whispers “Thanks, doll!” huskily into my ear and pats me on the rump. “I’m off at 3 if you want another piece of this.” I can see her wink even in the darkness, and I just smile and wipe my mouth daintily with the back of my hand.

Another day in the life of The Fixer is just beginning.

Want to skip ahead? Download the rest of this chapter in under a minute for your Kindle (or Kindle for PC!), or read it online with Publification.

Naked Montreal: Excerpt 7

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5. And 6.

Evelyn doesn’t say anything about the Consultant, instead laying back in the chair, daring her back to crack as she arches across its curved armrests.

My phone buzzes insistently, and it’s another Mister waiting for his Fixer.

Gotta run, darling. Same time tomorrow night?” I ask, kissing Evelyn on both cheeks. She just waves me off as Yamamoto finally arrives with her Cosmo. I give him a wink and a smile before I scurry off to my next date.

"Club Super Sexe" (photo by Flickr user COMS324 Signs & Public Lettering [W13])

Club Super Sexe” (photo by Flickr user COMS324 Signs & Public Lettering [W13])

At any given moment in the full 24-hour clock that dictates Montreal’s Eastern Standard Time, you will be able to find:

  • A strip club in full porno-swing
  • An indie porn star performing intimate acts in her home studio
  • A burlesquer burlesquing
  • A bed-wetting actor fucking an aspiring playwright (who’s, incidentally, just using him as fodder to write a tell-all play)
  • A sex columnist trying out the latest in dildo technologies at a woman-friendly, sex-positive sex shop
  • A fabulous tranny entertaining the tourists

And so much more!

Trust me, I’ve seen it all. Sometimes I even give tours of these underground wonders, acting as the Virgil to Dante’s hell-bound wayfarer.

What’s that you say? You want The Works? That’ll cost extra; you’d better pay in full up-front before we take it any further.

Thanks, mister. You won’t regret it.

So first on the list of pornographic wonders in my fair city is Club Super Sexe. The extra E is for “sexeeeeeeeeee,” although I haven’t yet figured out what THOSE extra E’s are for. In any event, Club Super Sexe is populated mainly by strippers of the dirty ho variety. You know, the ones you can find anywhere, whose idea of costuming involves cut-off jeans, midriff-baring tops and a nice hot pink G-string. Classy dames, all.

Not that there’s anything wrong with stripping, mind you. Before I found my niche as a sex tour guide, I did my time on the tops of a few tables. The hand-jobs were fast and furious, the money was shit if you didn’t want to do contact dances (still an option, back in the day), and between splitting your cash with the doorman, the bartender, the busser, the manager and whomever the fuck else (all men, I assure you, making money off our backs), you’d be lucky to walk away with $50 a night.

Not exactly the cash-rolling scenarios most Pretty Women envision for such porno palaces as these.

Anyway, let’s roll up into one of these joints, shall we? See what there is to see.

Out front the bouncer doubles as the guy trying to sweet-talk you big lugs into coming in and shelling out your hard-earned cash on some dames. His line?

12 girls, 24 titties! Yes, that’s TWENTY-FOUR TITTIES!”

Personally, I’d be more intrigued by 12 girls, twenty-three titties (was there a mastectomy in the bunch? Where’d that lone titty go?!), or twenty-five titties (a third nipple? Half a titty? What’s with the extra one?!). But that’s his sales pitch, and I guess it works well enough, because my clients are always intrigued.

24 titties!” they’ll exclaim, slapping each other on the backs. Oh, frat boys. You’re all the same.

Want to skip ahead? Download the rest of this chapter in under a minute for your Kindle (or Kindle for PC!), or read it online with Publification.

Naked Montreal: Excerpt 6

This is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Naked Montreal. New 500-word excerpts are posted every Monday, so be sure to subscribe to avoid missing a thing!

Bienvenue / Welcome (cont.)

Need to catch up? Here’s Excerpt 1. And 2. And 3. And 4. And 5.

I’ve never understood the humiliation scene, but for some reason I seem to attract large numbers of wealthy businessmen who’re just dying to be humiliated by women in bustiers and ball-crushing heels. Oh, what a piece of work is man, blah blah blah.

"Purple pvc stiletto boots" by Flickr user stilettobootlover_83

Purple pvc stiletto boots” by Flickr user stilettobootlover_83

I watch from the front of the room as Lady Evelyn bangs her way through a few scenes of domination, humiliation, genital torture and free-for-all verbal abuse, until the Consultant is sobbing like a child and hog-tied on the floor while Evelyn whacks him with her choice of whips and studded paddles. I inspect my nails, wondering if I’m due for another manicure, while he screams through a ball gag for mercy. I presume he’s read the safe word on our menu. It’s patently obvious, even if he didn’t, as I don’t much care for being coy. All he needs to do is choke out “Mama San!” and Evelyn will stop hiding him with the paddle she’s removed from her pleasure chest. But the tears keep rolling down his fat little cheeks, and I can’t see his eyes from back here, but I figure at this point he must be pleading for her to stop.

Evelyn never stops until the scene is finished, or until the client taps out. The Consultant doesn’t want to prove himself a pussy, despite his tears, so he’s holding still on the floor as she whacks him and kicks him with her pointed boots. It looks like he’s about to freak out completely, so I motion for her to cease pounding his hot-pink ass and end the scene as gracefully as she can.

Get dressed and get the fuck out of my sight, you sniveling wretch,” she yells, after she’s untied his restraints. She leaves the ball gag on for him to claw off, which he does in a hurry.

His eyes are still leaking steadily, but he doesn’t want to displease his funky priestess of carnal pleasures, so he grabs up his clothes as quick as a filthy little bunny and cottontails it out of here, shedding fifties as he goes.

Once he’s gone, Evelyn throws herself back down into the throne.

What a head case,” she pronounces.

Want a drink?” I ask.

The usual, darling.”

I lean out of the dungeon and signal to Yamamoto for our customary cocktails. He gives me a thumbs up and a wicked smile, before whacking the head off another fish. I slip back into the dungeon and rearrange the black drapes that keep the average schmoes from getting any ideas.

Anything you want to talk about?” I help her out of the corset, which is digging into her flesh, and offer her a simple black satin robe. She slips into it and ties off the front. She paces the room for a few moments, massaging her left hand. It must be tingling from the effort of smacking the guy around.

Evelyn and I used to work together, back in the old days; I still remember the oddly thrilling feeling of adrenaline and shame that used to course through me after a heavy session with a client. It seemed amazing to me then that men would pay for women like us to dominate them. Some of the men came every week, without fail, wanting the most insane abuse. I was never quite able to dish it out the way Evelyn was, but then again, I suppose we were always coming at it from different angles. To me, work was work. To Evelyn, it was a lifestyle. She was committed to dressing this way at all times, and never seemed to see the point complaining about the psychology of the type of person who’d pay her to do whatever she wanted to his fat, lazy body. Fair enough, I suppose.

Want to skip ahead? Download the rest of this chapter in under a minute for your Kindle (or Kindle for PC!), or read it online with Publification.