Ever have a fantasy that you thought was wild and sexy? One so downright naughty that you'd blow the pants anyone you told? It's so damn juicy that you're convince that it should be published so the whole world can bath in your...okay, this is getting a tad gross even for me. Anyway, continuing on: And once you get it published - preferably though some independent press or self-publishing venue - you sit back and wait until everyone's spasming from your sexual bravado. Only, sometimes what you expect isn't what you get.
Outside her blog, I've never read anything by Rachel Boleyn, so I have nothing to compare Daddy's Lil Devil to. I feel I'm repeating myself whenever I review erotic fiction from writers I've never heard of before. Let's face it, not everyone can be Alison Tyler.
Perhaps cashing out on the moral loophole of Amazon's ban of incest erotica, writers like Boleyn tread the brim by writing about daughters lusting after their step-fathers. However, the idea is tired. In Daddy's Lil Girl, Camille masturbates to the fantasy of her step-father, Ted. She realizes that all those years of his punishment - a belting whenever she steps on his Baptist minister's wrath - are leading up to her fulfilling her deepest fantasy - having sex with the stern Baptist minister. She even toys with the idea of turning the table and belting him. Then one day, the vixen makes her move to seduce him. Once again, Ted enters her room, belt in hand - we have to remember that Camille's already 18, as per Amazon's guidelines, and have to accept that Ted is still spanking her - and starts off with his usual spanks, but succumbs to the devil's delights.
But where's the hook? Are we so desperate for new literary smut that we're willing to bastardize the erotic genre and turn into sheer pornography? "Less poetry," the collector told Anaïs Nin. "Be specific." But specifics have a downside when they're, well, too specific. Especially when it's told half passively.