Open Your Curvy Legs for Me (BBW BDSM Erotic Romance)

A BBW EROTIC ROMANCE TWIST ON THE AMAZON TOP 2 EROTICA BESTSELLER!

Mariel Honeycutt is a proud, plus-sized Ivy League college freshman. She thinks she's got it all figured out, until she meets Michael Pitt, a blond senior who is the athletic toast of campus. He's gorgeous, rich and seemingly unattainable by the likes of her.

So why does his head turn to watch her as he walks past? Why does he ask her out on a mysterious rendezvous?

Michael Pitt is ashamed of his affinities. He likes plus-sized women, but his friends and parents have certain expectations of how a seemingly charmed golden boy should behave . . . in public. He also likes to tie his women up in uncomfortable positions as he makes love to them.

Can Mariel and Michael, two opposites in every way, have any semblance of a relationship?

This is a 20,000-word BBW BDSM Erotic Romance version of the Amazon Erotica Top 2 Bestsellers, OPEN YOUR LEGS FOR ME and THIGHS WIDE APART.

Excerpt:

"You know what BDSM is all about?" he says casually, as if he's talking about the weather.

I nod . . . and then I shake my head slowly.

"I know . . . some theory," I say slowly.

We could have been talking about some project we were planning to write. I don't know. Maybe I will write a thesis about this. Too bad I'm doing Microbiology.

"Just so you know," he says, "I'm a dom these days."

"Dom?"

"Dominant."

Yes. I figured as much. Something in my gut quails, like an undigested food morsel.

"There's a safe word you can use," he goes on. "You see, 'no' doesn't cut it in BDSM."

"I read about that," I say truthfully.

"So what safe word would you like?"

Uh, safe word? He assumes I'm going through with it. I swallow. Well, I am.

I lick my lips. He's still looking at me as if I'm temptation itself. I think he sees me through Impressionist glasses. I must be like one of those plump Renoir lasses. The ones who are gorgeous and eminently huggable. Or the Queen of Sheba, whom I am told is of massive proportions.

"I think I would like 'Sheba'," I say.

My cheeks flame. Now, where did that come from?

"'Sheba' it is. Now, anytime you're uncomfortable with what is happening, I want you to say 'Sheba'."

I nod. Dread settles onto the pit of my stomach. It swirls with the slow churn of acid and exhilaration. Damn it, I am excited. My nerves are jangling in their synapses. How can they not be? I am about to be deflowered all over again. It's a rite of passage. A milestone in my sexual pilgrim's progress.

He seats himself on the couch.

I stand in front of him.

He sprawls, his muscular legs splayed wide open, displaying a firm bulge in between. Oh my God, so fast? The tight denim of his jeans encases this bulge like a wrapper around a rapidly expanding balloon. He wears a white wife beater.

My hands are nervously wringing themselves. Why doesn't he say anything? Do anything? Why does he merely stare at me from that couch as if I'm a piece of meat?

I wonder if he can tell that I've put on fresh panties for this occasion. They're white, lacy and wonderfully girly.

"Take off your jeans," he says, folding his hands behind his marvelous head. His blond hair is cropped short. Swimmer style.

It has started. The mood has significantly changed here. It's as though a whole season has shifted by and we have fast-forwarded to . . . something else. Something darker and rife with infinite possibilities. Like we are role-playing.

Or maybe not.