In my novels, I work out problems. Usually via a lot of torrid sex, but still, the novels are investigations of problems, explorations of moral dilemmas, the ugly and twisted turns of human psychology and social behaviors, a poking a prodding of the links between the things that scare me, and the things that excite me. They also look at how love unfolds and endures through drama and trauma.
On the other hand, Lord Melchior, like most of my short stories, is no more than a flagrant exploration of my raunchiest pet fantasies.
Don’t ask me when I first started getting myself off to daydreams of taken by multiple men—it was well before I was old enough to feature as a character in an erotic novel on this site, let’s leave it at that. But my earliest erotic fantasies centered on being an innocent virgin (not so accurate, these days, but the fantasy endures!), helpless to refuse the two (three, five) men bent on tearing off my clothes and bending me to their will.
It’s no secret that I’m not alone. Women—a lot of women—have rape fantasies. It’s also well-known that this is no indication of an actual desire to suffer sexual violence. But in fantasy, in fiction, there’s something overwhelming, thrilling, compelling, about heart-grabbing fear twined with arousing action and imagery.
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