It Started with a Kiss by S. S. Barry

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About the author:

“I live for sex. I celebrate it, and relish the electricity of it, with every fibre of my being. I can see no better reason for being alive.”
― Fiona Thrust, Naked and Sexual

S. S. Barry lives and breathes for sex with a burning passion, so much so that it often feels like a fixation, an obsession. Having penned down a couple of short stories and indulged in online roleplaying for quite some time, one fine day he decided to start writing erotica. Simply writing erotica was not enough for him though. He wanted to write fiction containing intense, raw and uninhibited sex, he did not want to sugar-coat his erotic prose with elaborate and fancy words. So here he is, venturing into introducing his own brand of erotica, which he fondly refers to as ‘porn on paper.’ People probably read erotica for various reasons, but he simply aims to make his readers ‘get off’ every time they decide to pick up and read his erotic fiction.

What inspired you to write your book?

I don't think there was anything in particular that I drew inspiration from to write my first novella. Nonetheless, cheating / infidelity was a prominent theme of the first short story I wrote, The African Mating Ritual. I guess I decided to carry on with that theme, but this time involving two female characters from different backgrounds, who wind up in a somewhat romantic and sexual lesbian relationship. Also, I suppose it was intriguing for me to write a story primarily from a female perspective, for the most part, and to try and get into that mindset. Of course, I can't say for sure that I succeeded in doing that, but I hope so.

Here is a short sample from the book:

It is 7:59 the next morning. Adrienne is sound asleep. A minute later, the alarm clock on the bedside table begins ringing. She awakens almost instantly, stretching out her arm to turn the alarm off. As is her routine, she walks into the bathroom and takes her contraceptive pill with a glass of water, while gazing at her own reflection. Despite looking straight-faced, despite being 29 years old, she has a naturally sprightly and youthful appearance. She has light olive, somewhat rosy skin. Some of the curls of her dark auburn hair droop over her bare shoulders and likely tumbling down her bare back. Her breasts are relatively small but almost perfectly round and perky, with equally perfect, round, pink nipples.

Once she has brushed her teeth and has gotten dressed in a black sundress that is riddled with white spots, Adrienne prepares herself a cup of black coffee and gulps it down hurriedly. She is not particularly fond of breakfast and usually just munches on whatever snack she can find if she ever feels hungry before lunch.

“Gérard, I’m late, I’m taking the car,” she calls out to her boyfriend, who is still asleep in bed.

Adrienne grabs her grey purse from the kitchen counter and heads out. In the parking space, she unlocks the driver’s side door of Gérard’s sedan and gets inside, sitting down and strapping the seatbelt in place. She isn’t quite used to driving yet, having only just passed the driving test and acquired her driver’s license a couple of weeks ago.

“Pedal … start …” With her left hand on the steering wheel, she tries to recall the steps involved in the starting a vehicle. “That’s not it,” she says out loud, trying once again to remember. “Clutch … pedal … start,” she thinks for a moment, realizing that’s not the correct order. “Crap, not it either,” she continues to jog her memory. “Pedal … clutch … start,” she tries to start the engine in that order but nothing happens.

“Piece of shit automatic car,” a frustrated Adrienne bangs her right fist onto the steering wheel, cursing at the car in French while she un-straps the seatbelt and steps out with her purse.

She decides to head over to the subway instead. A look of utter annoyance is plastered on her face as she makes her way down the stairs and walks onto the platform, waiting for the train to arrive. For some reason, the subway appears to be vacant, the reason for which is revealed moments later as a voice over the loudspeaker makes an announcement, much to Adrienne’s chagrin. “Due to a passenger incident traffic is suspended for the moment,” the voice states.

This further exasperates her. She can’t believe it. She angrily stomps her foot and lets out a deep sigh of frustration, storming off in the direction she had come earlier. Left with no other choice, she decides to walk to walk to work. She’s walking down the bridge, mulling over the shitty start to her day. There is no one else on the bridge, apart from a woman walking towards her from the other side and a man behind her. Suddenly, the man rushes towards the woman, snatching her purse and knocking her down in the process. Before Adrienne can even wrap her head around what has just happened, the robber rushes past her and flees the scene.

“Help! Help!” the woman cries out as Adrienne runs over to her and helps her up. “He stole my bag … He stole my bag.”

The woman continues crying and sobbing, almost stumbling back down. Judging from her accent, Adrienne assumes that the woman is American. She has milky skin, much paler than Adrienne’s. Her strawberry blonde hair is messy and draped over her shoulder. Her lips are painted in a brilliant vermilion shade that starkly contrasts with her skin. The mascara she is wearing has created little black streams down the corner of her eyes as she is sobbing.

“My passport … My passport’s in my bag,” the woman frantically gestures, probably assuming that Adrienne doesn’t understand English, although she does.

“It’s okay. Calm down … calm down,” Adrienne places her hands on the woman’s shoulders, squeezing them reassuringly as she tries to console her. “Your passport is in your bag?” she asks the woman.

“Yeah,” the woman nods, looking clearly distraught and still frantically gesturing as she explains. “My passport, my money, my credit cards, everything is in my bag,” she continues sobbing, almost reduced to tears, placing her hand on her forehead as she remembers something important. “I can’t get back home without my passport,” she shouts out.

“Umm,” Adrienne pauses a moment to think. “Where are you from?”

“San Francisco, California,” the woman answers.

“Okay. Let’s call the U.S. embassy,” Adrienne suggests.

“I don’t even have my cell phone,” the woman informs her, just as Adrienne begins fumbling through her purse and whips out her phone.

“Don’t worry, you can use mine,” she assures the woman while trying to open the website of the U.S. embassy in Paris. “Crap, no reception,” she exclaims, feeling almost as annoyed as she was earlier, until the website finally opens. “Ah, here we go …,” she begins swiping, looking for the relevant information, “Opening hours …,” and eventually finding it. “Damn it’s closed. Your embassy is closed,” she informs the woman, giving her somewhat of a defeated look.

“So what am I supposed to do now?” the woman asks, looking even more distressed, while Adrienne wonders the same.

“Umm … umm …,” Adrienne ponders. “You know where you live in Paris?”

“At hotel …,” the woman pauses, likely trying to recall, almost mispronouncing it as she tells Adrienne the hotel’s name.

“Where’s that?” Adrienne asks quizzically and while she tries to remember if she might know where the hotel is located, the woman lets out a small, sobbing chuckle.

“I don’t even have money to pay for the room now,” the woman realizes.

“Okay … Okay …,” Adrienne pauses yet again to ponder while stroking her chin. “Umm … Okay, I come with you to your hotel. You know where is the address at least?” she hopes the woman does as she gently grabs her shoulder and leads her across the bridge.

***

On her way to the hotel, the woman tells Adrienne that her name is Kristina. The hotel receptionist is busy typing on his computer when Adrienne and Kristina step inside, the latter leading the way this time as she walks over to the reception desk.

“Good morning, ladies!” the receptionist greets them with a strong French accent. He appears to be a man in his late forties, early fifties, some streaks of white in his long black hair, which is tied behind in a ponytail. He is dressed in a maroon shirt with a black blazer on top.

“Bonjour monsieur,” Adrienne greets him as she and Kristina walk over to the counter.

He recognizes Kristina and brings out the key to her room, almost handing it over to her but then pulling it back just as she reaches for it.

“Listen …,” it seems he has some doubts. “I wouldn't want to cause any trouble, but the room is for one person. There's normally surcharge.”

He speaks in French, even though he is probably aware that Kristina does not speak or understand the language.

“I'm not staying, I'm helping her out. She just got mugged,” Adrienne explains, replying in French as well.

“It's that time of the year for sure,” he admits, as if muggings are commonplace on the streets of Paris.

“Did you call the police?” he inquires.

“Um, no. We tried calling the bank to cancel her cards but due to the time zone, it was closed,” Adrienne informs him.

“Hmm. What can I do to help?” he asks, stilling clutching the key in both his hands.

“The fact is that she doesn't have any ID or credit cards and I believe that she hasn't yet paid for her stay here,” Adrienne explains further.

“We made a copy of her bank card when she checked in, as is customary. Then we debit the card on checkout, so if she cancels her credit card, the payment won't go through,” he states, “You'll understand that, according to management, I cannot leave her the room, especially at high season, without a guarantee of payment. It would be better to rent it.”

“You're not going to kick her out, with no ID, no nothing …,” she tries to reason with him, sounding a bit shocked.

“Why don't you take her in?” he suggests.

“I don't know her,” Adrienne states the obvious.

All this while, Kristina has been listening attentively, despite the fact that she has not understood a word of the conversation that has been going on. She keeps looking from Adrienne to the receptionist, likely trying to decipher what they might be saying.

“What if she wired you the money?” Adrienne asks, hoping this might convince him.

“A wire transfer would take several days to arrive in our account. That won't be a solution,” the receptionist rejects her suggestion.

“Well, I’m stumped,” she tells him, now that she is out of ideas.

“Ok, here's what we'll do. I'll give you the hotel's bank info …,” he tells her.

“Perfect …,” she interrupts, although not certain what he is suggesting.

“… but, you'll act as her guarantor until the money goes through,” he completes his sentence. “So, if she decides to disappear, you will be the one we'll bill. See Miss, there's always a solution.”

The reception smiles coyly at Adrienne while she gawks at him, wrapping her mind around what he has just suggested.

“And … how much is a room?” Adrienne inquiries, nervously glancing at the piece of paper on the wall behind him that lists the rates.

Once everything is settled and the receptionist has handed over the key, Adrienne and Kristina step aside,

“Okay. That is my phone number,” Adrienne pens down her cell phone number onto a piece of paper and hands it over to the woman.

“Uh, you call me, when you call the bank,” Adrienne instructs the woman, raising her right hand up making the call me sign and looking at her dubiously. “Okay?”

Kristina smiles at her gratefully and nods.

“I trust you,” Adrienne tells her in English.

“'cause at 130 Euro a night, it's not like it hurts but still …,” she adds in French, placing her pen back into her purse while Kristina beams at her.

“Thank-you so much,” Kristina expresses her gratitude for all that Adrienne has done for her. “I really appreciate your help.

Kristina surprises Adrienne by cupping her cheek with her right hand, caressing it.