Synopsis
My name is Gretel. I’m the dish-washer. The kitchen girl.
I’m not one of Mother’s pets. I’m just a storybook girl no one sees. Until that
night. When I find him again, and all my dreams come to life.
He’s mine—the one called Hansel. I’ve come here to claim
him.
☆
I’m Hansel, a crazy woman’s toy. It’s taken years, but I’ve
finally forgotten everything outside my life here in The House. I live for sex
and nothing more. Until I see her. Gretel.
I remember her. I need her. She is mine.
☆
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story is not panty-melting. Your panties
won’t have time to melt, because they will fuc*ing evaporate. Poof! But let me
level with you: It is crazy. It is dark. You have to trust me. You will find both
Gretel and Hansel to be completely fuc- lovable. You have my word.
P.S. It’s not fantasy. It’s contemporary erotica.
P.S.S. No one in this fairy tale is related.
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Excerpt
I should have called this shit off a long damn time ago.
When I arrived in Vegas seven years ago, I didn’t know any
better than what I was. Than what I did. I needed things I haven’t needed in a
fucking long time now. Dominating women…it was the air in my lungs.
Now it’s goddamned boring.
I’ve cut back—way back; maybe two or three times a year,
like tonight, when we have investors in the house, and my submissives are Luna
Trois and French Kitten, a famous porn star and a celebutant bitch who,
combined with me, draw a pretty decent crowd.
But this shit is all for show. We don’t do real-time
domination at The Forest. Not when my submissives are so notable, and there’s a
crowd ten bodies thick behind the Plexiglas wall. Luna and Frenchy had to sign
off on the cat I’m palming. On the thick plugs in their puckered holes. On the
tight cuffs around their wrists, and the spreaders I’ll use when both their
asses are good and welted.
They were happy to agree to the nipple clamps I like to use:
the metal ones that can do real damage if left on too long—though, of course,
they won’t be.
Neither woman objected to the dual blow job they’ll give me
after I spread them wide and use my fist on them, where Luna will deep-throat
me and Frenchy will tea-bag my balls. Luna is thrilled that, after she stuffs
her throat full of my cock, she’ll spread her legs for Luna’s tongue while Luna
lets me fuck her from behind. I’ve got a nine-inch cock, and she told me before
the show, she’s shallow, but Luna likes the pain. They all do.
I can’t lie: I like to give it.
I made my name dominating sick showgirls.
A lot of it is my body and my face, my pretty cock and the
absurd length of time that I can wield it. But it’s the showmanship, too.
The rough, whispered words the mics can always pick up on.
The heavy-handed spanking—also okay’d by them, although it
looks and sounds spontaneous.
The way I give it to them, invading mouth, pussy, and ass,
often in quick succession.
People like to think of me as some sort of grand fucking
conquestor.
Unbreakable.
Unyielding.
In the six months after I left Colorado and hitchhiked my
way to Vegas, where my miserable life began, I made such a name for myself as
“Edgar,” my shows at Vixxx would sometimes draw a bigger crowd than the
Saturday night fights at the Mirage.
With a pedigree like mine, it wasn’t difficult to sweet-talk
investors into fronting a club. I’m good with money—good at betting, I guess—so
they were happy to invest again and again, each time lowering my interest rates
and increasing the amount of dollars. Now that The Forest is what it is, even
the most prudish among them are pleased to have their names up on the donors’
wall inside my primary location on The Strip.
In the last five years, I’ve opened four locations. Financed
one sixth of a casino. Built five apartment buildings, invested in one planned
gated community, and bought out three luxury car lots.
I’m interviewed regularly by the Nevada Business Times,
consulted occasionally by Hollywood, still sporadically beset by huge financial
offers from porn studios, discreetly phoned by Wall Street deviants interested
in “the lifestyle.”
They all know me as Edgar.
Not my birth name, Lucas Lenore, nor any other name I’ve
had.
I’ve made a new life. Become almost famous for my stamina
and temper, for my keen eye for submissives and my talent with a crop.
I stay hard all the way through every show, no matter how
long. It’s not Viagra. Just my lust.
And no one ever guesses my secret.
At what my private submissives’ gag orders keep hidden.
That after every show, there must be blood.
Mine.
Because I’m not a sadist—not just.
I’m still Hansel. And Hansel is a masochist.
About the Author
Ella James is a Colorado author who writes teen and adult romance.
She is happily married to a man who knows how to wield a red pen, and together
they are raising a feisty two-year-old who will probably grow up believing
everyone's parents go to war over the placement of a comma.
Ella's books have been listed on numerous Amazon bestseller
lists, including the Movers & Shakers list and the Amazon Top 100; two were
listed among Amazon's Top 100 Young Adult Ebooks of 2012.
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