Read How I Became Lotus Raine...the Porn Star Online
Authors: Erika Ashby
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Romantic Comedy, #How I Became Lotus Raine the Porn Star
How I Became Lotus Raine...the Porn Star
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How I Became Lotus Raine the Porn Star
Copyright © 2014 by Erika Ashby
Cover Design by
Sommer Stein
Image from
istockphoto.com
Editing by
KMS Editing
and
AGC Editing and Services
Interior Design by
JT Formatting
Discover other titles by Erika Ashby at
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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4. Here’s to lettin’ loose 14:07
6. Intermission: Some people 9:00
8. I’ll be your late night snack 52:15
11. Cook it for me real good 12:58
13. Who needs protection? 12:47
14. Intermission: It’s a HO wide world 8:11
16. I got it bad for porn star 11:22
21. Let me introduce you 21:31
23. Finger painting: Ages 22+ 10:04
25. Intermission: Randomness 2:08
29. Let me break me down 15:31
32. Keep it in the family 8:39
33. It’s only by marriage 10:08
34. Three’s a fuckin’ crowd 20:39
35. ACTION: It all ends here 5:25
Working Girl prologue by A.E. Woodward
THE BIRDS AND the bees. Maybe it's just me, but using that title for "the talk" makes no sense. Every time I hear it, I wonder if the wise guy who came up with it was secretly promoting cross breeding. I'm sure stranger things have happened then birds and bees fucking. But come on, it's not possible. And although it sounds sweet and all, it gives false representation to the poor kids who get sat down for that dreadful explanation.
What happened to the days where people were straightforward and didn't feel the need to beat around the bush? Why couldn't the talk be called exactly what it was?
“Son/daughter, I need you to sit down so we can discuss the P's and the V's.”
Straightforward and right to the point.
Thank God, I never had to listen to either one of my parents sputter their way through it as I held back laughter. My mother was too busy practicing the birds and the bees to ever tell me about them. Or maybe in her messed up mind, she thought avoiding the convo would keep me from turning out like her.
Who am I kidding? I wasn't that much of a priority.
Now my poor dad on the other hand, I don't think he really knew what to do with me when I chose to live with him. He was smart enough to know I'd already been plenty exposed to certain things and the talk would do me no good. Truth of the matter is I probably knew more than he thought I ever could. Not from personal experience, God no. But just from what I witnessed and had tried on myself—alone. Doing things alone and in private had felt safe.
Then again, my father had been with my mom. He knew her ways. I’m sure he knew the endless men didn’t stop just because she had a kid. Kids are nosey—that’s a fact. And I was a damn nosey one, mainly when I shouldn’t have been.
But I always ended up feeling dirty, knowing whom I learned it from. I couldn't escape the feeling that I couldn't stay true to myself; if I’d given myself over to the ecstasy that always called out to me.
So I made a choice. Was getting off and the sexual urges festering within worth the chance of one day becoming her?
The answer was simple.
I'd never allow myself to become anything like her.
And I didn’t.
But it was hard.
My dad had tried to drill it into my thick skull that I was nothing like her. He’d even say there was no way I could become anything like her. I wanted to believe him but couldn’t risk everything I had worked so hard for.
I was content with one day marrying a
Goody Two-shoes
man—one with a reputable career. We’d have scheduled, yawn worthy sex. And every now and then, he might be able to get me off. But more times than not, I’d be taking a shower afterwards, using the detachable showerhead to finish off what he attempted to start.
I thought my plan was sound, and I left no room for error. It’s funny how one person, one right situation and a few drinks that loosen you up in more ways than one, can fuck up your entire plan.
Or did it?
I CAREFULLY PIECE together my outfit, destroying my whole closet as I do. I have an image to portray. I have a visual in my mind of what this image should look like—a mixture of Barbie and Betty Boop. The wholesome, girl next door appeal Barbie has to offer mixed with a twist of Betty Boop’s sexual confidence.
Even though I want to walk into the office in nothing but a t-shirt and yoga pants, I refrain. I inch up my tight jean skirt and throw on a lacey tank instead, topping the look off with my black combat boots. My legs are lengthy enough on their own. There’s no need for me to slip on some god-awful heels in an attempt at drawing more attention to them.
I’ve always cared about my looks in regards to the way they represented me. I used to keep things hidden, never showing too much skin. My mother always told me I was a looker and should use it to my advantage. I didn’t want anything I gained in life to be handed to me based off of my body. I’ve seen where using looks eventually led people—saw where it led my mother—and I vowed to use everything but my sex appeal to get somewhere in life.
When I walk into the building that houses Mitchell Publishing, I want mouths to drop and salivate over my appearance. I want the men I used to work with to want me and the women to want to be me. As far as I’m concerned, they already do.
I’ll never forget the day I accepted my first and last assignment. It took me to extremes I never knew existed. It was all so unexpected and ended in a way that others, in my shoes, might have regretted—after the fact. But not me. I embraced it.
I stand in front of the floor length mirror, taking in the view. I reach over and grab a small barrette off my dresser, and pin back a section of my blonde, wavy hair off to the side. Eyeing the necklace laying out on the bed, I smile before walking over to put it on. It’s the final piece to my ensemble. The gold cross necklace dangles perfectly around my neck, resting low between my breasts.
Knowing that my old office is known for its frigid temperature, I grab my black leather coat off the back of my bedroom door. I should just grab a blanket since this little coat won’t be able to offer any protection for my legs, but what’s the point of walking in looking like a minx only to cover myself up? Priorities.
“How do I look?” I ask, walking into the living room, doing a little spin for affect.
“Like fucking sex personified,” Brent says, strutting my way.
“Okay, good.” I let out a breath and relax a bit.
“You’re going to do fine.” Brent places his hands on my shoulders. “Only you can tell your story.”
