Page 1 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

CHAPTER ONE

ALANA

Sex is an art.

Good sex? A craftsmanship.

It’s the intimacy of a lover’s weight against you, hands intertwined as they idolize every inch of your body. Or the fullness as they sink to the base, and your mind reduces to radio static. The world slows, and you lose yourself in the pleasure, the pain. Ragged breaths, and whimpers and praise.

That’s how Alana imagines it, anyway.

Not that she would know what sex feels like outside of a silicone toy.

“Fuck.”

Alana grimaces and slowly lifts her head to pause the video that’s still running its course. A woman’s breasts are bouncing in view of the camera, her eyes crossed, with cringeworthy praise being nasally breathed out from someone in the background. The male actor calls his counterpart a “good whore”, and Alana fights the urge to physically recoil. Did I really just get off to this? Is this really what I’m about? Embarrassing. Absolutely foul, actually.

The sigh that leaves her is worn, her mind heavy with what she can only categorize as post orgasm shame. She switches off her still-buzzing toy and discards it on the bed, lying back to slide an arm over her eyes. There are certain joys that come with being single and practically celibate. Consistent peace, never worrying about a pregnancy scare, or STDs, or child support. Or a bum man living in her house and eating all her food.

Just to name a few things.

However, moments like this have desperation gripping the back of her neck and seeding itself there. Because sometimes, a vibrator just doesn’t cut it. Sometimes, there’s this craving for something more. Someone more. Someone who can leave her satisfied and glowing and unable to walk properly for a day. Preferably two, if she’s feeling greedy. And then cuddle after, should she feel especially gluttonous.

If only the dating scene didn’t suck so badly in this town. If only she had the time. If only, if only, if only…

Shaking her head, Alana pushes the self-pitying thoughts away and focuses her energy on finishing her weekly routine. It’s Sunday, which for her means a good old-fashioned date with her rose and a decompressing-everything shower to wash away the sins of the day. The outdated faucet squeaks as she sets the water as hot as she can take it. Borderline boiling, of course. It trickles down the dips and curves of her body in a way that soothes her aching muscles and calms the spiraling frustrations that threaten to ruin her otherwise good week at the bakery. Head hanging low, she watches them disappear down the drain in between her feet.

When Alana steps out from the curtain, towel wrapped around her frame, she clears the droplets of steam from the mirror with a swipe of her hand. She meets her reflection and a knot forms in her throat. More often than not, she enjoys what she sees: soft features that remind her of her mother. A round, Afrocentric nose, full lips, and patches of ivory scattered across her body. She considers herself pretty. Even so, self-doubt still has its ways of creeping those gnarled, withered fingers around the voice hidden in the back of her mind. The one that says there’s something wrong with her. Wrong about her appearance, her personality even. How, clearly, she must be the problem if she’s gone this long without a steady romantic interest. A kiss, a successful date. Something.

Then again, it’s hardly her fault the dating scene of Sweetbriar leaves much to be desired, or that she has her own set of standards when it comes to potential love interests. Standards that weren’t exactly hard to meet. Is it really too much to ask for a man to be fully employed, have some life goals, and not ask if sex is on the table before deciding whether her meal deserves to be paid for? What happened to chivalry? Or, you know, treating a potential love interest like you were, in fact, interested in them beyond their ass.

Alana releases a slow exhale. Nope. She isn’t going to think about this again. No, she’s going to finish her skincare, and she’s going to call it a goddamn night.

Teeth brushed, short coils wrapped in a bonnet, and knees shiny from shea butter lotion, Alana crawls into her welcoming sheets when a faint beep from her discarded laptop catches her attention. The screen dances with pop-up advertisements, each somehow even worse than the last.

Find local MILFS near you! Bored? Busty women under 40 in your area. Click now! Never masturbate alone again!

Her nose wrinkles, exiting out of them as fast as they appear. Contrary to what the FBI agent hiding in her computer might think about her, no, she is not actually that desperate. At least, that’s what she thinks, until a new ad pops up.

Alone and looking for adventure? Find sexy monsters nearby now. CLICK HERE.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she lingers longer than she should. The image displayed is a stock photo of a generic beast-like man—all brawn, with deep, yellow eyes that peer into the camera like he’s ready to devour the viewer. Her cursor hovers over the ad, and before she can stop herself, she clicks into it. Surprisingly, her laptop doesn’t combust from malware, nor is she brought to a random, suspicious website asking her for her credit card information. Instead, she’s welcomed to a relatively normal-looking page with several different anonymous profiles. Sea monsters, orcs, vampires. The list goes on.

They’re mostly nameless profiles, opting for obvious aliases or stage names to protect their identity. Alana begins reading the various bios, each offering services ranging from private sessions to personal dates. A werewolf offering something called primal hunts catches her eye. Oh. So that’s a real option?

Alana glances at the cheesy novel on her nightstand offering a similar fantasy, and heat blooms across her face, stomach fluttering.

Where most monsters have cohabited with humans for centuries, living side-by-side without threat of serious prejudice, werewolves were still a novelty of sorts. Typically, they hid behind a glamour, favoring their human appearance when venturing out into the world. Most likely for comfort, if Alana had to guess. Not many places were built to accommodate the massive stature of a wolf person.

It would be interesting to meet one. Monster biology and anthropology had been Alana’s favorite courses in senior year for a reason, specifically their mating culture and dynamics. When they found their special someone, they were in it for the long haul. Mated and bonded for life.

Must be nice.

Filtering by category, Alana browses the profiles until she finds one of a wolven individual with the screen-name all-thebetter-to-bite-you-with. He describes himself as a 6 ‘9” gentle giant with an unwavering commitment to providing sincere, personalized services to his clientele.

Well Goddamn, 6’9? Alana moves on to the photos without thinking twice, and an ache settles low in her stomach. They’re tasteful, the pictures—only showcasing his werewolf form. He has piercing yellow eyes and a soft but strong build that sends shivers down her spine. What might it be like, being fucked by a wolf shifter so large that an average building couldn’t accommodate his massive stature? How would his teeth feel sinking into the side of her neck as he drives into her from behind, raw and unyielding?

Ugh.