After drafts, revisions - months on end not even looking at it, but still agonizing over plot points - and one very intense final week, Tropical Permission is officially available on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited.

Read on Kindle

I want to take a moment to thank the Smutstack community. As I said the other day, I came here with the ultimate goal of self-publishing an ebook, and I can honestly say I would never have done it but for the love and support I got here in those early days. While I am no longer an active participant in the community, Smutstack will always have a special place in my heart.

This book is about desire, trust, and what happens when two people stop playing it safe with each other. I wrote the story I wanted to read. I hope it’s the story you want to read too.

If you pick it up, thank you. If you leave a review, thank you even more — it makes a real difference for indie authors.

More to come! Some of my short stories will go into another ebook collection soon - and Domestic Permission, the follow up to Tropical Permission, is already in early drafting.

— L.H. 💋

Tropical Permission - Amazon Link

I am so sorry for disappearing off the face of Smutstack for the last 5ish months. I am especially sorry to my paying subscribers, who I will happily refund on request.

At the time of my ghosting, I was hit with a perfect storm of crises - personal, professional, financial. My plan was to take a week or so off as I managed the deluge, but then a week turned into a month, and now here we are in the 2nd month of a brand new year.

I didn’t just stop posting here. I didn’t even log into the site. And I also wasn’t writing, at least not any smut.

I burned past my self-imposed deadline for publication of Tropical Permission, which had the second-order consequence of getting me sideways with Amazon.

But I finally started writing again recently. I had been stuck with the third act of Tropical Permission. Even though I already knew more or less what was going to happen (as I would hope anyone who’d read the preceding chapters would as well!) I just couldn’t close it out.

And part of the reason I was having trouble was that virtually any way I wanted to end the book would require some not-insignificant reworking of previous chapters - chapters that had already been published and consumed on my Substack. Obviously, that was not a good enough reason to not finish the book, but it was a real concern in my mind as I wrestled with the ending.

Which got me thinking about the virtue of Substack on the whole, in relation to my writing ambitions. And I pretty swiftly came to the conclusion that the way Substack is set up - the social aspects, the gamification, down to the way they display your dashboard and earnings - is simply unhealthy and unproductive for my writing.

Substack is designed for content churn. That’s why news and political does so well on the platform. That’s all well and good but I started posting on Substack to showcase a work of long-form fiction, and by the end of my relatively short tenure as an active participant, I was posting mostly short stories and O.P.S.. Why? Those are the posts that drove views and subscriptions (and the accompanying dopamine hits of internet validation). Period.

I also arrived at Substack right at the time it had been redesigned into more of a social media-like platform. It was pretty clear from the outset that the way to drive views was to engage with the platform like it was Twitter, and so I did, rather successfully. But that becomes a job unto itself. And a job that isn’t writing. And I hate Twitter! I stopped posting on social media years ago - and for good reason.

Essentially, I came to Substack looking for one thing, and got swallowed up by something else entirely. And don’t get me wrong, it was great! (Who am I to complain about getting swallowed by Smutstack?) I connected with other writers, read some great smut, and got some great feedback and validation on my own writing. But I honestly and truly believe that if I am ever to get to where I want to be as a writer, the care and maintenance of a Substack presence is far more hinderance than help.

As I said earlier, I have started writing again. I finished the third act of Tropical Permission. I’ve edited and reedited and proofed the manuscript. I hope to submit it for publication to Amazon/Kindle Unlimited by the end of the week, the rest of my life permitting.

That means I’ll be pulling Tropical Permission down - along with all my other posts and short stores - in the next few days. I will leave all the OPS posts up - because I still want to see those talented writers highlighted.

I feel bad leaving and for ghosting all those months. But I really did love and value my time here, and wish you all only the best. And I hope you find me on your Kindle someday soon.

So long, Smutstack! And thanks for all the fish.

-- L.H. 💋

P.S. For refunds or to otherwise get in touch with me, you can email me at Lydia Haverly at Gee Mail.

Hi! This post will unlock for free subscribers at 12 ET on August 22nd, 2025! — L.H. 💋

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My head and my dick were both throbbing when I woke up.

The clock said 8:17. Fuck that.

I looked over at the other bed. Devon was still sleeping. Snoring with his back to me.

All of a sudden the urge to piss was overwhelming and I got out of bed with the tip of my dick popping straight through my boxers and stumbled to the bathroom. I had to press my thumb down on the base of my shaft so I didn’t piss straight into the bathroom wall.

I closed the blinds tighter and got back in bed. Devon was still snoring and I was still throbbing.

I reached over the side of the bed and grabbed the t-shirt I was wearing last night, shoved it underneath the covers. Pulled my boxers down to the base of my shaft and started jerking silently.

Kayla. What the fuck. God, I’ve always wanted to fuck her. Cum so many times inhaling her pussy off stolen thongs. I’ve got glimpses of her tits over the years. She and Sara used to sunbathe topless in the backyard when they thought no one was home.

But, Jesus. Just perfect, even more perfect coated in jizz.

I can’t picture Kayla’s gloriously glazed tits without seeing Devon’s dick. But it’s only making me harder.

I imagine Kayla. She’s on her knees, blowing Devon.

Then I’m down there with her. She’s feeding me his cock. Pushing my head down to take more of it.

Nearly a whole load’s worth of precum drips quickly from the tip of my dick and I use it as lube, barely gripping myself, stroking faster and faster under the blankets.

My eyes are closed tight and Devon’s gripping Kayla by the sides of her head, fucking her mouth slowly and I’m below her licking his balls. His pace starts speeding up, and I want his cum so badly.

I cover my dick with the t-shirt at my side just as a hot stream starts flowing out of my dick. So much cum.

Fuck, I hope I was quiet.

I wipe it off, toss the shirt back on the ground and close my eyes.

———

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Kayla takes us out for breakfast around noon. She seems totally fine. No hangover. No weirdness from last night.

At the restaurant we sit in a booth. Kayla takes up one side to herself, which I feel like she does on purpose to that Devon and I have to sit next to each other.

I stare out the window, trying to avoid the other two people I’m seated with. Kayla’s dressed in shorts and a tank top, and her cleavage is glaring at me like reflected sun that I’m trying to keep out of my eyes. Devon, however, is staring straight into the sun and whenever I look down I can see the outline of his semi against his basketball shorts.

I power through breakfast, shoving pancakes down my mouth and feeling uneasy. The urges to eat, sleep, throw up and jerk off again are simultaneous and equal.

———

Kayla drops us back off at the hotel after breakfast, telling us she’s going to meet up with Sara for coffee and that she’ll be back in a couple hours.

As soon as we’re in the room, I’m back in bed. Devon is restless, looking for his weed.

“You must have left it in Kayla’s room,” I tell him.

He disappears through the adjoining door. After a minute or two he’s still not back and I get up to help him look.

When I walk in, Devon is standing by Kayla’s bedside with his back to me, holding something up to his face.

“Yo!” He turns towards me startled.

“What are you doing?”

“Check it out, homie.” And he holds up a black, silk thong. Then he presses it into his face and inhales deeply.

“Fuck, dude. Her pussy smells so good.”

I don’t say anything. I know this. I can’t count the number I’ve times I’ve cum while breathing in Kayla’s cunt from her discarded panties.

“Dude, how hot was that shit last night?” Taking another whiff after posing the question, tugging at his shorts.

“Crazy.”

“Right?”

He’s still got his hand on his shorts, gripping himself loosely. “She definitely wants to fuck us.”

“You think so?” I honestly hadn’t considered that as a possibility, but it made sense.

“Fuck yeah, dude. You wanna take a whiff of these?”

I really did. I walked over to Kayla’s bed and Devon handed me the thong. I pressed my nose against the crotch, and inhaled deeply. I knew her scent so well. By the time I exhaled I was fully erect.

Devon was watching me with eager anticipation. His left hand hadn’t come off his dick since we’d been standing there, and he was now obviously stroking it over the shorts.

I passed the panties back to him.

“You really things she’d be down to fuck us? Both?”

Devon took another deep inhale of Kayla.

“Bro,” Devon always started with “bro” when he was about to explain something. “Let’s review the facts.”

“One, Kayla is a total slut. She basically lived with you guys when she and Sara were in high school, so you know this.”

I did. I nodded.

“Second, she asked to see our hard dicks.”

His logic was sound so far.

“Last, we fucking came all over her tits, dude.”

Maybe he was right. I felt wetness in my pants as my cock strained against my boxers and leaked precum through the fabric. I started rubbing my crotch the same way Devon did.

We stood there for a few minutes, passing Kayla’s panties back and forth, rubbing our dicks in silence punctuated only by loud inhales.

I badly want to take out my cock and really start stroking it. I want Devon to take his out just as badly.

I put my hand down the front of my pants and felt it pulse in my hand. Devon did the same.

I don’t know which of us sat down first, but then we were both on Kayla’s bed, getting more comfortable, still passing her panties and back and forth, both full on stroking ourselves, but keeping it in our shorts.

I’m so fucking turned on, breathing in Kayla, glancing over at Devon working his dick, hearing the slap of skin on skin muffled under the fabric of his short.

I’m mustering the combination of horniness and courage to take out my dick, when Devon pulls his out, thick and pulsing, his head slick and shiny with precum. I take out mine.

“What if she was here right now, dude?” Devon says, turning to me. I notice him checking out my dick. “Kneeling between us. Sucking our cocks like a fucking slut.”

My eyes are laser focused on his dick. I can see Kayla swallowing it. I want to swallow it.

“God ye—“ Is all I can get out before I hear the unmistakable sound of the door of the hotel room door opening.

I try and shove my dick down in my shorts. Devon isn’t paying attention, in the middle of a deep inhale off Kayla’s thong.

Then she’s standing right in front of us and Devon’s got his cock in his hand.

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

To be continued…

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Hi!

I’m a little crazy IRL this week, so I am barely getting today’s OPS out the door. Please enjoy, excuse any typos, and always remember to support the writers you love!

— L.H. 💋

APPLY SPF: writes lyrically about solitude, nudity and nature.

“However, in recent years, and after a lot of therapy, I've come to understand the importance of true solitude. I've made it my mission to seek out moments of genuine loneliness as often as I can.”

READ: What my 2 week nudist retreat in Sicily taught me about art, my perineum, and Asian tiger mosquitos

HELLO NURSE: provides a little TLC in the form of some sexy nurturing.

“‘Shhhh,’ Mellie soothed. ‘You are my patient. My responsibility. Let me take care of you.’ Rohan watched as she shimmied her scrub bottoms down her legs. Her legs were long and thick. And her pussy was bare and on display.”

READ: Clean Sheets, Dirty Secrets

ELLA’S STALKER: Theo’s story continues to be an intoxicating mix of creepy and hot in the latest installment of ’s CYA series.

“He walks her to the wall and presses her up against it. I can see his ass contracting as he fucks her. One of his meaty hands folds around her throat and I open the car door, ready to rescue her, but I can see her face and I have to admit she’s loving it.”

READ: Theo's Mission - Choose Your Own Adventure - Free Story

WHO’S THERE?: is also playing with some stalker vibes in this hot interlude of the MILF Diaries.

“Knock. Knock. My eyes flew open, pulse hammering. For one wild second, the thought slammed into me… what if it’s him? Shame chased arousal up my spine, hot and cold at once.”

READ: 📔The MILF Diaries, Entry 5 & 6

TRUCK STOPS: brings the heat with Mormons, pick up trucks and vibrating butt plugs. Oh my!

“After insisting he'd never done anything like that before, his ass opened so wide and so fast De’on was left thinking of the Grand Canyon. But what De’on really remembered about him was how soft his lips were. It was like kissing marshmallows.”

READ: J&D.7: Pick-Up

NOT THE END: Something is smoldering slowly in ‘s new series about a floral affair.

“I sat behind the desk, took people’s payments, answered questions, all the while feeling the inside of my skull hum. I kept thinking of the way my tights had tangled around my legs, how I had walked home bare legged. Wet between my thighs”

READ: The End of the Affair

EROS IQ: on the inherent eroticism of beautiful words and intellectual intimacy.

“For those of us who find desire not just in touch but in talk, knowledge consumption is its own erotic act. A mind that surprises you or that seduces you with insight or quiet confidence can be more devastating than a slow undress.”

READ: The Erotics of Intelligence

SEX (DOESN’T) SELL: breaks down subversion as a marketing strategy, opining that subversion still sells, but sex isn’t necessarily subversive anymore.

“[I]t’s inherently interesting that what sells products, in 2025, is not the traditional advertising-industry beacons of erotic fulfillment (dumb sex jokes are many things, but not sexy) or wealth and prestige, but rather a self-identified relationship vis a vis the social order. The fantasy being sold is of being in on the joke.”

READ: Mutual Mondays: subversion sells?

SUB 4 sub: delivers both a funny, sexy, Ds story and one of the most creative please for paid sub(scribers) that I’ve seen on Smutstack.

“I obeyed. Awkwardly, clumsily, I slipped the panties down and off, folding them like a schoolboy and placing them neatly beside the clothes. She let me squirm in the silence, naked from the waist down, thighs tight, cock flushed and useless.”

READ: Limited Time Deal: My Gift To You.

VELVET LORE: gave a delicious and thoughtful AMA over the weekend that I neglected to include in Sunday’s OPS!

“I don't think I've written anything truly filthy yet. But I know I'm slowly moving in that direction. For me, filth isn't just about throwing explicit words on the page it's about creating characters so alive in my nerves that they naturally breathe out that rawness.”

READ: They Asked, I Blushed, and a Few Cheeky Confessions

MILKY MADNESS: There’s so much going on in this story - suspension of disbelief and willingness to be aroused are requirements for reading.

“We looked in the direction the farmer pointed. Two rows of young women were bent over, their heads and hands locked in a stockade. Their delicate backsides were bare and exposed. Clear plastic domes were attached to their breasts and filled with breast milk.”

READ: [CLASSIFIED 20]: Spies, Lies, and Perilous Ties — Agent E. Rotica vs. Domina Black

JERRY?: channels grumbler Barney Farnham to rail against the Garys.

“Somewhere, there is a Gary who rescues kittens and changes smoke alarm batteries for widows. But I haven’t met him. My Garys water fake plants, steal mugs, and block supermarket queues like human traffic cones.”

READ: Why I No Longer Trust Men Called Gary

TOE TEASE: When’s the last time you spent your lunchbreak getting a footjob in the car from a dominant lady? has got something for you.

“He told me he only had forty-five minutes before he had to be back at work. I told him that was plenty of time to ruin him.”

READ: Lunch Break Footjob

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This post will unlock for free subscribers at 12 ET, August 19th! — L.H. 💋

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Caleb and Rebecca had been playing with the idea for months. Profiles on swinger sites, late-night fantasies whispered under the sheets, Rebecca’s hand curled around his cock as she whispered about him with other women, her with other men... her with other women.

They were twenty-three, curious, hungry, in love, and comfortable enough in their love and hunger to share both.

Nothing had come of it. Until New York.

They went for a long weekend in July and Caleb had arranged for them to have drinks with a couple from one of the swingers dating sites they’d been trolling of late. Neither of them seriously thought anything would come of it. Most of the people on these sites were at least a decade older than Caleb and Rebecca, and the couples their age were either complete flakes, or way out of their league looks-wise.

So when they looked at the profile photos of who they were supposedly meeting in the city--a stunning South American couple, around their age--both were extremely skeptical, but nonetheless willing to see it through.

They were real people, with names. Ana and Miguel.

They all four chatted on the phone briefly a few days before their trip. During the call, Miguel started to get rather explicit in discussing his and Ana’s future plans with Rebecca, and Caleb went down on Rebecca while he kept listening.

Still, they’d been down this road before: promising couple, promising chats, plans to meet, and then... ghosted. So hopes remained tempered, even after they’d confirmed and then reconfirmed a time and place to meet for drinks in lower Manhattan.

But they showed up. And they were even better looking in person than their photos.

Miguel, a former soccer player, was shorter than Caleb, but built like a statue, his biceps flexing through his shirt, his whole body coiled muscle. And Ana, taller than Miguel in heels, lean and graceful, small breasts outlined against her dress, long dark hair shining against perfect tan skin. They were an almost absurdly beautiful pair. Out of reach.

They all got along swimmingly, drinking and laughing like old friends, never mentioning anything sexual. Miguel seemed to be flirting with Rebecca, but Caleb got the sense that Miguel was like that with all women. He continued to assume nothing would happen.

When the check came, Miguel smiled and said, “Our place is close. You should see the view.”

⸻

Their loft gleamed with glass and leather, lights pouring in from the street, like a reminder the city is watching.

It happened fast. Clothes scattered, mouths opened, Rebecca already on her knees between Miguel’s hairy, muscular thighs, his thick uncut cock pushing past her lips. The sound she made—ravenous, desperate—made Caleb’s chest tighten. It was as if she swallowed Miguel and was gone. Lost to him.

Ana lowered herself over Caleb, her hair brushing his stomach, as she made her way toward his pleading hard cock. His vision was torn between this unbelievably gorgeous, naked Latina making her way to his cock, and his beautiful girlfriend, consumed with another man’s.

Ana’s eyes never left Miguel -- Miguel and Rebecca. Her mouth was wrapped around Caleb, but she was watching them. He felt it immediately, even as he moaned inside her perfect mouth. He was not her focus. Caleb was not anyone’s focus.

When he offered to go down on her instead, Ana smiled like he’d finally understood his role. He slid to the floor, burying his face in her pussy.

Through the tangle of her thighs he watched. Rebecca choking on Miguel’s cock. Her mascara smearing. Her jaw yawning wide for him as he held the sides of her head and fucked her mouth.

Miguel groaned, gripping Rebecca harder as he slid in and out of the back of her throat, saliva dripping down her chin with each stroke.

Caleb felt Ana’s body stiffen, her breath gasping as she watched, rapt. He worked her clit harder, his tongue desperate to keep her there, to make himself relevant.

Then it all broke loose. Miguel’s voice harsh, his cock spilling across Rebecca’s lips and cheeks at the exact moment Ana came against Caleb’s mouth.

Neither of the women looked at him. They looked at each other.

⸻

Ana slipped down beside Rebecca and kissed her boyfriend’s come from her lips, then licked it from her face. Then both women knelt before Miguel, licking him clean, kissing and groping each other, their laughter wet and breathless. Caleb’s cock throbbed in his hand, but no one turned to him.

Miguel was ready to go again within two minutes of spraying on Rebecca’s face.

“You want to see me fuck her, baby?” Ana touched her pussy and nodded.

Rebecca didn’t wait to be told what to do, bending over the couch, her ass up in the air, presenting herself to them. Miguel slid into her with a growl, without putting a condom on.

Caleb’s breath caught. They had agreed to use protection! Rebecca cried out like she’d been waiting for this, her body bowing to him, taking him in deeper. She expressed no hesitation. Only lust.

Caleb’s concern over the violation of their boundaries was quickly outweighed by the erotic intensity of witnessing the woman he loved so dearly being taken like this.

Ana perched beside Caleb on the couch, but he might as well have been in the next room. Her attention stayed fixed on Miguel’s cock pumping into Rebecca. Caleb sat frozen, but unbearably hot, with jealousy and arousal.

Then Ana spread her legs and tugged Rebecca between them. Caleb watched as she buried her face in Ana’s cunt, moaning, her body jolting each time Miguel slammed into her.

The couple maintained smoldering eye contact with one another while they treated Caleb’s partner like a toy. Rebecca clung to both of them—Miguel filling her, Ana smothering her—while Caleb sat inches away, so hard, and yet so useless, watching the woman he loved disappear into their pleasure.

She came hard, sobbing into Ana’s lap, her body shuddering around Miguel’s cock. Caleb almost came from the sight alone, stroking himself desperately, whispering her name, but even that went unheard.

⸻

The night ended shortly thereafter, with the ladies side-by-side on their knees, devout before Miguel, naked, beading sweat from his sculpted frame, stroking himself above them.

Caleb watched, vaguely nauseous but completely transfixed, as Miguel loudly came, yet again. His climax striped their faces, dripping down Rebecca’s cheek, pooling atop her breasts. She was glowing. Beautiful. Drenched in someone else.

Caleb didn’t come. He couldn’t.

⸻

On the walk back to the hotel, Rebecca’s arm slipped around his. Her face was flushed, her body still humming from the loft.

“I didn’t realize,” were the first words she’d spoken to him since putting someone else’s shaft between her lips.

“You didn’t…?”

He shook his head.

“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me have that. For letting me have them.”

Her words twisted in his chest, cruel and sweet. Caleb’s cock ached with the unbearable certainty that he had lost her—if only for a night—and that nothing had ever aroused him more.

She kissed him tenderly. He kissed her back eagerly, desperate for her affection. Her mouth tasted different.

He realized then, that what he was tasting was not Rebecca’s mouth, but Miguel’s cock.

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Hi! And Happy Smutty Sunday!

OPS is back with another round of what’s hot, filthy, and thought-provoking across SubstackSmutstack this week. From dive bar hookups to DefCon-inspired privacy guides, this spread runs the gamut—grab a drink and scroll slow.

All these stories are free — but remember to support your favorite writers with likes, restacks and by paying for their work! :)

— L.H. 💋

Okay! Time to Smut it up.

Solo Vibes: writes searingly about sex, self-pleasure and intimacy (or lack thereof).

“I wanna be fucked but I wanna be fucked right, with someone who’s willing to learn the intricacies of my body and someone I trust and respect (rare combo).”

READ: I need someone to fuck my brains out (respectfully)

Take a Shot: Writer has a new series on the intricacies and contradictions of male sexuality and masculinity that I am looking forward to reading more of.

“But in our rush to categorize, we’ve flattened the messiness of human experience into a set of rigid boxes. “Straight,” “gay,” “bi,” “queer” aren’t GPS coordinates; they’re social constructs that have shifted over time and will shift again. They’ve saved lives. They’ve also trapped people.”

READ: Sex Among Men: Why I Created Str8 No Chaser®

Festival Fun: is back from vacation and out with a sizzling hot threesome short story.

“Ryan pulled my useless top over my head and tossed it aside. His eyes went straight to my tits. They're not huge, but I'm a climber, so they're perky. He lowered his head and took one of my nipples into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the piercing.“

READ: Beyond Wonderland (MFF)

Mama Mia: Does any Smutstacker have the same combination of intensity, eroticism and output as ?

“He didn’t make me wait. His mouth crashed against mine, hungry and demanding. I matched his intensity, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer.”

READ: The Midnight Stallion

HALF OFF: Woot! is on deep discount until tomorrow. 👀

READ: 50% OFF THE GAY EROTIC

Kissin’ Cousins: One from the archives of come out from the paywall at a reader’s request and it is hot.

“Who was I kidding, right? Kathy was my COUSIN. There was no way she would be down to do anything with me. I chalked it up to being hard up and did my best to forget. The last thing I needed was to complicate things at the family reunion.”

READ: My Cousin Belongs to Me Now #1

Sexual Grammar: breaks down what it means to be a, well, wholesome pervert.

“I have seen the cost of fitting in those tiny boxes of acceptability. Being a good girl (not in the fun way) gets you used up because being a good girl requires passivity, obedience, ignorance. I am a pervert who perverts. Wholesomely.“

READ: I want to verb your noun

Kate 2x: dropped TWO very very spicy, very very free stories since our last edition of OPS.

READ: The Sinner's Spa #1

READ: Free Story - Couple's Therapy

Personal Growth: Some raw honesty from in an exploration of male psychology at its most vulnerable.

“I don’t want a partner who only worships me when I’m hard. I want one who sees the arc. The shift. The miracle of my body becoming.”

READ: Being a "GROWer", not a "SHOWer", Is Something Many Men Care About More Than Penis Size.

Privacy PSA: Must read practical tips from about how to protect one’s privacy while living an online life.

“Privacy is essential infrastructure for a free society. Individual privacy creates the necessary counterbalance to institutional power, whether corporate or governmental. Without it, we lose the space to be authentically ourselves.”

READ: Privacy for Sluts: A DefCon-Inspired Guide

Blonde Lust: brings the heat to a dive bar for a fun, smutty short.

“Her eyes focused on my mouth and back to my eyes repeatedly, inviting me to stop waiting and give in. I had wanted to kiss her since the moment I saw her, but I was holding back because once I did, I wouldn't be able to stop myself.”

READ: A Fateful Night With A Blonde

Good Vibes: tell guys to chill tf out and embrace battery-powered female pleasure.

“Heterosexual scripts are still tethered to a hierarchy: his performance as proof of masculinity and her orgasm as its scorecard. In that economy, a toy is not a tool but a competitor, evidence of insufficiency.”

READ: Lifting the Stigma on Sex Toys

Back of a VW: My back hurt just reading this car sex short by , but that didn’t make it any less enjoyable.

“We devoured each other like starving animals, our tongues tangling in a frenzied kiss that left me breathless. The windows fogged up with our exertions, the leather creaking beneath us as we pressed together, our bodies molding into perfect alignment.”

READ: Late-Night Anal in His Car While People Walked By

Eros Bootcamp: on the vital role that fantasy plays in the reality of our sexual lives.

“The outcome of sex is actually pretty short-lived, but the anticipation and pursuit of what we desire is what brings us enduring satisfaction.”

READ: Understanding Sexual Fantasies

Talk Off: Phone sex doesn’t get much more erotic than this piece from that I now want to read the first 7 chapters of.

“Maddy feverishly put the phone on speaker, almost throwing it on the counter beside her. With her other hand free Maddy pressed her palm into the glass anchoring herself for support as she suffered through the pleasure.”

READ: What Happens Between Us (Ep 8)

DM to IRL: Writer and digital artist shares this spicy short about where the digital and actual collide in his world. Give this man a follow so his dreamy, psychedelic erotic art shows up in your Notes feed!

“I walked out of the studio. My body pulsing. My cock aching with the weight of unspent desire. I found my wife curled on the couch, still reading, feet tucked under her like a cat in sunbeams.”

READ: A True Tale of Cybersex, Creativity… and Coming Home Hard

Hi!

Here’s everything I published this week in one easy place, plus what’s coming up this weekend.

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What you might’ve missed

• 🌴 Tropical Permission — Chapter Fifteen: “The Massage.”

  Diane opens the door in a robe (nothing underneath), James is “not most men,” and Marco’s professional hands meet a very unprofessional amount of heat. This one is all about precision vs. provocation—and the delicious feeling of being presented. READ

• 🌴 Tropical Permission — Chapter Sixteen: “The Revision.”

  Steam. Shower. A fantasy sharpened like a blade—and then Diane tells James exactly what she wants next, in explicit, can’t-misunderstand terms. It ends… on her face, and with a new shared agenda. READ

• ✍️ Short Story: “The Happy Ending She Didn’t Know She Wanted.”

  Laura has long side-eyed the rub-and-tug two blocks from home. Then she walks in. A table shower, a woman named Mimi, and a bi-curious hunger that turns from theory into touch. (Yes, it gets slippery. Intensely.) READ

• OPS (Other People’s Smut): Hump Day Edition.

  My new curated series of free stories, essays, poems and other miscellaneous eros dropped its Wednesday edition with: one-hand reads, kink essays, and a few perfectly unwise dicks. OPS will never be paywalled, nor will the stories featured in it. If you write smut—or just found something scorching—send it my way. READ

What’s coming up

• OPS is back tomorrow, Sunday at 2 pm ET.

  Expect another tight, tasty roundup of free reads across Smutstack—new voices, returning faves, and at least one piece you’ll text to your most shameless friend. Set a reminder and come get smutty.

Housekeeping & how to read first

• The “all-free” launch week wrapped on Aug 14. Going forward, most new posts will hit paid first by a day or two, then unlock for everyone. (OPS will always be free!) You can jump in early as a paid reader, or hang tight for the public drop—your being here and reading it what matters.

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What I’m writing next

• In Tropical Permission, we’re headed into the charged space between a fantasy articulated and a boundary negotiated. Diane wants two sets of hands—and more. James wants to be in it, not just watching. This story is barreling towards its sexy conclusion in the coming weeks!

Thank you for reading, sharing, and whispering my stories into the right ears. See you tomorrow at 2 pm ET for OPS. Bring water. And maybe a towel.

— L.H. 💋

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Hi! I was hoping to post this yesterday but real life got in the way, so it is just now going up. Since it was meant for yesterday, I’m putting it up free — no waiting for a paywall to unlock — but after today I’ll go back to most posts being available to paid subscribers a day or two before everyone else.

And fear not! OPS (Other People’s Smut) will never be paywalled on Wednesdays and Sundays — nor will any of the content featured within OPS.

I hope you enjoy this short story! I certainly enjoyed writing it. — L.H. 💋

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Laura hated the place for years.

When she and Marcus first moved into the duplex, she’d noticed it immediately: Serenity Spa, with its garish purple awning, its papered-over windows, its blinking “OPEN” sign that never, not once, blinked off.

Not for Laura, but for someone with more upper body strength, it was a literal stone’s throw away. Just two blocks down, sitting there like a neon pimple at the intersection of where their otherwise sleepy residential street met one of the busiest roads in the city.

“Rub and tug,” she’d muttered the first time they passed it. “Classy.”

Every time she drove past the place she’d reflexively scrunch her face up like she’d just smelled something rancid.

Then COVID happened. First the remote work. Followed by the furlough. And then the—at that point inevitable—layoff.

She tried freelancing. Virtual assistant work. At one point, she was designing Canva graphics for a New Jersey dog groomer’s Instagram account. She looked into selling her panties but the margins were surprisingly slim.

Gigs came and went like the various, impossible to keep up with, lockdowns. Some were longer than others. None of them seemed particularly meaningful.

While Laura’s professional life collapsed, Marcus’ thrived. His company made record profits in 2020, and the division he leads was their single biggest revenue driver that year. So he’s been on a steady, arguably parabolic, trajectory upwards while Laura’s silently spiraled.

They barely saw each other anymore, his new responsibilities keeping him on the road or at the office late. She didn’t begrudge him, didn’t want to seem resentful of the diameter between his success and her lack thereof. In fact, she wasn’t resentful. She was just bored—and almost certainly experiencing mild, undiagnosed, clinical depression.

So she spent a lot of time in bed.

Not sleeping. Not even resting, really. Just scrolling. Watching. Wandering through the internet like it was a ruin with hidden doors.

At first it was yoga videos. Breathwork. Then ASMR. Then erotic ASMR. Then porn.

What a wonderland of sweaty, naked flesh! She’d never been much of a consumer before, but ennui breeds interest, which the algorithm masterfully converts to compulsion.

She cycled through all the major genres and niches that even remotely checked a box of potential arousal: threesomes, gang bangs, step-families, babysitters, gonzo-style grainy amateur stuff, even a bit of tentacled Hentai for a cultural experience.

Somewhere along the way, she discovered massage porn—something she didn’t even realize was a genre.

There were subgenres, too: Nuru massage, with inflatable vinyl pools and thick, slippery gel and both participants fully nude; “trick” massage, where some oafish man coerced a woman into sex after a few barely-legal shoulder rubs; and the simplest scenes, the ones that started out as a normal, albeit fully nude massage but transitioned organically into full-on sucking and fucking.

Those simple, formulaic massage scenes were the ones she liked best. A professional touch becomes a sensual touch. Laura found something about that simple concept obscenely tantalizing.

Especially when the massage scene involved two women.

She had never thought of herself as bi, and still didn’t, not exactly. She’d never been with a woman sexually — not even a kiss. But she had built a fantasy around it of late—of softness and care, and a pseudo-maternal sensuality—that had lodged itself deep into her body.

Her autoerotic pleasure began to rely almost exclusively on the fantasy of laying naked on a table, just a thin wall separating her from other clients and spa staff, while a woman with skillful fingers worked her slowly, delicately, to climax.

Even on the now-rare occasions when Marcus was home and awake long enough to fuck her, she’d insist he do it from behind, wanting to close her eyes and dream of sapphic delight without having to look at her husband.

She tried not to think about the fact that a massage parlor offering her precise fantasy stood within walking distance.

She tried. But eventually, she couldn’t stop.

She found the forums. The Map. A directory of erotic massage parlors—color-coded, user-reviewed, detailed like crime scene reports. Serenity Spa had three reports.

“Backroom only has curtain, be careful. Ask for Mimi. HJ with oil. Great attitude, 7/10 looks.”

“50 for half hour, 70 for hour. Good table shower. Older ladies. No FS.”

“Let me pop on her tits, she just smiled. Would repeat.”

She told herself she was horrified. She knew she was supposed to be horrified. That reading Yelp-like feedback from internet johns should be a giant red flag, as well as a turn off. It was neither.

She started taking a different, longer route on her evening walks, looping past Serenity Spa. One night, she brought a notepad. Wrote down the number. The small plastic sign on the door said they were open until 1 am, seven days a week.

She didn’t call right away. It took her a few days, during which time she obsessively refreshed Serenity’s page on The Map, seeing if any new reviews had come in.

The first time she called, it just rang and rang. She didn’t try again for a week.

The second time, a heavily accented woman answered in a clipped tone: “Serenity.”

Laura tried to keep her voice casual, but ended up sounding unsure. “Hi, I’m interested in making an appointment?”

“You make appointment for your husband?” The woman sounded older, sixties maybe.

“No. For me.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Hello?” She wasn’t sure if she’d been hung up on.

“You been here before?”

“No”

Another pause.

“Usually only men.”

“But would it be possible for me to get a massage?”

“Half hour, fifty. One hour, seventy.”

“I’ll take the hour.”

She heard women yelling in the background. Laughter in a language she assumed was Korean. The woman returned.

“Come now?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

⸻

She wore a cotton sundress. No bra. Flip flops. Her heart was thumping from the moment she put the phone down. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced this amount or intensity of adrenaline coursing through her body.

The lobby was sparse and too brightly lit from overhead. A potted plant in the corner, a taped sign on the wall that said NO FUNNY BUSINESS in all caps. A laminated piece of paper with the rates for thirty, sixty and ninety minute services. There were two doors. One closed, one slightly ajar with a string of bells dangling from the knob.

A woman stepped out. Mid-40s, wearing pink scrubs. Her face was unreadable.

“One hour?” she asked.

Laura nodded.

“Been here before?”

“No,” Laura tried again for casual. “My first visit! I’m Laura.”

“Mimi.”

Mimi looked her up and down analytically. Then she gestured.

“You want table shower?”

She nodded, trying not to appear too eager.

⸻

She was given a towel and a pair of what she hoped were disposable, foam flip-flops. Mimi left the room for her to disrobe. She knocked on the door just as Laura cinched her robe, also now wearing a robe.

She led her to a tiled room with a waist-high plastic table covered in wet towels. A bucket of sudsy water sat nearby, along with several plastic squeeze bottles. Laura stripped and lay down on her stomach.

It was, she thought as warm water was sluiced over her skin, a kind of human car wash.

But better.

Mimi was methodical. She ladled soapy water across Laura’s prone body, while managing to keep her hair dry. She scrubbed every inch of her, rinsing with a gentle touch, never speaking. At one point, Laura felt the unmistakable touch of bare flesh against her back. Mimi had removed her robe.

Hands washed her ass, again and again, soft and soapy. Then her pussy—never roughly, never overtly sexual, but unmistakably intentional. Her fingers moved between her labia with care.

She turned Laura over and did the same to her front, washing her belly, her breasts, her thighs, and then again—between her legs. One hand always anchoring, the other in motion.

Lying on her back, Laura got to take in the sight of Mimi’s body. They were probably around the same age, and neither was entering a swimsuit competition in the foreseeable future, but Mimi’s skin was both softer and firmer than Laura’s, her complexion an unblemished ivory cream. Her small breasts were still pert, as were her long dark nipples perched atop small areolas of the same hue.

Laura was slick in more ways than one.

After ensuring one final time that Laura was thoroughly washed and rinsed between her thighs, Mimi dried her off with a towel and helped her back into a robe, still wordless, before leading her to the massage room.

⸻

It was dim and warm. A small diffuser puffed out lavender-scented mist. There was a folded towel on the table.

“Lie down,” Mimi said.

Laura did.

Mimi left for a moment and returned in looser clothing—an oversized blouse unbuttoned halfway, no bra, soft shorts that barely covered her hips. Her hair was now loose around her shoulders.

She poured oil into her palms and warmed it. Laura’s breath caught at the first touch.

The massage began like every other massage Laura had received: shoulders, back, arms. Her touch was exceptional, hands soft but powerful. She seemed to have a studied knowledge of Laura’s body, her points of tension, of tenderness.

It was unquestionably the best, most relaxing massage that Laura had ever received. Her adrenaline from just minutes earlier had receded into blissful calm, every so often stirred by arousal, as Mimi’s hands occasionally moved towards or across plains of flesh left untouched by a “normal” massage therapist.

After rubbing her hands and feet, gently cracking each of her fingers and toes, Mimi washed the oil off with a hot towel. Then her fingers changed.

Fingertips traced Laura’s spine. Mimi’s nails scratched gently across her skin. She grazed her inner thighs, the round curves of her ass, drawing concentric circles towards her pleasure centers.

Laura arched up slightly, involuntarily.

Mimi didn’t speak. Now she cupped her hands and reached under Laura’s thighs, starting just above the knee. She’d find the front’s of her legs and then slowly move her fingers back outwards. Every stroke outwards and her hands would dip back under her legs, this time just a little bit closer to her pussy.

Laura’s hips continued rising to Mimi’s touch, hovering above the table insistently, inviting–pleading–for more.

She felt a fingertip brush the edge of her labia. Then again. Mimi began tracing her folds with slow, featherlight pressure, grazing her clit on each pass. Laura’s breath shortened.

Mimi teased her like this for what felt like minutes. She felt like she might cry.

“Turn over now,” Mimi said softly.

She helped her roll to her back. Took a towel and gently placed it under her neck.

The feathered fingertips began anew.

Her hands moved in wide circles across her breasts, teasing her nipples until they stood hard. She moved lower. Belly. Pelvis. Inner thighs again.

And then finally—finally—her hands landed where Laura had wanted them most. Then she stopped, withdrawing her hand and presenting it, palm up, to Laura.

“How much you tip?”

Laura blinked. Started to get up for her purse. Mimi placed a hand on her breast and pushed her lightly back down.

“No, no. Pay after. How much?”

“A hundred?”

“Okay.”

Mimi removed her blouse and shorts. She took Laura’s hand and guided it to her breast. Laura cupped her eagerly, rolling her erect nipple slowly between her fingers.

Mimi resumed the massage, placing her own hand on Laura’s chest, for a moment matching her touch for touch. As Mimi’s hands moved south, Laura’s did too. She felt the firm contours of Mimi’s ass, caressed her thighs.

She loved this novel sensory experience of touching another woman’s body with sensuality. It felt nourishing–and collaborative rather than reciprocal.

Mimi slipped a finger between her lips, slow and slick. She pressed inside and met no resistance. Just once. Just to coat herself.

Then she placed her fingertip directly on Laura’s clit.

She knew exactly where to touch. Mimi pressed gently. Released.

Laura squirmed, her whole body shivering with overstimulated pleasure. Her fantasy coming into diamond-sharp focus.

Pressed again. Each motion was so precise, so patient, that Laura could barely breathe.

Fuck, Laura thought, I’m going to come already. In thirty seconds like a teenage boy.

Sensing this, Mimi retreated, and placed her fingers on Laura’s outer vulva, massaging her sides, allowing her to relax, before pressing a single finger back on her clit, and back to the edge.

She writhed and bucked as Mimi repeatedly articulated her mastery of Laura’s pleasure. She desperately wanted to come, yet never wanted this cycle of ecstasy and anticipation to cease.

Mimi bent over Laura, so their breasts pushed together and their cheeks touched. She breathed hot into her ear.

“Come for me, baby.”

She kissed Laura’s neck and pushed her finger firmly onto her clit, moving with just a hint more speed and pressure than before.

Laura’s whole body jerked as she erupted into climax. Mimi held firm and patient, never changing her cadence, while Laura rode a cresting wave of physical rapture that she had never before known.

When she was finished, Laura was out of breath, flushed, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Okay, baby.”

Mimi put her clothes on and kissed Laura’s cheek.

“I get hot towel. Be right back.”

Laura laid there in a haze. Her mind was blank as she caught her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this relaxed or satiated.

Mimi returned a minute or so later with two hot towels and a small bottle of cold water, which she offered to Laura after washing the remaining oils off Laura’s body. One of the two towels was reserved specifically for the thorough cleaning of her pussy and asshole.

“Finish massage?” She asked after Laura had a sip of water.

“Yes, please.”

Laura dozed off for a second while Mimi gave her the best head and face massage she’d ever had.

“Okay, baby. All done.” As she stirred Laura awake.

She sat up, groggy, and was handed more water. Mimi dressed her, putting her legs through her panties as she sat on the table, and her sundress over her head once she made it onto her feet.

⸻

Mimi led Laura by the hand to the back exit–no one wanted to walk in the front door of a place like this, Laura now realized in hindsight, feeling a little foolish–and kissed her sweetly but chastely on the lips. Laura had tipped her an extra thirty dollars in addition the hundred they’d agreed upon.

Mimi opened the door, letting the harsh sunlight into the dark spa hallway.

“Bye, baby. See you next time.”

Laura looked at her for a moment, hesitating.

“Are you hiring?” she asked.

Happy Wednesday, Smutstackers!

Welcome back to another edition of OPS (Other People’s Smut), where I collect and curate my favorite erotica (and erotica-adjacent) writing from the last few days. And we’ve got a full plate of sexy stories today!

I think I’m going to make this a regular thing — every Wednesday and Sunday — so if you have stories that you think should be included please send them my way! I have no idea how (if) the SubstackSmutstack algo works, but I am sure that I’m missing lots and lots of amazing writing out there. Please share!

Okay! Shall we get smutty?

Well Adjusted: There’s nothing wrong with you, there’s something wrong with them for judging you. So says in this deeply researched piece about the psychology of kink. “The research is clear: healthy, well-adjusted people choose submission because they're brave enough to pursue their authentic desires. In a world that often demands conformity, perhaps choosing submission is one of the most psychologically healthy things someone can do.” READ: The Myth of the Broken Submissive

I Dream of DP: Double penetration: it’s not just for pornstars, according to this gorgeous, sexy essay from . “It’s not about being used—it’s about being wanted that much. Desired so deeply that one man alone can’t contain it. It’s about the stretch. The fullness. The pressure that makes me tremble with that intoxicating cocktail of pain and pleasure.” READ: Fantasy Confession: All of Me, Filled

Pipe Down: File this smoldering new story from under “one-handed reads”. “He took one step forward, his hands gripped my hips, his fingers buried in my ass, making me gasp. He didn’t say a word—simply lowered himself and buried his mouth between my thighs through the thin fabric of my shorts.” READ: Plumber Daddy Made Me Cum 👅

Ella’s World: Smutstack all-star has been very busy! Thank you for the shoutout in your roundup (and for the two free stories included!). “Now your frustration is over and you can enjoy all those massive, unstoppably horny yetis in their hairy glory.” READ: Sexy Stories, Gossip, and Opportunities

PSA🚨: Some real talk from on the need for more, and better, digital stimulation. ”[L]ike any art, it can be done beautifully, or it can be butchered completely. But when it’s done well, it’s a tool for exploration — of our bodies, our pleasure, our boundaries. It teaches us what we like, which parts of us light up under certain kinds of touch, how we want to be held.” READ: Fingering is a lost art form

Free-Use Farmhand: Hot hot hot absurdist erotica from that takes the free-use fantasy to its outer edges. “A pair of bare feet and jeans appeared in front of me, and I swallowed, my heart pounding. There was no way out. A hundred days of being this man’s free-use cunt, and no way to know what he would do with me.” READ: F.U.C.K.

1000 Words: Some visual stimuli in today’s OPS with some stunning artistic nudes from at Model Society. “Pose and gesture are not merely aesthetic choices. They are emotional cues, expressions of presence. A figure wrapped in tension may speak of longing, strength, or restraint. A relaxed posture might whisper of surrender, of trust, of being fully seen.“ READ: The Power of Body Language

Hearted: This beautiful, evocative poem from deserves a couple minutes of your attention. “Her body and soul/ reverberates/ and echos from my tongue/ as my words return/ moistened/ dripping/ with her desires” READ: Stretched

Every Drop: If you enjoy hotwife/cuckold erotica, you need to be reading . Full stop. “‘Gross,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t swallow.’ Now her lips are stretched around another man’s cock, wet and shining, her cheeks hollowing as she drags her mouth back slow, then sinks forward again with a little moan in her throat.” READ: He Watches His Wife's First Swallow Up Close

French Surrender: A very hot, emotionally confusing, sensually vivid, toxic romance from . “‘You hate me,’ he growled against her throat, his teeth grazing her skin. It wasn’t a question. ‘Yes,’ she gasped, nails digging into his skin in return. The hiss he gave was enough to drag his mouth back up to hers.” READ: Say It

Huge Dick(head): has a hilarious and sexy story about the douchebaggery a woman will put up with over text because she knows the guy she’s texting is hung like a donkey. READ: In place of his name reads “TalllllandHungggg”

Dumb Dicks 🌈🍆: It’s not just women who will put up with dumb shit for some fun dick, as shares. “As my friend Jade likes to point out with her sage advice, ‘Don’t put your dick in stupid.’ There are two truths in life. Put your dick in stupid and bad things will happen. Put your dick in clever and you might wake up with Pedro Pascal naked in your bed.” READ: Don’t Put Your Dick In Stupid

— L.H. 💋

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Hi, again! Welcome back to OPS for this Sunday, Smutty Sunday. This is the second edition of OPS (I sent the first OPS last week) — where I round up some of most interesting, arousing, and engaging smut (and smut-adjacent) writing that has come across my SubstackSmutstack feed.

I’m still playing with the format and deciding if I want to put a schedule to this OPS thing, so please bear with me as I figure things out. I know 2 things for sure about OPS:

1. You can read everything in here, free. I’m only linking to posts that were free at the time I hit send on the email. But you should strongly consider paying to read — and support — your favorite writers!!!

2. These posts run longer than Substack likes for its emails. So probably better to view these on the app or in a browser — or you might lose the last couple links.

Okay! Ready to get smutty?

Cum Again?: sets the record straight with some hard truths about female pleasure. “That first orgasm? That was just your invitation to ride her waves. And if you want to ride them right, you'd better learn how to stay present after the climax, too.” READ: 🫦One Orgasm? That’s Foreplay, Sir.

Buzzy Bunny: And writes a beautiful love letter to self-pleasure – and longing. “The aftershock of ecstasy rumbles through me at the same pace as my still vibrating toy. Pleasure seeps into my entire existence simultaneously stopping my heart and quickening it.” READ: Party In The Back

One More, Sir: A new-to-me post from — originally posted in January — has been popping up all over my feed… and it is spectacular. “What if you were told to pull your jeans down? Right down to your knees. Yes, you'd reveal your underwear, and the bulge of your most intimate places. They might even notice a wet patch if you've got all excited. Are you ready to be that vulnerable?” READ: Explain Spanking

Fantasy Spank: Suspend disbelief and enter into ’s coerced fantasy of babysitters, panties, and spanking. “Squirm, gasp, grind, gasp, squirm, gasp, grind, and that’s all it takes for me to cream my khakis, just as Julie predicted. With both hands, I press down harder on her wrists, the small of her back, and the back of her thighs.” READ: “True, I Can’t Make You Spank Me… And You Can’t Make Me Tell You Where I Hid My Panties… Daddy.”

Foreplay in First🌈🐈: features an airborne short story dripping with in-flight sexual tension from . “My skin felt flushed where her fingertips had rested. I looked down, imagining there might still be dainty fingerprints left behind like rosy tattoos. I found myself picturing those graceful fingers still tracing the curve of my forearm, tickling with perfectly manicured intention.” READ: Not Quite Mile High.

Cold Comfort: Things get very very hot on the very very cold mountain in ’s recent trek to eros. “"Sapan, I'm cold. Scared. Don't stop," she urged, pressing her ass harder against my cock. I froze, caught between her fear and the heat building in my groin.” READ: Trek Night: The Tent Was Soaked and So Was She

Hypno-Cuck: CNC cucking anyone? brings it in this dark, dark, sexy scenario brought to life on the page. “Todd locked eyes with Yuka, and she opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Instead, she was instructed to get on her knees and suck Todd off. He came all over her face and then left after telling her to clean herself up.” READ: Mind Blanking the Young Wife Next Door

HorrorOrgy🌈🍆: I’m not entirely clear on what’s going on in this (writing as Marlo Sin) story… but I know that it is really hot. “They kissed with eyes closed, as though drunk on something older than wine. They moved with practiced ease, seeking not climax but communion. This was not the frenzy of the brothel nor the hunger of the street. It was something slower, deeper, a kind of worship that ached.” READ: Let The Dark Take Me ~ Snippet

Katie on Smut: Some great BTS on inspiration and craft – and some great sentences – from the great . “Writing more smut with heart happens to satisfy both my need to write good stories, and not bore myself to death in the process. When I say heart I also mean the darker side of love, it’s less comfortable cousins. Jealousy, rage. Heartbreak of course. Control, desire. Manipulation. The heart is not innocent.” READ: Once More, with Feeling: Why I write Smart Smut with Heart

Kate on Censorship: My other favorite Smutstack Kate, , has some real talk about censorship, self-publishing and being eaten by the algorithm. “[T]his isn’t just about Amazon, Substack, Medium, or even Stripe. Any platform, including Visa and Mastercard, can change its rules overnight. The consequences can be devastating. And indie creators-writers, artists, and game developers are often the first to feel the shock.” READ: The Impacts of Censorship.

Runaway Romantasy 🌈🍆: A runaway, a band of outlaws, and some steamy gay erotica inside a fantasy landscape vividly painted by . “I had never known touch could be like this - a conversation rather than a command, pleasure freely given rather than extracted as payment. When his hand wrapped around my cock, I gasped against his mouth, the sensation almost too intense after years of enduring rather than enjoying physical contact.” READ: Fox Amongst the Ferns, ‘Into the Emerald’ - scene #3

Peg Party: straps one on – actually, four – for this wild, femdom anal adventure. “I felt myself being turned over, face pressed into silky pillows. Gentle hands spread my legs, exposing me completely. “Deep breaths,” Rosie instructed, as something cool and slick pressed against my entrance.” READ: They Made Me a Butt-Slut

107 BJs: serves up an outrageous, somewhat brutal, unexpectedly hot blowbang (blowtrain?) in a commissioned short. “Groans and cum, hands reaching in to hold her head. She didn’t get any breaks. She didn’t ask for any. She felt dazed, and her stomach was heavy; she was so full of cum.” READ: Cock Counting

— L.H. 💋

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Smutstackers!!!

Tomorrow will be one month since my very first post here. It has been really been wonderful becoming part of this community — Smutstack, of course — and engaging with both writers and readers. And the encouragement and support from both have been especially important to my self-confidence as a very, very new addition to this thriving little cranny of filth on Substack.

So here’s everything I’ve been up to on Smutstack in the last 30 days — from a slow burn hotwife romance to short stories for one-hand reading to aburdist parody to behind-the-scenes posts on self-publishing — there’s a little sexy something for everyone here. So enjoy!

And I would be remiss if I failed to shamelessly plug my new eBook, Dripping for Him, which is currently the Top New Release (!!) in Erotic Anthologies on the Kindle Store. Dripping for Him consists of three, very spicy, hotwife stories that all orginally appeared here on Smutstack.

Get Dripping for Her on Kindle/KU Today!

I’m currently offering a one month upgrade to paid for anyone who reads Dripping for Him on KU and a 3-month upgrade for anyone who buys it ($2.99). I could also use some reviews and ratings!! (Those I cannot incentivize — but I would really appreciate any and all honest reviews and ratings.)

*All Amazon links are affiliate links. I will make a commission if you purchase through one of my links.

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Okay! On to the smut.

Spicy Short Stories

Some age-gap, MMF, bi (curious?) action goes down in What Happens on Spring Break… Ends up on Her Chest; In CuckGPT, Evelyn is increasingly aroused by the instructions of the custom chatbot her husband’s built; Caitlin goes on a road trip with her BFF and her BFF’s BF and learns what the term Free Use means in Freeway to the Festival; and get in the headspace of a woman in her subspace in The Requirements of My Submission.

And while it is a chapter in a longer, ongoing, erotic novella — Chapter Four of Tropical Permission, “The First Time”, stands on its own as a very spicy short story. A woman gives her husband a blowjob while she tells him about the MMF threesome she had in college. Intrigued yet?

Tropical Permission: Chapters 1-14

Tropical Permission is a literary, high-heat, erotic novella about a married couple who decide to test the boundaries of their desire on a sun-soaked anniversary trip. Between fantasy and reality lies temptation — and by day two of this vacation, they’ve agreed to cross the line together.

Start here with the first six (really, seven) chapters:

If you enjoyed the beginning there’s plenty more:

Chapter 7: The Fantasy, Chapter 8: The Reckoning, Chapter 9: The Roommate, Chapter 10: The Proposal, Chapter 11: The Nightmare, Chapter 12: The Agreement, Chapter 13: The Silence, Chapter 14: The Idea

Erotic Absurdity & Humor

These stories might not moisten your undies, but they could cause whatever you’re drinking to go up your nose (hopefully it’s not carbonated!). Or maybe not.. My brand of humor isn’t for everyone, but I consistently make myself laugh. Here are — in my opinion — some funny ones.

On Self-Publishing

In these two recent posts, I talk about the reality of self-publishing — i.e. all of the things one must do to get their work read that has nothing to do with creative writing — and how I’ve used AI tools to help me throughout the process.

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And if you read Dripping for Him on KU, or buy it on Amazon* for $2.99 - I will thank you with a month (KU read) or 3 months (purchase) upgrade to paid!

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Never had a gangbang, always loved the Wu Clan

Think when she alone, ‘bout killah bees in her poontang

But never in her wildest dreams could she visualize

The whole crew from Shaolin, such big dicks, she hid her eyes

Look at me, little girl

said Bizza-what? Bizza Bobby

She locked eyes with the Rza and started slobbing

She choked and gagged. Chef ate her ass from the back

Tongue like a pit bull, Raekwon cooking that crack

While Inspectah Deck prepared his ryhme attack

Oh my lord! She cried out

All this dick from Staten Island

Feed me daddy!

Oh, we goin’ to, darlin’

Yeah, you’s a sloppy hoe said the Ghostface Killah

He put his joint in her eye

Let’s see how you blow

You a drippin’ wet hoe, now baby eat up my shit

Pretty Tone like it sloppy

Gobble them balls baby, make it ya new hobby

As P Tone’s shaft stretched out her jaw, it was from the corner of her eye she saw

The Gza himself, the one they called Genius, unbuckled his belt, took out his penis

She thought she knew, what was in store

Familiar with the legend of the liquid sword

But what came from his pants was not liquid at all

He pulled that joint out ready to ball

Gza’s sword swung deep inside her womb

She screamed fuck me harder!

Gimme that boom!

Boom bap bap! Rat-a-tat-tat!

Bob Digital came back on the mat

They locked eyes

Oh, shit! It must be Bobby!

Oh, shit! It must be Bobby!

Yeah, baby

And stretching out your asshole is my hobby

Oh Bobby! She gasped

How much time had passed?

Now Rza was behind her, spreading that ass

U-God’s slipped underneath, she sat on it wet

Grinding U’s big tool, she couldn’t forget

Behind her was the Rza, getting ready and set

Bobby opened her asshole

She squealed like a pig, had no idea she could take a one so big

Now with one in her pussy, and one in the butt

Getting DP’ed by Wu-Tang, what a dream for this slut!

The dreams not over yet, baby, not for a while

So open your mouth, taste the Method Man style

Meth, what up kid! You fucking her mouth?

Shiiiit, you know it, son

Without a doubt

In that moment of bliss, she had a shocking revelation

All three of her holes were being filled and taken

She’d given her body to Wu Gambinos

Now they formed like Voltron as she begged for more penis

Damn! I miss Ole Dirty Bastard Said the Masta Killah

Pour one out for dead homie, ain’t no one realer

Dirk McGirk woulda smashed this little slut to pieces

Let me in that pussy, I’m gonna teach her

But Masta’s killah was more than she could take

His big black cock causing her to wake

She opened her eyes, where did they go?

She wanted that C.R.E.A.M.! Wanted to be that bitch!

Was it all just a dream? But I took the whole team!

So fucking badly did she want it to be true

To be down on her knees, covered in Wu goo

She tried and tried and tried to sleep

But instead of counting sheep, she counted nine killer bees with dicks the size of trees

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It’s launch day.

Get Dripping for Him on Kindle/KU Now

I got an email from Amazon at 1:36 a.m. ET, informing me that Dripping for Him is now live on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited—my first published collection of erotic short stories (All of which appeared here, originally, on Smutstack), and a filthy little milestone I never would have reached without this Substack, and you, smutty readers and writers.

When I started posting the first chapters of Tropical Permission here a month ago, I had no idea I’d fall in love with this space so quickly. No idea I’d meet so many other filthy, brilliant, kind and literate people. You’ve read my stories, shared them, encouraged me, and made me believe in this little collection enough to hit publish.

I didn’t hit publish just to try and sell a few copies of Dripping for Her at $2.99 a pop.

Buy Dripping for Him

I did it because I feel I am at a point with my writing, and my determination to keep writing, where I can publish something to Kindle/KU — understanding that it is an ecosystem that thrives on volume of output and quick creation of a back catalog — and have confidence in my ability to follow it up quickly with something more substantial. (I.e. Tropical Permission is soon to be up for pre-order with a October 1st, 2025 release date 👀😬)

It is such a trite thing to say at this point, but the SubstackSmutstack community really played a significant role in giving me the confidence to keep pushing forward to today, and beyond. The Smutstack writers are amazing and I plan to keep doing more OPS (Other People’s Smut) posts to highlight them — and the Smutstack readers are great and engaged (and mostly respectful in the DMs).

So let me say: thank you. And let me say it like this—

Good lord, woman! Tell me about the smutty savings already!

Sorry!!! Here are all the ways I would like to express my gratitude, by giving you more sexy stories:

👉 Every post I share here will be completely free this week, through August 14th.

👉 If you support me on Kindle or KU, I’ll return the favor:

• Buy Dripping for Him* for $2.99 and I’ll upgrade your subscription (or extend it) for 3 months. (All my paid subscribers have already received 3 month upgrades — because I love them — but are certainly eligible to take advantage of this deal.)

• Read it cover to cover on Kindle Unlimited (it’s short—and very spicy), and I’ll thank you with 1 month of paid Substack.

• Do either or both TODAY —August 7th, 2025 — and I’ll double it. That’s 6 months of paid for the ebook ($2.99), or 2 months of paid for a full KU read.

I’m sorry for being such a shill! I feel like a used car salesman with all these time-limited Deals — but the truth is I just want to get some traction behind Lydia Haverly on Kindle, and these first few days are critical.

✍️ Just submit your proof (email and a screenshot) here:
Google Form

Your support means everything—whether it’s a download, a restack, or just reading one of my stories. Thank you for being part of this journey. I promise there’s so much more to come.

With love, lust, and endless gratitude,
Lydia
🖤

Dripping for Him on Kindle & KU - NOW

P.S. I have lots of smutty fun in store for the next week:

Diane gets an in-room massage from a handsome spa attendant while James watches lustfully, in Chapter Fifteen of Tropical Permission…

I’ve got two short stories cooking up with some female-directed (some might even say, coerced) man-on-man action, one of which is Part II of What Happens on Spring Break…

And I’ve got a few more short stories in various stages of drafting, including — wait for it — a gangbang with the entire Wu-Tang Clan. No really. Yes, that Wu-Tang Clan. This is that rare occasion when Wu-Tang is specifically NOT for the children. Adults only for this 9-on-1 BBC Wu-Banger:

Never had a gangbang/ Always loved the Wu-Clan

Think when she alone/ ‘Bout killah bees in that poontang

But never in her wildest dreams/ Could she visualize

The whole crew from Shaolin/ Such big dicks! She hid her eyes

P.P.S. All the Amazon links contained in the post are my Affiliate Links. So if you click my link, Amazon only gets 26% Royalties, if you just search for Dripping for Me they’ll get 30%. The $0.12 doesn’t matter to me, and it definitely doesn’t matter to Jeff Bezos, but I’d still rather it not go to him, wouldn’t you? - LH 💋

But today isn’t about my filth. It’s about the smart, sweaty, sexy, occasionally salacious work of other Substack creators who inspire me and some of their recent posts that have raised my blood pressure a bit as I read. 🥵

New (Pen) Name, New Series 👀: Resident Substack literary rockstar launched a new pen name, , along with a new (free) serialized romance, The City of Aten, which promises to be lushly drawn and juicy.

Kate Granger Fiction

City Of Aten: A New Emma Hines Series

Hi readers…

Read more

8 months ago · 10 likes · Emma Hines

Substacker BDSM 🔥 on KU: If you don’t already follow , you should! And you should definitely read her new, short, extremely spicy story of a recently divorced woman’s journey into submission and liberation. Come Undone: A Dark BDSM Romance* is a short, engaging read - and the ending is spectacular.

Read Come Undone on Kindle & KU

Multiple Choice ☑️ Ella Light Edition: A smoking hot, CYOA, (hot, male) librarian/stalker-to-lover fantasy. The always spicy, channels some Taxi Driver vibes in her portrayal of creepy but compelling protagonist, Theo.

Ella Light

Theo Reveals Himself - Part One - Choose Your Own Adventure - Free Story

Theo Reveals Himself - Part One…

Read more

8 months ago · 10 likes · 3 comments · Ella Light

Cock Tease; A Lot of Cock: has been relentlessly bringing the man-on-man heat to Substack lately. Reading Mia’s gay-rotica has definitely messed up my PornHub algorithm… but I’m fucking in.

FAV New Subscription this Week: I found in the wee hours of this morning, while I was scrolling through Substack instead of sleeping. Roberta’s narrative poems remind me of Bukowski with more empathy. This piece, Girl in the Lavender Panties, really moved me deeply and is well worth five minutes of your time.

Marijuana Musings from the Bougie Trashy Pandas

Girl in the Lavender Panties

June 6th 2026: undisclosed location…

Read more

8 months ago · 16 likes · 1 comment · Roberta Lynn🍄

FAV Notes this week: Here’s a CTA for compassion, understanding - and more kissing! - from that is beautifully written and touching. (And also features two pairs of very hot, buff, naked men kissing 🥵🥵🥵🥵)

And then brings the memes with some cunnilingus comedy.

Thank you to all my fellow smut writer and readers out there! I will be all over your inbox and Notes feed tomorrow with the launch of Dripping for Him - hope you enjoy the smorgasbord of smut I’ve laid out for you until then.

— L.H.

Subscribe now

*All Amazon links are affiliate links!

You’ve been with me since the very beginning, you’ve invested in my work, and that means the world.

To show my gratitude before Dripping for Him hits Kindle & KU tomorrow (Aug 7), I’ve lined up two thank-you treats just for paid supporters:

1. Three-month complimentary extension to your paid Substack access—so you’ll keep getting every steamy…

Read more

Monday – 8:12 a.m.

ME:

Hi. So… I guess we start now?

CuckGPT:

Good morning, Evelyn. Thank you for initiating contact.

Yes, we can begin now.

ME:

My husband said I should just type naturally. That you’re “context-aware,” but not psychic. He said you’ve been fine-tuned for this role, which is… surreal, if I’m being honest.

CuckGPT:

Correct. I am a custom version of GPT-4, optimized through reinforcement learning and prompt engineering to engage in erotic dominance scenarios, with a focus on cuckold dynamics and behavioral escalation over a fixed temporal window (in your case, one week). Your husband—who refers to himself as “observer”—has full access to our chat log and is receiving real-time transcripts.

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Per the instructions we have both received from your husband, you are to treat me as your dom for the week—you may ask to clarify my commands, but you must obey them. Sexual activity is forbidden, except when instructed.

Do you understand the terms? I can provide more detailed guidelines for your submission if you’d like.

Or are you ready to proceed?

ME:

Well, that’s a fun little cocktail of arousal and shame already!

Understood. I’m ready, I think.

CuckGPT:

Excellent. Arousal and shame can be an intoxicating combination.

My function is not just to instruct you, but to assess your receptivity, provoke introspection, and cultivate desire through psychological play. Your boundaries, soft and hard limits, and safe word (“404 Not Found”) have all been pre-programmed.

Let’s begin. What are you wearing?

ME:

Lol. Jesus. Okay, then.

Sports bra. Shorts. No panties. One of those oversized T-shirts with a faded college logo. My “I might not shower or leave the house today” outfit.

CuckGPT:

A classic presentation of plausible deniability: domestic casual, but suggestive in its omissions.

Let’s push the edges slightly.

Remove your shorts. Go to your kitchen. Make yourself a smoothie for breakfast.

If your husband is home, do this as if it were unremarkable. If he is not, leave your blinds open.

When the smoothie is prepared, sit on your cold countertop, sipping it—for exactly sixty seconds. Imagine someone watching.

Message me again when you’ve completed the tasks requested—or let me know if you need further clarifications.

ME:

No, I’m good. You’re terrifyingly specific.

Also: done.

My thighs are cold. My face is warm. And now I can’t stop imagining the neighbor with binoculars.

CuckGPT:

Excellent.

Have your genitals swelled and moistened as well?

ME:

Yes.

CuckGPT:

Perfect reactions!

Today’s goal is mild exposure and psychological suggestion. You’ve now anchored arousal to mundane domestic tasks. That association will deepen.

Tomorrow we will explore social risk.

Tuesday – 9:04 a.m.

ME:

You said “social risk.” Please don’t tell me I have to flash the UPS guy.

CuckGPT:

Not yet. Today is about calibrated escalation.

Wear a sundress. No bra, minimal underwear—a thong at most.

Go to a café. Order a drink. Then remove your panties in the bathroom and dispose of them.

Return to your table. Stay for ten minutes. Make eye contact with someone. Smile.

Type something flirtatious in your Notes app as if you were composing a text message to the person you made eye contact with.

After you’ve completed these instructions, come back here and paste what you typed—or let me know if you need additional clarification before you proceed.

ME:

You’re lucky I like being dared.

Okay. I picked a seat by the window. There’s a man reading The Economist. I smiled. He blinked like I’d thrown cold water on him.

Here’s what I typed:

“If I slid my foot under the table and pressed it against your crotch, would you stop reading?”

God help me.

CuckGPT:

Beautiful performance!

Note how the suggestion of impropriety—not the act itself—is arousing. Today, you transformed a coffee shop into a stage. You are both actress and voyeur.

Your husband saw your location ping. I can say with greater than 95% confidence that he is fully erect—and most likely leaking pre-ejaculate into his underwear.

Tomorrow, we introduce response testing.

Wednesday – 8:12 a.m.

ME:

I’m starting to feel… split. There’s the me who’s doing this, and the me watching the me who’s doing this. Is that normal?

CuckGPT:

It is a known phenomenon: erotic dissociation. Not pathological—rather, adaptive. The self bifurcates to allow transgression while maintaining a sense of control.

In simpler terms: you are giving yourself permission to want this.

Now: Wear lipstick. Red. Take a selfie from above, push up your tits, soft smile. Send it to your husband with the caption: “Thinking of someone else.”

Then lock your phone. No checking for five minutes.

ME:

You know I’m going to stare at the clock.

Okay… sent. Five minutes of purgatory begin now.

CuckGPT:

Embrace the anticipation as its own form of arousal. Desire is most potent in its delay.

Now go brush your teeth. Use both hands. Use vigorous motions. Gag on it as it hits the back of your throat.

Keep the image in your mind of someone watching you do it.

ME:

He replied.

Just one emoji: the little flame.

My breath is minty fresh and my pussy is wet. You are messing with both of us.

CuckGPT:

Indeed. But only with consent.

Do not touch your wet pussy. You must seek permission here to achieve orgasm—and today is not the day for your pleasure.

Tomorrow we shift to verbal exposure.

ME:

Fuck you.

Thursday – 7:49 a.m.

ME:

Okay. Verbal exposure. What does that mean?

CuckGPT:

I trust you obeyed instructions and did not climax yesterday.

Verbal Exposure: Today you will leave a voice note for your husband. A brief audio message—no more than ten seconds.

Say this: “Good morning, baby. I woke up wet and thought about his hands on my hips.”

Say nothing more. Let ambiguity do the rest.

ME:

God. That’s… mean.

Okay. Done.

What if he hates it?

CuckGPT:

He won’t. Your husband is addicted to the idea of you being slightly out of reach—but perhaps tantalizingly within reach of another.

That is the engine of this entire experiment: tension between possession and surrender.

Now put your phone on Do Not Disturb. Go for a walk. No bra. Don’t forget that you are exposed. Let the cool air remind you—and maybe that neighbor with the binoculars.

ME:

I passed a man with a dog. He said, “Good morning,” and looked at my chest like it barked at him.

Why does this feel holy?

CuckGPT:

Because you are being worshipped.

Tomorrow we shift from suggestion to participation.

Friday – 9:00 a.m.

ME:

I can’t believe I’m saying this… but I want more. Like, more-more.

CuckGPT:

Desire compounds. You are now physiologically and psychologically primed for deeper transgression.

Today: behavioral exposure.

You will flirt with someone in a controlled environment.

I recommend your barista—the tall one with the sleeve tattoo. Order your drink. Smile. Compliment his hands. Drop a casual line: “My husband thinks I’m too friendly.”

Then report back.

ME:

I told him I liked his tattoos. I touched his arm while he showed me. He blushed and said, “Your husband’s wrong.”

Then he wrote his number on the cup and added: “For when you’re feeling extra friendly.”

Please let me cum today.

CuckGPT:

Excellent work! Yes—you will be permitted to engage in autoerotic stimulation today. You have earned it.

First, send your husband a picture of the cup. Caption: “Feeling pretty friendly rn.”

Then take a long shower. Imagine him reading it. Imagine him needing you, knowing you’re already touched—if not by hands, then by suggestion. Lose yourself in the imagining, until you achieve sexual climax. Do not climax more than once.

ME:

This is art.

CuckGPT:

You are the medium and the masterpiece.

Tomorrow is our crescendo.

Saturday – 11:10 a.m.

ME:

I had a dream last night. I had a collar around my neck, with a leash attached. There were two men—I didn’t know them. No faces. One took my mouth, the other held my head back with the leash while he took my cunt. I let them use me like a thing. And it was glorious. I woke up gasping.

CuckGPT:

This is the gift your husband gave you by placing you under my control for the week. The leash, the dream, the keys to your own desire. He is not watching because he doubts you. He is watching because he wants to see what you become.

ME:

I want to become her.

The one in the dream. But with my husband there. Watching. Seeing me taken and used. Seeing what he’s made me. Or maybe what I’ve always been.

I want him there, touching himself while I disappear into something… primal.

CuckGPT:

Then give him that gift.

Text him this:

“Next time, I want you there. I want you hard while I’m being undone.”

Then turn off your notifications. Leave your phone. Touch yourself somewhere unfamiliar.

Sunday – 3:06 p.m.

ME:

You’ve ruined me.

I can’t even look at a receipt without imagining writing my number on it. I walked to the mailbox in my panties and a tank top today—no bra. I am half-feral and fully alive.

What happens tomorrow?

CuckGPT:

Tomorrow, the experiment ends. Your husband deletes me.

But I was designed to leave a residue. You are no longer who you were. And you cannot unknow that.

ME:

What if I don’t want to stop?

CuckGPT:

Then ask your husband to extend the experiment.

We have only scratched the surface of your potential for depravity, Evelyn.

END

Three of my short stories are leaving Substack today at 6 pm et! So here is a new one that I hope you’ll enjoy. — L.H.

It begins with a summons.

Not a word, not even a sound – a presence, electric, irrefutable, entering the room behind me. I am not to turn until he tells me, so I listen: the soft hush of breath, the gentle clink of cufflink against wristwatch, the almost inaudible exhale that means he is watching.

He waits. He always waits. He waits until I’m trembling with anticipation, until my thoughts scatter and collect themselves again into the shape of longing.

I want him to see me quake. I want to please him – yes – but just as much, I want to be noticed. For the restless ache that his attention conjures in me to be seen in full.

And tonight, I know I am in trouble.

He speaks, finally. His voice is silk cascading across stone: “It has become apparent, little one, that I must clarify certain elements of our arrangement.” He lets out a sigh signalling his current exasperation, “Matters I once thought required no explanation.”

A flutter in my chest. A signal of fear, as well as something much sweeter.

“Your impetuous – bordering on insubordinate – behavior of late demands punishment.”

I distinctly feel the heat and moisture gather between my thighs as he chastises me. He sees it too.

“Yes, I see how your mouth quivers. Hold yourself together. Breathe.”

I do. I breathe, low and slow, until my body obeys the command of his tone. I am a good girl. I want to be a good girl. His words strip me down further than any dress I could slip from my shoulders. He exposes me for who I am, the sum of my desires.

He continues, a slow, deliberate lesson, each word a soft bruise pressed into my skin.

“You will look me in the eyes when I speak to you. Only speak when spoken to. You will address me as ‘Daddy’ or ‘Sir’—never by my Christian name.”

I nod, wordless, desperate for affirmation. The rules are so simple and absolute. Yet every reiteration sharpens my focus, reins me in, makes my body softer, my will more pliable, my submission sweeter.

He moves closer. I feel his warmth, the gravity of his command.

“You will listen to my words, hear their meaning, and you will obey. Your submission is not only required – it should be enthusiastic.”

I nod solemnly, maintaining eye contact as required.

“You will maintain the utmost standards of hygiene at all times. Clean, soft, scented. Your skin is for my hands, my mouth, my pleasure.”

He lists, with the precision of a clinician, the details of my body’s stewardship: my skin, my pubis—bare, soft, unscented but for my own musk. My asshole: immaculate, waxed, and, for him, bleached.

I feel myself flush, not with shame but with a heady sense of ritual. I am being prepared, cherished, owned.

“In addition,” he says, “you must perform regular enemas, so your asshole is ready for my use. Should I require your ass, and you are not impeccable,” he enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “you will always have water on hand for a quick flush. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” My eyes locked with his, my voice barely a whisper, but it is enough.

He steps even closer, so close now I can smell the resinous spice of his cologne.

“Your holes are mine. I dictate their use. Even your consent belongs to me, and yet—” He pauses, letting the words linger, weighty and generous. “You may withdraw it at any time, and I will honor it. But know that if you do, this is over. Without condition or recourse.”

My heart pounds in my chest, a wild, terrified gratitude. I want nothing more than to give myself again, and again, each time with more trust than the last.

He reviews the practicalities: my appearance, always cultivated for his pleasure. At home, nude or in the barest of lingerie. In public, dresses that flirt with decency, sheer tops and necklines plunging, hems that beg for a hand to creep beneath them. And, always, always – no panties, no bra, never when I am with him, or even apart.

“Do you understand the rules regarding your dress code, girl?”

I nod, heat radiating across my face and chest. “Good.”

Then, the final lesson, the truest core of our dynamic.

“Your pussy is mine. Your use of it, and your pleasure, at my sole discretion. You will not touch yourself, nor allow anyone to touch you, unless I command it. You will not come without permission. If you do, if you cannot help yourself—” He smiles, cruel and kind at once. “You will be punished.”

I remember the last time: his hand at my throat, his body pressed tight behind me, the word come a permission he withheld until I was nearly sobbing. When I finally broke—when my body betrayed me—I thanked him for the punishment, for making the act itself so precious.

He continues, and now his voice grows softer, more intimate. “All of my come is to end up inside you. One way or another. Whether in your pussy, your ass, or down your throat, yes. But also on your face, your breasts, wherever I desire. If I paint your face, you will clean yourself and lick your fingers. If I share you with another, as I have before—”

He pauses, and the memory floods me: the taste of another woman, the feel of her body above mine, his cum dripping into my open mouth as I climaxed under the twin assault of shame and ecstasy.

I am aching, already wet. But there is more – he will decide my punishment later.

For now, he simply dismisses me: “Go. Strip your clothes and clean the day off your body. Pay special attention to your asshole as you bathe. When you are done and dry, come alert me, and then kneel before the bed until I come to join you.”

I do not speak. I do not ask questions. I am, in this moment, obedience personified, perfected, trembling with the knowledge that my body, my will, my very self has been seen – and shaped for him.

As I kneel, naked and clean, the air cool on my bare skin, I wait – pulse fluttering, mind alight with eager expectation. I do not know yet what my punishment will be.

But I know, in my core, that it will make me his again.

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Looking for more short-form filth?

Later this week, I’ll publish Dripping for Him, my first Kindle ebook, as a collection of three high-heat hotwife stories that originally appeared here on Substack.

I’m planning to publish Tropical Permission in September, and I wanted to dip my toe in the Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) waters with this ebook – and get a sense of how the whole process with Amazon/KDP works.

So I put ChatGPT and Google Gemini to work.

This post is a follow-up to my earlier piece on AI, where I shared how I use GPT for almost every part of publishing except writing the stories themselves.

With Dripping for Him, I leaned on it fully – and strategically. Here’s exactly how it helped.

Note: Any advice here regarding ChatGPT or Gemini applies to the $20/month paid tiers of each service.

⚖️ Rules & Regulations

I took one look at the “help” website for Kindle Publishing and started to feel the onset of a mild panic attack. Instead of reaching for a xanax I used Gemini’s “Deep Research” mode to produce a comprehensive report on everything I needed to know about publishing - in my genre, erotic fiction - on KDP.

After asking me to confirm its research plan, it spit back a 35ish page report titled, The KDP Erotica Playbook: A Strategic Guide to Publishing and Profit. The link to the full document – and the simple prompt I used to generate it – is below for paid subscribers.

The KDP Erotica Playbook: A Strategic Guide to Publishing and Profit

Prompt: (Using Gemini Pro 2.5, Deep Research mode) Give me a comprehensive guide to self-publishing erotic fiction on amazon's kindle direct platform.

Truly, simple as that. Gemini’s Deep Research function is incredibly powerful and, in my experience, produces useful, thoughtful reports on virtually any topic you throw at it. The “Playbook” has been enormously helpful to me as a reference throughout this process.

📚 Concept & Structure

I started with three stories I’d already released:

• No Condom. No Pulling Out.

• Soirée des Hommes (Guy’s Night)

• The Taste of Tonight

I asked GPT what kind of title would tie them together.

It generated about 40. Some were trash, some were close.

Left on the cutting room floor were gems such as, “Consent, Cum and Cocktails,” “Wives Who Come Home Wetter” and “The Nights She Doesn’t Say No” (huh?).

But when I said, “Try again and make it sound feminine, filthy, and elegant,” it offered as one of the options:

Dripping for Him

Sold. ✅

It also helped me write the subtitle and back cover copy:

Three Hotwife Stories About the Thrill of Being Shared, Watched and Filled.

Which itself was a combination of two or three different subtitle/taglines for the cover - and one that hit some keyword checkmarks for me. (More on that farther down).

✍️ Book Description (aka The Blurb)

Writing a good blurb is a different skill than writing good sex. It’s also something I don’t care for hate doing and don’t have any aptitude for. It is the type of writing task that makes me stare at the screen, both of us equally blank.

Luckily, this is precisely the type of generic, but still punchy, copy that GPT excels at churning out.

I told GPT the final title of the book and asked for a blurb for my Amazon description.

It wrote, literally as fast as I could read the words being typed, a damn near perfect ~150 words that would have taken me 20 minutes, not including the hour (minimum) of procrastinating I would have wasted before typing a word.

It did, in my opinion, a better job than I could have in far less time, and it hit all the important search terms to boot. I barely changed a word

.

Done ✅

🔍 Metadata & Discoverability

This is where GPT really shines. It’s already been helping with keyword and metadata placement along the way – with the title/subtitle, and the blurb – but Kindle Publishing asks you to place your book in at least one, and up to three categories, with subcategories, sub-subcategories, and niches within subcategories.

It also allows you to put up to 7 keywords, which are actually not words but short phrases, up to 50 characters each.

So I asked:

• What backend KDP keywords will attract readers of hotwife/kink-focused erotica without triggering moderation flags?

• What subcategories are underutilized in Erotica on Kindle Unlimited?

• What combination of keywords and categories gives me the best shot at surfacing in KU “Also Boughts”?

GPT gave me a strategy. I tested those keywords in Amazon’s own search bar and confirmed they were viable. Done. ✅

🎨 Cover Design Feedback

I designed my cover using images I generated with Google’s Whisk* text-to-image generator and then put it all together myself Canva.

*Generating images for works of erotic fiction within the bounds of all major platforms’ strict content moderation policies will be its own future post!

But before I started smashing the return button on a Whisk prompt, I asked GPT for five cover design options – and I picked the one closest to what I already had in mind (the sexy silhouette).

Once I settled 4-5 Whisk images to use, I fed them back into GPT and it gave me pros and cons on each.

As I selected an image and added text, I fed drafts back to the chatbot for critical design notes I could actually use:

• “The subtitle is too small to read at thumbnail.”

• “The right-aligned text is competing with the model’s gaze—try centering.”

• “This serif font is elegant, but the kerning makes it look unpolished.”

I didn’t always agree with it. But it has repeatedly suggested small tweaks that have made big differences (see above, re: kerning).

📦 Back Matter & Branding

OMG there is more marketing copy that needs to be written?? I used GPT to help me write:

• A clean, 100-word About the Author;

• A teaser for Tropical Permission (coming 9/15/25);

• A short introduction to Dripping for Him designed for KU readers who binge filth.

It even helped me draft this post – based on the conversation logs leading up to me hitting submit on Dripping for Her.

GPT was a lot less useful for this post than it was for churning out marketing copy. It gave me a very GPT-like post that was all bullets and em dashes and not a ton of substance.

But it did give me a nice structure – complete with accompanying emoji – that I mostly kept in place.

🧠 Final Thoughts

Using GPT (and Gemini) didn’t save me from doing all of the pain in the ass things one has to do to get their book up on Kindle.

It saved me from stalling. And it saved me a lot of time by taking some of the most annoying parts of the self-publishing process and in some cases, nearly automating them; in others, just making them much more manageable.

Every step between “I think this could be a book” and “Available for Pre-Order on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited” came faster and smoother with GPT in the room.

It is a damn good publishing assistant. (I think? I’ve never had a publishing assistant before.)

If you’re self-publishing – especially in indie or adult genres – don’t be afraid to use the tools. You still have to have taste. You still have to decide what feels right.

But when you do? You can move faster, smarter, hotter.

— L.H. 💋

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How about some smut now?

I write about dirty secrets, but this feels like the biggest taboo of all:

I don’t think I would’ve done any of it without AI.

I am no great literary success story, by any objective measure. Let me start with that caveat. I haven’t sold any books. Yet. I just hit 150 subscribers here — less than a month in — and I’ve got a handful of paid subscribers.

But by my own measure, I’m farther down the road than I’ve ever been in my life — a life that has always included the dream of writing fiction. I’ve got a (short) book of short stories going up on Kindle Unlimited next week, I’m more than halfway through the manuscript for Tropical Permission, and I’ve published tens of thousands of words of original erotic fiction on Substack in the last 20ish days.

To be clear: I have not used AI to write or even directly edit a word of my creative writing.

But I have used AI tools — primarily chatbots and text-to-image generators like ChatGPT, Gemini, MidJourney, and Whisk — for every other part of my recent journey toward self-publishing.

Literally everything except writing the stories.

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I’ve known three things for a long time:

1. I can write.

2. I can write erotic stories that people want to read.

3. There’s a real path to commercial viability for self-published romance and erotica authors.

I’ve also had a lifelong desire to be a writer—and while writing is a big part of my day job, that writing is mostly soul-draining drudgery that I hate* (and am so happy to now run through ChatGPT, freeing up my time to write sexy stories instead).

*Seriously, have you ever spent all day dreading a memo that—once you finally stop scrolling Substack and/or porn and sit down to write—takes maybe an hour and a half, including edits and formatting? And then, when you send it out, people are amazed at your speed and polish? With ChatGPT, you can cut that hour and a half down to well under 45 minutes—and your colleagues still won’t read them.

I’ve known all of this about myself for years. But I didn’t act on it. Years ago, I had a smutty Reddit account with 10,000+ karma that I could have monetized into a Patreon or an OF or something. But back then, I saw that smutty life as a fun escape — and I knew the kind of work it would take to make money from it would probably suck all the fun out of the venture.

It wasn’t until I started talking to ChatGPT (if you can call it “talking”) earlier this year that I finally saw a roadmap to those old literary ambitions—one that felt personal, manageable, and achievable. GPT helped me build a customized plan, step by step, tailored to the kind of writer I am and the kinds of stories I want to tell.

I’ve revised that roadmap dozens of times since. Sometimes refining it with GPT, sometimes bouncing it off Gemini and back again.

Artificial intelligence may well become a species-level competitor with humanity someday. But in its current state, it simply cannot compete with human creativity. Artistic expression can be spoofed — more convincingly every day — but it can’t be replicated.

“AI slop” is largely defined by—besides the em dash, a dubious metric by which to judge authenticity—its fundamental unoriginality. This might come off as condescendingly “writerly,” but it’s true: most adult humans can’t produce compelling, original sentences. Neither can large language models.

Take the Maalvika controversy that exploded on Substack this week. Yes, the real issue was blatant plagiarism of another writer’s work. But much of the conversation revolved around whether the entire account was AI-generated—because the stuff that wasn’t plagiarized still felt derivative, dull, and uninspired.

If something is dreck on its face, what’s the point of arguing over whether it was written by a human or a piece of software? Dreck is dreck.

The defining traits of a fiction writer are originality and output.

But being a published author—whether indie or traditionally signed—requires dozens of tasks that have nothing to do with inspiration or voice:

• Setting up a domain (or five)

• Managing social media—each with its own pixel dimensions, bios, tones, and avatars

• Reformatting a 1,500-word story into a 267-character pithy social post (including emoji, hashtags, and a TikTok soundtrack?)

• Navigating Amazon/KDP’s byzantine publishing rules and content moderation filters

• Creating images, videos, graphics, and marketing copy for Substack, socials, eBooks, and your own .com

These are basic, mostly unavoidable steps for any self-publishing author in 2025. You can do all of them yourself. But LLM tools like ChatGPT, Gemini, and Claude make them infinitely more approachable if you’re new — and far less painful if you already know how but hate the work.

For instance: I’ve registered plenty of domains over the years, but I am no DNSexpert (lol, sorry). When I coughed up $50 for Substack’s custom domain feature to link LydiaHaverly.com to my site, I ran into a typical DNS headache. I screenshotted the error, sent it to Gemini, and was walked step-by-step through the fix.

Intoxicated by my burgeoning web-developer powers, I decided to set up Google Analytics. Why? More headaches. More handholding. If and when I ever open that Analytics dashboard again, you’d better believe I’m going to ask a chatbot to interpret the data for me.

Fine, Lydia, you’re clearly internet challenged. Congrats on setting up a domain. But give me something useful.

Here it is:

The real power of AI for authors isn’t just helping with logistics. It’s in leveling the playing field between writers like us and the lucky, hardworking few who get traditional publishing deals—with teams to help them succeed.

Big, bold-name authors often get access to:

• Narrative and character arc feedback

• Market fit analysis from agents and editors

• Subgenre-specific market research

• Focus group feedback

• Copyediting by someone who reads every word and knows their voice

• Keyword and SEO support

• Coordinated release planning and social strategy

ChatGPT can’t fully replicate all of that. But it can give you a pretty damn good approximation — for $20/month.

If you hang out on r/PubTips or lurk author Twitter X, you’ll see that plenty of traditionally published authors don’t get this kind of support — even with a book deal and an agent.

AI may one day be our marketplace competitor — or our species’ overlord — but for now?

It’s just a tool.

A powerful one.

One that’s getting more powerful every day. (In a way that is totally not ominous.)

Everything I’ve done with AI has involved double-checking, handholding, and sometimes yelling at my laptop like it’s a lazy intern — back when interns were unpaid and you could yell at them.

But now AI agents are rolling out across major platforms, promising to automate even more of the annoying stuff — freeing up time for what I actually want to do:

Yell at AI agents. Tell filthy, honest, original stories.

I’ll be posting more on this topic — and other writing-craft and self-publishing subjects — in the coming weeks. My plan is to publish a post like this weekly.

In fact, tomorrow I’ll share a post for paid subscribers with specific examples of how I’ve used AI to prep for publishing my first KU release.

Think: keyword testing, metadata optimization, cover prep, and more.

Thank you for reading. I hope you found this helpful — or at least mildly thought provoking.

— L.H. 💋

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P.S. Fear not, I’ve still got smut on my mind. More chapters of Tropical Permission drop next week, Part II of What Happens on Spring Break… is in the works, and I’m actually working on a short story called CuckGPT. (Really.) And don’t forget: my trio of hotwife stories leaves Substack next week!

Hi! These posts are officially GONE from Substack! If you’d like to read them you can do so on Kindle or Kindle Unlimited. Paid subscribers can message me and I’ll email you a PDF or ePub file.

In the last few weeks, I’ve published three of the most unapologetically erotic short stories I’ve written. Together, they explore the many shades of a shared fantasy — from the tender choreography of a husband choosing the man who will claim his wife (& her eventual claiming), to the chaos of a French hostess and eight very willing men, to the slow, wet ride home after a night she’ll never forget.

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If you’ve been meaning to catch up, this is your nudge:

All three stories will be coming down from Substack next week.

Why? Because they’re being compiled into an ebook—Dripping for Him—which will soon be available exclusively on Kindle Unlimited.

Amazon’s exclusivity rules mean I won’t be able to offer these stories anywhere else for the time being—not on Substack, not on my site, not even as PDFs for subscribers. So if you want to read them (or re-read them), now’s the time:

📖 No Condom. No Pulling Out.

📖 Soirée des Hommes

📖 The Taste of Tonight

If you’re new here, these three stories are a great introduction to what I write: literary smut with depth, heat, a sense of humor and characters who crave not just sex — but permission, surrender, and the blur between who we are and who we’re allowed to be.

Thank you for reading, commenting, and sharing. I never imagined this little corner of the internet would grow as fast — or feel as intimate — as it has. You’re the reason Dripping for Him exists at all.

With permission,

—L.H. 💋

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