Forced to Bloom, Book 1

by Alexis Adaire

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Copyright © 2014 by Alexis Adaire

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be

reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without

the express written permission of the publisher,

except for brief quotations used in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places

and events are the products of the author’s imagination

or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance

to actual living persons is purely coincidental.

UUID: 5eee58e8-dc79-466e-af39-37f9db12ffaf

Published by Twisted Pair Publishing

TwistedPairPublishing.com

Cover images:

Woman — ©MediablitzImages (Fotolia.com)

Flower — ©siberianlena (Fotolia.com)

Forced to Bloom, Book 1

by Alexis Adaire

Table of Contents

Cover

Copyright Page

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

More From Alexis Adaire

Alexis Adaire Biography

1

Billionaire seeks submissive

I laughed out loud at my computer screen. It had to be a joke, right? Surely an actual billionaire wouldn’t be posting an ad in Craigslist’s “Casual Encounters” section. There it was, right between Young man for MILFs and cougars and Looking for mutual masturbation partner. I had been checking out Craigslist ads for a couple of weeks. Everyone on the popular websites OK Cupid and Match.com seemed to want to date, and I wanted… well, I wanted something else. I just wasn’t sure exactly what. Whatever it was, though, I wanted it badly enough to be looking through ads on a Monday morning before I left for work.

Billionaire seeks submissive

I’m not sure which word jumped out at me more, “billionaire” or “submissive.” Submissive unquestionably stirred something inside of me, but I was also curious whether the person who posted the ad was indeed worth that kind of money. And if so, why would he be trying to attract a submissive via Craigslist of all places — the Walmart of hookup sites?

Next to the phrase was the word “pic” in orange, Craigslist’s way of letting me know the ad contained a picture. My curiosity now thoroughly piqued, I clicked on the link.

The image jumped out at me. It was a crowded MAX car, Portland’s light-rail transit system, in which one woman sat with her blouse open, a single breast and its perfect nipple visible. Around her people were staring, some blatantly and some surreptitiously, while others were obviously forcing themselves not to stare. Everyone seemed fully cognizant of the fact that the woman was exposed in a way that women usually are not, at least not in public. The woman herself was either unaware that her breast was plainly visible or just unconcerned about it.

The text below the picture offered little explanation:

Billionaire male seeks submissive female.

You will do whatever I instruct you to.

Experienced only — not for “Fifty Shades” fans.

No compensation; this is a relationship, not a job.

Send a reply with ONE picture to be considered.

So he’s not a real billionaire, I thought. Someone with that much money wouldn’t be so stingy about it. Or would he? Maybe he was just attempting to weed out professionals and golddiggers. By explicitly stating there was no money involved, he would reduce replies from women who were interested for reasons other than a desire to submit to a dominant male. That was fine by me; I didn’t need money. Well, I did need it, but I wouldn’t want to base a relationship around money, even an unconventional one. I had a good-paying career as Social Media Coordinator for a large Portland healthcare business. Unlike many almost-thirty women, I was frugal and had very little debt. No credit card balances, and just my monthly rent, car note and student loans.

But why would I respond to the ad? Was I genuinely interested, or just titillated?

I was six months out of my previous relationship, one that had lasted two full years. Gerald and I were great fuckbuddies for a while, but as the initial great sex stage of our relationship faded away, he dumped me for an older woman — an older, thinner woman. I’m sure that her lithe, toned body was a welcome relief to him after my large frame. Gerald had never seemed thrilled with my size and regularly suggested I join a gym or eat paleo or whatever was the diet-of-the-week. After Gerald, I was too depressed to date for a while, thinking I needed time to focus on myself before jumping back into the pool. Soon I found I had no desire to go on traditional dates. What I really wanted for a while was no-strings-attached sex, which led me first to OK Cupid and Match.com, where I had little success, then to Craigslist and its Casual Encounters.

I had hooked up exactly twice via ads therein, once by replying to an ad (“NSA sex? I’m your man!”) and the other time by running an ad of my own (“Smart, sexy chick seeks penis with dumb, hot owner”). Both times I’d arranged to meet the guy at a bar first, then we moved back to my apartment for some naked fun. For the record, the “dumb, hot owner” wasn’t really that dumb or that hot, but he was hung, hard and enthusiastic. Nevertheless, those two encounters had served to convince me that I needed to look for something less physical and more cerebral in a sex partner. After finally bending to the will of my girlfriends and reading Fifty Shades of Grey, I began to think it might be interesting to explore a relationship as a submissive. I devoured a dozen more such novels. The romance I could do without, but I was inexplicably drawn to the dynamic of a woman being under the control of a man. Unlike those books, I didn’t want to save a man from his pain, I wanted him to save me from mine. I knew nothing about such things apart from what I’d read in erotica, and I was smart enough to realize most of that was probably wrong. So that lead me back to Craigslist in an attempt to discover what the real thing looked like.

This new ad, the one from the billionaire, appeared in the man-looking-for-woman section of Casual Encounters, and wasn’t the first one I’d seen seeking a submissive. The others, however, contained paragraph after paragraph explaining exactly what was expected of the woman lucky enough to be chosen. Some had bullet points (“absolutely no urinating or defecating without first asking permission”), and one even had a goddamn chart. The one I was currently looking at, though, was elegant in its brevity, sexy in its succinctness. I was intrigued by its lack of information.

I was also taken by the instruction to send “ONE” picture, not several. Another way of weeding out people who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow instructions. That meant the responder, the applicant, would be forced to choose a single image that would represent her to her potential future dom. Multiple pictures would have allowed for a variety, chosen from head shots, body shots, casual shots hanging with friends, risque shots, nude shots, explicit shots, etc. Nope, this guy wanted you to pick the ultimate “This is who I am” picture, most likely because he was interested in how a woman responding to his ad thinks of herself.

All of these thoughts running through my head had me excited. I clicked on the “reply” button and a new message window opened in my Gmail. When I failed to come up with something to say, though, I realized I was woefully unprepared for such a relationship, and certainly not ready to respond to the ad just yet.

I left my computer and drove to work, my thoughts preoccupied with this mysterious billionaire dom and what it would be like to apply for that job, to interview, to actually take part in a relationship of that kind. I imagined myself in various scenarios, being ordered to do things by a powerful man. This impulse was new to me; I don’t recall ever thinking along those lines before. Where was all this coming from?

The picture of the woman in the MAX car lingered in my mind throughout the day. Did the photographer know her? Was he or she a professional who had hired a model to do this, catching the other light-rail riders off-guard? Or was it merely someone who had their cell phone handy at a moment when an anonymous commuter was in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction? I wondered about the moments leading up to the picture, and especially about those coming after it was taken. Did someone politely point out that she was exposing herself? If so, did she remedy the situation or was she doing it on purpose and ignored the advice?

As I drove home, something occurred to me: The woman in the picture might have been a submissive of the man who ran the ad. Perhaps she was carrying out his orders by exposing herself to total strangers in that manner. Maybe he even took the picture personally. I thought of myself in that situation, having been instructed to open my blouse and expose a breast in a MAX car, pretending to not notice my partial nudity while simultaneously being the object of everyone’s incredulous stares. I was equal parts frightened and excited; terrified at the idea of exposing myself and excited by being ordered to do so by a powerful man. Could I actually do something like that? I doubted it. You’d have to love your body to invite strangers to look at it, and I certainly didn’t fit that description.

After dinner, I felt the need, the compulsion, to re-read the ad and look at the photo again. When I went to Craigslist and clicked on the link, my heart sank:

This posting has been deleted by its author.

After the momentary disappointment, I checked my email and realized that in the morning I’d opened a response window in Gmail to send a reply to the maybe-billionaire dom. That email window was still there, waiting for my reply to the ad. I had no idea whether he would receive it or not, since the email went to a temporary Craigslist address and then would hopefully be forwarded to him. But there was a chance, at least, and I needed to act quickly if I were going to do this. I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to send a reply; even if he responded, I could always back out before or after meeting him.

How could I write a message that would separate me from the many other women who would certainly respond? A man like this would likely find intelligence attractive, so I had that going for me. I could simply out-think most of the others. I composed a carefully considered message, trying to find the right words and the perfect approach to catch this guy’s eye, to get into his brain. After several stops and restarts, I eventually deleted most of what I’d written and arrived at something I thought might do the trick. Following his lead of quality over quantity, I kept things extremely short:

I can’t get your ad out of my mind.

I keep seeing myself in that picture.

Rachel

Now came the hard part, choosing which picture to send him, which me to employ to introduce myself. Here’s the thing: I’m far from perfect. At 5’6” and 185 pounds, I’m not exactly Barbie. As a busty size 14, I attract attention for what I feel are the wrong reasons: my old-school hourglass figure and the size of my breasts. The problem with choosing one picture is that I had no idea what this man wanted. Did he want a nude, body-only picture? A chaste, face-only shot? As I considered the dilemma, I imagined what most women would likely send. I guessed there would be boudoir pics and sheer lingerie from the Fifty Shades crowd, and leather and chains from the more serious BDSM devotees. I refused to take either of those routes, and I certainly wasn’t going to send him a naked picture. I thought again about my new interpretation of the woman exposing herself in the MAX car — that she hadn’t done that by choice, but because she had been ordered to.

This man wanted a blank canvas, someone he could mold to his liking.

I chose a simple photo taken at a work function as a joke. I was professionally dressed, wearing a skirt and heels. I’d just had my hair done that afternoon and it looked gorgeous, long thick curly black locks cascading down over my shoulders toward a decent, though still professional, amount of cleavage. I had been in the hospitality suite of a ritzy hotel and I just happened to be surrounded by eight well-dressed men. My slate blue eyes looked huge set against the pale skin of my face, and there was just a hint of a lascivious smile on my ruby red lips. If that didn’t get his imagination whirring, I didn’t know what would. I attached the picture to my email, then hit send. For the next ten minutes, I kept refreshing my inbox, waiting for a message from Craigslist to inform me that the ad had been deleted and my message would not be delivered.

When I didn’t get such a message, I began to panic. What had I done? I was fascinated by the idea of submitting myself to the whims of a powerful man. The reality, though, might well be something I couldn’t handle.

I felt better after again reminding myself that I probably wouldn’t be chosen, and that even if I were, I didn’t have to follow through and actually meet this man. Thinking of it less as a possible reality and more as a simple, tentative exploration of my own curiosity, I waited to see if he would respond.

And waited.

2

By that weekend I’d given up hope of getting a response from the supposed billionaire. I hadn’t forgotten the ad and the picture, though. I really wished I’d saved a copy of both, but could still remember most of the text of the ad. The picture was seared into my brain and I thought about it often, the scene popping into my head at the most inopportune moments, like during a meeting at work.

Since I hadn’t gotten a reply to my message, I resumed looking through Craigslist in hopes of finding what I had begun to think of as a “beginner submissive” situation. I wanted someone to show me the ropes, as it were, to ease me into a relationship in which I would be expected primarily to fulfill the wishes of a man. My dom would need to be understanding of the fact that I wasn’t fully committed to that type of relationship yet. He would need to guide me slowly into it. I was seeking a kindler, gentler dom.

On Saturday night I clicked on a link that read: “Looking for a woman to serve me.” What I found inside was laughable. There was an actual contract, with twenty-three clauses that would need to be agreed upon, and instructions to print it out, initial each clause, sign and date it at the bottom, and bring the contract with you to the meeting — provided you were lucky enough to get one. There were also a dozen pictures, some obviously taken from porn sites and one of an erect cock that I assumed belonged to the dom-to-be. Very subtle. The funniest part was clause number seventeen, which said, “Duties will include: cooking, cleaning, dusting, laundry, fellatio, dog-walking.” I wonder if the required fellatio would be restricted to the man himself and not Fido as well.

I finally gave up my search and did some reading, an erotica book titled Bossed Around, about a woman who takes a job as an administrative assistant then learns she’ll actually be serving as a submissive to her powerful new boss. The book was poorly written, but the situations were interesting enough for me to imagine myself in them. I was beginning to get drowsy when I heard the ding on my phone that signaled a new email message. I glanced at it, preparing for it to be spam, ready to delete it then turn off the light and drift off to sleep.

Re: Billionaire seeks submissive

I was instantly wide awake.

Oh my God, it was him. Maybe. There was always the chance it was an automated reply. I opened my email app and clicked on the message.

350 SW Madison, Suite 2721

Monday at 12:15 pm.

Dress casually.

M.

The email was sent from the address m@anonymizer.com. I quickly Googled that domain and discovered Anonymizer.com provided untraceable email forwarding. Googling the address and suite number was likewise unfruitful as it turned up the names of several unrelated businesses. Despite my advanced online snooping skills, I couldn’t glean anything at all about the sender.

It was difficult to fall asleep that night, with my mind filled with thoughts of hot billionaires, stern orders, intense sex and visible breasts on MAX cars. Not wanting to appear desperate, I waited until the following morning to respond, again keeping it simple.

Per your wishes, I will see you at 12:15.

Rachel

By Monday I was a wreck, way too anxious to get anything done at work. I still hadn’t decided whether or not I was going to go through with the meeting, but luckily this guy’s office was just six blocks from my own. During the morning, I decided I would go to the address in his email and take a look at the building. If it looked respectable, I’d proceed to the twenty-seventh floor and slyly check out his office from the hallway. Assuming everything looked legit, I would meet with this man. Just as likely, though, I’d get spooked and instead go eat lunch at a food truck before heading back at my office.

It was a gorgeous spring day and downtown Portland shone like a gem as I made my way toward Madison Street. I wore navy blue pants and an ivory silk blouse with a dark gray wool jacket and matching gray heels. My stomach was in knots and I had no idea how to act or what to say to a dom. I couldn’t lie about my lack of experience as a sub, since he’d surely discern the truth at some point. Instead I would take the approach of being totally honest and see where that got me.

I arrived at the building quickly, and the fact that his office was in the Bank of Portland building didn’t calm me at all; I think I would have preferred it be some sketchy place so I could bail out without feeling cowardly. Instead it was a beautiful gleaming glass skyscraper, the tallest building in town at 45 stories. Going to his place of business was reassuring, as we would no doubt be restricted to simple conversation for this initial meeting. I stood outside in the sun for a few moments, then entered through the huge doors.

The elevator dropped me off at the twenty-seventh floor. On the way up I had imagined a huge group of offices taking up the entire floor, his personal space being a corner suite overlooking the Willamette River. I located suite 2721 and was surprised to see a single glass door with a small sign on the wall next to it reading “Regency Office Suites.” I walked past it, glancing in to see a woman sitting behind a plain reception desk. Definitely nothing as fancy as the word “billionaire” implied.

I ducked into a nearby ladies’ room and checked my phone. 12:17. Now or never. Do or die.

The face in the mirror exuded a lack of confidence. I told myself that meeting with him didn’t necessarily mean he’d choose me for a submissive, or that I’d have to agree to it if he did want me. It was just a meeting. I could do this.

No more stalling. I took a deep breath and straightened my outfit. Doubling back to the suite, I opened the door and walked in with as much self-assurance as I could muster.

The receptionist was a young, pretty woman, early twenties I’d guess. Nice, trim figure. She was reading a paperback and didn’t have the look of a receptionist for a powerful organization. Her simple desk and the tacky picture of sailboats on the wall screamed “cheap.” “Can I help you?” she asked politely, looking up from her book.

“Hi, my name is Rachel Malinsky,” I said. “I’m here to see…”

Oh, shit. I didn’t know his name. All he’d given me was an initial.

She broke the awkward pause by saying, “You have a 12:15 appointment with M, right?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Third door on the left,” she said, pointing her pen down a hallway, then ignoring me as she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

I thanked her, again surprised by her lack of professionalism. I’d expected to be escorted to his office, but instead walked alone. The first door on my left had a sign that read “Sparq CyberSecurity” and across the hall was “Adesso Imports.” The second door on the left was open, and as I passed it I saw a single desk with a man behind it, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window while talking on the phone. The sign on that door read “Brandon Publishing.” These all seemed like distinct businesses, not a large single entity.

Arriving at the third door, I knew I was at the right place. The sign on it said simply “M.”

Nervous as could be, I knocked and a few seconds later heard a voice from inside with an odd accent say, “Come in.”

If I’d come this far, I had to see it through. Steeling myself, I opened the door.

3

The office was small, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. There were floor-to-ceiling windows with no curtains or blinds, and the bright midday sunlight streamed through and illuminated the room. It contained only two pieces of furniture, a desk facing the window and a leather executive chair. On the desk was one single item: an opened laptop computer, opened so the screen and keyboard were visible, though the screen was currently blank. I looked around and saw nothing else at all — no other furniture, no telephone, no printer, not even a trash can.

And there was nobody in the office.

A little weirded out, I turned back to the door to leave and I heard the voice again.

“Shut the door and have a seat.”

That was no accent. It was a computerized voice, coming from the computer’s speaker. I noticed a red light atop the screen. This was definitely strange. I closed the door and sat in the chair. The monitor flickered, then I saw the picture of the woman on the MAX car.

“You are late.” The mechanized voice coming from the speaker was unnerving.

“I apologize,” I said, my voice quavering. “I needed a moment to gather my courage.”

“Do not be late again,” he said.

“I won’t, I promise,” I managed.

“I am M,” he said. “You look even better than in your picture.”

I tried to smile. “You can see me?” I asked.

“The computer has a camera,” he replied.

This one-sided video hardly seemed fair. “Can I see you?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” came the reply. “The image you see before you is representative of me.”

His voice was calm and commanding, just as one might expect from a dom, but it sounded more like a calm, commanding robot.

“Remove your jacket.”

I paused. Something inside me bristled at the command. The situation seemed pervy. Still, I was alone in the office and there was someone next door and the receptionist just a few feet away. If I removed my jacket, though, M would clearly see my size. I imagined him saying, “No thank you, please leave” when he realized I was a big girl. If he was actually wealthy, he could have his pick of women, even for a submissive.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

I waited a second, then said, “No” and stood up, removing my jacket and draping it over the back of the chair.

“That’s better,” he said. “Are you nervous?”

“A little.” I was way more nervous than I was going to let on.

“You said you had to gather your courage before meeting me. Why is that?”

The moment of truth had arrived. I stuck to my plan of total honesty.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” I said.

“You have never served as a submissive before?” He sounded perturbed.

“I haven’t,” I replied, looking at the floor. “I know your ad said ‘experienced only,’ but I assure you I have given this careful consideration and I think in the right situa—”

“Stop talking,” he said insistently. “And look directly at the screen.” I did as told, once again looking at the faces of the commuters in the presence of the semi-exposed woman.

A moment passed. I could feel my breasts swell with every breath and wondered if it was noticeable on his end.

“I will only consider you for the position, Rachel, if you can pass a simple test. Would you like to try?”

“Yes, please.” My words came quickly, before I’d had time to think about it.

“Show me one breast,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I hesitated. I wasn’t exactly stunned by the request, considering the image I was currently looking at, but I refused to fulfill it.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Then you are not the person I’m looking for.”

I remained seated, staring at the woman’s breast.

“Is there something else?” said the robotic voice.

I stared at the red light above the monitor. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you yet. I have no idea whether this might end up on the Internet, or broadcast live, for that matter.”

“I see. Not an entirely unreasonable fear.”

A moment of silence, then he said, “A modified version, then: Go to the window and stand facing the street. Take out your breast there.”

I knew I had only seconds to decide whether to do it. The camera was facing away from that direction and M might not even know whether or not I followed his order. I stood and walked to the window, looking out at the street below. There was typical daytime traffic, both on the street and the sidewalk. Nobody was looking up where I was, though. I wasn’t even sure if the windows were tinted, as they often are in office buildings. Directly across from me was another office building, shorter than this one but still taller than the floor I was on. I couldn’t see into that building at all.

He probably wouldn’t know either way — should I actually do this? It wasn’t likely that anyone would see me, so why not? I slowly unbuttoned my blouse and realized I was simultaneously scared and excited. Reaching a hand into my bra, I took out my breast, all of it, and pulled back my blouse to expose myself. My nipple stiffened immediately. Nobody looked up from below. I remained like that for all of two seconds, then pulled my bra back on and buttoned my blouse.

Feeling brave and excited and strangely proud of myself, I returned to the chair and sat, looking at the monitor with a slight smirk.

Immediately, the screen flickered again and the image disappeared. Then the red light went off.

“Are you there?” I asked.

No response.

“Hello?”

He was gone.

What the hell?

I put my jacket back on, then pushed a few keys on the keyboard. Enter, escape… it was still powered on, but nothing worked. I stood there for a minute, flipped my middle finger at the camera in case he was still watching, then left the office. As I walked past the office next door, the man looked up and smiled. Was it him? I wondered.

I asked the receptionist if she knew how I could get in touch with M, telling her that our online meeting had been interrupted.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said.

“Have you ever seen him?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We rent out offices to businesses that aren’t yet big enough to have anything more. Some people rent by the month, some by the week. That one was just rented a few days ago and the only people I’ve seen going in are the women who have had appointments.”

I thanked her for her time and walked back to my office, then sat at my desk trying to figure out what happened. I had done what M asked me to, and it was a big step for me. I normally don’t go around exposing myself; I have body issues and I’ve never flashed anyone before, ever. I began to wonder if there might have been another camera in the office somewhere, if he actually had seen me expose myself. Maybe he didn’t like what he saw. Maybe he wanted someone thinner. He certainly wouldn’t be the first guy who’d made that same decision.

4

As the afternoon wore on, the more irritated I got. I was mad at M for disappearing, mad at myself both for following his orders and for not doing what he said the first time and exposing myself to the camera. I know that makes little sense, but I was confused and angry; I had begun to think I might actually pursue this strange type of relationship, and after getting this far, I was back to square one. Eventually I calmed down enough to consider finding out what had happened and maybe salvaging the situation. Besides, I wanted to know why someone claiming to be a billionaire would have such a tiny office. I logged off of the corporate wifi network on my phone and pulled up my Gmail app. After finding our email correspondence, I sent M a message.

I did what you asked. Was I not what you were looking for?

Less than a minute passed before I received a reply.

Give me your phone number.

I sent him my number and waited. Within seconds a text came in from a Portland number I didn’t recognize.

I told you to stand in the window with your breast exposed.

I quickly texted back:

And I did as instructed. Not an easy thing for me, mind you.

The reply came quickly.

I never gave you the order to cover your breast again. I barely got to see you.

I sat looking at my phone, dumbfounded. So he expected me to stand there with my boob out until he told me stop? That’s a level of control I wasn’t expecting. And did he actually see me exposing myself? I texted him back.

You could see me at the window?

His response:

Yes, I saw you.

How could he see me? Immediately another text appeared.

I liked what I saw, Rachel.

This was riveting. This total stranger had seen me partially naked, and he claims he liked what he saw. I felt the blood pulsing in my veins and my breathing grew deeper.

Nevertheless, you failed the test. I’m sorry. Thank you for your time.

I felt a surge of panic. I was not ready for this to end. I wanted to see if I was capable of doing what was required of me in this situation, of following the orders of a powerful man without questioning him. I quickly sent another text.

Test me again.

As soon as I sent it, I sent another one.

I’ll do anything you ask.

I stared at the text I’d just sent, unsure of what part of me was brave enough — or crazy enough — to have sent it. What the hell was I doing? And why was I doing it?

Do you have a private office?

So I hadn’t lost him yet. This was becoming a game, a fascinating test of wills. I sensed a tingling between my legs that usually indicated sexual excitement. I texted him back the single word “yes,” then received his reply.

Shut the door, then remove every single item of clothing. Everything. Take a picture of yourself naked from the neck down and send it to me.

What? Could I actually do that? Furthermore, should I? A second later, a followup message popped up.

Don’t think, Rachel. Just do as you are told.

Something in that text, in the directness of its wording, spoke to me. Scared to death of what I was asked to do, I felt absolutely compelled to do it anyway. I texted my response.

OK

Rising from my chair, I crossed the office and shut my door. Luckily, it locked, though if anyone knocked I’d have to think quickly. I adjusted the blinds behind my desk to allow in some light, but prevent anyone from seeing anything in case someone happened to look.

I removed my jacket and slipped off my shoes, then my pants. My blouse came off next, my nervous fingers clumsily fumbling with the buttons. Reaching behind me, I unclasped my bra and set it on my desk. Then I peeled off my pantyhose, taking my panties with them. I was naked — not wearing a stitch in my office at 4:20 in the afternoon on a regular workday, with my co-workers going about their business just outside, absolutely unaware of the large, naked woman nearby.

Positioning my phone against a vase on the desk, I set the camera to three seconds and tried my best to get the framing and focus right, then stepped back and stood still. The flash went off and I checked — my face was in the frame and the focus was off. I saw my earrings reflecting the flash and remembered M saying to remove everything. I don’t know if jewelry counted, but I quickly took them off and put them on the desk before resetting the camera and posing again. Dammit, it was still not framed well, though the focus was better. I could only afford one more attempt, then I’d have to get dressed; I simply couldn’t risk being caught in such a compromising position. I set the camera and posed, then looked at the picture.

Good enough. There was my naked body, from just below my mouth all the way down to my feet, every inch of me in focus and well lit by the flash. Less than a minute later I was fully dressed again, and I unlocked the door, opened the blinds and sat back behind my desk. My breathing was heavy and I felt alive, my entire body buzzing as if I’d consumed too much caffeine. I couldn’t believe I had actually been naked in my office in the middle of a workday.

Then I looked at the picture and felt my heart sink. Every flaw I had was on perfect display: my belly, my hips, my thighs, my breasts — all too big. My nipples and areolae were one of the few parts of me I actually liked, and even they looked uneven, one slightly bigger than the other. Red lines from my panty hose crossed my abdomen just below my navel. A visible half-fuzz could be seen on my pussy, thanks to my not having waxed recently, and my labia were clearly visible.

In short, I looked awful instead of sexy. Sure, sending M this picture would show I could do as instructed, but he would certainly lose interest when he saw the nude chubby girl. Still, it was all I had to send. This is who I am. I could either bail out now, or send the picture and hope for a miracle.

I sent it.

A minute passed, then another. And another. I waited, fearing the worst. When I was no longer able to stand the suspense, I decided a stated rejection would be better than silence and I sent a text.

Did you receive the picture?

Finally he replied.

Yes.

Again I waited, but nothing more came. I had to know what he thought.

Are you looking at me right now?

The seconds passed. This guy sure took his own sweet time with his responses. Then my phone rang in my hand and I was so shocked I nearly screamed. I looked at the number — it was him, calling me.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Rachel. This is M.” His voice was deep and authoritative, one of those voices that always seem to be narrating documentaries. I took a breath. “Thank you for the picture. I’m proud of you for taking it; I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

How did he know that? Was I that easy to read earlier when he saw my face earlier? Or was he assuming that because of my fat body?

“I did what I was told,” I said.

“I can see that,” he said, making me blush. “Tell me, are you still wearing the pearl earrings I saw earlier? I can’t tell from the picture.”

“No,” I replied.

“Why not? Where are they?”

“They’re on my desk,” I said. “I removed them before I took the picture. You told me to take off everything.”

I could almost sense a smile coming through the phone. “Let me briefly tell you what I would expect from you as my submissive,” M said. “Then you can decide whether you are still interested.”

“Okay,” I said, my heart in my throat.

“First of all, you will make yourself available to me whenever I ask. I will make sure not to interfere with your work schedule and your career.”

He paused briefly, then continued, “You will do anything I instruct you to. Failure to obey me will terminate our relationship. And you may end it on your own at any point, should you decide you no longer wish to participate. Do you understand these terms?”

“Yes,” I gulped. I still was unsure as to whether I could follow through with this. I imagined being asked to come to his house to administer a blowjob, then being dispatched back home. Maybe handcuffs or ropes? Spanking? I really had no idea what he would be asking of me.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.

“Will you require anything painful?”

“No, never. Physical pain is not my thing, neither giving nor receiving.”

That was a relief. I could handle the sex part of a submissive relationship. I actually liked sex and considered myself reasonably skilled. Once guys got past the idea that they were with a chubby girl, they always seemed to enjoy themselves. That thought led me to another question I had to ask. I fumbled for the right words. “Did you like the photo?”

“Very much,” he replied. “You are quite lovely.”

I was stunned. Nobody had ever used that word to describe my body before.

“You aren’t blind, are you?” I asked, half-laughing.

His reply was quick, “You are a very sexy woman, Rachel.”

Was he serious? I couldn’t tell. “Don’t joke about my body, please.”

“I’m not joking. Your naked body has given me an erection.”

“You’re hard now?” The words slipped out.

“Quite.”

My brain turned to mush and I struggled to think of what to say. “I’m glad I please you,” I said softly. The mental image of this total stranger with my picture in one hand and his hard-on in the other was both creepy and thrilling.

I gathered my wits. “How many women responded to the ad? And how many have you interviewed?”

“I received nearly a hundred replies,” M said casually. “Of those, most refused to follow instructions and sent multiple pictures. I responded to the ones who obeyed. At this point, I’ve interviewed a dozen women and have six more to go.”

Great. The odds of me being the prettiest or sexiest woman out of so many were remote.

“Any more questions, Rachel?”

I thought for a moment. “Are you actually worth a billion dollars?” I inquired, thinking about that tiny office.

“No,” he said. Part of me was disappointed, but I suspected that would be the case. Then M added, “Technically I’m worth somewhere between two and three billion. You stop counting at some point.”

My jaw dropped, then something clicked inside of me.

“Then why the small office?” I prodded.

“I rented that just for the interviews resulting from this ad,” M said. “I couldn’t very well parade all these women into my real office without people wondering.”

That’s bullshit, I thought.

His explanation seemed too facile, his answers too pat. If he wasn’t who he claimed to be, I couldn’t be sure he actually did like my big body. Maybe he wasn’t excited by it at all. Everything that was so thrilling moments before was rapidly evaporating. Suddenly I had to get off the phone; this was happening too fast and I needed time to think. Thank God he hadn’t asked for a picture of my face and naked body in the same shot; there was nothing in the one I’d sent him that would give me away if it ended up online.

“So you’ll be in touch?” I asked, hoping to end the conversation quickly.

“Yes, either way,” he said. “After I’ve completed the interviews.”

“I look forward to hearing from you,” I said, only half meaning it, then bade a cordial goodbye to the faux-billionaire and his imaginary hard-on.

5

The longer the week went on, the more anxious I grew. I tried to keep a level head when thinking about M, but the fact was that, billionaire or not, he pushed certain buttons I’d never had pushed before. Our interactions had been scary and exciting, and that resonated with me sexually in a way I wasn’t accustomed to.

I kept telling myself that it was silly to dwell on this, that he would surely be more interested in one of the other interviewees, some slender young thing who had peeled off her clothes without hesitation the instant he asked her to. Or maybe that wasn’t a part of the interview process for everyone — had he sensed my trepidation and asked me to do that just to see if I was daring enough to comply? The thought occurred to me that maybe he didn’t like big women at all and was just callously playing me, seeing if he could get me to strip for him. If that were the case, he’d definitely succeeded.

I was just beginning to get him out of my mind when M texted me out of the blue late Friday night. I had been watching a movie with Mingus, my cat. As a joke, I’d created a ringtone for M’s texts using Pink Floyd’s “Money” and was shocked when I heard the familiar riff. I was honestly thinking I’d never hear from him again and had made a note to get to know someone better before sending them nude pics of myself, face or no. I grabbed my phone and opened the message.

Are you sure you’re up for this?

Holy shit. My brain practically exploded. Was he saying I got the “job”? And if so, did I really want it? How could I have beaten twenty other women? Did he actually interview anyone else at all? Was I the only chick dumb enough to respond to his ad? And most of all, if I doubted him this much, why was I so fucking excited looking at his text?

I knew I couldn’t keep M waiting. I had to answer promptly, but what would I say?

I believe I am. Why do you ask?

My phone rang and I dropped it on the couch out of surprise. It was him.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Rachel. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do exactly as I say, okay?”

The mental aspect of this was excruciating. I had no idea what I was about to be asked to do.

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Tell me where you are and what you’re wearing,” he said.

“I’m at home, sitting on my couch. I’m wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt.”

“Panties?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, blushing. “And socks. But no bra.”

“Close your eyes.” His voice was deep, hypnotic. “Imagine me wearing a dark suit and tie, standing in my expensive office. I’m behind a gorgeous burled walnut desk. On my desk is my cell phone, with your naked picture displayed. Are you following me?”

Was he kidding? I was hanging on his every word. “Yes, I am.”

“Good. Are you right-handed?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Hold the phone in your left hand and slide your right into your pants, under your panties. I want you to stroke your clit for me.”

I did as told without hesitation. As my finger found my clit, I smiled at the thought that this was already the best sex I’d had in a long time. “Okay,” I said. “I’m touching myself.”

“Now imagine me at my desk, unzipping my fly and reaching in to take out my cock,” M continued. “I stroke it as I’m looking at your picture. People keep entering my office and seeing what I’m doing, then leaving immediately. I don’t care about them; I’m fixated on jerking off to your naked image. Can you picture that?”

Fuck. At this point, I didn’t care if he was a real billionaire or not. “Yes,” I said, my pussy flooding with wetness as I imagined the scene.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Continue to stroke your clit and think about my cock and your picture. I can’t control myself looking at your body. Imagine me reaching orgasm, spewing cum all over your image on my phone.”

My breathing grew heavy. I waited for him to continue.

“I’m going to stop talking now,” he continued. “Keep imagining that scene while you touch yourself. You will come for me, loud enough for me to hear.”

It was an order, a command. I tried to forget that I was masturbating for a man I’d never met and cleared my head of all thoughts except M standing at his desk, stroking a large, beautiful rock-hard dick while looking at me naked. He ignored anyone who walked in then left in embarrassment. His own breathing was heavy now. I heard him moan — or was that me moaning? It was both of us, him in my mind and me in real life. I gave in to the mental picture of M jerking off, stroking his cock faster in time with my own stroking. His cock erupted, thick white cum spurting out across his polished desk, shot after shot landing over my naked body on his phone.

I came quickly, much quicker than I usually do, even with a vibrator. My clit throbbed and I cried out as sparks shot through my body. I continued to coax the waves out of me, moaning loudly until I had nothing left. It was then that the embarrassment descended on me. My breathing was still coarse, my finger still hovering near my clit.

M’s voice came through the phone, soft but firm. “Good girl.”

I didn’t know what to say, how to respond to him. I withdrew my hand from my pants and waited for him to talk.

“I had a feeling about you, Rachel.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Have you concluded the interviews?” I asked.

“I have,” M said. “You are now my property.”

I wanted this. “Yes,” I replied. “I am.” A thought popped into my head. “Only me? Is there anyone else?”

“Only you.”

“Are you sure I’m the one you want?” I don’t know what made me ask. Maybe a need for approval, for verification that he’d actually thought it through and that my oversized body was the one he wanted to be controlling.

“I have no doubt,” M said. “You are the perfect woman for this.”

It felt so good to hear those words from a man, even one I’d never met.

“Will we get tested for STDs first?”

M’s answer surprised and confused me: “There’s no need. We won’t be having sex.”

“Um… okay.” That seemed strange. Surely he meant not at first.

“When can we meet?” I asked.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he replied.

Again I assumed he meant it wasn’t possible for the time being.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he said. “We’ll talk soon. Do not contact me; wait for me to get in touch.”

Just like that, he was gone.

And I was a sub.

6

I awoke on Sunday riddled with doubt. I didn’t know this man, I had no idea what he even looked like or what his name was, and I didn’t have a clue about the whats, wheres and whens of his domming me. There were so many questions, and I couldn’t call, text or email M to ask.

Fortunately, M texted me just before noon, while I was still at home. “Money” played and I picked up my phone.

I will be busy all day today. Your day is your own.

I dashed off a reply.

M, we need to talk. Please. I have questions.

The phone rang.

“Hi,” I said sheepishly.

“Don’t worry, this is common,” M said reassuringly. “Ask away.”

I tried to gather my thoughts, but just talking to M moved me into a more sexual state of being. His voice, the thought of serving him, the orgasm I’d had the previous night… I was too easily aroused by him.

“I…I guess I don’t understand the part about us not meeting, not having sex,” I said.

“That’s not really a question,” M laughed. “I’m not like other doms. Remember before, when I mentioned that there would be no physical pain involved? Instead, what makes me happy is to push you psychologically.”

“Push me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Gently at times. Other times, it might be a little shove. But I will guide you, little by little, until you are the perfect submissive for me.”

“But how will you do that if we don’t meet? Is this always over the phone?” I still didn’t understand.

“No, not always,” M responded. “You’ll understand after a while. Until then, you will just have to trust me, Rachel.”

I liked the way he said my name, like he cared about me. But that wasn’t enough.

“I don’t know if I can trust you if I can’t even meet you,” I protested. “I need something a little more substantial than a voice, something to tell me you’re really who you say you are.”

I could hear him breathing softly. “I anticipated this with you,” he said. “I knew you would need a little convincing.” I wondered where he was leading. “Where did you go to college?”

That’s an odd question, I thought. “Stanford. Why?”

“Expensive school. Were you on a scholarship?” M asked.

“Partially, for the first year,” I replied. “My parents had a college fund that got me through two years. After that I worked and took out student loans.”

“How much do you still owe?”

Again M had me confused and on edge. “A bit over eleven thousand dollars.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice calm.

“Yes, I just made a payment last week,” I said.

“Check your account.”

“I don’t un—”

“Check the account, Rachel.”

This was getting weird and I was suddenly anxious. “Just a moment,” I said as I walked to my computer and pulled up the student loan website in a browser window. I logged in, clicked on my account number and looked at the balance.

$0.00

My mind reeled. I had just checked this account a few days earlier and knew for a fact I still owed eleven thousand plus. I looked at the account detail and saw the most recent entry was a payment for $11,372.88. My breath caught in my throat.

“Do you believe me now?” M asked. Before I could answer, he said, “I assure you that I am who I say I am. I will never lie to you, Rachel, nor should you lie to me. We should always be honest with one another.“

“How did you do this?” I asked, my anxiety taking over despite his attempts to assuage my fears. “How did you get my account information? How do you even know my last name?”

“It doesn’t take much to learn these things,” he said. “Only money, and I have plenty of that.”

“If I’m being honest with you, I should tell you that this is freaking me out,” I said, my head buzzing and my voice quivering. “I don’t know whether to thank you or call the cops.”

M paused, then said, “No need to do either. I merely wanted to demonstrate that money is no issue for me and that I care about your well-being.”

I mulled over his words. Obviously, M was rich. Nobody would throw thousands of dollars away on phone sex unless they had that kind of money to burn. That wasn’t enough, though.

“I want to see you,” I said.

“Did you stop to consider that you may already have?”

“What? When?” I implored.

“You’ll learn that later, too. I must go now, my dear. I’ll be in touch soon.”

“No, wait!” I said.

Too late. He’d already hung up.

And I wasn’t allowed to call him back.

7

I was in my office on Monday, exactly a week to the day I’d gone for my interview with M. Since our conversation the day before, I’d been thinking non-stop about him, about me being a submissive, about me having a dom, and especially about my student loans. I’d called and confirmed that my balance was now zero, that my loans had been paid in full.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about M’s hint that I’d possibly seen him already. When could that have happened? I wondered if this was an elaborate hoax perpetrated by someone who knew me, but then remembered that I had answered a random Craigslist ad. It certainly seemed like M was for real.

Strange maybe, but apparently legit. But not knowing anything about him was slowly making me crazy.

Just before lunch, I was thinking about my interview in that little office with the computer, and being asked to bare my breast in the window for all of Portland to see. That’s when I remembered the man in the office next door who smiled as I walked past.

It was him! It had to be.

I took an early lunch and walked back to the building on Madison, taking the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor again. Walking into the suite, I saw the same receptionist behind the desk.

“I just have a quick question for M,” I said, not stopping or waiting for permission. As I walked down the hallway I saw that the second door on the left was again open, the one with the sign reading, “Brandon Publishing.” I looked in and the man was behind the desk, busy on his computer.

Looking up, he smiled and said, “Can I help you?”

“You’re M, aren’t you?” I demanded.

He looked bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know it’s you,” I said firmly, though it dawned on me I could be making a mistake. As if right on cue, I heard Pink Floyd’s “Money.”

Shit. I looked at my phone. Sure enough, there was a text from M. I opened it.

That’s not me. Come into my office.

I looked up at the man and apologized profusely, continuing as I backed out of his office. The receptionist met me in the hallway with a glare and unlocked M’s office for me. I walked in and locked the door behind me, then sat forcefully in the chair and stared at the computer.

A second later the screen powered clicked on and again I saw the image of the woman on the MAX car. This time I felt an affinity for her, as if we were members of the same club.

The speaker came to life. “Rachel, you shouldn’t have done that.” This time it was his actual voice coming from the computer, not a mechanical one.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“The receptionist called me,” M said. “I promise I’m not stalking you.”

“I want to see you,” I again insisted. “I need to see you, M.”

He sighed. “Like I said, that’s not possible at this point. I’m sorry. If that’s a dealbreaker for you, then so be it.”

“Just show me your face, on the screen,” I said.

“No.”

“Goddamit, I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. Give me a reason to trust you.”

“I cannot let you know who I am, Rachel. I’m sorry.”

“Show me something, anything,” I said.

There was no response. But he didn’t say no.

“You’ve seen me naked. Can I see your body? Without your face?” I was begging. I wanted to see a living, breathing person on the other side of that connection.

Again, no response. He was on the fence.

“Please, M?”

Seconds passed in silence, then the monitor flickered and I was looking at a man in a suit. The camera was positioned so that I could only see from his breast pocket to his knees. He appeared to be seated in a car. Apart from his obviously expensive clothing, there was nothing visible, nothing that could be used to identify him.

“This is me, Rachel. And my first name does begin with the letter ‘M.’”

I was almost in tears, the relief was so great.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No face, though, not for now,” M said. “We’ll see how things go.”

I looked at him on the screen. It was hard to tell, but he looked trim, well built. He certainly wasn’t overweight. Body-wise, he appeared to be an attractive man.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“In my car, on my way to the airport. I have to catch a flight.” The image blurred, then I was looking at the back of someone’s head. “That is my driver.” M was in the back seat of the car, pointing the camera toward the front. Bright sunlight coming through the windshield precluded me from seeing much else. Then the camera was again pointed at M’s body.

“Can I ask you something private, M?”

“Hang on… Put the partition up, please.” He was talking to the driver. I imagined a darkened partition rising behind the driver’s head. “Okay.”

“The scenario you painted the other night, of you masturbating to my picture on your desk… did you actually do that?”

“I did,” he said. “Although it was after hours and nobody was in the office except me. I did imagine people walking in and catching me, though.”

I smiled. “Did you come?” I asked.

“Yes. I adore your body, Rachel.”

“I don’t understand that,” I said. “I’m fat.”

“You’re voluptuous, my dear,” M said. “Wars have been started over bodies like yours.”

I felt tears well in my eyes. This man certainly had a way with words. And that voice.

“And men have left me over it as well,” I said. “So forgive me if I have trouble believing that it holds that much appeal to you.”

A moment later M said, “Take off your clothes, Rachel. All of it.”

I did as instructed, standing directly in front of the camera as I disrobed, fully aware that anyone looking in from the building across the street might see me, or at least parts of me. I finally slid my panties off, thankful that I had waxed this time, and sat in the chair again.

“How can you see or hear me if you’re holding your phone like that?” I asked.

“I turned on the speaker.”

“But you can’t see me,” I said.

M re-aimed the phone and I saw a laptop sitting on the seat across from him. When I saw myself on the screen, it was all I could do not to get up and grab my clothes. It hadn’t occurred to me that he could plainly see my face as well as my very naked body; I thought it would be more like the picture I had sent him. The phone thankfully returned to M’s body and I could no longer see naked Rachel on the laptop’s screen, although M could.

I glanced out the office window to see if anyone in the building across the street was looking, but I couldn’t see into the tinted windows. My body was probably obscured by the desk anyway. Looking back at the screen, I saw M lowering his zipper. My heart seemed to stop beating and I watched, riveted, as his hand disappeared into the opening, only to reappear a moment later holding his erect cock. It was gorgeous and so, so hard.

“Here is your proof, my dear,” he said. “See what happens when I look at your naked body?”

Did I really do this to him? Seriously? My chubby body?

M began to slowly stroke himself. I immediately felt the wetness between my legs. I considered rubbing my clit or even squeezing my nipples a little, but knew I shouldn’t because my new dom hadn’t told me to. I watched as a silvery bead of pre-cum leaked out of the tip of his cock. I squirmed in my chair as I imagined him looking intently at my nude figure.

He stopped for a moment, his hand leaving his hard-on. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but I looked on in a state of near-rapture at the beautiful erection on my screen. His hand came back into view and he moved his cock back into his pants, zipping up afterward.

“Enough of that,” M said. “I don’t want to make a mess back here.”

I could still plainly see the outline of his hard-on through his slacks, straining at the dark material.

“If I were there, I could clean it up for you,” I said.

M laughed. “If you were here, there would be nothing to clean. You would have been instructed to consume the evidence.”

He kept the phone pointed at his torso, and I kept staring at the bulge created by his erection.

“Please let me see it again.” I was practically begging. “I want to watch you come.”

“No,” he replied, “I’m the dom here, Rachel.”

His authoritative tone made my stomach clench.

“I’ll be back in town in a week, and we can begin. You have until then to prepare yourself mentally.”

Prepare for what? I attempted to smile at him through my confusion. “I’ll try my best. I hope you’ll be happy with me.”

Moments later he said goodbye and the screen flickered off. My mouth watered at the mere thought of “consuming” his “evidence.” I looked out the window again. The desk covered me well enough from prying eyes, so I slid my hand down between my legs and my finger found my clit. As I stroked it, I recollected every detail of what I’d just witnessed on the monitor. I mentally submitted to what I was doing, to my new relationship with M, and imagined I was touching myself on a crowded MAX car, not caring about the people watching me. I had to stifle my scream when I came, my powerful orgasm racking my body. Afterward I remained naked in the chair, my juices slick on its leather surface.

No, M hadn’t told me I could give myself an orgasm. Then again, he hadn’t told me I couldn’t.

When I stood to get dressed, I looked again at the building across the street. The window was calling me, daring to stand naked in front of it for a few seconds. I took two steps towards it, then lost my nerve and quickly got dressed, laughing at myself. I was definitely not that fearless.

On the way back to my office, I knew instinctively that my life had changed. I could feel that I was a different person, I just couldn’t precisely define what had changed, what part of me had been pushed to the back so this nebulous, hazy new Rachel could emerge.

I knew one thing, though: For my whole life up to this point, I had been a closed bud, waiting for the sunshine to awaken me, to open me up.

I’m ready for this.

I think.

To be continued...

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Other Erotica Books by Alexis Adaire

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Conquered — A sexy Halloween party in Beverly Hills provides the perfect setting for two total strangers to indulge in a little steamy historical roleplay. Helen of Troy finds herself totally dominated by alpha male King Leonidas of Sparta and gives in to the fantasy, submitting to her king's every desire, and Leonidas lustfully ravishes Helen as only a handsome, virile warrior can.

The Minotaur and the Maiden — Beautiful young aristocrat Antonia Crivelli was betrothed to the heir of an equally wealthy family, and their arranged marriage was the talk of 15th century Venice. Antonia was content to fantasize about what her marriage bed would be like, until a chance encounter with a shipyard blacksmith lures her into a world of passion and possibly even physical danger. Would Tavros's dark secret scare Antonia away or draw her close enough to him to jeopardize her upcoming nuptials?

The Devil Inside Me — Caitlyn Mathis doesn't know what to do when her younger sister falls dangerously ill and all her prayers go unanswered. When a mysterious stranger enters her life with an offer of help, Caitlyn has to decide whether her sister's life is worth the price she'll have to pay. That decision leads to an encounter that is nearly as dark and terrifying as it is hot and passionate.

I'm With Stupid — Michael’s and Julie’s lives took a strange turn the day Julie caught Michael in bed with her best friend. Wanting to teach her husband a lesson by making him feel that same pain, Julie plans a little party with him as the guest of honor who can only sit and watch. At the time, neither had any idea that Julie’s revenge would change them and their relationship forever. Each tells their side of the story in the ultimate cuckold revenge fantasy.

Alexis Adaire

Living in the Pacific Northwest, Alexis Adaire spends too much time indoors, cuddling under blankets with her husband and muse, emerging from the bedroom periodically to refill her coffee mug and jot down ideas. Does Alexis draw upon personal experience for her short story ideas? She will never tell.

Alexis keeps her twisted identity separate from her everyday life; no one knows what debauchery lies behind her violet eyes. Although, she admits this double-life she leads — mild-mannered office worker by day and erotica novelist by night — keeps a glow to her cheeks and a sly smile to her lips!

Alexis takes her readers to those secret, unspeakable corners of their fantasies they never knew existed.

AlexisAdaire.com

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