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About the author:
A.S. Peavey is branching out from micro caption-based Erotica (which you can check out on Tumblr), to explore the world of longer form stories and novels, and is excited by the opportunities offered to expand on those shorter stories, and grasp what tugs at the libido. Peavey lives along the Rocky Mountains, going out to hike and bike when time and the weather allow.
What inspired you to write your book?
The character of the Wolf is loosely inspired by Arsene Lupin an early 20th French character who was created as a criminal answer to Sherlock Holmes. For some reason, it just made sense to have a thief combining their intellect with their sexual prowess to commit burglaries. At least, it seemed fun.
Here is a short sample from the book:
You want another story? Already? I can’t tempt you with anything else? You do seem to enjoy my body?
Oh, fine…you need time to recover, and my stories interest you? Is that your head, or your libido, talking.
Well, let me open in the middle:
“Fuck, Diane. Oh, fuck. Fucking, God…”
I inspire that kind of thing in men and women of all stripes. Though I hold a particular pride in the way that I made Representative Thomas Stride moan.
Unlike most of the older men I sleep with, I had to work to impress him. He lures plenty of younger women into his bed—and, usually, he doesn’t have to pay for the privilege. I certainly wasn’t earning anything for the act.
Well, he didn’t mean to pay me.
He wasn’t that much to look at. He isn’t obese, but being a congressman, he doesn’t have much time to keep in shape, and any inclination he ever had to exercise was lost by the time he hit thirty. Really, he looks like most any average man in his mid-forties. He has a funny face—not unattractive, but not attractive either. He wears a beard to hide how he looks, but he doesn’t wear the beard any better.
So, no, his looks don’t draw women to him.
It’s his power that draws women close. To a degree his wealth, but he’s not that rich. His tax bracket certainly puts him in the upper class, but only in its lower ranks. His power is much more attractive. He’s a member of Congress on the rise—or he was at the time I met him. I had a bit of a hand in his downfall.
Anyway, I was cheerily fucking him, or letting him fuck me. He liked to impress. He got off, in part, after getting one of his hot young ladies to moan and spasm from his cock.
I’ll say this, then: even if Stride wasn’t much to look at, he certainly knew how to fuck a woman.
He knew how to move his cock inside me. Before that, he knew how to finger me, to lick my cunt until he had me begging him to put his cock inside me. I was damned horny.
Oh, you’re thinking that you know how easily I get excited and get off. But, be honest, you’ve got experience, you know how to please a woman, don’t you? So, maybe that’s why you get me going round after round. And—what—you’re not ready yet? Talking over this certainly gets me horny.
So, he was ramming himself home, and I moaned back to him: “Come on Tommy, give it to me, Tommy.”
Okay. My moans weren’t a perfectly honest representation of how he made me feel. I was exaggerating a little bit, but he still made me want to moan.
I exaggerated because I was working hard to impress him. Even when my tongue wasn’t on his cock, I was using it to get him more excited, to make him feel like a teenager who could barely control his orgasm, and might come before he meant to. I wanted him to remember that night more than he remembered most nights with most other women.
Yeah, that’s not sexually satisfying for me necessarily. Except that if he came prematurely, I knew it wouldn’t be the end of the evening—he’d take his time dealing with his refractory period, but he’d find a way to finish me off. Nor would it be the end of our relationship…
Do you have to interrupt?
Why do all my stories involve copious amounts of sex? Can you imagine me having any lesser amount of sex?
And you want to know why Representative Stride was calling me Diane.
I thought we were telling tall tales? But you still want a little consistency?
Well, the consistency is that I never use the same name twice, all right? You’re not calling me Charlotte are you? Any more than you’re moaning Diane.
Is that all?
You want to know just how I met a U.S. Congressman, much less how I got into his bed?
Didn’t your libido liked my starting point? You liked hearing me talk about fucking him, I can tell. You were licking your lips.
I started there in hopes I wouldn’t have to finish the story, you know. I wanted you to fuck me, instead.
Fine. I’ll step back.
It was in the hotel ballroom. Representative Stride was announcing plans to become Senator Stride over an expensive dinner, before close friends, political allies, and people rich enough to buy his influence.
How did I get an invitation then?
Let’s say I slept with the right person. That’s not enough? Look, I could tell you the full and complete story, going back a year. You still might not be satisfied, not unless I started the story at my birth. So suffice it to say, I arrived on someone else’s arm, as a plus-one. Okay?
That’s not enough. Look, I need to tell you how I got close to Stride. He had plenty of people paying attention to him. A simple wink wasn’t enough, was it? Will that story be enough to satisfy your curiosity?
The night began with everyone arriving in the most ridiculous frippery. They wore amazing gowns—yes, even I put on one, though I tried not to be so beautiful as to be noticed by everyone at the gathering.
When everyone arrived, Stride gave his speech.
All perfectly boring, and perfectly pretentious.
Oh, that’s not entirely true. Pretentious, yes, boring, never.
You probably haven’t heard of Stride. That’s my fault—I’ll explain how, later. But I provided a service to the nation by keeping him from moving on up. Suffice it to say that Stride is the kind of politician without any morals. His only guiding compass is the one that tells him how to get elected to a higher office. If the people want him to support one bill, he’ll do it. If his donors want him a year later to kill the logical follow up to that bill, he’ll do that too.
But he’s very good at it. Lots of politicians will look like assholes because their voting record sways back and forth. Political opponents kill their reelection bids by pointing out their inconsistencies.
Not Stride. Stride somehow made his political flip-flopping sound carefully planned, completely consistent. So he could have easily become a Senator, and then the President. And he would have been horrible for the country.
There are even stories that Stride committed some major crime as a young man, but his silver tongue quashed the investigation as well as the rumors that would have followed most any other politician around.
So Stride’s speech was not boring. Instead, it was disgusting, though only if you knew enough to be disgusted.
When it was done, we had dinner. The kind of thing that costs a thousand dollars a plate and then doesn’t even provide enough food to satisfy a fasting monk. I assure you, everyone in attendance had another meal when the function finished.
In my case it was room service, after the first time Stride fucked me, before the second time.
But how did I get into his room?
After dinner, there was plenty of time for schmoozing. The congressman was sticking around for hours, making sure to say at least a few words to all his supporters.
That did not include me, nor the other plus-ones. Unless we were independently wealthy or independently powerful. Beauty, seductiveness, those weren’t enough. I’m pretty sure Stride already had a woman lined up for the night. If he didn’t, he wasn’t going to be too obvious about picking one up when the cameras were on and his wife was in the room.
Eventually the congressman and I flirted a bit, but when he decided to have me up to his hotel room, he told an aide to set it up. One of the aide’s friends took me aside, told me I needed to leave, escorted me out.
For a moment, I thought I’d fucked up and lost my chance, even though I’d done my research well enough to know that wasn’t the case.
When we were out of the ballroom, this friend of an aide to Stride told me the score, and took me up to Stride’s hotel room, and told me to make myself comfortable while I waited for the congressman.
But I’m skipping ahead again.
I started by flirting with another man. I meet a state legislator first, or some such potentate.
“Look, darling, I need to speak with the congressman. I’ll be right back.”
“But…can’t I meet him?” I batted my eyes, puckered my lips, thrust my chest forward. Suddenly the man I’d just met couldn’t dare stay away from me. He had visions of taking me upstairs just as soon as he’d paid his respects to the future Senator, so of course he wasn’t going to dare let me leave his side so some other man could steal me away from him.
The cruel joke was on that politician, wasn’t it?
He talked with Stride, and then turned to me. “Representative, my friend wanted to meet you. Diane, this is Representative Stride. Tom, this is Diane…uh…Tejos.” To my temporary friend’s credit, it was barely noticeable when he almost forgot my name, given that he barely knew me, and had only heard it once. I was impressed.
Except politicians practice their memories.
“Congressman,” I said. If I’d put on a show for the man who introduced me to Stride, I stepped it up a notch, being extremely clear what I was willing to do with Stride. I couldn’t be lewd, of course. Not with cameras, politicians, and supporters watching. But I could be extraordinarily suggestive. I could touch him, if only on his back or his arm, but I picked my moments to set his libido on fire.
The clincher, I think, was that I was doing that in front of the man who’d just introduced me. Who could only watch in horror as the bigger politician scooped away his prize. Stride liked winning women when he had to struggle for their hand; if it’s too easy, it’s not tempting enough.