“When ambition wears perfume, every ‘no’ becomes a gamble. Step into Power Play.”

An AI sliding into your life? Reading your patterns, telling you who you should date? That’s… invasive!

“Fairly Enjoyable Tales isn’t just something you read—it’s something you feel.

It’s that breathless pause before lips meet. The smirk you can’t hide in public because you’re remembering that scene.

People often think trust is a question you ask once and answer with a yes or no. But that’s not how it works. Trust is built in layers, in moments, in the choices you make when no one’s watching.

here’s the thing about life—it doesn’t always wait for you to be ready. Sometimes it throws you in, headfirst, heart wide open, and all you can do is feel everything.

Lisa’s strength in her softness wrecked me. The way she demanded honesty—not through force, but with breathtaking presence. And Paul... my heart ached for him. For the silence he had wrapped around himself like armor, and for the exact moment she stripped it away with nothing but patience and touch. Whew.

Lisa’s got that quiet confidence, you know? The kind that doesn’t beg for attention—it commands it. And Paul? He’s charming and elegant and carries his secrets like tailored suits. But even the most polished man unravels when the right hands find the thread.

Tina reclaims control, but Alessandro’s return to La Luna Azzurra sparks a confrontation with Xiomara—and Jane hears every word. A slow-burn sequel in Fairly Enjoyable Tales’ style.

“Marina Meets Taylor” isn’t about a chatbot. It’s about what happens when someone who thought the story was over realizes it’s only just starting.

This is eromotica. And yes, I meant that spelling. Because when you read the tales, preferably in the proper order, you’ll start to see the pulse beneath them. The way they don’t just turn you on—they pull you in. Before you know it, you’re not just reading a story. You’re inside it.

Marti sat across from me, her eyes soft with something new. Not shame—no, that emotion doesn’t live in her. But awe. The kind of awe that only blooms after a fall you didn’t brace for.

“You’ve been pacing my threshold for two minutes, querida. Come in, or go start a revolution somewhere else.”

Let me tell you something about threesomes: most people think they’re either wild fantasies or massive mistakes. Rarely do they understand the in-between—the delicate, intoxicating sliver of space where desire, curiosity, and consequence collide.

Last night, I served a couple I’ve seen before—but never quite like this.

Paul looked wrecked in the way only men who have tasted temptation and returned to the woman who knows their soul can look. He smiled, yes. But his fingers gripped the stem of his wine glass like it was a lifeline. And when he spoke, it wasn’t the charm I’m used to hearing from him on slower nights at the restaurant—it was restraint, straining at the leash.

"No pressure," I told them. But I knew exactly what I needed.
A couch. A meal. A slow-burning invitation.
What followed was not part of the plan—
it was so much better.

I’ve stared down men who thought their money made them gods. I’ve laughed in the face of women who thought my confidence was a threat. But this?