Joe Brewster

Ever since Moby Dick became The Great American Novel writers have dreamed of putting together their own version of epic greatness: I had the same ambition and my quest failed as badly as Ahab's quest for the great white whale.

The Sex Monster gobbled it up.

I prepared for my quest by devouring every book I could find on how to write novels. These books were written by successful novelists. Several of the authors revealed a curious fact: they had sharpened their writing skills churning out sex novels-- so-called porn--before they ever placed a manuscript with a 'legit' publisher. This struck me as odd but I paid it no mind. I took it merely as trivia.

I plowed ahead with my plan to apply all my attention to my Great American Novel; any 'practice novels', porn or otherwise, seemed like a waste of resources and precious writer 'mojo'.

I gathered all my notes and character outlines and got down to business. I put fresh lines on paper but I soon lost the thread and the story slipped away. So I took it apart and began sorting it out and tightening it up.

But after my third or fourth re-write I had 100 stale pages that sagged under the weight of empty prose before the whole thing gave way and came apart at the seams.

I needed to practice writing stories that had 'a beginning', 'a middle', and 'an end', to get a feel for how a story should develop. The way I went at it I was going nowhere not-so-fast.

That's when my mind drifted to thoughts of smut: I decided to write my own 'porn' novel.

When I first read about the authors 'honing their chops' writing porn I just thought it was odd. But it actually made sense. Sex had built-in conflict-- the basis for every good story-- and, where sex is concerned, who doesn't let their emotions overrule common sense? That is the basis for all irony (I loved irony) so I gave it a try.

The great thing about that was I no longer felt any pressure to write perfect prose. It was strictly practice and so words flowed and great characters popped up out of nowhere.

I had nothing to lose but my novel-writing virginity. I went for it.

My novel experiment was set in a telemarketing office and like most first novels it was based on true events. So I wrote what I knew. According to the experts that is practically Novel Writing 101.

I worked answering phones for an inbound telemarketing company. Afternoons were slow. Hours passed with no calls coming in.

Reps were free to use the down-time as we pleased. Most reps sat and gossiped. I read books.

To my way of thinking I got paid to read books. I learned things. I had my own on-the-job scholarship. That's actually where I read most of my how-to-write-a-novel books.

One night my gossiping coworkers played a 'Name Game' where they took turns naming a person and the rest of them had to say if they found the nominee sex-worthy.

I kept my nose in my book but I couldn't help overhearing.

They started off with movie stars and celebrities and famous politicians and such. No one agreed on anything. One person's fantasy was another person's nightmare.

Then talk turned to our absent coworkers and whether or not they were bedroom material. Again, no one agreed -- until Mildred's name came up.

Mildred was our section leader. She sat at the head of the room and, in contrast to the rest of us, always seemed busy doing some work-related chore. She was taking a rare smoking break when the crew started talking about her.

Mildred had the most perfect set of legs I have ever seen on a living person. They were dazzling. They were sexy. They were mind-boggling actually. I would look at them and try to figure out what it was that made them so perfect. I couldn't. A thousand other women must have had legs that were almost identical to hers-- but not quite. That slight difference made all the difference in the world. Mildred's legs blew my mind.

There were times when I'd thank God for the simple pleasure of having Mildred's legs to look at on long boring nights.

The first time I saw Mildred I walked up to her from behind; checking out her short skirt and her legs and heels in the process. Her auburn hair swung about her shoulders as she turned to face me. I'd have guessed her age to be anywhere from 18 to 29--- until she faced me. She was every bit of 60. I nearly gasped with surprise.

Mildred's age startled me but it did nothing to dampen my admiration--and lust--for her legs. They were still absolutely flawless; smooth and shapely; without a trace of 'spider' veins that woman much younger than her are often prone to. She was a genetic marvel.

I know I'm going on and on about her legs so I'll stop--but one last thing: her whole body looked hot; at least from what I could see of it with her clothes on.

She stood 5' 6" barefoot. Weighed 105lbs. Measured about 34-24-34. Slim and well proportioned. So imagine my astonishment when her name was offered up for sexual review and the response was immediate, unanimous, and utterly negative.

The gossip crew freaked-out at the thought of any sexual contact with Mildred. They wouldn't touch that lady if their life depended on it.

Their attitude ticked me off!

I slammed my book down and was all set to tear into them. I was just about to shout that they were all crazy--- out of their freaking minds--- and announce that I'd go down on that woman in a heartbeat if I had the chance--when Mildred walked in. Luckily, I saw her just before I let loose and held my tongue.

There was an awkward silence but it passed.

Mildred never heard anything. As far as my aborted outburst was concerned: the crew all thought I was angry because they were making so much noise while I was trying to read.

No one had any idea I was about to defend Mildred's sex appeal. I had never told anyone how I felt about her.

I had taken it for granted that everyone felt the same way I did about Mildred and her legs. After that I kept my feelings a secret.

My first novel was an idealized fantasy of what might have happened if I told everybody how I felt and Mildred walked in and heard me.

She could have wrapped me around her little finger and had me 'servicing' her in our spare time. That would give new meaning to the phrase 'Down-Time'.

That temp assignment provided plenty of material for stories dealing with all manner of sex. That's why I say the Sex Monster devoured my Great White Whale. One sex story led to another while my Epic Novel simmered on the back burner and I never really got back to it.

An audience existed for this type of 'Office FemDom' before I even knew what to call it. Readers are the ones that 'TAGGED' it for me.

Hundreds of readers paid good money for it online right from the start but things really exploded with Amazon Kindle.

If I had never read those particular How-To books that mentioned porn novels I would probably never have tried it. If I hadn't worked at that particular temp assignment I would probably not written any sort of FemDom.

That particular office was female-dominated. Women were the bosses and overwhelming outnumbered men. And because the atmosphere was so relaxed sex topics were bandied about like we were at a bar or something. Usually from a woman's point of view reducing men to sex objects and holding them up for ridicule. That's why my stories came out with a FemDom theme.

The way it played out I simply had to imagine things if normal sexual inhibitions disappeared and write out what would happen if the women were free to live their fantasies and men had to give them their way.

The rest is history...

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