I walked out of the room and was about to try and walk home when his mom grabbed my arm stopping me. “I’m sorry for my son. Please go take a showe... and I’ll wash your clothes.” I started to protest but she gave me a stern look. I figured it would be best not to protest her any more.We went back upstairs and into the master bedroom. “Here is a towel, hand me your clothes.” I waited to see if she would at least turn around but she didn’t. She was a very persistent woman. I handed her clothes and. ”“Out loud?”“That’s usually how it works,” she purred.I continued to stare at her. Was this some sort of trap? She had read some of my other pieces, with mild interest. But, The Taxman Comes? I ratcheted up the heat for that story. Was she upset? She wasn’t acting upset. The inquisitive crease in my brow held firm for a hard, contemplative minute as I tried to get a read of where this was headed.My career in erotic fiction was happenstance, or maybe it was destiny. I graduated from UCLA the. More

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