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About the author:
Paul Garland is a Sheffield, UK based author of erotic novels and short stories, guaranteed to keep you turning the lust-filled pages until the early hours of the night.
His mailing list is here – http://eepurl.com/dJ6j8I – sign up for the latest news on new releases and special offers.
Paul has been writing since the turn of the millennium but is only now choosing to explore the erotica genre, and his No Angels series of books are quickly gaining a following. Paul writes from experience, having been in a hotwife and stag relationship for many years, and although his stories are works of fiction in entirety (no true stories here), he leans on his past experiences to make his stories as realistic as possible.
What inspired you to write your book?
It's not a true story, but it was inspired by something very similar that happened to my wife's friend. You'll have to email me to find out more.
Here is a short sample from the book:
My wife Claire is a pretty little thing. Even after ten years of marriage, she’s still as cute as she was when I first met her. Her shoulder length blonde hair still has the same lustre and her green eyes still have the same mischievous sparkle that drew me to her that night when I met her in our first year at college. She’s no longer the slim and petite type that she was, but I love her fuller figure now; her curvy hips and butt and her considerably bigger 38DD breasts are the icing on the cake. Claire doesn’t have a supermodel figure, but she still turns heads when in her bikini on holiday, or walking down the street in skirts or revealing tops.
So I wasn’t surprised when she told me that one of her old school boyfriends had ‘kind of hit on her’ via Facebook. A few days before, she’d received an invite to a school reunion. Some of the old pupils had tried unsuccessfully tried to arrange a ten year reunion five years before, and were trying again now it had reached fifteen years.
This time, the response had been pretty good, so it looked it would go ahead. Claire hadn’t committed to going, but one of her old friends, a chubby guy called Mark, had been excited to find her on Facebook and they’d been chatting a little bit since then. He asked her to meet for coffee, which she said she’d think about and she was cool with, until he said they could go to his after, if they got on well. She showed me the message, and asked me if I thought he was hitting on her, and I had to admit that it looked that way. She said she’d be flattered if it someone better looking, and while I looked on, she sent him a message pointing out that she was happily married and apologising if she’d given him the wrong idea.
That was the end of it, as far as I knew. She said he’d replied a bit awkwardly, promising to apologise to both me and her at the reunion, if we were still going and Claire wrote back that of course she wouldn’t let a misunderstanding stop her from going.
Out of the two of us, I’m the eldest by eighteen months, so although we went to the same school, I don’t know many of her old friends, other than a few looking vaguely familiar and a couple of them had names that I’d heard of, mostly because they had grown up and still lived in the same area as us. None of the select few that had made a success of themselves and moved away from our small town looked like returning to celebrate the fifteen year reunion, so Claire felt comfortable enough to go. No one likes going to these things, only to feel intimidated or upstaged by all your old peers who’ve moved on to bigger and better things.
The date of the reunion came around pretty quick, as things seem to, the older you get. Claire was already getting ready by the time I got home from work, not surprising in the least as it takes her a couple of hours to get ready to go anywhere, even just to the local shop. She was wearing a cobalt blue dress that she’d bought especially for the occasion. It was just above the knee in length, showing off her smooth legs and showed a hint of cleavage on the top half. Her blonde hair was clipped up in a bun, showing off her neck and her make-up was gorgeous. Smokey eyes and lipstick in a shade of red that was bright but just on the right side of slutty.
“How do I look?” she smiled at me and did a little twirl.
I replied by wolf-whistling. “I’ll be the envy of every man there,” I said. “All the guys who didn’t ask you to prom will realise what a mistake they made.”
Claire blushed. When we first met, she told me that I was only her second boyfriend. She hadn’t been popular at school, being a late developer and your average awkward teen, braces on her teeth and a spotty complexion. She’d said that she dated a guy from school but not until she left and started college, and that she’d lost her virginity to his much older best friend after they split up. A silly, drunken one-night stand. The guy had offered her a shoulder to cry on, one thing led to another and she ended up regretting it.
Then she met me a couple of months later and we hit it off right away. A year later we were engaged, then two years later we were married. I often worried that we’d settled down too young. She’d only had that one boyfriend and subsequent sexual experience, and I’d only been with two girls before her, but we were happy together and that was what counted.
I was intrigued to meet a few of her old school friends, just to see if I would remember a few faces and to see if it might bring back some fond memories. So, I wasn’t exactly dreading it, but I certainly wasn’t as excited as Claire. She’d gone from being barely vaguely interested about going, to really looking forward to it. In fact, the couple of days prior to the event, she’d talked about nothing else.
“I’m more worried that no one will remember me,” Claire said. “I look a lot different now to when I did back then. What do I do if no one says hello to me?”
“You reintroduce yourself,” I reassured her. “Don’t be shy. Just say hello to people that you recognise and I’m sure they’ll remember you. Or they’ll pretend to, at least the men will, with you looking like that.” I deliberately focused my attention on her cleavage.
“Stop it,” she giggled, “I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” I laughed back.