Excerpt for The Salacious Scribes Mystery by , available in its entirety at Smashwords


The Salacious Scribes Mystery



by Louise Hathaway August 2017

Copyright Louise Hathaway 2017


Smashwords Edition 2017



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Chapter One



I would never have dreamed that when I joined a group of erotica writers, one of us would be killed at the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas. It had started out so fun.

When I first heard that my group wanted to reserve a booth at the Expo, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to go or not. I asked myself, how would I fit in? Wasn’t I too old? What does a happily-married 62-year-old woman wear to such a venue? Would I look ridiculous? I couldn’t decide until my husband convinced me to go, saying that it was a chance of a lifetime since I’ve always wanted to be recognized as a writer.

Such recognition wasn’t exactly what I had imagined when I spent six years in college getting a Master’s Degree in English Literature. What would my teachers have to say about me writing erotica? I first started writing stories when I was a junior in high school and my folklore and mythology teacher wanted us to write ballads, fables, and myths. Spending the summer of that year playing my brother’s Bob Dylan albums over and over until I remembered every line of the folk hero’s lyrics was the beginning of my love affair with the written word. I took creative writing classes in junior college and my teachers liked my writing. When I read my stories aloud for the group of fellow writers, I usually received positive feedback. The problem was that I couldn’t get a publisher to accept my stories. The competition was fierce and still is. It’s a rough field.

Fast forward to retirement four years ago, when one Sunday, as I was reading the L.A. Times, I saw an article about how indie writers are using websites like Smashwords and Kindle Direct Publishing to publish their books. The best part was that writers didn’t have to pay a cent. They earned 70% royalty for each book sold and Amazon kept the other 30%. I ended up making quite a tidy sum for my creations.

After a while, I wanted to try something new. While I had been watching some of the new indie titles coming out, I noticed that quite a few of them were erotic romances. I loved the fact the I could sample 20% of these books on Smashwords for free. I’ve always enjoyed reading about sex and I especially liked Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Story of O and Vox. And then 50 Shades of Grey hit the bookstores and everyone was talking about it. Why were so many women buying books about a sadist in a good suit? Women adore bad boys apparently; especially rich ones. One of my friends asked, “How come it’s called “erotica” when a handsome rich guy hits a woman and it it’s called a “sex crime” if a poor guy does the same thing?” Good question.

I had to know, so I bought the first volume of 50 Shades of Grey and was hooked. Despite the violence towards the submissive young woman, it read like a love story. She, like most women in these stories, was a virgin and very “trainable” because she didn’t have any other sexual experiences with which to compare. The power was in her hands because she had a “safe word” she could use to tell her lover to stop if the pain he was inflicting upon her became unbearable. The men in these stories do not call themselves sadists: they want to be called “Dom’s” as in Dominant. They wear white dress shirts, Rolex watches, cuff links, tailored pants and soft leather shoes and prefer woman with small waists, large breasts, and perky high butt cheeks. They work out at the gym and prefer (I should say demand) that women do the same. In some of these stories, when a woman agrees to be a submissive, she is assigned physical trainer.

The first erotic story I wrote was a “Cougar” story. I wrote it under the pen name, “Sexy Sadie,” like the Beatle’s song. I wanted my story to be like the sweet and tender Summer of 42 movie about how a woman with “issues” reached out to a teenage boy who’d spent the summer admiring her from afar. Never in a million years would I have imagined that someone would actually buy it, let alone give it a 5-star review. With that encouragement, I decided to try another one, and wrote about a hot teacher who caught the attention of a sexy cop when he took her clothes out of the dryer in their apartment’s laundry room. He was angry about how inconsiderate people can be when they leave their clothes in the dryer long after they were dry. While emptying the dryer to make room for his clothes, he noticed double-d cup bras and thong panties. Anger turned into curiosity and when the lingerie’s owner came to collect her laundry and saw him manhandling her undies, she read him the riot act and left in a huff. However, that night she remembered how sexy he looked in his uniform and wished she hadn’t been so angry. She had sexual fantasies about taking a bath with him. He imagined her starring in his funny and over-the-top XXX fantasies. This little 99 cent quickie became my number one best seller. Whenever I posted excerpts from it on my Facebook page, the next day I had about forty friend requests from men I didn’t know. As an erotica writer, I walked a fine line: I wanted people to like what I’d written and buy my books, but at the same time I worried that they wanted more out of me that I was prepared to give. I can’t print some of messages men have sent my alter ego, but one of the weirdest was this request: “I love you. Please send me pictures of parts of your body.”

So now, I’d hit the jackpot as a bona fide erotica writer and was going to Sin City to peddle my wares. But—what would I wear? I started out at Victoria Secret and tried on a sexy garter belt to wear with fishnet stockings. It had been a long time since I’ve worn this type of lingerie and I didn’t know if my body was up to the task. I had packed on some weight around the middle since my “Babe” days, so I was hoping I’d find one in my size. When I walked into the store, I noticed that most of the customers were teenagers or ladies in the twenties. I felt ridiculous already and I hadn’t even tried anything on yet. I circled the store, looking at the bras and panties. The bras I’d fit into; the panties—no way. I love the look of black silk stockings: they are just so classy. So instead of fishnets, I bought some thigh highs that I could wear with or without a garter belt on.

When I came home, I fixed my husband’s favorite dinner, Coq au Vin, and eagerly awaited greeting him at the door in my sexy under garments. I wore a little black dress—well, mine was actually a big black dress—and did my best to look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I even bought cigarettes I planned to smoke in a cigarette holder I’d bought for a Halloween party a few years back when I dressed as Cruella de Vil. Candles were lit and dinner was on the table when I noticed the time: it was a half-hour later than when he usually came home. He’s always been considerate about calling home if he’s running late and I began to worry until the phone rang and he told me that he needed to work late.

“It should only be an hour,” he reassured me and I put dinner back in the refrigerator and opened a bottle of white wine. I took my wine glass into the front room and put on one of my favorite 80s albums and had a smoke. It had been a long time since I had one and could only finish half of it.

The phone rang again an hour later and my husband said, “We need to get the subpoenas out tonight and our server keeps crashing.”

I understood his excuse: he worked in the District Attorney’s IT department and if the subpoenas don’t go out, the bad guys who’d been arrested that day would be allowed to go free. By this time, I was getting hungry; so, I ate my portion of my husband’s favorite meal. I put dinner away and cued another album from the 80s on our vintage turn table. When he came home, I was asleep and sprawled out on the couch with my dress hiked up, looking like an old tart who’d seen better days.

I sensed someone in the room and opened my eyes. Giving him a wide smile, I said, “Hi, honey. You’re home at last!”

“Sorry I’m so late. I’m starving. What’s that delicious aroma?”

“Coq au Vin; your favorite.”

“I can’t wait,” he said and gave me a kiss.

I nuzzled up next to him, hiked my dress up to show off my new black silk nylons and asked, in my most seductive voice, “So what do you think of my new silk stockings?”

“Very nice,” he told me.

That’s it? I wanted details, so I asked, “What was the first thing you thought of when you saw me on the couch?”

“Truthfully?”

“Yes. Of course. Always.”

Uh oh, I thought, fearing the worst.

“It reminded me of my mother when I used to come home and see her crashed out on the coach.” This was not welcome news. His mother spent most of her time in the corner bar, smoking cigarettes, getting drunk and inviting strange men home.

After this discouragement, I started to panic: the convention was drawing near and I still didn’t know what to wear. I found a website that sold sexy corsets and bought one in pink. I ordered it “overnight delivery” since we were off to Vegas on the weekend. I figured that I’d accentuate my bust line which had grown since my weight gain and I bought a gypsy skirt to hide the lower part of my body. “Accentuate the positive,” as the song goes.

We had planned to have our cat boarded at the vet, but the night before we left, we had second thoughts and decided to bring her along with us. We had grown very attached to a black cat we adopted from the shelter after hearing a story on TV about how many were abused around Halloween. When we saw her behind the cage at the shelter, our hearts warmed up to her right away and we’ve been practically inseparable ever since. We named her Spooky.

The three of us took off for Vegas and after a four-hour drive, we arrived at The Bellagio. The temperature was 110 at three o’clock in the afternoon, and when we stepped out of our air-conditioned car, we were hit with a blast of warm wind. Once inside, my first impression was cigarette smoke. My God; did everyone here smoke? We’re from California where nobody can smoke indoors and this was an assault on my senses. My eyes felt dry already. The hotel was teeming with tourists as we made our way to the registration desk. The line to check-in zigged and zagged and made me feel like I was standing in line at the airport. Many people were told that their rooms weren’t available yet; so, they had to sit on the sidelines, waiting for a text or call, telling them that their room was ready. Finally, we made it to the front and were pleased to hear that our room was ready. To get to the guest elevators, we had to walk through the crowded casino and the whirling cacophony of noises coming from various slot machines mixed with the squeals from happy winners. The smell of cigarettes made me feel slightly dizzy. Once inside our quiet room, I felt a little better. We were on the 26th floor with a view of the famous fountains. Directly out our window was the Eiffel Tower and Las Vegas’s version of Paris. I couldn’t wait to see what our view would look like after it got dark. The famous fountains came alive and put on a spectacular water show. Viewing them from the 26th floor was a real treat and much more impressive than the last time I saw them when I was standing on ground level. After unpacking my suitcase, I dressed for my “coming out party” at the convention. I needed my husband’s assistance with the corset: he had to truss me up like Scarlett O’Hara had been when her maid helped her get dressed for her rendezvous with Ashley Wilkes. After many attempts, my husband finally found my sweet spot: I looked half-way decent and could still breathe. I put on a wide velvet collar that had a ring in the front. It was the first time my husband had ever seen it and he asked, “What do you do with the ring?”

“You attach a leash and take me for a walk.”

“Sorry, hon. No can do.”

I rolled my eyes at him and said, “You don’t have to do it. I was just joking.”

“I’m not a big fan of all this sadomasochism stuff.”

“Neither am I, honey; but it’s what everyone wants to read.”

With that, I grabbed a pile of my books to sell at the convention and he escorted me there. After kissing me goodbye, he said, “Good luck. I hope you sell lots of books!”

“Don’t forget to feed the cat,” I told him and entered the surreal world of the Vegas Adult Entertainment Expo.




Chapter Two



You might ask what my husband thought of having a wife who wrote erotica? The truth is he loved my erotic stories and wanted me to write more. He read them aloud in bed with me and afterwards we’d have some very hot sex. I couldn’t ask for a better and more supportive husband. But he feared for my safety when dealing with some of my horny male fans and told me not to start a dialog with any of my male Facebook followers. I had over 800 Facebook Friends—can you believe it? It was a double-edged sword: I was trying to find customers for my books; but at the same time, I didn’t like men treating me like a prostitute or a phone sex operator.

As time went on, my sales were so-so and I was beginning to think this jig was up until I received a very interesting email from a woman writer inviting me to participate in an erotica online book party. I was glad that she wrote to me: her author’s rank on Amazon was high and her books were earning five star reviews galore. To this day, I don’t know how she first heard of me. I had a lot to learn about marketing my book and she was a master at it. I sat-in on a few of these erotica book parties and they were a blast. There were funny games and prizes and everyone drank wine, got loose, laughed and had a good time. The parties usually had four or five writers who each had an hour to talk about their books and life. Soon, I was the writer being featured at these affairs.

My patroness told me about a writer’s contest hosted on a site called Bluebeard’s Dungeon. The keeper of the dungeon’s name was Mr. Bluebeard and his Facebook page contained naked pictures of women and men, usually wearing bondage gear. Many were handcuffed or tied with rope. Some of the pictures were very unsettling; especially of the ones of women locked in small cages or of men with their hands around the women’s throats. Mr. Bluebeard’s site also included short stories written by a well-respected group of erotica writers known as “The Salacious Scribes”. I imagined his template for success was Hugh Hefner’s creation of Playboy Magazine—provide the readers with pornography and good articles (usually of a sexual nature); and the husbands would be able to defend themselves if the wife caught him red-handed. They could say, “I’m reading it for the articles. I really am.”

“Creating a brand” is what many writers are told to do and Mr. Bluebeard was a master at it. His profile picture on Facebook was of the torso of a man wearing an expensive suit with a white shirt that was partially opened to reveal his washboard abs. The women on the site called him “Sir” or “Master” and they hung on his every word. If he recommended a book, these groupies would go out, purchase it, and tell all their friends about it. If he was planning a party on his website, he would create a sexy come-on video and count down the days to it.

He created a contest that I took part in. We were asked to write a short erotic tale of 1500 words and if we won, the prize would be that we would join the ranks of the Salacious Scribes. When I won, it was one of the happiest days of my life as a writer. None of us Salacious Scribes knew what Bluebeard looked like. He never showed his face and could be a woman for all we knew. Or a fat and slobby 40-year-old living in his mom’s basement in Pacoima. He liked to keep us guessing; until today, when he had promised his fans he would make an appearance at the convention.



Chapter Three



But I’m getting ahead of myself. Bluebeard was alive and well when I saw him at the convention that day. When I saw a good-looking man leading a naked young woman around by a leash, I had a feeling it was him and waved. He looked at me, walked over, and said, “You must be Sexy Sadie.”

“Yes. That’s me,” I replied, barely containing my inner groupie. He was gorgeous; just as all of us ladies had imagined.

He told me, “Your name suits you. You are sexy, Sadie.”

“Wow! Thanks. Are you Mr. Bluebeard?”

“I most certainly am.” He looked at his companion and said, “She’s the one who wrote Hot for Teacher.”

She told me, “I loved that book!”

“Well thank you very much.” Wow! Two compliments in a row. This was going to be a fun convention!

He told me, “Goodbye for now,” and headed out to meet and greet others.

Hoping to see someone else I recognized, I forded my way through the masses. I saw adult film stars getting their pictures taken with their fans and booths filled with adult DVD’s and multi-colored dildos and vibrators. I walked by one table that had rubber busts with very realistic looking half-way opened lips. I wonder what people do with those? Two barely-legal teenage girls were in a baby crib kissing each other. Before I started feeling too above-it-all and self-righteous, I had to remind myself that I was a player in this circus. Peddling my X-rated romance novels, I was part of the Sex Industry. Let’s face it—I sold smut.

Walking along, I almost stumbled over a woman sitting in the aisle with her legs wide open. “Sorry!” I told her.

“Watch where you going!” she shouted after me.

“Get out of the freggin’ aisle,” I wanted to say, but figured it’s better to keep walking. Finally, I saw a familiar face: Maggie May was sitting at a table in our designated booth. She was naked from the waist up except for some large circular pasties shaped like Hello Kitty. We are the same age, but she looked really hot—I had to admit it: she really rocked those pasties.

“Damn! Girl—you are brave,” I told her.

She looked down at her breasts and said, “Is it too much? Maybe I should put my sweater on.”

“No way. Let’s show these young hotties and businessmen just how sexy 62 can be.”

She laughed and said, “What a circus, right?”

“I’ll say.” I sat down next to her and stacked my books on the table. “Have you seen anyone else from our group?”

“I saw Dee Cups.”

“What was she wearing?”

“I couldn’t figure out who she was trying to be. Some person from history. You know how she is always talking about her past lives. Maybe she’s Anne Boleyn.”

“Let’s hope she keeps her head tonight.” As we were talking, a barely clothed man with a very large penis and realistic looking breasts walked by. “Wow!” I said. “You don’t see that every day.”

Maggie told me, “I’ve seen him in movies. He swings both ways.” Several of his fans spotted him—both men and women—and got their pictures taken with him/her.

A woman dressed like Wonder Woman and carrying a stack of books walked over to us. “Are you Amber Flame?” I asked.

“Yes. Hi everyone.” She sat down next to us and said, “Have you seen all the emails about Bluebeard yet?”

“No,” I answered. “I’ve been off-line for the last couple of days. What’s going on?”

“It’s a mutiny. Everybody’s complaining about him.”

“He reads our posts, you know,” I reminded her. “People better be careful. Even though he said it was a secret group, he eavesdropped from time to time.”

“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of. All hell’s going to break loose when he sees them.”

“What’d they say anyway?”

“They’re complaining that he’s taking advantage of us. He’s making us do too much work without getting paid.”

“We owe it to him,” I said in his defense. “He’s given us a lot of exposure that we wouldn’t otherwise get.”

Amber said, “I think he’s going to kick us all out of the dungeon.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Didn’t you notice at the last book party, he featured his new A-listers. We were left high and dry.”

“I got to admit—I did feel like we were the step-children.”

A lady dressed like Cat Woman walked over to our booth and sat down. I tried to figure out who she was; not all of us Salacious Scribes show our real pictures on our Facebook pages. “Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Hello Kitty. Meow.”

Maggie and I both laughed. “So, this is what you look like.”

I checked her out from head to toe and told her, “You look good in leather. Congratulations for pulling it off.”

She looked at Maggie and said, “Honey, where’s your top?”

Maggie cupped both breasts and bounced them up and down.

“You go, girl. I like those Hello Kitty pasties. Where’d you get them?”

“Out of a catalog.”

“My husband would love them.”

“My breasts or my pasties.”


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