Ever since I was a kid, I loved making up stories and had notebooks filled with stories about talking animals, ghosts and monsters, then, pirates, and, as I got older, in my teens, stories about getting kidnapped and then being saved by a handsome man, and they became love stories, some, by the time I was sixteen, so erotic, I couldn't help but play with myself. I wrote when I came home from school, or on Saturdays when no one was home, but sitting in our kitchen in the middle of the night, drinking coffee, writing in the glare of my laptop and the dim light above me became something I looked forward to. It became my own world.

After dinner, I'd do a little homework, then sleep while my parents watched TV. When my mom went to bed around ten, and my dad after the eleven o'clock news, I'd go downstairs, make coffee, and write 'till I got tired around three or four, then sleep, curled up on the small green couch in the living room, my head on the pillow and under the quilt I kept behind the couch.

Abby, my sister, was going to the community college and was studying to be a medical technician. She had read there was always a need for medical technicians. Abby was really a great older sister, and I learned a lot about relationships from her because she was three years older and always had a boyfriend, once, for a whole school year, but usually a few months, then there'd be someone new and she'd be in love again. She'd look in the mirror when she was getting dressed for a date and put something on, then something else, turn from side to side and look at herself in the long mirror we had on the back of our bedroom door, and say, “I wish I had bigger boobs.” I don't know why she thought that because they seemed pretty big to me, especially compared to mine.

I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life and I remember reading somewhere--maybe it was online--“it's more important to know what you don't want to do and be open to what presents itself.” Well, I knew I didn't want to be an accountant, or a receptionist, or a medical technician. They sounded too much like jobs. Somehow, I knew I had to do what I loved and that was writing, making up stories and hope I'd get published.

“So you want to be a starving writer,” Dad said.

Mom said, “Sherry, if you think some prince charming is going to come along like in Cinderella, you better face reality.”

Abby was seldom home and spent most of her time at her boyfriend's apartment, but she'd say, “Get out of the house. Go to community college after you graduate. You'll never meet a guy writing stories. Get real, Sherry.”

School was a drag and I couldn't wait to be free of boring assignments when all I wanted to do was write and read books that were relevant to my life. I had a few friends I'd hang out with like Emily and Alisha and we'd get high and talk about guys at school and the bitch girls who thought they were better than everyone else, and the old teachers who thought they were cool, even when they weren't, though a few of the younger teachers were okay, fresh out of college and just a few years older than us, but then Emily and Alisha got boyfriends and were better students than I was and went away to college. I was tempted to apply, even though I had a C average, but knew I didn't want to be so busy I wouldn't have time to write, and also didn't want to have a huge debt like I read so many graduating students had. Sometimes, I got an email from Emily, never from Alisha, and I didn't want to have anything to do with facebook. What a distraction it was and more and more I just wanted to write.

It's not that I didn't like boys. I did and was conscious of my appearance and liked how they looked at me, even though I dressed differently than the other girls: more bohemian, but sexy in an innocent and also exotic way. I had long, curly auburn hair, almost red, that I'd braid into pigtails or one long braid that came halfway down my back, but sometimes just loose and wild. People always commented on my green eyes and the dimples when I smiled. Though I had some freckles, my skin was smooth and, though I was small, a little over five feet, my breasts became grapefruit size. I'd wear short, peasant skirts with flowers or Indian prints and different colored T-shirts with a leather vest I found in the thrift store where most of my clothes came from. Also, lots of necklaces and dangling earrings that made me feel like a gypsy. I had an old pair of jeans I loved and even though I had outgrown them and they were tight and had rips in the knees, I couldn't part with them and have to admit, I liked how guys looked at me. I knew I looked good, but I was too shy to flirt, or know what to say when Pete Johnson asked if he could drive me home or would I like to go for a ride, or Mike, who sent me notes in English asking if we could study together, then watch a movie. I knew what they wanted, but I always chickened out and said I had stuff to do—which was true—my writing.

“You can't just stay home and write. You have to get a job,” Dad said after I graduated.

I knew they were right and so I got a job as a waitress downtown in a pretty swanky and cool restaurant called, “Rosie's Bistro” that served Mediterranean food. It was perfect because I made good tips and could write during the day, and then go to work at four and be home after my parents were in bed and could write or read over what I had written before going to bed.

As my stories became more erotic, letting me fantasize various scenarios, I started publishing on an online site for erotic stories and they were well received, and I started getting messages from other writers and readers and it became enticing. It inspired me to keep writing stories that I knew would get readers aroused and, I confess, me. It became so exciting to see responses, especially from men and getting private messages that were increasingly seductive and tempting. I can't believe how hot it was to flirt and tease but know that's as far as it would go. It was a game, except for one guy, Frank, who was really persistent and persuasive. His words just got to me, and I was so on the edge of giving in to his words that I slammed shut my laptop and masturbated in the dark, screaming his name, then when I came down, wondered why I did that. Why didn't I just go all the way with him?

I admit it was tantalizing and writing erotic stories helped me explore my own sexuality, my desires, what kind of man I wanted, did I want to be married, or did I want to stay single and be independent, a free spirit, not bound to anyone, have lovers with no strings—that was appealing, but then I'd think would I ever want to be a mother and settle down in a sweet little house in the country, or a swanky condo with a doorman. I often fantasized about having a farm with a barn and a horse and having sex in the hayloft.

I also found myself writing poetry where I could just explore my feelings without telling the whole story, get to the essence of what I was experiencing, what I was thinking and feeling. I wanted to go deeper. I remember reading about a poet who said, “See deeply,” and that's what I knew I had to do if I was going to write anything really important. I wanted to write literature, the great American novel, something substantial, and remember reading something D. H. Lawrence said about how important it was to write explicitly about sex if you wanted to write authentically about the human condition. I knew writing about sex and relationships was important and of great interest to readers, but I had no real experience except for what I read online. I watched some porno but after awhile it got boring because they're wasn't a story or a real relationship. Just fucking.

My erotic stories were really getting popular and I decided to see if I could find a publisher and have a real book, something that would be in bookstores or downloaded. I had a lot of stories and I knew they were hot, but I also knew they had substance and intriguing plots. It wasn't just the sex I was interested in exploring, but I loved telling a good story with believable characters. My poetry was really sensual and the responses I got from my readers overwhelmed me with their appreciation. I was getting more messages from both guys and women who wanted a relationship, but at eighteen, almost nineteen, I was still a virgin, even though my fingers got a lot of action.

I was making good tips as a waitress and really enjoyed giving good service. It was like performing, and I liked being friendly with my customers. I'd comment on what a woman was wearing. “Oh I love that necklace, or to one of the regulars, “Don't you look nice tonight,” and to the men, many I had waited on before and who always asked for my table, and they'd say, “Hi Sherry, I was hoping you'd be our waitress tonight,” and their wives or girlfriends would interrupt and ask, “What do you recommend tonight, or, “Of course she's our waitress, you asked for her table....don't be so coy.”

That was a little awkward for me, but I'd say, “I love being your server. I always like when you request my table. Thank you,” and I'd wave to the busboy to bring over water and a basket of bread with a small dish of olive oil, then, while they browsed the menu, ask, “Would you like some wine. I think you'd like the new Chablis we just started serving as a house wine. It's really good.” I learned that was a good way to get them to order wine and add a lot to my tips and why Rosie always complimented me and told me how good I was for her business.

There was this guy, Angelo, who came in three or four nights a week, always with a different woman. He usually wore a dark suit, sometimes with a tie, but usually with just an open collar. His dates were always young, much younger than he was. Sometimes he'd come in with the same woman and I got to recognize them—there were a few like that, but then he'd come in with someone I'd never seen before. Three, sometimes four times a week he'd be in there with a date. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way, with long dark, curly hair down to his shoulders, a little gray and a stubble beard, that was kind of sexy. His suits looked expensive and he was always immaculate and seemed classy in a unique way that made me wonder what he did, how he lived, how he could afford to eat in an expensive restaurant so often. Everyone said hello to him when he walked in. He always hugged Rosie, who liked to greet customers and he'd kiss her cheek, then the hostess would escort Angelo and his date to my table in the dark booth which he reserved.

He'd smile and say, “Hello, Sherry” and look up and down my body in an almost predatory way that sent a little tingle when our gazes met, but then he'd quickly turn to his date and take her hand. We didn't wear uniforms but could wear our own clothes with the understanding they'd be clean and professional, though a few of the waitresses wore tight skirts, or slacks with nice blouses or sweaters and said it helped their tips, which, by the way, we pooled. After the place closed, the staff could have a meal and share a bottle of wine and we'd talk about stuff—how slow the kitchen was, how we hated when people would call us over and ask for something with food in their mouths. We'd laugh and gossip and listen to one of the waiters tell a stupid joke, but one night, Mindy, one of the older waitresses, said I should watch out for Angelo. “I see how he looks at you, Sherry. He's dangerous.”

“What do you mean, he's dangerous?”

“Can't you see he has a harem of women. Three or four nights a week he's here with another woman, but he always asks for your table. Listen to me, watch out. He has a reputation of wanting women he can dominate. You see the young women he comes in here with—some pretty slutty, if you ask me, others like virgins he wants to seduce and become his slaves. He also has some older women, who take him with them on trips. He's a gigolo who gives these rich, bored women what they're missing at home.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I've worked here a long time and there was a time I was his regular server and almost in his harem, then he started asking for this new young waitress named Renee, and she told me the whole story. She learned the hard way and stopped working here after coming in with bruises and told me all about Angelo. His name may be Angelo, but he's no angel, mark my words. So watch out.”

What Mindy said intrigued me and I wondered by the way he looked at me whether he was interested in me. What did she mean he's dangerous? Why did Renee come in with bruises then quit and move away? Why did he always come in with so many different women around my age or not much older? When I came to his table he'd always say, “Hello Sherry. How are you, tonight?” while looking me up and down, then he'd take his date's hand and introduce me, (I'm not sure why). I'd say “pleased to meet you,” then turn to Angelo and ask, “Would you like your usual bottle of wine?” He'd say yes or ask for something different, but when the busboy came over with water, bread and olive oil, and I walked away to get the wine and glasses, I could feel his eyes on me. Then one night, I don't know what came over me, but I turned around and our eyes met and I smiled, then narrowed my eyes, letting him know I knew he was checking me out and saw him chuckle. When I brought over the bottle of wine, he looked me up and down again and said, “You look so nice tonight,” then he reached for his date's hand again and say, “and so do you.”

What game is he playing? I wondered when I opened the wine.

After that, I went to my other tables and then took Angelo and his date's order and, though he paused and smiled when I brought their meals, he was focused on seducing his date, but, then, after an after-dinner drink, he said, “Goodnight, Sherry, Thank you for such good service,” and left a generous tip. But the way he gazed into my eyes with those dark eyes and devilish smile made me remember Mindy's words, “Watch out!”

The night after I caught him checking me out and smiled back at him, Angelo came in just before we were closing and asked if I'd like to have a drink with him. I had just finished cleaning up my station and so I joined him while the others were gathered at the big table just outside of the kitchen, eating, drinking and laughing. Well, I love Martinis and decided, why not since I can't afford them and he was treating. Rosie served us since the others were done for the night. I wondered why she didn't mind Angelo being there after we had closed, but could tell they had a special relationship-- maybe he was an investor or something.

“Thank you for letting me have a drink with Sherry,” Angelo said when she brought us our Martinis.

“Anything for you, Angelo. Enjoy.” She smiled at me but didn't say anything, but I could tell she knew I was going to be another conquest. I glanced back at the others, who acted as if they weren't paying attention. Everyone knew Angelo was a fiend for young women and knew why he wanted to have a drink with me after hours, but, while they were eating and talking, Mindy glanced over at me and warned me with her eyes to watch out.

When we clicked glasses and took sips, he looked at me over the rim of his glass and I could see he was enjoying looking at me, which I liked, but also knew he was being seductive and remembered him doing the same thing with all of his dates. The writer part of me was always watching what was going on, observing, somewhat detached, almost like a movie camera recording scenes I might use in a story, but I was also engaged, wanting to experience Angelo's charm and enjoy the ride. If he was dangerous, I wanted the danger and felt confident, I'd be able to handle whatever happened. Even if I didn't know what other young women experienced, I did know that Renee showed up bruised and quit working there. Be careful, Sherry went through my mind.

I have to admit his dark eyes were captivating, and he was definitely handsome with the shadow of a beard, a slight, playful smile; he seemed really fit, not muscular but tight with broad shoulders and curly dark hair showing where his white shirt was half unbuttoned. His hands were immaculate, obviously manicured with one large, beautiful ruby ring on his ring finger--the hands of a business man, or a musician rather than a laborer.

“So, why did you want to have a drink with me?” I asked when I put my glass down.

“You know why, Sherry.”

I didn't answer, but took another sip of my Martini and smiled into his eyes.

“I find you attractive and liked how you turned around last night and knew I was checking out your ass and gave me that look.”

“Yes, I saw you, but I also see you're in here with a different woman almost every night. Do you want me to be part of your harem, another woman you can fuck and toss away like trash.”

“Maybe.” His eyes widened at my boldness then he smiled and sipped his drink.

I surprised myself by saying that, but his surprised eyes and smile emboldened me and I thought, what the hell, I'm going to show him I'm not one of his bimbos. I took the olive from the glass and rolled it around my mouth before swallowing, then licked my lips, moving my tongue slowly, my eyes fixed on his.

We had some small talk--did I like working here, what music did I like, what did I want to do with my life. He acted interested, nodding, smiling, asking probing questions. I told him I was a writer and had published some stories online.

What kind of stories?” he asked.

I hesitated a moment before telling him.“Erotica.”

“Really. I'm delighted to hear that.”

“You're the first person I have ever told what I write.”

“ I enjoy good erotic stories. Did you see the movie 50 Shades of Grey? ”

“Of course and I read the book.”

“I'd love to read some of your stories. By the way, I know some publishers of erotica. Maybe I could get you a deal if I like your stories.”

“Well, maybe that could be arranged. I'd love to read them to you.”

“I'd like that. To be read erotic stories by a beautiful author would be unique. Very interesting.”

I finished my Martini and smiled, happy to hear his response, then, surprising myself, pushed my glass towards him. “Buy me another drink.”

I didn't quite understand it at the time, but not only did I want to show him what a good writer I was, I didn't want to be his little toy. I wanted to show him two can play his game. Maybe I wanted an adventure, something that one day I would write about.

He rubbed his chin, glanced at the glass, then looked at me with knowing eyes that told me he liked that I ordered him to buy me a drink, just like he enjoyed my smiling back at him and giving him the evil eye when he checked out my ass. I knew he liked being in charge and having power over the young, sexy women he seduced, but I could see he liked a challenge. I don't know if I was asking for trouble or not, but went with my intuition, my gut, my heart, my imagination, as well as with my curiosity to see if I could handle the danger, but also wondered, Am I nuts? Why am I doing this?

“Why don't we have that drink at my place. My apartment is just around the corner.”

“Sure, why not? Rosie wants to close and everyone wants to get out of here. Lead the way.”

“Put it on my tab,” he said to Rosie as we left.

How convenient to have an apartment around the corner from where he took his dates. He lived in one of those swanky apartments with a doorman who nodded and smiled at him, then glanced at me as he opened the door, probably used to seeing Angelo with another young woman. We were quiet in the elevator. Though I was tense, listening to the little chime as we passed each floor, watching the red numbers go by, but I could feel his eyes on me, a little surprised he didn't move to do anything like I had read in some stories where they fucked in the elevator, but when we reached the thirtieth floor and the door opened to his penthouse apartment, he took my hand and said, “Here we are, my Shangri-la.”

“Nice apartment,” I said as I looked around at the large, uncluttered, living room with plush white carpeting, a long white sofa, a tan leather recliner in front of a huge TV screen on the wall, two large soft looking white chairs opposite the sofa with a shiny wooden coffee table in between. Angelo went to the bar on the other side of the room and asked if I'd like champagne.

“Sure. I'd love a glass of champagne. Mind if I take off my shoes.”

“Of course not, make yourself at home.” He smiled and looked me up and down as if to say why don't you take off your clothes while your at it.

While he poured, I glanced at the many paintings on all of the walls, then, loving the soft, thick carpet on my bare feet, walked over to the glass doors that opened to a patio and looked out at the bright lights of the city. The darkness outside let me see my reflection in the glass, my long reddish hair, the short, floral skirt, the white peasant blouse barely covering my shoulders, my breasts straining the thin material, and saw my eyes looking back at me and couldn't believe I was there and not at the kitchen table at home writing on my laptop--a virgin who had fantasies of being ravished like in some of my stories.

He handed me my champagne and we clicked glasses, sipped and again, gazed into each others eyes over the rim of our glasses. This was not my laptop. This was real. I was in Angelo's apartment. Would I be another addition to his harem, another conquest, another woman to be dominated, maybe hurt and frightened like Renee, something I was determined not to let happen to me. At the same time, I liked being in his swanky apartment and wondered if I could turn the tables on Angelo, tease him, make him be my conquest, show him he wouldn't have me wrapped around his little finger, and then I remembered how I loved reading One Thousand and One Nights where Scheherazade told the sultan stories that kept her from being raped and beheaded like all the other women, how he hated women because of his unfaithful wife. I had written a lot of really hot stories, but thought why don't I write a new one for him, one that keeps going. It would be exciting, enticing, mysterious, build to a really hot, tense, suspenseful place, then say, “to be continued” and leave him wanting more. I'd write during the day and tell him I'd read the next part that night and thought I'd be protecting other women from being harmed by him. Then, as I looked around, thought why not write in his swanky apartment instead of going home to the snoring and drabness of the kitchen and sleeping on the couch. I'd go to work at Rosie's, then come back to Angelo's apartment and read him what I wrote. That would be a real conquest. I loved the idea and was determined to make that happen, though I wasn't sure how.

While I sipped my champagne, Angelo picked up his remote from the coffee table and pointed to his TV where soft, mellow music started playing, though the screen remained dark. He took my glass and put his arms around me and without a word we started dancing in the dimly lighted room. He held me close and we moved slowly, taking small steps, hardly moving. He was a good, smooth dancer. His hands felt so strong on my back, the pleasant smell of his cologne like ambrosia had me melting into his arms. While we danced, he kissed my throat, then my chin and moved his lips to my ear, nibbled and whispered, “You feel wonderful in my arms.”

I didn't respond but the breath of his whispered words in my ear tingled though my body. His embrace tightened and his gentle strength made me gasp and swallow. He moved his hands lower on my back and began rubbing my ass gently as we swayed slowly to the mellow jazz, my breasts crushed against his chest, his hands arousing me, but I somehow pulled away, still holding his hand and smiled. “I'm glad you want to hear my stories.”

“I'm looking forward to it. I love good, erotic stories. I have a feeling your stories will be very enjoyable.”

“ I know this is bold of me to ask but I have an idea.” Am I really going to do this?

“Yes, what is your bold idea?” His eyes narrowed revealing surprised curiosity. “Tell me.”

“I would like to write a special story, just for you, and I'd like to write it here. I can bring my laptop here and write during the day, go to work at Rosie's and then read it to you at night.”

“That is bold of you. I'm not sure. I'll have to think about that. I like my privacy. What can you do to convince me that's a good idea?”

He picked up our glasses of champagne and handed mine to me.

I was already a little woozy from the martini and the champagne, but I took a sip and wondered how I would answer his question. What could I do to convince him it was a good idea without subjecting myself to his seductive ways. Mindy's words, watch out echoed in my mind. I could feel my heart beating and the smile on his lips as he waited for my response made me want to kiss him, but knew if I did, I'd be into temptations that would ultimately make me one of his conquests. I have to be daring, bold, smart.

“ I have my ways to convince you.” I tilted my head and smiled into his eyes.

“You do? Tell me. Why should I let you stay in my apartment and write your stories here?”

“Why don't we go into your bedroom and you'll find out?”

He chuckled and nodded. “That's pretty brazen of you, Sherry? I'm surprised.”

“Why are you surprised. You hardly know me. There's a lot more to me than meets the eye.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, you'll see.”

I don't know where I got the nerve to move my hand to the front of his pants and stroke him, but I let my imagination take over. This was so unlike me, but I think the drinks were giving me courage to be aggressive.

“I'm finding that out,” he said and bit his lower lip and moaned softly.

“You'll find out I'm a keeper...not someone you can wrap around your finger then toss into a dumpster or become on of your submissive slaves. You may find out that it's you that will be wrapped around my finger.”

I continued stroking his hard cock, then gripped it in my hand which made him moan louder. I had never touched a man's cock before, though I had seen a lot of cocks when I watched porno. I was going with the flow and let my imagination lead the way, but knew I was in dangerous territory. I don't believe I'm doing this.

“Do you like what I'm doing to you?” I whispered, looking up into his dark eyes.

He closed his eyes as if savoring the sensation. Another low moan came from deep in his chest, then he reached between my legs to grab my pussy.

“Don't touch me, mister.” I slapped his hand away.

“Who do you think you are?” He practically growled.

“I'm Sherry, a writer who will tell you stories you will never forget.”

I took my hand away from his bulge, picked up my champagne and swallowed what was left, then handed him his glass. “We can't waste good champagne can we, Angelo?”

He finished his champagne, took my glass and put both glasses down on the coffee table, then put his arms around me, pulled me close and I could feel his hardness against my body. He moved his hands to my ass and squeezed, then kissed my throat just above the collarbone, sending tingling shivers through me, causing my shoulders to lift. Damn he's good. He feels so big.

I somehow found the strength to put my hands on his chest and push him away.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm showing you I'm someone you should let stay here and tell you stories--stories that will captivate you.”

He took a deep breath and stared at me. “You still haven't convinced me that I should let you stay here.”

“Let's get comfortable in your bed and I will convince you. How about it, Angelo?”

I didn't wait for an answer and took his hand and led him down the hall where I assumed his bedroom was. Halfway down the hall, he grabbed my hand and pushed me up against the wall. I knew he was still aroused and could feel his hardness as he pressed his body against mine. He took my arms and stretched them above my head, squeezing my hands, grinding into me, but I bucked my body, thrusting my hips against him as hard as I could and squirmed away. He gripped my hand and pulled me towards him, but I placed my hand on his chest and pushed myself away. “Not here.”

“You're a devil, aren't you?”

“You'll find out,” I said, taking his hand and leading him to his suite at the end of the hall.

He flicked a switch and two small lamps by the side of his king-sized bed cast a soft glow, but most of the large room was dark. I glanced around and saw a large bathroom on one side with a floor to ceiling mirror covering the wall next to it, then on another wall, a large closet filled with suits. I went to the bed and moved my fingers over the black silk sheets and admired the array of large red and gold pillows against the backboard, then looked up at the ceiling covered with white billowing cloth draped over the bed. Large maroon curtains were on either side of the glass patio doors that lined one wall, the lights of the city shining in the world below us.

“ You have exotic taste,” I said, looking up again at the white cloth covering the ceiling over the large bed.“So this is your Shangri-la. It looks like a sultan's tent in the desert.”

“That's right and I like being treated like a sultan.”

“Is that so?” I asked, remembering pictures of the sultan's tent in Scheherazade.

“Yes and I want to know how you're going to convince me you should stay here and write stories you say I will never forget. That's pretty daring of you.”

“You'll see.”

I sat down on the bed and leaned back on my arms, my bare feet dangling over the edge and saw his eyes looking at my breasts straining the material of the white peasant blouse. When my skirt rose high over my thighs, I spread my legs apart, knowing I was arousing him, but I admit, the champagne, dancing and stroking him had me aroused also.

“I hope you're on the pill, Sherry.”

“I am. Why?”

“You know why. I don't like condoms.” The way he looked at my breasts and bare legs told me he wanted to devour me.

“Yes, you want me to convince you I should stay here and write stories for you.”

“That's right. How are you going to do that?”

“I'm going to tell you a story, that's how. You just have you lay back and listen.”

“You're going to tell me a story? Just tell it without writing.”

“Yes. That's how I write. I just hear the story in my head and write it as it comes to me. I can do that here...it's easy. I love doing it. Improvising. Just saying what comes to me. You will not want to let me go.”

“You're pretty cocky, aren't you?”

“I don't believe you used the word cock like that.” I laughed.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Yes. I thought that was funny. I like puns.”

With my skirt high on my thighs, I opened and closed my legs several times and knew I was teasing him, but liked it. I liked the power I was feeling and realized I wanted more power over him.

“So do you want to hear this special story I'm going to tell you?”

“Yes. You're fascinating me.”

“Do you have any pot?”

“Of course. I also have some coke if you prefer.”

“I'm not surprised to hear you do coke.”

He laughed. “Let's say it's one of my enterprises.”

“I wondered how you could afford to eat at Rosie's several times a week and always have a sexy chick with you. I've never done coke, but I smoke pot. I like writing when I'm stoned, but at home I always have to go outside on the back steps so they don't smell it. That's one of the reasons I want to stay here and write. You're going to be a happy guy if you let that happen.”

He opened the drawer in the table next to his bed and took out a small gold cigarette case that had at least ten neatly rolled joints. He lit one with a silver lighter and handed it to me. “You'll like this weed.”

I took a hit and handed it back to him and watched him inhale, holding in the smoke, closing his eyes, then handed it back to me. It didn't take long to realize I was really stoned. That was the strongest pot I had ever had...way different than what I smoked with Alisha and Emily and what I had at home.

Pot makes me horny and I wondered if I was getting into dangerous territory. I wanted to control the situation, have a cool place to live instead of my drab house and be able to write enticing stories and Rosie's was right around the corner. How cool! I was determined to make that happen.

“I'm waiting to be convinced why I should let you stay here.”

I smiled and without a word, stood up and slid my flowery skirt down my thighs and stepped out of it, wishing I had worn the red thong I bought online, instead of my regular black panties. Wanting to be sexy, I stepped towards him, slowly unbuttoned his shirt and rubbed his hairy chest. “Let's get comfortable and I'll tell you a nice story.”

“Nice?” he chuckled. “I don't want a nice story.”

“You'll like this one.” I laughed, wondering where I was getting the nerve to do this, but I wanted him to think I was wilder than I really was and not a virgin who lived in a world of fantasies, but most of all, I wanted to turn the tables on him and not be another slave.

Once I had his shirt off, I unbuckled his belt, then the button to his slacks and slowly unzipped them, then smiled up at him. “Take your pants off.”

“Is that an order.”

“Yes. Do it!”

He gave me that look, narrowing his eyes as if to say who do you think you are.

I smiled, bit my lower lip then went back to the bed and crawled up to lean against the huge fluffy pillows, my white peasant blouse staining against my breasts and barely covering my black panties. I moved my hands through my long auburn hair, messing it up slightly, wanting to look wilder, and, as he took off his pants, I stared at the bulge straining his red, silky, bikini underwear, his well toned legs, his hairy chest and knew I was getting wet...a dangerous sign. Control yourself, Sherry.

When he slid in next to me, he moved his hand up and down my smooth thigh, but I removed his hand and smiled. “If you want a story you can't touch me otherwise I get distracted.”

“How can I be in bed with such a beautiful, sexy, young woman and not touch her?”

“That's the rule. I want you to concentrate on my story and not be trying to seduce me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very, I want to tell you such a good story that will convince you to let me stay here and write. I'll bring my laptop over tomorrow and some clothes. You won't be sorry, but tonight I'm just going to tell you one I know you will like.” I couldn't believe I was wanting to move in after knowing how dangerous he was, but knew that's what I wanted and was determined to make it happen.

“Listen to me, Sherry. I'm not used to women telling me what I can and can't do or what they want.”

“I'm sure you're not.” I leaned over and kissed him lightly on his lips, but you have to let me convince you that I'm worth it. Be patient, Angelo.”

His scowling eyes told me he didn't like losing control and suddenly, he grabbed my hair. “Who do you think you are?” He pulled me to his mouth and tried kissing me.

I turned my head so that he kissed my cheek and avoided his lips, then smiled at him.

“I'm someone who will drive you crazy. Now be a good boy and relax and let me get started and remember, no touching or the story stops and I'm out of here.”

He laughed and shook his head and released my hair, but not after giving a hard pull which both frightened but also excited me... not sure why.

To create some distance, I sat up in the lotus position a few inches from him and placed one of the pillows on my lap, but while I did, I lowered my blouse slightly, revealing my cleavage. Instinctively, I knew how to play with his mind and followed my intuition, determined to get what I want, and not let what happened to those other young women, happen to me. At the same time I was curious about him. What made him click? What made him be a gigolo to older women? A seducer of young women? What's his story? I sensed that underneath his macho ways, lurked a hurt, angry little boy. Still, I knew he was dangerous and I was playing with fire.

“Okay, story time.”

When I said that I remembered story time when I was in kindergarten and how we sat in a circle and listened to Miss Macintosh read to us, showing pictures and how she used different voices for the characters. I loved that and knew that's what I would do when I told him the story. I wanted to enchant him.

I closed my eyes and wondered what my story was going to be. I was good at making up stories on the spot, something I did when I babysat and didn't want to read one of the boring children's books. After a silence, I took a deep breath and looked at him leaning against the pillows, his hairy chest and flat stomach, his skimpy red, silk bikini underwear with the outline of his package bulging.

“Here goes.”

Sarah loved horses She loved the smell of the barn. She loved the farm she had inherited from her grandparents, loved coming here every summer, and now, after graduating from Hampshire College, the farm would be a perfect place to live and follow her dream to be a writer. Her parents had divorced when she was nine and she hated living with her mother, a nag and a drunk, and her father grew more and more distant because of his business and his affairs. College was liberating and she did her share of partying, and now the farm would be even more liberating. She had learned a lot about relationships in college after being seduced by that writing teacher but also had several boyfriends, one who tried raping her after a night of binge drinking, but she fought him off and learned how far she could go without getting in trouble. Live and learn...but learn!

Still, she wanted freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted. She didn't have much money, just a little from the inheritance and that wouldn't last too long. She hoped her writing would make some money but that was a long shot. She knew from her writing teacher at college how hard it was to get published, and then, it was even harder to get read with so many books being published. She had heard three thousand books get published everyday.

One day at a time was her philosophy. The Now. Being able to get up each morning and look out at the barn, the meadows, the woods surrounding the farm, the mountains to the East filled her with the desire to breathe in the world around her and shout,“I love freedom!”

I kept my eyes focused on Angelo as I spoke and loved how the words just flowed as my imagination took over. His dark eyes shone as he listened, and I could feel his fascination and curiosity. I like how he's looking at me. This is going to work.

I took a breath and continued .

As weeks went by and, Sarah realized there was always so much to do. She had to feed the chickens, gather eggs, keep the chicken house clean, get the seeds into the garden that had been well cultivated for many years, then weeding and watering the garden if it didn't rain, milking the two goats, Ruby and Sapphire, who she also inherited, keeping her horse, Ginger fed and happy, shoveling manure, riding her every afternoon, then brushing her down, throwing half a bale of hay into her stall, some grain, and filling her water bucket.

Angelo picked up the gold cigarette case and lit up another joint, took a puff and handed the joint to me. Why not I sighed and took another hit. I was already pretty stoned and drunk, but I was on a roll and knew that pot loosened my mind and mouth, sometimes too much, not to mention my body. Determined to tell him a story that would captivate him, I continued.

Sarah had just returned from a long ride in the North Meadow and through the woods on an old bridle path her grandfather had made. Her tight faded jeans always pressed against her crotch and the bouncing and rubbing against the pommel always got her so turned on she couldn't wait to get back to the barn. But this day, she was surprised to see a red convertible parked near the barn and a tall man wearing dark slacks, a white dress shirt, his tie undone and his suit jacket held over his shoulder with his finger. She hopped off Ginger and watched him walk towards me.

“This your place, miss?” he asked.

“Yep. All mine.”

“Interested in selling. I'm in the market for a farm around here.”

“Nope. It's not for sale.”

“Is that so. Everything is for sale for the right price,” he said looking her up and down.

“Is that so?”

“I looked at a couple other places but I drove past here the other day and know this is the farm I want."

“Too bad.” She patted Ginger's neck and wanted to get into the barn and scratch the itch she had felt riding her.

“I'm sure I can convince you to sell.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of that,” she said, and walked Ginger towards the barn, then glanced at his red convertible parked nearby and knew he had money by his statement,“every thing has a price.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she entered the barn and knew her ass looked good in the tight, faded jeans and, for some reason, maybe being horny, she swayed her hips slightly, wondering if this good looking rich guy might want to keep her company. Being alone on the farm for three months was getting to her, plus all the work and trying to find time to write made her wonder about getting a farmhand and recently fantasized about hiring a strong, young man from the area to take care of things, maybe even her.

She knew this guy would follow her into the barn as she led Ginger to his stall, and glanced over her shoulder and there he was, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, but she saw where his eyes were looking and thought, “Interesting, so he wants to buy this farm.” She knew she would need money, but knew she would never sell the farm to him or any one .

In the stall, she took Ginger's saddle off, placed it over the railing, while the man whose name she didn't know stood in the entrance of the stall. She picked up Ginger's water bucket and squeezed by the him on her way to the faucet at the front of the barn and accidentally on purpose brushed his hip but didn't apologize.

“Listen, mister, there's no point of you standing there. I'm not selling...no way.”

He stood close to her while she filled the bucket. “Listen, I hope you don't think I'm arrogant, but I usually get what I want.” His eyes glanced at her tight tank top then at her eyes.

“I don't think you're arrogant,” she said and looked into his eyes.“But you won't get what you want here.”

Sarah had to admit she enjoyed talking to him like that and knew there was a hint of sexual innuendo in her words, probably because she was finding him attractive and also because she was still turned on from her ride.

Back in the stall, she placed the bucket in front of Ginger and when she caught him looking at her ass again when she bent over, asked, “So what's your name, mister?”

“Angelo,” he answered.

Angelo's surprised eyes widened when I said that, but I was equally surprised that I had named the character Angelo, but that was the name that popped into my mind. What am I doing?

“ I hope you don't mind if I use your name in this story. It just came to me and I went with it.”

“ Yes, I'm surprised. It's a little weird, but I like the story. Sarah seems like an interesting character. I'm wondering if she's like you.”

“ You'll find out.”

I was getting sleepy but was getting into the story and curious about what would happen. That's one of the fun things about writing, letting the story unravel. Some famous writer, I think E. L. Doctorow, said, “Writing is like driving through a thick fog and you can barely see beyond the headlights.” That's the way it was for me.

“ Do you want me to continue?”

“ Yes, I want to see if something happens between those two.”

“ Thought you would.”

I needed to stretch after sitting in the lotus position for so long, so I picked one of the large pillows and placed it front of me, then laid down, facing him, stretched my legs behind me and rested my chest on the pillow which caused my breasts to practically spill out of my blouse. I was too drunk and stoned to care, but could see where he was looking and the impact it was having in his skimpy underwear.

“ Do you have candles?” I asked. “Maybe next time, we could light some candles while I tell you the story.”

“ Next time? What makes you think there's going to be a next time.”

“ Because there will be.”

“ You're presumptuous, aren't you?”

“ Maybe. What if I am?”

Surprising me, he grabbed my wrist and put my hand on the big bump in his bikini underwear. The sensation of feeling its throbbing hardness excited me, but I resisted and lifted my hand.“I told you not to touch me or I would stop the story and take off. So what will it be....do you want to hear this story? I know you will like it.” I moved forward, kissed his cheek, and, teasingly, let my breasts touch his arm and he released my wrist.

“ Listen, Angelo, you're going to like having me around. I know you like your privacy. So do I. You can go about your business and ignore me and I'll just do my writing, and maybe we can have some fun together. How about it?”

“ I'm still not convinced. You might have to do more to convince me.”

I knew what he wanted to do in order to be convinced, but I had other plans.

After getting myself comfortable on the pillow and liking the air on my breasts, and the buzz from the pot, I looked around. “Yes, candles would be nice,” I said before continuing. “Now where was I?”

“ The guy just told Sarah his name was Angelo.”

“ Oh right. Here goes.”

Sarah started brushing Ginger.“Well, Angelo, I have work to do.”

He stepped into the stall and stood closely behind Sarah while she brushed.

“ What can I do to convince you to sell me this farm?”

Sarah looked over her shoulder at him and could feel how close to her he was standing.

“ There's nothing you can do. My place is not for sale. Now, if you will excuse me,

I have to brush Ginger. Then get dinner ready.”

“ Oh, for your husband?”

“ No. For me. There's no husband, no boyfriend.”

Sarah moved the brush to Ginger's rear thigh and tried ignoring how close to her he was standing. “He's turning me on,” Sarah thought, “and I was already turned on. Uh oh.”

“ Too bad, you have to live here alone. Must be hard not having a man around.”

“ I like it this way. I like my freedom. It's only when you're alone that you can be yourself and not have to compromise.”

“ So you don't like to compromise.”

“ You got it.”

“ Well, I don't compromise either. I want this farm.” He stepped closer, pushing Sarah against Ginger.

“ It's not for sale. I already told you that.” Sarah stared into his fierce eyes and felt the breath from his mouth on her ear, but squirmed away and continued brushing Ginger, then moved around to the other side to be away from Angelo, not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid of her rising desire for him, despite his aggressive manner.

“ Listen, miss, I'm going to leave, but I'll be back tomorrow and think I can convince you to sell.”

While she watched him walk out of the stall and towards the front of the barn, she got an idea and before dismissing it as stupid, she called after him.“Hey, Angelo. Want to stay for dinner.”

He stopped and smiled back at her. “Sure, why not?”

“ Cool. I'll meet you up at the house in a minute.”

“ Well, I just happen to have a bottle of wine in my car. I'll bring it up.”

Sarah tossed the brush into the corner of the stall, petted Ginger and, while walking up to the house, glanced at Angelo leaning over the door of his convertible and noticed his trim body, his broad shoulders, his dark, longish hair and thought, he's going to become my farmhand.”

Angelo interrupted me and chuckled and so I asked. “What's so funny?”

“ You have a devious mind,” he said. “Why would she think he would become a farmhand when he said he wanted to buy the fucking place?”

“ No, I don't have a devious mind. I could never do anything like that to a man. What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“ Well, you're trying to convince me to let you stay here, when there's no reason I should.”

“ That's true, hmm, maybe I am devious.” I laughed and picked up Angelo's hand and gently rubbed the back of it with my thumb. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“ Yes, Sarah seems like an interesting, sexy woman. I want to find out what her plan is.”

Little did he know, I was taking one sentence at a time and also wanted to know.

(To be continued)