Sex Sells

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Scorching
Word Count: 44,118
0 Ratings (0.0)

Rodney has the ethics of an ice cube. Thoughtless and unconcerned about the people around him, he seeks the path of least resistance through life. This leads him to make a living preying off of innocent young woman, stealing their privacy without their knowing and selling it to the highest bidder on the Internet. Life is good, if meaningless, until the day he gets caught.

Cindy, one of his favorite victims, realizes what he’s doing and does some research on her own. She tracks him down and confronts them, then realizes along the way that something is wrong with her. Rodney’s a voyeur or industrial proportions and she has an incredible urge to explore an exhibitionist streak in her.

Teaming up leads them to discover a great many things about themselves and each other, things they never knew existed. Until one day they catch something on camera neither of them expected. Running from the scene of the crime, they don’t know if they can even dare turn to the cops. Indecision leads to hesitation and eventually the incident falls forgotten until the very people they witnessed capture Cindy and show up on Rodney’s door step demanding answers.

For every man or woman who’s been held in a position of weakness and inferiority Rodney stands as a champion. Pushed to the point where he can’t allow what’s happening to his friend to happen anymore, he does what we all hope we could do, he snaps. Embracing death as his only recourse, he risks it all to save, or avenge, the one he loves.

Sex Sells
0 Ratings (0.0)

Sex Sells

excessica publishing

Heat Rating: Scorching
Word Count: 44,118
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Cover Art by Valerie Tibbs
Excerpt

My victim was a pretty brunette. I guessed her at about 5’4” and 105 pounds, which was near perfect. I hated the really short ones, they complicated things and made my hobby to difficult. Hobby, hell, it was more than that, it was my job.

The best part about this was that I’d preyed on her before. Of course she didn’t know. They never did. That was part of what made me so damn good at what I did. Nobody ever noticed me anymore. I blended in perfectly. Average looks, average height, average everything. It didn’t matter that my hair was a shade darker than sandy blond. It didn’t matter that my eyes were sort of a boring brown. It never occurred to anyone that my modestly tanned skin was the perfect shade to indicate I was a tanned white boy, a Mexican, Native American, or maybe even a mulatto. My voice? More of the same generic everyday tone that blended into the background noise.

I used to hate being Mr. Nobody. It was miserable. Girls wouldn’t notice me or remember me unless I really went out of my way to do something embarrassing. Guys never picked me to be on their team in gym or even to hang out and be friends. Oh sure, it came in handy when teachers ignored me most of the time, but that had also cost me to really have to fight to get an incomplete grade replaced my sophomore year in college because the professor just couldn’t remember me attending his class. In a world rife with comic books, graphic novels, and movies portraying super heroes and villains it was just my luck that my super power was to be the Invisible Man, in the worst of ways.

My junior year of college, halfway through a pint of Seagram’s Seven and a two liter of 7 Up, I figured it out. What could I possibly do with my complete lack of distinguishing characteristics? Where could I be successful in life if I had as much chance of making a lasting impression at an interview of a piece of silly putty retaining a newspaper heading? Where is anonymity cherished?

I thought about being a reporter. If nobody thought much of me maybe I could get some great stories. But then I cast it aside quickly. You needed charisma to be a reporter, something that interested people and made them remember you so they could want to learn more about you. Hell, I can’t even write in an interesting way!

It’s true, I write with the passion of a tree stump. This story may be about me, but I had the wisdom to seek some outside assistance in having it written. I liked what the author had done with some other pieces he had written so I figured what the heck. Even this paragraph has been treated with heavy artistic license to make it more appealing. You think I could come up with an allusion to a tree stump?

So then, being a reporter was out. What about the military? G.I. Joe was just a guy in a fatigues. Who better to blend in than a guy who doesn’t even need the camouflage? Maybe even something cool like being a sniper or a spook gathering intelligence behind enemy lines! Then I remembered how out of shape I was. And how I hated taking orders from people. I fixed the former, slowly, but the latter was going to stick forever. I hit the gym three times a week, but no matter how hard I worked out or what I ate, my genetic needle pointed at strong and wiry, not buff.

So a legitimate path to fame and fortune was not to be mine. I’d accepted it, but I couldn’t live on student loans forever. An email popped into my computer, distracting me from my future plans. I glanced at it and realized it was spam, pure and simple. Voyeur spam, something about hidden cams in a dressing room or something. I looked at it, sure, I may be Mr. Nobody, but even Mr. Nobody has hormones!

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