Excerpt from "Tales of a Vampire Hunter" - Omnibus Edition: The Collected Works of the Tales of a Vampire Hunter Books 1 - 3

Author's Favorite Excerpt from Tales of a Vampire Hunter - Omnibus Edition: The Collected Works of Tales of a Vampire Hunter 1 - 3 

From Book 3 (Bespelled)

Bangkok, Thailand

Oliver Ripley exited the limo and stepped into another world, a place peaceful and serene. A winding brook babbled over rocks, and fragrant white flowers bloomed along a stone pathway. Sculptured faces of ancient Asian Gods gazed at him from jungle-lush foliage. Silver chimes tinkled, and exotic birds chirped. Oliver did not let the Zen-like calm shake his resolve to do the violence he’d come to do.

“They are ready for you.” A delicate Thai woman met him where the stone walkway widened and became a patio. Tonight, she wore a ruby-red silk, traditional Chakkri dress shot through with gold thread. Her black hair glistened, coiled low on her neck.

She walked briskly down a wood-planked dock, over the gently rippling turquoise-blue sea to a large pavilion flanked by two more just like it, filled with people. His audience. The ones who paid his rent with their twisted desires. He wondered what it cost them to indulge their morbid cravings. Judging from his cut, it had to be a pretty penny. And what of their souls? Did they carry what they witnessed with them, like a dark secret, or did they manage to leave it behind in a way Oliver never could?

The nameless Thai woman left Oliver in the empty center pavilion and backed away from him, bowing low out of respect and maybe a touch of fear.

The party had been going on for a while. Some people were already naked. Others lounged fully clothed and intent on Oliver’s every move.

Oliver waited until the sun had gone down, and that twilight time had come when the clouds were dark purple, black and blue. Under a bruised sky, he would do what he’d come to do. He hoped, as he did every time, this would be the last.

He lifted his hand, calling for silence, which came swiftly. The crowd was eager for the show to begin.

“Bring me the girl,” he said.

A woman in the audience yelped, setting off the nervous laughter of others in the audience. All eyes were on him and the girl who walked slowly toward him, like a bride, down the narrow dock and over the water that sparkled now in the moonlight.

She was young and very lovely. Shades of brown. Autumn. Shaggy, red-brown hair, cocoa skin, doe eyes. Naked, and unbound, she walked to him, stopping a respectful distance away, meeting his eyes. On her finger, she wore a large ruby ring marking her a Vladula clan vampire. Her breasts were tiny and her legs long. Hair formed a triangular thicket between her thighs. In the black coils, bits of red caught the light of the oil lamps lining the edge of the pavilion.

“Why are you here?” he asked, not speaking the words aloud, but pushing the question into her head as they gazed at one another for the first time—vampire and vampire slayer, hunted and hunter, instantly connected.

The audience need not hear this part, the truth they had not paid to witness. But Oliver had to. “Are you prepared to die?” he asked, when she did not answer, speaking aloud this time.

A woman in the audience shrieked. This was part of what they paid for—the sense of danger, being so close to a real, live, honest-to-goodness vampire and vampire slayer, facing death made palpable and entertaining because it wasn’t their own. Aware they were in the presence of creatures capable of taking their lives, quickly and efficiently, had they the desire. Sex and death and danger formed a wicked cocktail, an addictive drug. Most, of course, thought it was an act. A snuff film performed live for their twisted enjoyment. Made more interesting by the roles played—creature-feature monsters come to real, sexual, and deadly life.

“I want to die.” The girl’s voice rang out in his head and then repeated out loud, soft and sure.

The crowd cheered.

Oliver looked away from the sadness in the girl’s eyes and watched as a middle-aged white man with a huge cock shoved a small blonde woman to her knees and pushed himself into her mouth, gripping her long hair, his shifty eyes glued to Oliver.

“Why?” Oliver looked once more at the girl, pushing his voice into her mind where no one else could hear.

“I didn’t ask for this. I’m scared.” Tears spilled from her eyes as she spoke the words aloud.

In the audience, clothes were shed, tops lifted, nipples sucked, cocks stroked. This was what they’d come to see. This was what they’d paid for. This was what they wanted. Sex and danger and death.

“Fuck her,” someone said, their tone that of one already in the throes of pleasure, impatient for their climax.

“Kill her,” another shouted, their voice gruff with a darker excitement.

Oliver spoke aloud as the vampire girl had. “You desire it fast and hard. Quick.” He leaned closer to the girl, his lips almost brushing hers.

The audience’s collective excitement hung heavy and alive in the air, like an electrical storm. Flesh slapping on flesh sounded a drum-like beat that seemed to echo the pounding in Oliver’s heart.

The girl trembled. Her eyelashes swept down as she looked away, but she stayed in place, standing before him begging him to kill her, save her. Pushing the words into his head.

Oliver sighed. She was another too weak to free him from his curse. Another who only begged him to put her out of her misery, with no idea of his. Weak she was, afraid and suicidal. A victim of the vampires, a fledgling with no Master. A Vladula.

He slipped his hand under her hair, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse fluttering in her neck. The hairs on his arms rose.

“Please. End it.” She opened her eyes. They were dry now, determined.

“Would that I could end it for us both,” Oliver said softly, too softly for anyone else to hear.

His hands on her shoulders told her what to do. She sank to her knees, mouth open before him, those huge eyes still begging him. Her voice was silent, but in his head, her thoughts flowed as his slayer soul reached out and easily snared her newly-made vampire essence and the small nugget that remained of the girl she once had been.

He saw into her mind as if watching a movie. She showed him how they’d come for her in a dark, underground parking garage. Arms loaded with books, fumbling for her keys, she had been an easy victim, lost before she hit the ground. And then, the man with a black Mohawk, who wore a leather collar studded with silver spikes. Spike Vladula. Blood. Voices as she lay dying. “The key. The doorway…” as the vampire took her over, brought her to the brink of death and then eased her back. In the end, dying, afraid, she’d drank the blood, heard the strange, senseless words. I don’t want to die, she’d thought then as she did now. But I can’t live like this.

“Why?” Anger and sadness flooded him. He yanked her head back with a fistful of her hair.

“If I have to live like this, I’m already dead.” Her voice was a scream in his head.

She answered the wrong question, telling him why she wanted to die as if he didn’t know the gut-wrenching torment one such as she felt trapped by abilities she never asked for and didn’t want. She did not know why Vladula had picked her, why she was here, or why she was about to die.

Guiding her hands to his cock, he held her fingers in his, showing her how to do it. His anger, her fear, their shock and confusion, on stage before people who now fucked all around them, eyes glassy, drunk on forbidden pleasures, had quickened his breath and hers. His flesh surged upward, driving into her seeking fingers. His fury adding to the tension.

Her lips appeared bruised, swollen like her nipples, sweet buds tight and high despite the balmy ocean breeze. Her thighs parted. She looked up at him as if no one watched them. Her eyes locked to his fingers as he slipped buttons free of leather and wrapped his fingers around his cock.

The memories running through her mind as his soul enveloped hers like a cocoon could be nothing but truth. She could not hide anything from him in the throes of death as he took her life. But what did it mean? Why would Vladula send a messenger with no message? Or a message that made no sense? If she had been able to lead him to Spike, Oliver wouldn’t have been so irritated. He’d simply kill Spike and anyone stupid enough to be with him. As it was, being tipped off about his cover being blown just meant he’d have to leave Bangkok so he’d be free to hunt without the distraction of dealing with Vladulas. Though killing them was enjoyable, he preferred to do it on his terms and on his schedule.

Distracted, Oliver watched a man shoot a thick stream of white over a curvaceous woman’s breasts as the dying vampire girl worked Oliver’s own hard flesh as if the thick appendage she sucked was her lifeline. Her moans vibrated along his shaft.

Pleasure peaked, and around them, the air began to glow and spin. Energy whipped the colors into a rainbow swirling around them. A cloud of pure life-force shimmered around vampire and vampire hunter.

A collective gasp swelled from those who watched. Could they see it? Feel it? Oliver thought they must, on some level, though most convinced themselves it was an elaborate, very expensive show.

“Beautiful,” someone said, wonder in their voice.

Inside, where none could see, and only Oliver and the girl could feel, their souls spun together. Oliver’s dipped inside, finding her essence fresh and young, innocent and blameless. A life too soon taken away, condemned. His heart contracted. Pity flooded him. As tears flowed from her eyes, and his seed filled her mouth, he felt her at her core. He knew her as if he’d been with her always. From her first steps to the ones that had led her here. And he cared. He cared enough to free her.

Gratitude shone in her eyes as she realized what was happening to her, even as the light within them dimmed, and his slayer soul began to extinguish the faint light still clinging to life within her.

The crowd roared its satisfaction when the girl slumped to the stage.

As the last spark of her life began to fade, and Oliver waited for the cold, dead stare he knew well, a frisson split off from the cyclone of their combined energy, as if seeking to escape death, untethering itself and fleeing the girl, spitting and stinging as it slammed into Oliver like a fist punch to the chest. Hunters absorbed energy from the vamps they killed, but Oliver had never felt anything like this before.

At his feet, the girl jerked as if shocked by jolts of electricity. Her chest lifted, back arching, breath gasping. Her eyes flew open, and her scream seemed to shove the foreign, contaminated thing deeper into Oliver.

His slayer energy swelled, a hurricane circling the vampire curse—for surely, that’s what the crackling thing was—smoothing it, containing it, and absorbing it until it winked out, not even a smolder remaining.

The girl stirred and opened her eyes. She blinked. Confusion furrowed her brow, her thoughts as jumbled as his, and still

Despite his confused astonishment, Oliver scooped the girl up, tossed her over his shoulder and left the stage. His long legs made quick time up the dock.
The tiny Asian woman met him, passing him the usual small pouch containing his pay. She bowed low, not meeting his eyes, not remarking on the limp girl he carried.

In the driveway, the limo waited as it always did. The breeze fluttered perfumed flowers, and night sounds whirred. The noise of the crowd, dressing, whispering in low voices, seemed far away, soon locked beyond the insulating world of the limo. Driving down streets clogged with cars, red and white lights streaking by, it was silent. Oliver was left alone with his jumbled and raw emotions, the strange girl sleeping on his lap, nestled under his jacket, her face peaceful. She’d passed out.

For Oliver, the torment over the night’s unprecedented events was quieted by the shrieking of awakened inner demons. Closing his eyes, he let the memories consume him.

READ MORE . . . BUY Tales of a Vampire Hunter now ($2.99 for a limited time)

"Tales of a Vampire Hunter" Omnibus Edition - Coming Friday!

Tales of a Vampire Hunter - e-Book Out July 29th

Finally! The e-Book version of Tales of a Vampire Hunter is coming out July 29th.

Tales of a Vampire Hunter has been a labor of love spanning one short story and three novellas (and countless rewrites). As a thank you to the fans who urged me on and turned me into a best-selling author, I let them pick this hot new cover.

M.L. Doyle Review

M.L. Doyle highlights Tales of a Vampire Hunter here, in her provocative blog post about genres and books we "refuse to read" based on preconceived notions. I love a good vampire or zombie novel that breaks with convention and tells a good story (and I am not ashamed to admit it). My sales tell me that many of you agree.

M.L. writes in several genres. I love her work, but if she doesn't have anything new, I can count on her to highlight someone else with a new release I will love. Her new release, Hidden Designs, based in the Lei Crime Kindle World, features FBI Special Agent, Ken Yamada and Army Major, Chuck Mathews, two men who (in the past) were forced to make a choice between career and love. Now, ten-years later, they don’t have to choose one over the other because they don’t have to hide anymore. I can't wait to read it!

I Love Vampire Novels

I Love Vampire Novels is featuring Tales of a Vampire Hunter on their website and in their newsletter on release day (sweet!), and several reviews are in the works from authors and fans of the genre that refuses to die (pun totally intended ;>)

To celebrate, I'll be scheduling giveaways and other fun stuff in the coming weeks, so stay tuned!

If you haven't already preordered your copy, get it today (FREE for Kindleunlimited or for a special release price of only $2.99 for a limited time).

BUY NOW ON AMAZON (universal Amazon link)

"Break Glass if Broken"

I should have known better. I should have stayed home, remained alone. I should have known better.

Once you are an adult, every story begins in the middle. Mine is no different. The unpleasant details of what had come before do not need sharing, though they had brought me to New York where I could hide.

My job allowed me to disappear. A copy editor’s work is essential, yet never as important as that of the writer. This suited me.

In a gray, padded cubicle, reliable words and rules of usage occupied my monitor or filled the space on rectangular pages. Boxed in, I was invisible. Safe. Alone.

Weeknights, I rode the subway to a tiny square apartment with metal bars on the windows and sealed myself behind a door fitted with five deadbolts. I watched the world on television or read about it online. I ate my frozen meals from plastic or cardboard containers and owned no silverware or china, no knives to cut. No glass or china to break. I possessed nothing I did not consider disposable.

Weekends, I wandered museums where I could lose myself in the crowds. Walking beside handsome students, listening to docent lectures, I took notes as if I belonged in their cozy, boisterous groups. I fell into step beside family units, close enough to smell the baby-fresh scent of the shampoo mothers used on children’s hair. So close that, when the crowd swelled along with my need for contact, my hand could drift over a father’s fingers as he held his child’s hand upon an escalator or railing.

I reached for elevator buttons at the same time others did, on purpose, knowing my shrugged and smiled apology would be accepted. Knowing those I accosted would not suspect my longing for the touch of another’s hand on mine, however fleeting, or unwanted.

Listening to strangers’ conversations, I would pretend they spoke to me, composing witty replies no one ever heard.

“So, like, the thing about acting is that, like, you can be anyone, you know? Like, I could be a warrior princess, or like a vampire and shit. Clothes, makeup, and attitude are everything, you know? I took dance too, so my coach says I have a really good shot at getting a part real soon.”

“Does he say that when you’re sucking his dick, or after?” her friend replied, as I applauded, silently.

I could blame drama girl for what happened, but I would know it had been my idea, my fault. What if I acted, I had thought. What if instead of acting like one of these vapid young girls, or pretending to be a doctor on a television show, or a cat in a play, I acted as if I was normal? As if I was not damaged. As if I was not afraid.

Though at first, I comforted myself pretending I had carefully thought the scheme over for weeks, I actually began formulating plans even then, noting the shabby hooker-like clothing these girls sported, casting my gaze around with newfound interest in what others wore, how others acted.

Would I be a woman who wore crisp, black suits or one who wore dark-washed, pressed jeans? Did I wish to be no-nonsense in kick-ass leather boots, or flirty in sandals with sky-high heels? Was I the sort of woman who wore dresses with no panties, or one who never carried a purse? Would I be bright as sunshine, cool as spring rain or would I have a metallic tang, like a penny on the tongue?

“Excuse me?” I said, to a woman at my office soon after.

Only Botox, I suspected, kept her brow from furrowing at me for bothering her. “Yes? What?”

“I love that suit, and your shoes, and scarf and, well, just everything you have on.” My palms sweat.

It was the most I had said to anyone, anywhere, since suffering through the interview required to land my job. “Where do you shop?” I forged on, braver now that the words were out, though she stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Maybe I had.

“SoHo or the Lower East has the best boutiques for accessories. Fifth Avenue for serious clothes and shoes. I don’t remember where I bought everything, but the suit’s Ann Taylor.”

I watched her, and others like her, until I had a list. Until I knew just who I wanted to be.

Suit – gray, skirt just above the knee, slim fitted jacket, pants with no pleats, low on the hips, falling just so (tailoring a must for correct length with shoes)

Shoes – sling-back, heels (not too high or too short), leather, expensive, pointy

T-shirts – cut simply but made of really good cotton or silk, snug fitting, boat neck

Belt – wide or skinny (I still couldn’t figure that one out), expensive, metal clasp

Bag – red or another color, expensive

Simple, gold jewelry

Trench coat – black, good material, not too heavy

Scarves – the only patterns allowed. Nothing loud or flashy

Very sexy lingerie under it all (this I guessed), expensive

It was not easy or pleasurable, finding these items, but soon I had them all. I ate Top Ramen and hot dogs for a month, but now I owned something sharp. Heels.

At work, I continued to wear shapeless shift dresses and cardigans, pants that sagged at the knees and sensible flats. No one commented on the new blonde highlights in my hair, worn in my customary, messy bun; maybe no one noticed. Nor did anyone notice the injections that plumped my lips and smoothed my frown lines, or my skin, tinted self-tanner gold.

I remained invisible, or so I thought.

This was my first mistake, but mistakes are like lies; they always multiply. The first ones are easy and often go unnoticed.

“Hello, my name is Susan. Hello, my name is Frances. Hello, I’m Briana,” I practiced in front of my bathroom mirror. “Yes, I’d love a drink. No, I am waiting for someone. Why don’t you just fuck off? Fuck me.”

The more I practiced, the more I realized it was true; I could be anyone I wanted to be, anyone I wanted people to think I was.

“I’m a writer. I write erotica. I write romance novels. I am an editor, a doctor, a lawyer. I head up an investment firm in Paris. I live in Tribeca. I am from Milan, Japan, Italy, here on business. No, I don’t want to talk about it. I want you to fuck me.”

A woman who wants to get laid, and presents herself as someone without baggage, without strings attached, can find a man to do the deed just about anywhere.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew better than to go into singles bars or bad parts of town. I avoided places sure to attract the despondent, the alcoholic, motorcycle riders, or those with prison records, tattoos, or facial piercings. I was in the market for a very specific type of man. I needed a man too nice to come looking for me later, too nice to hurt me, too nice to say no. The sort of man who was clean and carried condoms with him.

The bar at The Ritz Carlton, near Wall Street, the Stock Exchange, and Battery Park was perfect. The restaurant made a nice cover. The setting meant I didn’t have to be from New York, yet many people who frequented the place lived in the up- and-coming neighborhood or were tourists themselves.

Drinking from a martini glass, I tipped the bartender generously. He knew, no matter what I ordered, to fill my glass with nothing more than water. A twist of lemon rind completed the illusion. All night, that first time, I sat and picked at a Blackberry, frowned at galley proofs, and fended off would-be suitors.

I tried all my stories, all my names, but told all the men (and a few women), “No,” until he walked in.

He was the Ken to my Barbie, the scratch to my itch. I knew it, and he knew it. Watching us, anyone would have thought we’d arranged to meet there, were husband and wife, lovers, friends. My knees parted slightly in welcome.

He slid into the spot I created for him as if he belonged. “Hello, pretty.”

“Hi, handsome,” I replied.

“Say you have a room.” He did not touch me with his hands, but his strong thighs eased my knees wider apart, and his eyes caressed the newly exposed expanse of my legs.

“I will, once you check in.”

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.” Before he left, he turned his shoulder to the room, slid his hand under my skirt, and cupped my cunt through soaked silk panties.

The bartender looked away.

My heart pounded. It was happening. He had touched me. I had been cool, calm, a woman of the world. I didn’t even know his name! He didn’t know mine. No stories had been required. We would fuck. I would leave. Perfect.


“You don’t have to do that, you know,” the friendly bartender said, many weeks later.

By now, I’d grown into my power, and my autonomy. I’d relaxed. My second mistake or maybe my third. I’m losing count.

Giving the bartender only the coolness of my gaze as a reply, I turned back to the room, and that’s when it happened. My make-believe world turned into a house of cards, and I knew I had made a terrible error.

“Vera,” my boss said, briskly, as if we had arranged to meet.

Alarm fluttered against my ribs, as violent as the wings of a dying bird trapped in a cage. “Mr. Blunt.”

Under his stern brows, steely blue eyes watched as I gathered my trappings of confidence and returned them to my bag. I chewed my bottom lip until his frown stopped me.

He tossed a large bill onto the bar top. Shame flooded my stomach until I realized it was meant for the bartender, not for what was to come. What I would do.

I followed him, swallowing my questions. What did it matter how he knew, how long he had known or why he’d come for me now? We both knew what I pretended to be was, at heart, no act. We both knew I wanted it.

In the elevator, he pushed me to my knees and let me nuzzle my cheek to his custom tailored, wool-suit-covered cock. Before my eyes closed, his wedding band winked at me.

Of course, no one else boarded the elevator, and the hallway was empty when we alighted.

“Crawl,” he said.

The carpet bit my nylon covered knees, and I felt the burn of scrapes as they formed. There would be blood. As there should be.

The spacious gold-and-green room behind the door he opened boasted a sweeping view of the water surrounding the Statue of Liberty. Harbor-view rooms came with their own telescopes. Handy for the voyeur and stargazer alike, I imaged the marketing copy boasting.

Though he did not pay me, I was his whore. Though he did not ask it of me, I gave him everything left of that girl in the bar. He kissed the tears I wept for her away and held my hands above my head as he grunted over me.


I should have known better, stayed home, and remained alone. I should have known better, and now, I do.

Every story should begin at the end; the unpleasant details of what came before do not need sharing. Mine had brought me to the mountains of Colorado, where I could hide.

Working from home, in an office with walls painted uncertain gray, reliable words and rules of usage occupy my monitor. Boxed in, I am invisible. Safe. Alone.

From Amaranthine Rain (a Short-Story Collection) 


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On Transgression, Taboo Subjects, and Censorship

sculpture at Khajuraho Temple

Transgression, Rule-breaking and Paradoxes of the Human Condition

As a storyteller, I used to say my first mission was to entertain, and I have written many fun, little stories. But taboo subjects are, by far, more interesting to write.

Looking for ways to question, overturn assumptions, startle moral codes, and catch readers—and myself—off guard, I examine each work before I begin to decide how to best accomplish these things, for they have become the very point of most of my stories.

The Satanic CalveryFelicien Rops
My short fiction can be shocking, or controversial; my characters mean or ugly, but what entertains more than that which inspires fear, shock, denial, uncertainty, mystery, or gives us a glimpse at subjects we think we know (presented in a new way), or at worlds completely foreign to us?

I enjoy flipping expectations on their heads by the end of my tales, having led the reader through the dark and scary forest maze of transgression, into the safe clearing on the other side, sometimes with a new set of feelings and understanding of my subject.

Original writing is not born on the non-offensive-to-anyone-politically-correct middle ground, but always at the fringe. Taboo subjects make us think and can bring about changed minds. Or show us new worlds. Or close doors. It shows us who we, and others, really are. So why write a boring story when you can do all that?

Taboo Subjects and Themes, Creativity, and Censorship

Writing requires not only freedom but also the assumption of freedom. If a writer is afraid of the penalties of their creative choices, themes, or treatment of subjects, then their work will not be formed by their talent or creativity, but by fear.

When censorship hinders writing, it becomes the subject; the writing is stamped “censored or banned”, and that is how the world sees it forever. The censored work is believed to have earned and deserved censorship. The censor’s falsehood replaces the writer’s truth. Other’s beliefs and preferences control the writer, and the reader’s perception of the work is formed before it is read because of a label.

Now, I know writing need not only entertain. At its best, good writing is ground-breaking. Revolutionary. Writers should have no barriers to creativity, and no subject should be off-limits. Publishers must be braver; retailers and readers have a right not to buy or read things they have no interest in. Not to have their perspectives touched. But, again, how boring is that world?

That said, as a mom, I believe in controls over accessibility for minors and on clear labeling to inform, not incite judgment or condemn. That’s where it gets tricky.

The Free Expression Policy Project (a think tank on artistic and intellectual freedom) provides research and advocacy on free speech, copyright, and media democracy issues to protect the rights of writers and readers worldwide.

Links and Resources

Must-read Series for Erotica Writers and Readers

Several months ago, Emmanuelle de Maupassant invited erotica genre writers to share their secrets and thoughts about writing, writing erotica, their processes, and backgrounds in a very detailed written interview. 

130 responded, writing honestly of their experiences.

She's been sharing the results in an amazing series (which came out right about the time I felt compelled to post about "erotica today").

The series has been thought-provoking, provocative, and eye-opening.

It's a delight reading how various authors approach the writing process and the manner in which they focus their erotic lenses and why they do so. READ IT HERE (and see links at the end for more in the series).

Erotica Today

After Fifty Shades of Grey and countless copy-cats, I almost hate to say I write erotica. I like porn as much as the next person, so let me explain my hang-up. 

You see, real erotica is not usually about pleasure or sex, just as sex is not always about the body. Sex can leave you wanting or satiated, physically and emotionally. Sex involves emotions (even for men, despite what some would have you believe). 

Sex can make you sad, happy, relieved, or something else entirely. Sex can heal or wound. Traditional erotica explores more than desire, more than body parts, and more than orgasms. It digs deeper than surface emotions. Real erotica doesn’t necessarily require you to feel horny when or after you read it.

Good erotica often challenges you to think about yourself as a whole being. It asks you to explore the ways sex unites us, rips us apart, embarrasses us, or defines us. The best erotica shines a light into our most secret, dark corners. It can make you uncomfortable, or squirmy.

Erotica doesn’t condemn or judge or exploit. It often features people we recognize in ourselves. Imperfect people. People who don’t have movie-star looks or Christian Grey’s bank account.

Since I began writing erotica in 2005, I’ve written stories about many facets of sexuality, from the serious to the absurd, the sad to the joyous, and everything in between. I love a challenge and often write stories to push my own boundaries or to understand things that make me uncomfortable.

I love to shock the senses and do not shy away from difficult subjects. When I write BDSM, it’s about more than toys and playacting; it’s about what drives people to delve into it (and, shocker, it’s usually not because they were abused as children).

Horror is my favorite genre to read, so much of my erotica could be classified as erotic horror.

My goal as a writer is simply to create the best stories I can. No genre is off-limits. If I offend you with my fiction, good. If I turn you on, okay. If I make you think . . . nirvana. It’s all about the emotions to me. Sex is not my focus.

One of the best compliments I’ve ever received from a reader was, “This is the product of a sick and twisted mind.

My reply? “Thank you!
In a market saturated with porn calling itself erotica, and poorly written books still jumping on the Fifty Shades of Grey and soccer-mom porn bandwagon, there are still writers who offer something more than body parts moving in paper-thin plots. These are a few of my favorites:

Charlotte SteinShe’s edgy and unexpected. Her prose is razor sharp. Whether she makes you laugh or fidget or sigh with pleasure, you’ll be entertained.

Remittance GirlRG has a knack for writing believable people and lush, foreign settings with an other-worldly quality. Her work holds its own against mainstream writers. When I grow up, I want to be her.

Rose de FerRose writes lush, Gothic-flavored stories and books in a distinctive and captivating voice. 

Malin James – She describes her writing best: "Sex can be joyful, painful, wholesome or filthy - sometimes all at once. The people involved determines what kind of sex is being had, far more than the physical act alone."

10 Easy Things to Give up to Improve Your Writing

I got an email recently from a client, asking how I write so many short stories and books while sometimes working full-time, being a wife and a mom, starting a business, working with other writers, and doing a million other things (including dealing with three surgeries in two years, and not writing or working at all for a long time).

Here's my secret: Doing more didn't work (and wasn't possible most of the time). In fact, doing more almost killed me.

Doing LESS is the key to my success. By giving up the following things, my energy shifted, and I found a sense of freedom and acceptance that resulted in people, resources, and offers flowing to me with almost no effort on my part.

Words flowed like rivers and inspiration came from everywhere.

10 Things to Give up to Improve Your Writing:

1. Give up perfect first drafts.

Let go of the idea that you need to fix every mistake or worry over each sentence until it is just right before moving on. If you're stuck on anything (details about a place, a character's name, how to commit a murder), don't stop to research.

Write, and know you can go back and fix things later. Bracket items, add a comment or highlight text to remind yourself what needs attention later. Leave spelling mistakes alone. Screw punctuation.

Learning how to write, worry-free and full of mistakes, was a life changer. It gave me a creative space of non-judgment that allowed me to produce work much faster. Everything can be fixed when you edit. It's actually easier when you can see the whole picture.

2. Give up negative language.

Stop saying:

I can’t.
I won’t.
It’s impossible.
It won’t happen.

Get rid of limiting statements. They prevent you from seeing possibilities and opportunities.

3. Give up draining relationships.

Also, get rid of people who make you feel crappy or say anything from the list above to you. Stop hanging out with people where the relationship isn't balanced, or doesn't make you feel good.

Go ahead. Unfriend and unlike and block anyone who spews negativity or who never fails to make you feel like you 're not good enough. Stop wasting time on them. Breathe a sigh of relief.

4. Give up unhealthy food.

I'm an 80/20 girl. 80% of the time, I am an angel. 20% . . . not so much. Junk food depletes energy instead of filling you with it so you can perform at your best.

Try eating vibrantly colored, real food for breakfast and lunch. Or try a vegetarian diet for those meals then splurge at dinner, eat meat, and enjoy wine, beer, or even dessert.

5. Give up too little sleep and electronics.

Your body and soul need time to recharge. Get at least seven to eight hours of sleep every night so you can thrive during the day. Remove electronics from your bedroom.

6. Give up being reactive or defensive about your writing or genre.

Writing is hard enough without dealing with reviews. Elizabeth Gilbert makes a great case for never reading them here.

Some people delight in tearing others down. Stop paying attention to them. See #3 again if you need to.

If you are stuck (as I was at a neighborhood party recently, surrounded by negative Nellies and haters), just take a deep breath, find someone nice to talk with, or leave.

7. Give up trying to change how people feel about your genre or writing.

It’s an impossible task. End of story.

"Hemingway sucks. If I set out to write that way, it would have been been hollow and lifeless because it wasn't me." - Stephen King

8. Give up trying to do it all.

Pick what makes you happy, and work on that. One project at a time.

Surrender to the idea that things happen in their own time when you do something (anything) toward your writing goals daily. A watched pot never boils, but the universe is always paying attention.
9. Give up not writing for you.

You are free to express yourself any way you wish. If your intentions are cloudy, the world will respond accordingly. If you try to write a bestseller, but your heart isn't in it, readers know.

When you come from a place of love, passion for your topic, and honesty, good things happen for you and people around you. Readers feel the difference.

10. Give up believing the illusion.

Most writers never become millionaires, and that's okay. Love what you do, and it won't matter. Have fun, and use this knowledge to inspire yourself to write whatever makes you happy.

A writer's best reward is often helping other writers. We're all in this together.

If anything I said here helped you, please share this post with someone else.

Namaste, and happy writing,

"Tales of a Vampire Hunter" Omnibus Collection

Tales of a Vampire Hunter Omnibus Collection

This Omnibus Edition collects the three Tales of a Vampire Hunter novellas into a single volume. It is for those who arrived late to the party and wish to save a few bucks while picking up the same stories in a single package plus a bonus short story and an audio-story offer.

The first Tales of a Vampire Hunter story (Vacancy) was released as a standalone short story in July 2012. Due to reader demand and reviewer encouragement, the rest of the story was released over the next several months as a series of blog posts that turned into IMMORAL, the first novella in the series. 

My thanks go out to the readers who helped craft the novellas that followed and kept asking for more. Without you, I wouldn't have completed DEPRAVED or BESPELLED. Your demand and support created this novel as much as I did and turned me from a short-story writer into a best-selling author of novels.

Tales of a Vampire Hunter is the story of Oliver Ripley, a vampire hunter struggling to understand his rare powers while vampires threaten mankind and ancient and evil beings plot revenge and the ultimate destruction of humans. The world we know has grown unkind; the dangers undiscussed and unseen. But some still hope and dream despite the menace others cannot see. When worlds collide, and mankind teeters on the edge of extinction, its only hope is an unlikely team of a gifted little girl, a vengeful vampire hunter, a reluctant vampire, and a mutant werewolf.

Pre-order the e-Book version of TALES OF A VAMPIRE HUNTER - OMNIBUS EDITION now

Water me, Baby


One from the vaults . . . still true today.

Some people search their entire lives for a place to call home. Some, born by the shore, never feel quenched until the dry, arid heat of a desert causes their internal landscape to gush like a waterfall. Others, surrounded by wide-open flatlands, only feel unbound and free atop high mountains, cosseted by trees.

Raised by nomads, I always wanted nothing more than a stable home—any home that would not change. However, though I have been content in many places, none nourishes me like those by the ocean.

For many years, the sea was only a dream that whispered to me like an unknown lover. It was an image captured in film and in the lyrics of songs that moved me as love songs never did. I flew over oceans and drove past them, trapped in the family station wagon, unable to convince my father to pull over and let me walk along the shore to feel the waves lapping at my adolescent toes. I fished rivers, but did not find them wide or deep enough. I swam in lakes but, in their murky depths, I felt the grounding pull of the land surrounding me and longed for a crystalline blue, saltwater abyss.

When I had freedom to roam at will, I set my sights on California and, after traveling the coast like one whose task it was to map every crevice, I found the place my soul calls home—the short stretch of rugged coastline between Monterey and Carmel. It was there I sat, on a day forever etched in my memory, and decided to pick up my pen after many long years, and write again. Inspired by frolicking otters, windswept cypress trees, and the harsh surf pounding the rocky cliffs, I began notes on what was to become my first novel. I was home. I had a purpose. My spirit was awash in salted water. Life was good.

Now, I live in Chicago, on the shore of a great lake, but the ocean still beckons like a friend who is just out of reach, never forgotten, and always longed for. I see her within my fondest memories and everywhere, in my writing, is water.

From Eden

The water moves, liquid around me.

I belong to it - slippery, soft, alive. I breathe it, taste it. It fills me.

I am a mermaid, a dolphin, a goddess.

The hands on my body are worshipful, though not always gentle. Some bodies inspire me to flatten my palms, and skim lightly over their surfaces, while others seem to beg for a pinch or a rougher jerk. Some taste of the sea, while others hold the perfume of flowers on their tongues.

I go with the moments as they come, drifting from one to the next.

Buffeted by flesh, I float in pleasure.

From In The Name of The Father

The house was easy to find. It was the only one at the end of the road, perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea. Even up here, the gusty wind blew sand over Michael's boots, and he could smell the ocean's salted, fresh-fish scent.

Dropping his bag, he rechecked the safety on the snub-nosed .38 he'd bought in Ixtapa before hitching his ride.

Sheer, white curtains billowed through an open window of the inviting house, waving him closer it seemed. An old rocker painted sky blue moved a ghostly to and fro on the porch. Everything else was still. The only sound was the crashing of waves far below.

As Michael started walking again, he prayed Isabella was waiting.

From Amethyst’s Feather 

When Amethyst was told her father’s plan, she wept for days. She cried so many tears the creek twining through her garden became a river of salted water that did not evaporate until she was long dead. Every bloom in her garden withered to dust, except for the lilacs; these flowers bloomed lusher than ever before.

From Amaranthine Rain 

Rain spills from the azure sky, washing away sorrow and taking away pain. Upon an ancient river, we now float coming and coming again as our bodies cling together, eternally pleasured and eternally bound.

“Evermore, Jack…mine now,” Diane says, pulling me under the waves.

My toes skim pebbles smoothed by time as the water takes me into a dark abyss where violets bloom in currents fed by rain—never ending rain.


We are born in a gush of fluid, and our bodies are composed of approximately 65% water. Like life, water is continually moving, lured by the tug of the moon, and changes in our world. One moment, it is mist, then ice, then rain. It sustains us.

In my erotica, people play dangerous games suspended over hotel bathtubs. They share their wives in bubble-filled whirlpools, and they cross rivers, pausing to look at their reflections in the water below in an effort to find themselves. Water often symbolizes love, safety, and home. It lifts the human spirit, supports the body and soothes the mind. Much like sex, it allows us to drift in a special place that is almost primal in its necessity to life itself.

If you live by the water, go there today. Get your feet wet. If you are landlocked, draw a bath, light some candles, and allow yourself to float, weightless in sensuous water. Close your eyes, and be reborn.

Themes and Symbolism in Erotica - 5 Tips (and Reasons Why)

I write erotic fiction, not pornography. Often, I share my work here and ask for nothing in return because it allows me to write what interests me. I choose themes that examine the human condition. Symbolism is a way to shine a comforting light into places where eroticism intersects with the familiar in our lives or where dark and scary things lurk.

If you want to sell work to quality publishers, make more money, and receive recognition as a serious writer, your erotica must contain more than sex. Here why:

  1. People like solving riddles. Drop theme clues throughout a story, and let readers put the puzzle pieces together as they read. This keeps them interested and eliminates the need for the boring, lengthy explanations, back-stories, descriptions, or dull dialogue to tell your story. Our brains like figuring out mysteries and riddles. There’s a deep satisfaction that comes when we have a light-bulb moment, and everything clicks into place as we’re reading a story. These stories make readers say, “Wow!” when they finish them. Always good. 

     by Hugh Howey has a killer theme woven throughout and is full of symbolism and riddles. I bought copies for everyone I know. Read part one here free on Amazon.

  2. Themes make writing stronger and give stories direction and focus. If, after you’ve written a story, you can’t pick out threads of a theme, ask why. Odds are you haven’t told a strong enough story. Once, I edited a short story for a new, unpublished writer. It was a straightforward lesbian sex scene with some D/s elements (porn), but it became a literary erotica piece with a strong theme about taking chances with a new lover, sharing secret desires when you’re not sure they’ll go for it. Once the theme was there, it was easy tweaking the story slightly to incorporate more tension, fear, and jumping-off-a-cliff moments. The writer sold her story to a major anthology publisher, and the book won a prestigious award. None of that would have happened had the writer not developed a strong theme.

  3. Amaranthine Rain (a Short-Story Collection) by Zander Vyne
    Themes and symbolism color your story and add to mood and rhythm.
     Colors help with theme development because they evoke similar responses in people and can define a mood. They are easily recognized symbols. Colors inspire feelings and set the tone for your story. Colors can capture the theme of your story without explanation. Red is my favorite because I write a lot of erotic-horror stories. Purple is soothing, Gothic, and poetic. Black is edgy and mysterious.

    For examples of color used to enhance a mood and carry a story, check out my latest collection of short stories, 
    Amaranthine Rain. The title story (read it here) uses purple to bring together third person, past and present tenses, and to give a lush, exotic feeling to the whole piece. In Souvenirs, red is splashed over everything and contributes to the twisted, scary horror of the mind-bending story. In the noir tale, Tricked, I use blue. Red pops up again in La Belle Mort.

  4. You’ve convinced me. How do I develop a theme? Before spending hours writing a boring story about sex (insert A into slot B and enjoy), ask yourself these questions—what’s the purpose of my story? What do I want the reader to feel when they finish reading? Lead with the theme and the plot will follow. An excellent writing teacher once told me, “Average writers lead with plot. Advanced writers lead with theme.” Great stories are born when a writer has something meaningful to say and they are willing to work to make that meaning clear.

    Decide what central problem your protagonist faces at the beginning of your story, and culminate in a choice that illustrates acceptance, change, or denial. If your problem is based on a protagonist’s weakness (or perceived weakness, like in my story 
    Red House about a gay priest who enjoys cutting), you can create a theme thread throughout your story, ending with a revelation tied to the theme. If an issue strongly motivates the protagonist throughout the story, good. If it conflicts with others too, even better. With a strong theme, symbolism becomes easy to add, like herbs and spices to a stew once it has simmered.

  5. Moral of the story—every story needs a solid theme, and symbolism is to words what paint is to an artist's canvas. Theme are stepping stones to guide your reader's imagination.