A husband makes enquiries with a photographer regarding having his wife pose for explicit shots. When she is left alone with the photographer she shows just how daring she can be. But the husband is not fooled.
Caution: This story not for the squeamish. It is a tale about a rare sexual fetish, a fantasy for a relative low number of people, actually practiced by even less. If the story sexually stimulates you, don't allow it to scare you shitless, just keep it to yourself...
Mandy Mandy, a throw away, lost on the street with nowhere to go, pleads with Bob to buy her a bottle so she can drink herself to death. Little did she know that she would wind up saving his.
WENDY WILDE wrote deliciously wicked novels of the sexual kind. Novels so hot, so prurient, they made her legions of fans. And haters. No subject matter was beyond her writer's fertile but kinky imagination. Her books made her rich and infamous and loved and hated. And now, dead and gone. Tag Bonewell, house dick at the Wellington Hotel, had never heard of her. Until the Wilde woman was found in suite 912 with three very neat, and accurately grouped, holes in her chest . . .