Awesome Authors Presents Selena Kitt

Temptation (Under Mr. Nolan’s Bed) by Selena Kitt

Chapter One

TemptationLeah had only seen one Playboy magazine in her life.

That was back in 1953, in ninth grade, when Bobby Harris flashed Hugh Hefner’s premiere edition like he was revealing the hidden secrets of the universe. The boys had gathered around, dogs salivating over a juicy piece of meat just out of the grasp of their snapping jaws.

The girls had been far more reticent, most of them eschewing the opportunity to look, not wanting to be thought of as easy or fast, but Leah’s best friend, Erica, far more adventurous than she, had insisted. Bobby Harris was Erica’s fella and she had to show solidarity, even if it meant daring the wrath of Sister Abigail if they all got caught behind the chapel, shivering from both cold and excitement, heads bent and breath drifting overhead in white streams, sending smoke signals to communicate their whereabouts over the slick pages of the very first Playboy.

So Leah had been led astray, as she always seemed to be, by her wayward best friend, and she had looked. Marilyn Monroe was the “Sweetheart of the Month” in that first issue—a title later changed to “Playmate of the Month”—and the most famous nude photo of the actress, the one the boys fixated on with such dogged persistence, showed her curvaceous form in all its glory, her face half-hidden behind the arm thrown above her head, golden curls tumbling around her plump shoulders, her breasts clearly the centerpiece of the photo, pink-tipped and juttingly proud, lifted by the curving arch of her back and tilt of her generous hips.

That was the moment Leah realized her own slight frame was sorely lacking in those shapely areas guys liked. It was Marilyn Monroe they wanted, and Marilyn Monroe she was not. That’s when it first dawned on her it was no wonder she didn’t have a boyfriend. It didn’t help, of course, to be standing next to Erica most of the time. All the boys looked at Erica—stacked, to say the least—who filled out her sweaters nicely with no help from Kleenex, whose hips held the weight of her schoolbooks (when she had the rare misfortune to carry them on her own) with the gentle sway of a goddess.

Thankfully, they hadn’t gotten caught, but that seductive, naughty image of a nude Marilyn had stayed with Leah, burned into her memory throughout high school and into her first year at St. Mary Magdalene Preparatory College for Girls——the place Erica had nicknamed “Catholic Community College”—until their discovery under Erica’s father’s bed outstripped it by far. She had never seen anything like what they found under Mr. Nolan’s bed.

That changed everything.

“It’s a darkroom.” Erica pulled the tapestry aside and showed Leah the door, whispering like they were going to get caught, although no one was home. Even Solie, the housekeeper, was gone. She always left early on Friday because she wasn’t required to stay and cook dinner that night. The Nolans ate dinner out on Fridays.

“But he already has a darkroom.” Leah stared at the door with no knob, just a sliding bolt with a padlock to keep it closed, hidden by a giant floor-to-ceiling oriental tapestry. Mr. Nolan’s elevated room included a loft bed, eight feet high with a ladder on one end and spiral stairs on the other. Erica and Leah had nearly broken their necks when they were younger pretending to be Superman, jumping over the railing onto the hardwood floors, “capes” made of blankets flying behind them.

The gigantic tapestry covered the wall behind the bed, and underneath the bed was an old mahogany desk littered with papers and books, as well as several cameras and lenses, including some so big and clunky Leah was sure they had to be antiques. There was a walk-in closet on the other side with all of Mr. Nolan’s suits and ties and shoes.

“Daddy’s sneaky, but I’m sneakier.” Erica opened the middle drawer of the desk, fishing through a section full of loose keys and pulling out one attached to a leather fob.

“It’s another darkroom.” She unlocked the padlock, putting the key back, and slid the bolt. The sound made Leah jump. Erica grinned over her shoulder as she slipped inside, motioning Leah to follow. “A darker darkroom.”

Leah didn’t understand what she meant, until they got inside—and then she did. The light bulb was red and cast a crimson glow over the photographs hanging from a line by clothespins. Erica was editor of their little college newspaper, and all the photographers—all two of them—had the newest 35mm cameras, but Mr. Nolan was old school. He still used medium format.

It had the same chemical smell of his regular darkroom and a developing table in the middle with the standard three trays and tongs. On the left was a table with a light bench littered with little silver Exacto knives and scraps of photo paper. A shelf along the right side wall, above a padded bench, held all the chemicals, developers and stop baths, big yellow cans with Kodak written in red on the side. Leah saw one that said “Microdol Replenisher”—she had no idea what it meant, although she’d spent a lot of time with Mr. Nolan in his darkroom. His other darkroom, never this one.

This one was different.

“Is that… what I think it is?” Leah took a step closer, leaning on the counter and peering at the hanging photos, making out shapes and lines in the dimness. The photos were black and white, giving the subject matter a high-quality, artsy feel, but even though Leah had only ever seen one “dirty book” in her life, she knew exactly what she was looking at.

“Uh-huh.” Erica reached under the counter and pulled out a book, an actual bound book, with a woman on the cover wearing only a black corset and stockings and a pair of long, dark gloves. The title read, “An Artist’s Guide to Figure Study.”

“What—?” Leah blinked in wonder as Erica sat on the padded bench that lined the wall on the right side of the room, under the shelves of chemicals, patting the seat cushion beside her.

“Cast an eyeball on this!”

Leah sat cross-legged beside her friend, still in uniform—blue and white plaid skirt, white knee socks, white blouse. In high school, their uniform skirts had been red and white plaid, but graduation up to St. Mary Magdalene Preparatory College for Girls meant they could move to the more respectable blue and white. Erica had changed into dungarees and a pink sweatshirt with a monogrammed MM for Mary Magdalene on the front.

The book was full of women. They were half-naked, posed provocatively, and all of them were extremely well-endowed to the point of overflowing. Erica flipped pages and the girls stared at each one. It didn’t escape Leah that they were bathed in the red cast of the darkroom light, a color neither girl was allowed to wear on their nails or lips. Red was the color of blood, of sin—of Satan.

Leah glanced from the book to the similar row of photographs hanging on the line, and then underneath the developing table to see the shelves there stuffed with more books with titles like, “The Colossal Book of Data for Artists and Photographers.” Some were more daring, giving a girl’s name, and following that with a descriptor: “Frenchie, Artist Model, In a Series of Figure Studies For Artists and Photographers” or “Jackie, Forty Artful Poses.”

“These are… art books?” Leah asked doubtfully, looking back over her friend’s shoulder to see a completely topless woman, her nipples painted but prominent on the page.

“You’re kookie if you believe that bit!” Erica snorted. “And this stuff is nothing compared to what else is here.”

“There’s more?” Leah’s eyes widened as Erica got down on her knees on the floor, digging to the back of the shelves, moving books carefully aside.

“Dig on this!” Erica pulled another book out, this one a little larger, without the “For Artists and Photographers” disclaimer on the front. In fact, the front was a shocking photo of a woman in black fishnet stockings, blindfolded and restrained, with some kind of strange ball in her mouth that had been secured behind her head with straps.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Leah whispered, but she looked over Erica’s shoulder anyway.

“Oh don’t be a party pooper,” her friend admonished. “So you wanted to know what I was doing to Bobby last week at the drive-in?”

Erica opened the book and Leah gasped. It was full of photographs, all of them far more graphic than anything Leah had seen in the magazine Bobby Harris passed around behind the chapel—the same Bobby Harris who was now doing all sorts of sexually perverted things with her best friend, at least according to the details Erica had relayed before bringing Leah into her father’s darkroom.

“This is…” Leah didn’t finish, too breathless, staring as Erica turned page after scandalous page.



Far out?

All of those came to mind. These weren’t just pictures of women posing—although there were some of those too—these were men and women doing things together, to each other, things she couldn’t have imagined before seeing it firsthand.

“Wild,” Erica agreed, pointing to a photograph of a naked woman on her knees, mascara thick under her eyes and running in rivulets down her cheeks as if she’d been crying, and she was trying to swallow the largest penis Leah had ever seen. In fact, the only penis she’d ever seen, come to think of it. The closest she ever got to one was when George Truslow had put her hand in his lap at the Cass Theater, and she’d barely discerned the shape of it before pulling her hand away as if it had been burned.

To be fair, it had been very hot, even through the material.

And throbbing.

Leah stared at the photograph, at the man’s hand in the woman’s hair, as if he could shove himself deeper down her throat, although from the look on her face, Leah was pretty sure that wasn’t physically possible. She’d sucked her thumb until she was ten, only stopping because the dentist threatened braces, and she found herself wondering if it might be similar.

“There.” Erica jabbed her finger at the photo. “That’s giving head.”

“You really put it in your mouth?” Leah blinked in disbelief. She’d barely been able to keep her hand on one. She couldn’t imagine putting it in her mouth! Erica just laughed, continuing to turn pages.

Leah ran her finger along the spines underneath the counter, marveling at their number. She took one off the shelf, one of the ones hidden way at the back, opening it in her lap, still stunned at what she found inside. Erica was right, this was really wild stuff. It showed everything, all the minute details of the flesh, up close and personal. She found herself utterly enthralled, in spite of her embarrassment with Erica sitting right there. She couldn’t seem to help her body’s response.

They sat on the bench in silence, sifting through the slick, glossy pile of pages, flipping through each of them on their own, their breath coming faster and growing more shallow in the silence. Once in a while, Erica would nudge Leah and show her something of interest, and Leah would do the same, when a picture was so intense it absolutely required sharing.

The darkroom was secluded, and they were so involved, Leah didn’t even know how they heard the front door. Thankfully the old warehouse had a huge steel entry. The sound of it closing startled both of them and the girls looked at each other with wide eyes. Erica shoved her book back and Leah did the same, both girls scrambling for the door, Leah bringing up the rear. She was in such a hurry, Leah couldn’t keep her balance and tripped, falling against Mr. Nolan’s desk, skinning her knee in the process, and knocking one of his cameras onto the floor.

“Shit!” Leah swore softly as Erica slid the bolt back into place, fumbling for the key and locking the padlock before letting the tapestry fall over the door again. Gonna have to add swearing to my confessions this week, Leah thought, and then realized what they had been doing for the last hour probably warranted a confession far more than profanity.

“Hurry!” Erica returned the key and slammed the desk drawer closed, grabbing her friend’s hand, barely giving Leah enough to time retrieve the camera and put it back on the desk. They ran like five-year-olds getting caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar, turning on the television—American Bandstand was their mainstay—and scrambling onto the couch in the makeshift living room, breathless and flushed.

The Nolans had a huge new set, a giant 21-inch color console. The television came to life slowly—too slowly—the prism pinprick of light in the middle of the screen slowly growing into a line and then blooming into a picture. It was fuzzy and the rabbit ears on top needed adjusting, but neither girl moved to do it as they sat listening to Mr. Nolan’s boots clomping down the hallway toward them.

The Nolans didn’t live in a house exactly—it was a giant warehouse Mr. Nolan had converted, “for the light,” he said. There were huge skylights overhead that let in ample amounts of sun, and Mr. Nolan had half the place set up as a photography studio. The main living area was a wide open space with just the suggestion of rooms—living, dining and sitting—using dividers. The separated rooms were the kitchen, the studio/darkroom, the bathroom, Erica’s room, and Mr. Nolan’s room up in the loft.

And now, Leah realized—the other darkroom.

“Hey girls.” Mr. Nolan poked his head around the divider, pulling off his motorcycle helmet and smiling—he had the best smile—his thick, dark, shoulder-length hair mussed up from the ride. Leah had never known another man in her life who wore his hair long like Mr. Nolan, but he could get away with it because, as her mother often reminded her, he was an artist. “Who wants pizza tonight?”

Erica glanced up from the still-fuzzy picture. “Can Leah stay?”

Mr. Nolan met Leah’s eyes and winked. “Sure, as long as her mom says it’s okay.”

Not much problem there. Leah’s mom thought Mr. Nolan was the cat’s meow, in spite of his long-haired, beatnik-like eccentricities—a widowed father, raising Erica all by himself, and Catholic too! She always started conversations about him with, “That man is such a catch—” which Leah always cut off with a disgusted exclamation of, “Mother!”

“I’ll get her on the horn.”

Leah hopped off the sofa and went to the phone in the hallway to call home, picking up the handset and dialing the exchange, TU8-7857, peeking around the corner to watch Mr. Nolan shrug off his riding jacket—black leather with silver zippers, like Brando in The Wild One or Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. He tossed it over a chair along with his helmet, gloves and camera bag, sitting in the matching mustard-yellow, wing-backed chair next to the sofa and crossing one of his well-worn motorcycle boots over his knee.

“Good ride?” Erica stretched, all casual. Leah’s heart was still beating too hard in her chest. She couldn’t get those images out of her head. They made her squirm, inside and out, as if she was too small in her own skin.

He shrugged. “Got some great shots before it started raining.”

Leah hadn’t even noticed, but when she glanced up, she saw rain sheeting down the skylights in a grey waterfall. Ada answered the phone, of course. Her mother was still at work, as usual. She was the receptionist in a law office, and Leah could have called her there, but Ada, their housekeeper and cook, was easier.

“Weldt Residence.”

“Hi Ada, it’s Leah, can I stay for dinner at the Nolans?”

“I made fried chicken,” Ada tempted her. “Your mother will be home late.”

Leah twisted the phone cord around her finger, knowing Ada would say she could stay for pizza—she traditionally ate dinner with the Nolans on Friday, even though Ada always cooked. “I’ll eat it cold in the morning. I’m staying the night too. Will you leave a note for my mom?”

“Yes, Missy.” Ada had called her Little Miss when she was young, and it had changed into Missy over time. “I’m going to head home then. It’s a gulley washer out there.”

“Goodnight, Ada!”

“You wanna order, Lovey?” Mr. Nolan asked his daughter, and Erica sighed, heading toward Leah and the hall phone.

“No pepperoni on half,” Leah reminded her, handing over the receiver.

“And extra cheese!” Mr. Nolan added as Erica grumbled and sifted through the phone table for Buscemi’s pizza menu. They had the best pizza in town, and since the new McDonald’s went in across the street, Paul Buscemi had started delivering his pizza in order to compete. So far, it was working pretty well. Leah would far rather have Buscemi’s pizza than a McDonald’s hamburger any day.

Mr. Nolan looked up as Leah came back to the living room. He was still smiling at his daughter’s dramatic eye-rolling. “How was school? Are you enjoying your classes?”

“The academics are kind of a drag,” Leah admitted. “Especially World Religion. I thought about dropping it but…”


She felt her face turning red. “Well, Father Michael’s teaching it, and he’s kind of dreamy.”

“So you’re staying for the visuals?” he teased, chuckling. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice, conspiratorial. “Aren’t you worried lust is a sin?”

Usually Mr. Nolan’s teasing just made her giggle, but after seeing his darkroom—his darker darkroom, as his daughter coined it—she felt her face bloom with color. And that wasn’t the only thing feeling warm. He noticed her response, his eyebrows going up slightly.

“I’m sure lusting after a priest is a super-sin.” Leah tried to cover her reaction as best she could by tossing a remark back at him and attempting to change the subject. “Anyway, at least I’m loving my dance classes.”

“I’m glad.” He sat back, smiling. “You’re a very talented dancer.”

“Thank you.” Leah’s face felt even hotter now and she wasn’t sure why. Mr. Nolan had always encouraged their creative endeavors. He’d pushed his daughter for years until she found her niche in journalism, but Erica had started at the age of five in ballet class with Leah and had moved through everything from piano to cheerleading before finding what she loved to do.

For Leah, it had always been dancing, and Mr. Nolan had been even more supportive than her own mother from the very beginning. Leah spent so much time at their place, and the Nolans had so much room, Mr. Nolan had actually set up a mirror and a barre for her on one wall so she could practice. She kept extra dance clothes and toe shoes at the Nolan’s too.

But now, thinking about him watching her dance, it made not just her face, but her entire body, feel as if it was on fire.

“Hey, you’re bleeding.”

“Huh?” Leah blinked.

“Your knee.”

“Oh. Bummer.” She licked her finger and rubbed at the spot where she’d skidded across the floor.

“How did that happen? You’re Madame Graceful.” He cocked his head, looking at her with fully raised eyebrows now. “Come on, let’s get you bandaged up.”

She followed, watching as he opened the top drawer of his desk—the one with all the keys—remembering the camera for the first time since he’d arrived home. That also got her to thinking about the secret door under his bed, just a few feet away from where they stood, and as much as she tried to push the thought out of her mind, it refused to go.

“Ummm, I actually have a confession to make.”

“Sure you don’t want to save it for Father Michael?” He winked, patting the edge of his desk. “Here, hop up.”

She slid up onto the desk’s surface, watching as he went to one knee in front of her so he could see better, peeling the edges of the bandage back. As his fingers smoothed the Band-Aid over her flesh, she held her breath, looking at him in a totally different way than she ever had before. She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it either.

Leah’s primary way of processing things had always been through her body, and she trusted it completely. Now it was telling her something she was forced to pay attention to. Something twisted and flipped inside her like a landed fish. Her heart rose up to her throat. Her hands began to sweat, and she had to press them flat on the desk to keep them from trembling.

What was wrong with her? How many times had Mr. Nolan applied a Band-Aid and kissed her boo-boos over the years? A dozen? Two? It was a familiar gesture, and yet this was entirely different. What had changed? Just the simple knowledge she now knew what he was hiding under his bed? That was all—but it was more than enough.

It made her want to confess to him, and she did. “Erica and I were screwing around and I fell and knocked your camera over. I hope it isn’t broken.”

“This one?” He stood, picking up the big, boxy camera that had clattered to the floor earlier. “Seems all right.” He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Medium format cameras are pretty indestructible. Now if it was my 35mm…” He made a face and shrugged. “They just don’t make cameras like they used to.”

“So it still works?”

He took a step back, looking through the lens, pausing a moment before snapping a photo of her. She was used to it. Mr. Nolan had been taking pictures of them for as long as she could remember. There was a whole series of Leah and Erica practicing cartwheels in the park as little girls in frames down the front hallway.

“See?” He stepped forward and placed the camera beside her on the desk and Leah felt his hand brush over the top of her leg as he did, making her breath catch. Had he taken those pictures—those other pictures—with this very camera, she wondered? She had flipped through image after naughty image, nude bodies and sinful flesh, but Mr. Nolan had seen it firsthand, with only a refracting lens as a barrier.

“Now you have to develop it to make sure.” Her voice was breathy and small. She was thinking of the darkroom just a few steps away.

“You can help me if you want.” He gave her a half-smile, and it wasn’t like his usual Mr. Nolan smile at all. It was a little more hesitant, unsure. Something was happening, she could feel it, and she knew he could feel it too.

“In your darkroom.” The regular darkroom, the one with the red light over the door that told the girls not to open it, was around the corner from the kitchen. She’d been helping him develop photos in there for years, not knowing all the while he had another, darker darkroom. What else didn’t she know about Mr. Nolan?

“Where else?” He was still standing close, his leg touching hers. It wasn’t anything unusual. The three of them often piled up together under blankets on the couch to watch television on Fridays, all limbs and warmth. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and yet for Leah, a door had now been opened she couldn’t quite get closed again.

When she lifted her face to look at him, to meet his eyes, she couldn’t look away, and he didn’t look away either. It felt like forever, that moment, her sitting on the desk, him standing close enough to touch, the sudden spell between them almost palpable.

“You’re such a pretty girl.” His words were just a murmur, barely audible, and she felt his weight shift ever so slightly toward her, not away. A smile played on his lips. “Who’s your boyfriend these days?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” She lifted her chin, feeling both proud and ashamed of the fact at the same time.

“Seems a shame. A pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend.” His weight shifted again, imperceptibly, toward her, his smile reaching his eyes. Was he flirting with her? Were they actually flirting? Leah couldn’t wrap her head around that any more than she could integrate the existence of the pictures they’d found in the secret darkroom under his bed.

“Erica gets all the boys.” She knew her words would break the spell, distract them both with mention of his daughter and her best friend, and they did.

“Tell me about it.” Mr. Nolan snorted and rolled his eyes, taking a step back and offering her a hand. She took it, letting him help her off the desk. “That Bobby-what’s-his-name calls constantly. He seems to be the front-runner.”

“Yes,” Leah agreed as they headed back to the living room. “He’s a nice boy.”

Nice. Well that wasn’t exactly the truth. Nice enough, she supposed. Played football and baseball and drove a nice car and came from “good stock,” as her mother would say. But she wasn’t about to tell him what sinful things Bobby liked to do to Erica in the backseat of his brand new 1956 Ford Thunderbird, or what he liked to have Erica do to him. Not that Mr. Nolan would be surprised, if the secret pictures he’d taken were any indication. Leah’s definition of “nice boy” was changing by the moment.

“Took you long enough to order a pizza,” Mr. Nolan remarked as Erica came back into the living room. He was messing with the rabbit ears on the television, trying to get Dick Clark, who had just started hosting American Bandstand last year, to come in more clearly.

“Bobby called.”

Leah and Mr. Nolan exchanged knowing looks and they both grinned as Erica flopped down on the couch with an issue of Modern Teen magazine, a pouting Elvis on the front, singing under her breath to “Don’t Be Cruel.” Leah joined her friend and things slipped back slowly into place as they flipped through the pages together, talking about the latest Peter Pan collars and Elvis’s new movie while Mr. Nolan read the Detroit Free Press in his arm chair.

By the time pizza arrived, Mr. Nolan was snoring, and Erica ran to the door to answer it, Leah following close behind. Sometimes they sent Rodney Emerson, who went to their sister school, St. Casimir, on the other side of town. He worked at Buscemi’s delivering pizzas, and he was awfully cute, but this time it was Paul Buscemi himself, gruff and to the point. Erica just took the pizza and told him to put it on her father’s tab.

“Think we should wake him?” Erica was already opening the box, lifting out a hot, cheesy slice before handing it over to Leah. They sat on the floor in front of the television, the pizza between them.

“I’m awake.” Mr. Nolan opened one eye. “Don’t eat it all.”

“Daddy, can Leah stay over tonight?” Erica inquired sweetly. “We have a project to work on for World Religion.”

He readily agreed, joining them on the floor with the pizza, and Leah probably would have stayed there all night talking with him about his photo shoots with celebrities—Mr. Nolan had photographed the most interesting people, including Elvis, although his daughter insisted she would never forgive him for not figuring out a way for the girls meet him—but Erica insisted on dragging her to the bedroom, where they stayed up well after midnight, playing 45s on her record player and doing far more giggling than working on their project.

“How long have you known about your dad’s… collection?” Leah pulled one of Erica’s long nightgowns over her head to sleep in as they were getting ready for bed. The girls wore each other’s clothes constantly.

Erica grinned, rolling over onto her belly on the bed. “A while.”

Leah raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yup.” Erica shoved her books off the end of her bed and yawned.

“Doesn’t it make you feel…?” Leah struggled to find the right words, but all of them were far too embarrassing.

“Horny?” Erica giggled at Leah’s shocked expression. “Oh come on, girls feel horny too. Do you think married women don’t like it?”

Leah stared at her, contemplating this new thought. Maybe it was because her own mother wasn’t married that it had never really occurred to her? “So tell me the truth then… have you and Bobby… you know…?”

“No!” Erica made a face. “I’m still a virgin. I definitely don’t want to end up with a bun in the oven! Geeze Louise.”

Leah slipped into the sleeping bag Mr. Nolan had retrieved out of the hall closet, trying to reconcile Erica’s belief she was still a virgin with the fact she and Bobby had clearly done far more than just kiss, which was, admittedly, about all Leah had done. She just lived vicariously through Erica. And now that she’d seen those photographs, the possibilities had suddenly become staggeringly endless.

“I sneak them out to look at them sometimes,” Erica confessed, turning off the light. “Which one was your favorite?”

The darkness made Leah feel bolder, but she still felt as if she had to whisper, wondering if her friend would even remember the specific photograph. “There was the one I showed you, with the two girls and the one guy together…”

“Oh yes, that one.” Erica’s voice grew warmer in the dark. “The one where he was on his back, and one girl was sitting in his lap, while the other one was sitting on his face?”

“Erica!” Leah’s cheeks pinked, even in the darkness, hearing her say those words, but they brought the memory of the photo immediately up in her mind, blackly exciting.

“Am I right?” her friend prompted breathlessly. “Was that the one? Where he’s having sex with one girl and going down on the other?”

“Ummm.” Leah closed her eyes, trying to hide, Erica’s words astonishing her into agreement. “Yeah.”

“I like the ones with two guys and a girl too.” Clearly she’d been holding this information in, keeping the secret under the loft from everyone, including her best friend, for far too long. She was eager to share it now. “Seeing her suck on a guy while he’s inside of her… I’d love to know what that’s like.”

“Has Bobby…” Leah hesitated, biting her lip, squirming in the darkness. “Done that to you? With his mouth?”

“Ohhhh God, yes.” Erica moaned softly, the sound of it making Leah glow bright red, her friend’s voice dropping even lower. “You can’t imagine how it feels. You know how good it feels when you touch yourself down there right?”

“Erica!” Leah turned her hot face against the coolness of the pillow. They’d talked in general about boys and parking and petting and the difference between first, second and third base, and when it was or wasn’t appropriate to go that far, but somehow seeing those photographs, everything splayed out so clearly in black and white, had changed their dialogue. Things were more open now, shamefully, excitingly open.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never touched it!” Erica whispered, sounding dumbstruck.

Leah’s voice was muffled in the pillow. “A little.”

She knew it was a sin, but sometimes late at night Leah would wake up from a hot, throbbing, red-tinged dream with both hands wedged between her thighs, not even remembering the dream itself, just the feeling, a desperate ache for release she didn’t quite understand.

“Oh, Leah, you have no idea!” Erica whispered, moaning again softly and Leah could hear a faint, wet sound. “Bobby’s tongue right here, right on this spot…”

Leah froze. “Erica, what are you doing?”

“Touching it,” her best friend confessed. She could hear the rustling in the dark. My God, the audacity! Leah knew she should be aghast, appalled. But like the photographs, the sound of Erica touching herself was irresistible, making her breath come faster, her heart race. “Go ahead, Leah. Touch yourself.”

“It’s a sin!” she protested, but that gentle pulse between her thighs had grown unbearable. There must be something to make it stop! Leah did something she’d never done, at least while she was awake—she slipped her hand down over her underwear in the darkness and cupped the swollen mound of her sex. It ached, and felt better when she touched it.

“But it feels so good, I can’t stop,” Erica protested, the wet sound growing louder, her breathing fast too. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“Mmmm.” Leah rocked her palm up and down, back and forth, hips moving in spite of her apprehension. “Ohhh yes. Yes!”

“Rub it with your finger,” Erica urged. “Right at the top. Right… ohh… right there.”

“Inside?” Leah washed herself regularly, religiously, and yes, it felt nice when she ran a soapy washcloth between her legs, in a pleasant sort of way, but this was different.

“There’s a spot, a little spot, right up top,” Erica explained. “Do you feel it?”

“Ummm…” Leah focused, fingers slippery with wetness—gosh, things got so wet down there when she was excited like this!—parting the soft, curly hair, probing through her own slit. Everything felt so puffy and hot. “Oh! Ohhhh!”

“That’s it.” Erica giggled. “That’s the spot. That’s right where Bobby puts his tongue. Oh the first time he did it, I was so embarrassed, I thought I would die, but he wouldn’t stop. He kept licking. And licking. And licking. Until… until…”

“Until?” Leah panted, her fingers making easy, natural circles around that tender nub of flesh. What was it that made it feel so good? How could she have such a sensitive place on her own body and not know it? “Ohhh my. Oh that’s so nice!”

“I’ll say.” Erica was practically panting now. “Just keep doing it. If you keep doing it, something amazing happens. I can’t even describe it.”

“Something… amazing…?” Leah had never felt anything like this. Her body was doing things all on its own, the muscles in her thighs growing taut, her bottom clenching. She was ashamed to feel her own nipples hardening under her nightgown, rubbing against the soft cloth. Her breasts were tiny, and her nipples so sensitive they sometimes got hard enough they hurt when it was cold outside. But they didn’t hurt now. The more they hardened and moved under the material as she squirmed, the more aroused she became. It was as if there was a direct line of fire from her breasts to the sweet spot her fingers were working between her legs. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could stand this much heat without exploding.

“Totally amazing,” Erica agreed, breathless. Leah knew her friend was rubbing herself, just like she was, both of them doing such shameful, sinful things in the dark. She knew it was wrong, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Erica had been quite right. It felt too good to stop. “Beyond amazing. Beyond beyond…”

“I just keep seeing them, all the pictures, all the bodies, all that flesh…”

“Yes,” Erica whispered. “All the sex. All the fucking…”

“Oh my God, Erica!” Leah was truly shocked by her friend’s language, but her body undeniably liked it, her excitement growing as if someone had just thrown gasoline on a fire.

“All the licking and sucking and fucking!” Erica hissed, the springs on her little twin mattress bouncing with her motion on the bed. “Ohhh! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“What’s happening?” Leah whispered in the darkness, not just asking Erica but herself as well, toes curling, nipples straining under her nightgown, her fingers making furious circles over that critical spot.

“It’s happening! Oh it’s happening!” Erica moaned softly on the bed, and Leah listened, remembering photo after photo, body after body, all the licking, all the sucking, oh and yes, all the fucking going on. It was all so strange and overwhelming and oh, so very exciting.

“What’s happening? What?” Leah cried, pulling the sleeping bag down a little, all frantic and hot.

“Oh I want it,” Erica moaned. “I want him inside me, fucking me. Mmmm yeah like that. I want to know what it feels like to get fucked…”

Leah moaned too, hearing the wet noises growing louder from Erica’s bed.

“Mmmm! So close!” Erica panted, and all Leah could see when she closed her eyes was that woman on her knees, swallowing him whole, crying dark tears. Why was it so arousing? Leah writhed on the floor, her hand locked between the tight press of her thighs as she listened to the soft squeak of the mattress and box spring.

“Are you close, Leah?” Erica panted in the darkness. “Are you going to come?”

“Come?” Leah questioned, not quite understanding, just knowing her thighs were so taut they were trembling, breath coming just as fast as Erica’s, hand working between her legs, aching for relief.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Erica cried, short little squeaks, and then a fast, whispered, “Come on, Leah! Come! Come! Ohhhhh I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Leah heard her friend’s panting breath, the soft cries of her pleasure, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, her own body beginning to quake. What was happening to her? It came out of nowhere. A quiver began between her legs and radiated outward, through her belly and thighs, up to her breasts, puckering her nipples in response. It was like an earthquake, a tidal wave, a volcano, some incredible force of nature that took her and shook her and left her limp and trembling in its wake. She couldn’t stop it, and she didn’t want to. It was beyond pleasure, beyond bliss, beyond ecstasy, beyond any feeling she’d ever had or known.

“Did it happen for you? Did you come?”

“Yes,” Leah managed, but that was all. Coming? Is that what they called it? It felt more like going—like running or dancing or flying. She finally understood then what all the boys wanted when they tried to put their hands down her blouse or up her skirt, what it was they were searching for all along—this final, sweet, rapturous release.

And it was worth it.

Worth the risk, worth the sin, worth the shame. It made her want to do it again—wondered if she could do it again—but she didn’t, holding still in the dark. They didn’t talk as their breathing began to return to normal and their hearts stopped beating a mile a minute. Leah felt the embarrassment begin to creep in and wondered if Erica did too. Her trembling thighs finally relaxed. Eventually, she heard Erica sleeping. Years of sleepovers made her familiar with the sound. Yet Leah couldn’t seem to drift off, and instead she rolled around in the sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable on the floor.

About Selena Kitt

Selena KittSelena Kitt is a NEW YORK TIMES bestselling and award-winning author of erotic and romance fiction. She is one of the highest selling erotic writers in the business with over two million books sold!

Her writing embodies everything from the spicy to the scandalous, but watch out-this kitty also has sharp claws and her stories often include intriguing edges and twists that take readers to new, thought-provoking depths.

When she’s not pawing away at her keyboard, Selena runs an innovative publishing company ( and bookstore (, as well as two erotica and erotic romance promotion companies ( and and she now runs the Erotica Readers and Writers Association.

Her books EcoErotica (2009), The Real Mother Goose (2010) and Heidi and the Kaiser (2011) were all Epic Award Finalists. Her only gay male romance, Second Chance, won the Epic Award in Erotica in 2011. Her story, Connections, was one of the runners-up for the 2006 Rauxa Prize, given annually to an erotic short story of “exceptional literary quality.”

Her book, Babysitting the Baumgartners, has been made into an adult film by Adam & Eve, starring Mick Blue, Anikka Albrite, Sara Luvv and A.J. Applegate.

She can be reached on her website at

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Books by Selena Kitt

Confession (Under Mr. Nolan's Bed)Confession (Under Mr. Nolan’s Bed)

“With the mouth, confession is made into salvation…” ~ Romans 10:10.

The shocking discovery best friends Leah and Erica have made under Mr. Nolan’s bed has them down the wicked path of temptation, both girls veering far from the narrow path dictated by their strict Catholic upbringing, and their sexual transgressions have had unintended consequences.

Erica finds her life turned upside down when Leah falls for Erica’s father, but just as Erica is beginning to accept their love for each other, Leah disappears. Bewildered and abandoned, Erica and Mr. Nolan are faced with sadness and confusion at their loss, but while Mr. Nolan spirals into mourning, Erica is determined to find her friend.

Erica can’t possibly know why Leah has vanished, but when she enlists the help of Father Michael, her search and the real reason for Leah’s disappearance intersect to uncover a multitude of shocking confessions and a secret that will shake not only the foundation of their faith, but the entire institution of the Catholic Church itself.

Grace (Under Mr. Nolan's Bed)Grace (Under Mr. Nolan’s Bed)

“By Grace you have been saved…” Ephesians 2:8

Childhood friends Leah and Erica have been sacrificial lambs at the altar of a scandalous corruption within the Catholic Church, violated by those who have, in their lust for power, turned the sacred profane.

The mystery of Leah’s disappearance results in a long-awaited reunion, but it is tainted by both their loss of innocence and a deep, unfathomable sorrow, which only leads to more secrets that have yet to be uncovered.

The revelations Erica and Father Michael have already exposed in their search to find the truth have only scratched the surface of the mystery they are about to unravel.

But will their discovery serve to save them and redeem the innocence they have lost, or will the sins of the fathers prove to be too powerful and destroy them all?

Babysitting the BaumgartnersBabysitting the Baumgartners


Read the uber-hot, fun-in-the-sun, coming-of-age book that started it all!

Ronnie, now a college freshman, has been babysitting for the Baumgartners so long, she’s practically a member of the family.

When Mrs. Baumgartner—who insists on calling her Veronica—invites Ronnie along on their yearly vacation, the nanny jumps at the chance.

There’s no way she’s going to turn down an opportunity to work on her tan in the Florida Keys with Doc and Mrs. B!

But Ronnie isn’t the only one with ulterior motives.

The young co-ed discovers that the Baumgartners have wayward plans for their au pair that are going to lead places she could only have imagined.

This wicked hot sun and sand coming of age story will seduce you as quickly as the Baumgartners seduce innocent Ronnie and leave everyone yearning for more!

Step BeastStep Beast

They call him Beast because he fights and fucks like one. Because he’s built like the tanks he rode in Afghanistan.

Beneath Conrad “Beast” Beeston III’s fierce, intense gaze, his brooding temperament, his knuckles scarred from fighting, lurks a wild man, his strong, broad back darkly inked with his own hard truths.

He only has one mode, and “Beast” is it. He ripped through Tilly’s life, tearing it to shreds, and then he was gone, giving a stiff middle finger to a life of entitlement. He left her like he leaves them all—with little more than a broken heart. But for Tilly, there was one more thing.

He left her with an unbearable secret she’s been forced to keep for years.

Tilly’s privileged life, after her recent graduation from Mt. Holyoke, has come to a screeching halt under tragic circumstances. Had she really believed she’d never see her Devil Dog stepbrother again?

Now he’s coming home—and she’s forced to face his cocky smirk and arrogant swagger, to look once again into the eyes of the monster who left her.

Forced to confront him, what she sees is a raw, broken, tortured man who just might be the only person she knows keeping even bigger secrets than she is.

Worse, she still wants him. Even if it means breaking everything in her life wide open—even if it means unleashing the Beast.

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