Erotica For the Refined Palate - Book Tour and Giveaway

FOUR NAUGHTY NOVELLAS FOR THE MATURE CONNOISSEUR

Erotica For the Refined Palate
Volume 1
by Bridget Doone
Genre: Mature Erotic Romance 

FOUR NAUGHTY NOVELLAS FOR THE MATURE CONNOISSEUR

ME AND YOU AND A WIFE NAMED SUE
When Candy Blue, a randy romantic fiction writer, forms an inappropriate bond with a married man, he involves his wife, Sue, who invites Candy to dinner with the intention of exacting satisfaction, and in the most creative and unexpected ways.

THE HAT TRICK
When Ryan Axel meets his girlfriend's parents at a hockey game in Tampa, he’s shocked to discover her mother, Maxine, is the woman he knows as Roxanne, a sexy mature who used to frequent his bar, and he’s determined to pick up where they left off - and during the game.

GREAT WHITE LIMO
Covid restrictions have lifted and Shannon finally gets a face-to-face with Steve Smith, a Canadian she befriended in a cheater’s chat room during the pandemic, but their indiscretion takes an unexpected turn when her domineering best friend and a young limo driver get involved.

JUST A SWINGIN’
Married, but not to each other, Country Club neighbors Krystal and Blake steal away to Cancun to masquerade as husband and wife at a swinger’s resort, with the intention of living out their disparate fantasies, and without complicating their long-term friendship.


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​Part Two: The Hat Trick
Excerpt from Chapter 1: Hand Jive

When they were almost up on the vehicle, Maxine tapped her key fob and the locks and lights on the Range Rover jumped to life and the hatch began to lift.
“Wow,” Ryan exclaimed, with an approving nod, “this is a big step up from your Honda; guessing this is Don’s car.”
“It’s OUR car,” she said, reaching for Don’s XXXL Tom Brady teeshirt with the goat on it.
“That husband of yours is huge,” said Ryan, “Guessing if you get any sex at all, it’s doggy.” He laughed, then his voice dropped an octave and took on a decidedly more desirous timbre. “I’d make love to you missionary.”
He stepped back and squatted to get a better view of Maxine’s perfectly fabulous fanny bent over the tailgate.
“Work my tongue low between your legs, then lick you north, stopping to probe your pussy and flick your clit . . .”
Oh my God that’s hot, Maxine thought, as she continued to dig through Don’s old gym bag; he hadn’t worked out in over a year. What would he think if he knew his wife had an itch she wanted his daughter’s new boyfriend to scratch.
“then up your tummy over your beautiful breasts - oh I’d have to stop there for a good long suck and nibble - that’s for sure. By then you’d be pulling on my shaft, begging for it. I’d nudge my thick tip between your soft wet slit and bury it in you.”
Ryan was pretty proud of his improvised monologue and quite sure it had wetted her panties - and it had - but Maxine showed no indication of it and threw a towel at him.
“Cover me,” she said, removing her black leather jacket.
“Gladly!” Ryan replied, wide-eyed, holding the towel up in front of her. She clutched the hem of her wet sweater then turned her back to him, lifted the garment over her head, and flung it in the back of the Range Rover.
“Oh COME on!” Ryan whined like a spoiled child, and when Maxine unclasped her bra and threw it in after, he stomped his foot.
“Turn around! Show me your tits! After all those free drinks I gave you? You OWE me!”
But very quickly Maxine was swallowed up in the teeshirt’s abundant yardage and without the reveal Ryan was hoping for. He huffed, dropped the towel, and deflated, looking so beautifully sad, Maxine felt a twinge of guilt.
“I’m sorry, Ryan,” she said, holding his hands, peering up at him, “but we have to get back; the game has started.”
Ryan interlaced his fingers with hers, pinned her arms behind her back, and pierced her with his penetrating eyes.
“One kiss, one squeeze, one feel - same as last time - please Roxy,” he begged. And although she knew she was putting herself in the path of temptation, Maxine tilted her head back, shut her eyes, and leaned into it.
“Mmmmmmm, mama,” Ryan moaned, as he snaked his sweet tongue down deep into her mouth and dug the long, strong fingers of his left hand into her round bottom. When he pressed his right palm to her breast and squeezed it through the flimsy fabric, the marshmallow flesh of her mature mams overwhelmed his fingers.
“Damn! Roxy. You are the hottest MILF I’ve never fucked!” he added, flexing his hips into hers.
“Don’t be so crude,” she said, feigning disgust, but Ryan’s youthful enthusiasm was as intoxicating as his double gin and tonics. And he was right, she had wanted it, but sanity had ruled the day. Now, history was repeating itself and she wished for an alternate ending. Unfortunately that was impossible.
“We need to go,” Maxine said, breaking the spell they were casting over each other. She reached for her jacket and hit the key fob and the back hatch began to lower.
“NO!” he blurted, snatching the keys from her and the hatch began to rise. “Just a little more. PLEASE!”
And before Maxine could decide whether or not to give him extra time to do whatever it was, Ryan lifted her onto the edge of the tailgate then ran his fingers up the back of her neck, raking her red hair and tipping the Bolts cap free. He knotted her mane in his fist and kissed her hard, then pressed her down onto her back, resting her head on a blanket. And caught up in that fiercely romantic flow, she returned his affection, green-lighting an escalation. He rolled on top of her, wedged his knees between her legs, and began to hickey and dry hump her on the cargo mat.
“Oh my God, this is insane,” Maxine groaned, as she tried to muster the will to fight her carnal craving for him.
“Damn it, baby,” Ryan said, struggling unsuccessfully to unzip her jeans, “Wish you would have worn one of your low-cut dresses.”
He chuckled.
“Ryan, this is futile,” said Maxine, pushing him off and making her way to standing, “We have to stop. We’re going to get caught!”
“OK OK you’re right.” he said, resigned, and he crawled out after her. “Just do me one little favor before we go back.”
“What favor?” she said, looking at her watch, frowning.
“Let me put my hand under that teeshirt.”
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BRIDGET DOONE is a fiction author living and working on the Space Coast of Florida. For much of her life, she’s been a network engineer, technical writer, and corporate trainer, and although still working in that capacity, as of late she’s been indulging her wanton imagination, writing erotica for a group of people largely abandoned by the genre - horny folks over 50.

To learn more about Bridget’s current and future offerings, including short stories and excerpts from her racy novels and very naughty novellas, visit her website at www.bridgetdoone.com.

You can also connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.

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Tell us about Bridget Doone's formative years.
I was born in Toronto, Ontario but grew up in a tiny town on the Grand River where my parents owned a hotel. As you might imagine, growing up in a hotel was never boring, and it was quite an education. Those experiences, which frequently find a place in my writing, are truly stranger than fiction. Case in point: When I was about 10 years old, the Province of Ontario decreed that topless dancers would soon be legal, and my father was damned and determined to have the first one. He hired Carmen based on an advertisement in a big city paper, and alerted the town she was coming to The Queens Hotel by sketching mammoth-sized mammaries on poster boards, which he stapled to the trees and poles up and down Main Street.

When Carmen arrived with her entourage, who I will later refer to as pimps, suffice it to say she looked nothing like the ad. Mum thought she was Carmen’s mother and wanted to fire her on the spot for false advertising, but dad said, no - the whole town was buzzing with suspense, counting the minutes until they could get a gander at Carmen’s cantaloupes and lay claim to being witness to the historic event.

By 8 pm, the bar was so full, dad was afraid the fire marshal would show up and start kicking people out. Then he realized the fire marshal was already there, right in front of the stage, along with the police chief and mother’s gynecologist. When the band fired up, my younger brother and I snuck downstairs and positioned ourselves just outside the kitchen door where we could spy the goings-on from behind the milk machines. Then through the saloon doors she burst, dressed in a satin robe and stilettos, her over-processed hair as course as a bale of hay, her makeup shiny and thick, as if applied with a trowel.

The bass player took Carmen’s nicotine-stained fingers in his own and hoisted her onto the stage where she faced the band and began to sway her narrow backside. Everyone cheered and clapped, and I’m sure my heretofore nervous parents thought all would be well and the till would runneth over, but seconds later their hopes were dashed when Carmen slipped the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. What was left was a string bikini draped over 99 pounds of bad decisions. The crowd, stunned into silence, watched as Carmen slowly pulled the string behind her bony back, then threw the bikini top over her head, like a new bride tossing a bouquet. I can still see the dumbfounded faces of the band who were first to behold the reveal; they looked almost frightened.

Carmen spun to face the audience, and when her breasts caught up to her, they tick-tocked left and right then hung like beanbags from her sunken chest - the nipples pointing due south and resting alongside her belly button. The crowd gasped and then broke into hysterics, and my parents were so embarrassed, they fired her as soon as the band took their first break. Later dad would say that was a mistake, because the next night, the line to see ‘the comedy show at The Queens’ wrapped the block.

As it turned out, my parents felt bad about the whole thing and let Carmen and company stay the night in the hotel, where Carmen conducted business into the wee hours, solicited by her pimps while she’d been on stage. And as if that isn’t crazy enough, the following night I had a pajama party in the room that she had occupied, and in which she had left a brown paper bag full of condoms that my girlfriends and I promptly unwrapped and tried to put on like socks. On the Monday, I took some to school for show-and-tell; that was unwise.

So you see, I lived a charmed childhood in that tiny town, jumping from bed to bed in empty hotel rooms, ordering breakfast, lunch, and dinner off the menu, and showing up at parties with cases of beer I’d pinched from the hotel bar. I was a big fish in a little pond - that was until my parents moved us to Florida when I was 16. I cried the whole way there, which is here, on the Space Coast where I live today. I still visit my hometown every year and stop by The Queens Hotel to say hello. It’s nice to see my old babysitter; she bought the place from my parents.

How and why did Bridget start writing erotica?
Before I retired in 2022, I was a Network Engineer, first teaching at a small college, and then as a corporate trainer at a large science and engineering firm. During my time at the college, I coauthored two textbooks under my real name: one on networking fundamentals and one on wireless technology. Being a corporate trainer involved a lot of writing as well.

The leap from technical writing to erotic romance was prompted by a physiological event. I had a hysterectomy and naturally this threw me into menopause, which I refused to accept gracefully. When I found out I could replace my exhausted hormones with bioidentical ones implanted in my hip, I did, and it was life changing. Within a week, I was jumping out of bed and at the gym by 5 am, and at work, I was kicking ass and taking names. But when I wasn’t thinking about exchanging packets securely over the Internet, I was thinking about exchanging bodily fluids over the armrest on my leather loveseat. I was hornier than a choirboy in a porn shop, and when I approached a man squeezing melons in the produce section, and almost whipped mine out for his consideration, I knew I might do something not condoned by my religion.

And that’s when I noticed him - a friendly stranger at the gym: 55-ish, muscled up, tanned, great smile, and as I watched him from the treadmill on those very early mornings, he became the outlet for my pent-up passion, and that manifested itself as a novel that was published as Sally Rides Single in 2020. Rowland (yeah that’s his name) never knew the part he played in it, until a few months ago when I decided it was time to enlighten him.

“I’m going to tell you something that’s going to make you smile,” I said. He looked confused as he sat up on the bench where he’d been pumping iron. I navigated to my website on my phone, showed him the book, and told him he’d been the muse for the male protagonist. His jaw dropped. The next week, I brought him a hard copy with a personalized thank-you on the inside cover and a 4x6 headshot. It’s fun to imagine him showing his wife, then trying to convince her he barely knows me - which is true! God help him if she ever reads the book! As for the hormones, I wouldn’t be without them, and every 6 months when I get a boost, man-o-man, the creative juices boil over.

How did Erotica for the Refined Palate: Volume 1, happen?
With much of my second erotic romance novel, Sally Rides Double, written, I suddenly found myself at a crossroads with respect to the plot twist. I decided to leave it alone and write a short story in hopes that diversion would spark some needed inspiration. I called the story The Conjugal Visit, and I wrote it in first person/present tense with the intention of making my female readers feel like the steamy carnal encounter was happening to them in real time. But fueled by a steady diet of estrogen and testosterone, I had managed to cram a novel’s worth of salacious activity into 3,200 words; there was barely a place for the reader to take a breath. It was so over-the-top naughty, I felt more comfortable sending it to my male beta readers, and so I did. Surprisingly (or not), the men enjoyed my overly explicit and immersive narrative, and I got so excited about their enthusiastic response, I forgot all about my novel and immediately embarked on writing another short story, and this time inspired by one of those reviewers. I called it Me and You and a Wife Named Sue, but having reached the end of it, I realized there was much more I could do with it, and so I added two more chapters. At that point, it wasn’t a short story, but it wasn’t a novel either; it was a novelette, and along with its cousin, the novella, these formats became my preferred word-count range. Over the next 18 months or so, I wrote three additional novelettes/novellas. I put the four together and Erotica for the Refined Palate: Volume 1 was published in June 2023.

I’ve been told that novelettes/novellas are not that popular, but I find them to be a perfect fit for my writing style. I have so many stories to tell and 10,000 to 20,000 words gives me just the right amount of room to balance all of the erotic activity with character development and background. And because they’re shorter than a novel, I can compose them in a shorter time frame and get them to my readers in a more timely fashion. Having said that, I’m not abandoning novels and short stories. In fact, I’ve already written a second short story. It’s called The Accidental Unicorn, and like The Conjugal Visit, it is first person/present tense titillation from start to finish. If you want liftoff in under 15 minutes, check out the shorts at bridgetdoone.com/short-stories-2.

If you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?
Eating pasta, drinking wine, and praying!

What kind of world ruler would you be?
A benevolent dictator

Describe yourself in 5 words or less!
A party essential

Do you have a favorite movie?
The Razor’s Edge

As a writer, what would you choose as your spirit animal?
Jaguar - that’s the cat category for horny women in their 60’s.

Anything specific you want to tell your readers?
A man in the hand is not better than two in the bush.

If you could spend time with a character from your book, who would it be and what would you do during that day?
Steve Smith, and we’d do the same thing during the day that we’d do all night.

Are your characters based off real people or do they come entirely from your imagination?
They’re almost always based on real people, but the story is mostly imagination, otherwise I’d be divorced.

Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.
Erotica for the Refined Palate is . . . well . . . erotica for the refined palate. It’s incredibly naughty, but the sophisticated language, cultural references, and humor elevate it beyond the common offerings in this genre - at least that was my intention. If you need some . . . ahem . . . inspiration, this book will give it to you in spades, and hopefully leave you with a smile on your face.

What is your favorite review that you received on the book?
John on Amazon:
I found Erotica for the Refined Palate to go down (no pun intended) like a fine wine on a warm June night. Bridget Doone's writing style is descriptive, playful, bawdy, and down right steamy. EFTRP will not be for everybody, but if you have an IQ north of 130 and a libido to match, you're going to love it.

Do you see writing as a career?
No, I see it as an expensive and challenging hobby, like golf.

What does a typical day look like for Bridget Doone?
I get up about 8:30 am, unless the neighbor’s dogs wake me earlier, then I grab a coffee, turn on Murder She Wrote or Columbo, open my laptop, and check to make sure no sex offenders have moved anywhere near my daughters. After my second coffee, I turn off the TV and start working on whatever story I feel like; I typically work on more than one at a time. Often I take a one-hour break and exercise. About 4 pm, I switch from coffee to wine - it’s a handoff - literally. If it’s Friday, I go to happy hour, typically with my 92-year old mother. On Sundays, I go to mass and then out to breakfast, and Tuesdays, I play golf with the ladies and drink beer instead of wine - and much earlier. So far, it’s been a pretty good retirement.

What makes a good story?
The struggle, as the angel on one shoulder battles the devil on the other. Once you have that internal turmoil, you just need a crazy situation, which you then infuse with sex, sarcasm, and humor.

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
It’s not difficult for me at all. I love men and I think I understand them.

Do you believe in writer’s block?
Absolutely.
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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
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Aug 30
kickoff at Silver Dagger Book Tours
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Aug 31
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Books all things paranormal and romance
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Sep 5
Word Processor, Romance, Cats, Kids and Creed
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Sep 6
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