Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  She nuzzled him. “You were so sexy, cracking that whip around like Zorro. Hot.”

  “Really?” Despite himself, Ben puffed his chest out a bit. Maybe he had looked a little debonair in there. Holding that whip had made him feel powerful for a moment, especially when Sal cowered in fear.

  “Definitely hot.” She winked at him. “Maybe we can use the whip in the bedroom tonight.”

  He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  She paused then shook her head. “Actually, no. But I thought you might still be into the Christian Grey thing. You got the whip, after all. I assume it was for me.”

  “I don’t want to whip you, Kate. I only want to love you. And make love to you.”

  “Then do.”

  “Okay. How about tonight?”

  “After dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “On one condition.” She smiled at him, her blue eyes glinting in the sun.

  “Yes?”

  “It has to be vanilla. Slow, beautiful, romantic, vanilla lovemaking.”

  “No whips? No Kegel balls? No pinwheels?”

  “Pinwheels? Kegel balls?” She stared at him. “Okay, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss.

  He pulled her close and murmured in her ear, “I love you.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “I love you, too.”

  After a romantic dinner for two at Kate’s favorite steakhouse, Ben Weaver spent the rest of the evening giving his wife orgasm after mind-blowing orgasm that only the best vanilla sex can provide.

  There were no strange devices, no dominant/submissive posturing, no belting or whipping. The Fifty Shades book was nowhere to be seen, as it was now sitting in the library-donation pile by the Weaver’s front door.

  That night, the moon shone in on two figures moving on a bed: a man and a woman experiencing nothing but the beautiful, pure sex that happens between two people who love each other deeply.

  And it was perfect . . .

  “Mom, Dad?” a voice called. “I’m home early. I want you to meet—” There was a loud gasp.

  Their daughter stood in the doorway of their bedroom with her new boyfriend.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed this story you can connect with Riley on her website or subscribe to her newsletter to hear about new releases. Other books by Riley are available.

  Turn the page to read Blood Slave by Travis Luedke or return to the TABLE OF CONTENTS.

  Blood Slave by Travis Luedke

  Her mother named her Esperanza Salvación – Hope for Salvation. But when a girl works as an escort for Colombian cartel in the ghettos of Spanish Harlem...

  ...there wasn’t much hope, or salvation.

  Hope’s telepathic ability keeps her a step ahead of ruin, but her unusual gift attracts the attention of a psychotic vampire bitch. Trapped in a Manhattan penthouse with the psycho, she thought she was dead meat.

  Her survival lies in the hands of Vampire Master Enrique. He seems to respect her, perhaps even care. As a measure of protection, he makes her his personal Bloodslave. Helplessly addicted to his bite, Enrique rules her every moment. As always, Hope must adapt to survive.

  Swept into the decadent nightlife of Manhattan’s elite, she falls in love with Enrique and prays someday he may grow to love her, too. But is it simply a relationship of convenience? Is she nothing more than a concubine desperate to satisfy his nightly demands for blood and sex?

  And forever in the background is the fear that one day the cartel boss she abandoned will hunt her down to collect on old debts.

  Turn the page for Blood Slave or return to the TABLE OF CONTENTS to choose another book.

  CHAPTER 1

  May

  The night I became a bloodslave started out like any other. I awoke to Conchita shaking my shoulder and yelling, “Levántate!” Get up. Not once or twice, but over and over again – right in my ear.

  She ripped open the curtains, blinding me in brilliant sunset. I yelled back. “English! How many times do I have to tell you? We’re in America! Speak English.”

  My bat-cave sanctuary of darkness ruined, I officially awoke for the evening. Conchita, my bubbly, obnoxious and neurotic roommate, got by on five hours of sleep a day. Not me, I gotta get my eight to ten. Don’t wanna see what I’m like if I don’t.

  Conchita had been living in the Towers in Spanish Harlem since her arrival in New York five years ago. She spoke English like she stepped off the plane from Colombia yesterday.

  The wonderfully shitty Towers a.k.a. the ghetto – New York’s pathetic excuse for subsidized housing. Like most residents here, I hate the place. I really hate the place.

  Conchita chattered on, oblivious to the fact I wanted to sleep. “Levántate! Tiene que ser bonita para su pareja. Ella viene ahorita!” Yes, I had to get ready. Yes, my date would be here soon, but soon is a relative term.

  I looked at the clock. “It’s only seven. She won’t be here till ten. I could’ve slept at least two more hours.”

  Most of my dates are late anyway. Few people are respectfully punctual when meeting a Colombian prostitute. Ooops – escort. Prostitute is not the politically correct terminology, and it also happens to be illegal. Escort is much more PC, and fits nicely into the grey zone of New York state law.

  That’s me, a twenty-two year old Colombian escort. My mother must have suspected what my life would be like. That’s the only reason I can think of why she named me Esperanza Salvación. Hope for Salvation. There’s been little hope of that since the beginning of my illustrious career as an escort at the age of fourteen.

  I have often thought I should change my name to something more fitting. ‘Damned for all eternity’ or ‘Swims in the lake of fire’. I’ll have to think on that some more, find a way to condense it so it rolls off the tongue better.

  “Sí, ella está aquí.” Yes, she’s here. Conchita assured someone on the other end of my cell phone.

  She handed me my cell, buzzing with voicemail messages from the calls I’d missed. She acts like my damn secretary. “Hello.”

  “Hola Esperanza, how’s my little lie detector?” Faustino keeping tabs on me, as usual.

  “Hope. My name is Hope. Stop calling me Esperanza.”

  “Que paso Esperanza? Por qué no me contesta?” What’s up? Why aren’t you answering me?

  “Hope, cabron! And I was asleep. That asshole you sent yesterday had me up all night long, and then he didn’t want to pay! I had to call Arana.”

  “Okay Hope. I Hope you got my money ready. I’m coming over.”

  “I have a date in a few minutes. You’ll have to wait till later.”

  “Que bueno. I’ll expect a few more dollars.”

  “Callate! I always pay you. I got two hundred, that’s all you get.”

  “I’ll get more than that. I’ma get that ass. You better be wearing the perfume I bought you. And make sure you shower good.”

  “Whatever.” I cut the call off. I get so sick of him.

  He acts like he’s my damn boyfriend, boss and father all rolled into one. Faustino Vasquez, a.k.a ‘El Tiburon’, The Shark. He is my boss. He’s cartel. He prefers the term Patron. I call him Cabron.

  Technically I don’t owe him anything. I’m pretty sure I paid my debt. But he’s got me cornered. Despite all my arguments and other forms of persuasion – blow jobs with a mouthful of ice – he won’t let me apply to renew my Visa.

  Asshole has me living on borrowed time with an expired visa. I read somewhere there are millions of Latinos in the US with the same problem. Faustino thinks it’s a good way to maintain his control – keeping me here illegally.

  I know because I read his mind. No way he’d ever admit the truth. Getting the truth out of him is like pulling teeth. He calls me his ‘little lie detector’ because he knows damn well people can’t lie to me. He doesn’t give a shit. He’ll stand there and lie to me anyways.

  When I pressure him he gives me excuses. “
You can renew your visa when I get the rest of my money.”

  By my calculations I paid him twice over. He won’t listen to that. He keeps insisting I pay him four hundred a week. Faustino retains the right to interpret my debt/interest balance at his discretion.

  Here’s a piece of advice to the world: never put yourself in the position of owing money to a Colombian cartel patron. He’ll end up owning your ass from here to eternity.

  I laid in bed for a while, half-awake, lamenting over my fantastically shitty life. Conchita nagged in Spanish about every fifteen minutes. Who needs an alarm clock when you’ve got your very own Conchita?

  As usual, she’s right. I needed to get my sorry ass moving. A bath would definitely improve my mood. I love a hot bath to relax and soak, forget all the problems with no solution. I had so hoped to be free by now, debt free to Faustino and heading into college.

  What I wouldn’t give to be a normal person with a normal job. To do that I need a college degree. As ridiculous as my ambition sounds, I’d like to major in languages. I have a talent with languages. I learned English right away, and I picked up a little Portuguese from some Brazilians I met in Bogotá in 2005.

  I sat in the bath fantasizing about a college degree. I’m not foolish enough to think the escort business is a long term career with opportunity for upward mobility. No matter how many wealthy executives I fuck, I’ll never work my way up the corporate ladder without a college degree.

  I have long spurned the cartel business. Traquetos – cartel members – are in for life. Their life expectancy is not good. No retirement plan, no 401K, no pension, no social security, no medical, and a very high probability of a prison sentence prior to a violent, untimely death. No thanks. Besides, they don’t respect women. We are trophies, good for fun and popping out babies, but not so good for business. Colombian men haven’t really caught up with the feminist movement yet, not the Traquetos.

  Lucky for me, I’m not technically ‘in’ the cartel, but try explaining that to Faustino. He wanted me to get one of those tramp stamp tattoos right above the crack of my ass with a bunch of Cartel symbolic crap. I told him “Hell no!” and “NO fucking way!”

  I guess I was a little overzealous in making my case to Faustino for staying in New York when I arrived four years ago. Although I’m not exactly sure why he doesn’t let me go, he seems unwilling to admit it even to himself. The only man who can lie to me is one who lies to himself. I’m not foolish enough to think he loves me, that’s not it. Lust? Sure, plenty of that, but he has just as much lust for Conchita, maybe even more. He and Arana show her preference regularly. I think it’s the lie detector thing.

  I can pick a man’s brain quite thoroughly the more time I spend with him, or underneath him. Skin on skin contact heightens my telepathy. While he’s screwing me hard and fast, I’m sifting through his thoughts and memories. Seems like an even trade, knowledge for sex, the money’s almost a bonus – almost.

  I’d have been dead years ago if the Cartel boys knew how many of their secrets I picked up. I suppose I know enough to blackmail somebody, but that’s not exactly a recipe for long life.

  The bathwater turned cold and I’d started to prune up as I lay there daydreaming about college degrees, extracurricular time with my professors to catch some extra credit, and escaping all the ghetto cartel drama of the Towers. Time to get moving. I doused my body in scented oil. The women like it when I go the extra mile to be clean and perfumed. Men rarely seem to notice, at least not the men in my bed.

  Checking myself out in the full length mirror, I look damn good – sexy, yummy. I always have. I enjoy the sight of my naked svelte body. I have a year-round tan. I hide from the sun in the summer, or I start looking like a morena – dark brown. My hair is long, sleek, black as black. I wear it layered, cut just past my shoulders. Cost a hundred and fifty for that cut. My eyes are so dark the difference between pupil and iris is barely noticeable. I have often thought of wearing contacts, brown or green, just to get a little color. My face still has soft, girlish curves with a cute, button nose. I’m not exactly bony, but my body isn’t really an hourglass. I’m too narrow in the hips. My breasts are small by most men’s standards, but I’m happy with them. Big tits are sooo over-rated. And I can get away without a bra most of the time, as long as my shirt isn’t see-through. I keep myself shaved clean, not one lick of hair between my legs. My dates prefer it. I’m not too tall, but not too short. Five foot seven seems just about right to me.

  I actually like being naked. I prefer to spend my summer days off lounging around in the nude. Conchita got used to it after the first couple times I sauntered through the apartment in my birthday suit. She even sleeps with me in the bed we share, cuddled up on my naked back. We got frisky a couple times, but she’s not into girls, so it didn’t really go anywhere.

  I prefer to be naked when I receive my in-call dates. ‘In-call’ is the escort industry term when the date arrives on your doorstep, ‘out-call’, we meet somewhere else. I’ve found that answering the door nude seems to improve my negotiations for getting the money up front.

  I became accustomed to nudity at the ripe old age of fourteen. I guess that means I’m an exhibitionist, but really it’s Rubin’s fault. Rubin was my first pimp-boss-cartel patron back in Bogotá. He purchased me from my father a couple months after my fourteenth birthday. Believe it or not, in Bogotá Colombia, it is possible to buy and sell teenage girls, if you’re high enough up in one of the Cartels. Rubin bought me for two thousand dollars. I don’t think he got a very good bargain. My father was so angry with me he probably would’ve given me away.

  Rubin forced me to sit around his house butt-ass naked for three weeks straight, twenty-four seven, to teach me a lesson. His version of taming the shrew. You see Rubin liked anal sex. The first time I learned that the hard way, things got messy. Back then I didn’t have the experience. I didn’t understand how intense anal can be, and Rubin didn’t prepare me beforehand with an enema. Colombians aren’t known for advance planning and organizational skills. They’re spontaneous. He paid the price for spontaneity. I shit all over him.

  I sure learned my lesson. He wouldn’t let me wear a single article of clothing those three weeks. The asshole brought all his friends, buddies, brothers and cousins over to torment me.

  “Hey everyone, come look at the cute naked girl. You can take her in the back for a few minutes, free of charge, my treat.”

  I learned that lesson over and over. By the end of the three weeks I knew exactly what I was doing. I’d been broken in.

  Being nude doesn’t bother me anymore, but some of my dates tend to think it strange. For the sake of propriety, I put on black thong panties and a matching black silk bathrobe. It’s a little less shocking that way.

  I still had an hour to kill, and Conchita already left for her first date of the evening. I leafed through a book on astrology, “The Birthday Almanac”, by Sophia Kendrick. The book had a page for every day of the year. Though I’d read it twice, I turned to my birthday, July 24th, Leo. The Leo born on this day is summarized by three words: confident, attention-seeking, uninhibited. Some of the comments I identified with, “… you radiate sunny self-confidence … occasionally outrageous, attention demanding behavior. Your positive polarity removes your inhibitions wherever you’re surrounded by an admiring audience … while you may often get carried away, you rarely go too far.”

  It seemed eerily accurate, which is why I kept rereading the page, searching for the hidden meaning. The book also listed famous people born on the same day, such as Amelia Earhart – 1897 – and Jennifer Lopez – 1970. I didn’t know much about Amelia, but I knew all about J-Lo. Being related to J-Lo via astrologic sisterhood seemed pretty cool. She’s rich, sexy, has a totally yummy ass. Maybe we weren’t all that different, except for the part about being rich.

  No matter how much I fantasize about it, I’ll never have an ass like J-Lo. My hips don’t have enough meat. I’m too toned through my butt and thi
ghs. Maybe that’s a result of having my legs in the air so often? Maybe I should focus on other sexual positions, let my thighs get a little flabby? Probably a bad idea, most guys like missionary.

  I aim to please, so I’m always anticipating what they like, and I just start doing it, as long as it’s not too freaky. I hate swallowing, I refuse to do it. Don’t bother asking, it’s just plain gross.

  A text message grabbed my attention, Maria Rivera at the escort service. She confirmed my date was en route. Shit, she might even show up on time. That’d be a pleasant surprise.

  I have three methods of acquiring dates: the escort service, a free classified ads website, and Francisco Lopez, a.k.a. Arana – Spider, Faustino’s collector-handler. Arana keeps tabs on all the girls, Conchita and I included. The best dates usually come from the escort service and internet. The ones Arana and Faustino send are Traquetos, and half the time they want to fuck for free. I’ve had to send Arana after Faustino’s boys more times than I can count. Happened just last night.

  The only ones who get me for free are Faustino and Arana, and they usually prefer Conchita. She’s more bubbly, smiles all the time. And she has more jiggle to play with.

  Most of my dates are not ‘in-call’. But I don’t worry too much with the lesbians. Women are so much more respectful. They aren’t prone to violent-creepy behavior like men. My dates with men are always ‘out-call’. Stalker prevention.

  I sometimes enjoy the lesbian dates better. Women tend to pay larger tips and are generally more affectionate and considerate lovers. I have often thought I should go full on lesbo, but there’s just something about a virile passionate man that a woman can’t replace, not even with a strap-on.

  I hoped she wasn’t expecting me to actually have a strap-on or any other fancy toys. It’s not really my thing. I get enough sex in the flesh. I don’t need dildos and stuff.

  She was punctual, arrived at ten p.m. sharp. In hindsight, I should have known her punctuality would mean trouble. Who can get anywhere in New York in a timely manner?