The Ring is selling like hotcakes at A1. That is very satisfactory.
I've been working on a novel called "The Descent" I left it on the side for about half a year, but may resume working on it.
Here is a sample chapter (3)
We drove down to a seedy bar a few blocks away. Even though it was near our gated community we’d never been to it. The bouncer at the door gave as one bored look which turned into a wolfish grin when he saw my outfit and opened the door for us.
I steeled myself and followed my husband in. This was a completely new experience for me; up until now he had always opened the door and followed me. I was now heeling him, like a bitch. The smell of stale smoke assaulted my nostrils as we made our way into the dimly lit bar. The patrons, mostly men, except for the cocktail waitresses and two tired looking whores sitting at the bar looked at us. The women quickly looked away minding their own business. The men, they minded their own business by ogling me. I followed George to the bar where we sat on two, rather grimy, stools. He ordered a vodka martini for himself and ginger ale for me.
“I do not want you drunk, or even buzzed today,” he said, “I want you fully aware of what you are doing, and what is being done to you.”
“Yes George,” I answered.
Sipping my ginger ale I wondered what kind of depravity George would have me do, or be done to me. I had, of course, a general idea of what the context would be, given the skimpiness of my garment, but the actual details I ignored. It would not be the first time I had second thoughts about this whole idea.
George gestured with his glass towards a man sitting at a table, across from us. Like just about every male in the saloon he was ogling me being, perhaps less discreet about it than the others even if I was escorted. Of course, if my escort did not intend for my charms to be ogled, he would not have let me out of the house dressed like a hooker.
“Turn towards, and smile at him.”
Cringing inside I did so. His smile became a lecherous leer.
“Open your thighs,” I had kept them tightly closed, “and cross them, slowly.”
His eyes almost popped out of their sockets as I gave him my best Sharon Stone imitation. His cigarette dropped, unnoticed on the floor. He hesitated; doubting whether to approach us or not. George lit a small cigar.
I felt cold sweat dripping down my back. I’d never had sex with anyone but George. I dated him when he was an engineering major in College Station and I was a high school senior; he agreed to be my date for the prom; I still remember Susie Labelle, green with envy, seething at the sight of the hunk of a college student I brought to the party. I had sex with him that night; it was my first time and I’ve never been with anyone else since. We eloped six months later.
And now here I was, flashing my bush and pussy to a stranger in a smoky bar. It got worse.
“Go over to his table and offer to give him a blow job,” he exhaled the cigar smoke through his nose, “be persuasive.”
My legs shook as I got off the bar stool, I swayed on the high heels, perhaps giving the impression that I’d had too much to drink. I did give George blowjobs when we were dating; it was safer than having sex because I could not get knocked up that way but I hated the whole concept; after we got married I rarely did. In fact, it had probably been more than two years since I last went down on him. Now he ordered me to do that with a complete, and probably unwashed, stranger.
With as much dignity as I could, I still cared about such things back then; I walked over to his side and sat beside him.
How do I start? I wondered. He helped out by speaking first.
“Who’s the dude with you?” he asked; his voice sounded gritty.
“Hmmm,” he said.
I gathered up my nerve, “May I give you a blow job?”
There, I said it. I kept my eyes fixed on the table, trying to keep them from brimming over. He did not answer; I looked up at his face. He was looking at George, his hand rubbing the stubble of beard on his chin. George got up off his stool and approached us. I saw the muscles on his arms tense on the table.
George smiled approaching us. The man’s muscles relaxed.
“It’s OK; I told her to.”
“I see,” he gestured to the other side of the table, inviting George to sit.
“Let’s go,” he said to me, getting up.
I followed him to the men’s room. A man standing at one of the urinals looked our way before resuming what he was doing. It seems that a woman entering the men’s washroom in this bar was not such an unheard of sight. The stall was occupied. He leaned against the wall at the end of the grimy room.
“Kneel and get on with it.”
The wet floor was cold on my knees; I could only hope that it was water, but doubted it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man at the urinal turn around to watch us. I unzipped his fly and worked his cock out of his shorts. He was already hard, the shiny head throbbing with hot blood coursing through it. The smell of sweat and musk invaded my nostrils. I opened my mouth and took him inside me. Tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping down to join the muck on the floor. If only he would come soon.
But he did not. I bobbed on his cock up and down, trying, as hard as I could, not to feel, not to see, or smell the foul surroundings. He let me do for a while. I closed my eyes. I heard the door open and hoped that the man at the urinal left.
“She sucks at this,” I recognized the gritty voice of the man I was servicing.
“I’m sorry about that,” said my husband.
I opened my eyes. He was standing at the urinal, his back to us. He was taking a leak.
“Go ahead and fuck her face,” he said, “otherwise you’ll be here until Christmas.”
He grabbed my hair and began to pump into my mouth. His cock penetrated deeper into me than George ever had, and I was powerless to stop him. In a reflex action, that I soon regretted, I bit down on him.
Stars exploded in my head. He slapped me.
“Don’t do that again bitch!”
I looked at him and at my husband, who had finished peeing and was looking at us. He made no attempt to defend me.
“Now get your mouth on it and don’t let me feel a tooth.”
He resumed fucking my face. Every time his cock hit the back of my throat I retched. He did not seem to care when I brought up my ginger ale all over his rod. Finally, he shoved himself into me deeper, my throat muscles, retching, opened up and I felt his cock slide down my throat. My body tried to vomit, to eject the intruder but he held on to my head, his cock and pelvis vibrating. My nose was crushed against his pubic hair, where the smell of my own vomit mixed with his musk and sweat bringing new waves of nausea up my throat.
When he pulled out, I vomited his semen along with my ginger ale.
I remained on my knees, curled into a ball, crying. It got worse.
“Come to our place on Saturday at five,” my husband said. “She’ll make this up to you.”
I cried louder.
“Bring a couple of friends too.”