Greta's Secrets E-Book

M. Arietta

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 137

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

GRETA'S SECRETS is a woman's journey from repression, guilt, and shame to adventure, self-knowledge, and healing. It is a deeply intimate account of a woman's journey to sexual freedom: a life-enhancing road map to empowerment and transformation. The stories will allow you to share in Greta's search for a life filled with passion, love, and sexual pleasure. You will be teased and stimulated by her erotic exploits, and encouraged to explore your own sexual self in new and delicious ways. This book allows women to understand themselves deeper and will help men understand women better.

Leseprobe

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1 Problem

Chapter 2 Body

Chapter 3 Emotions

Chapter 4 Mind

Chapter 5 Spirit

Chapter 6 Self

Chapter 7 Love

Epilogue

DEDICATION

In memory of my dear grandfather and grandmother

Dedicated to everyone who is longing to unlock the incredible secrets of their own sexuality.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Kerry Stevens, who kindly helped create this work. It certainly would not exist without him.

Thank you, too, to my biggest admirer, John G. Roche, for all the years of love and support.

Thanks to Dr. George Bien, who helped me develop the confidence I needed to write and express myself freely.

I would also like to thank my editor and dear friend, Miranda Heathers, whose patience and love never seemed to fade, and James Dawson, who cared enough to challenge me in wonderful ways.

Also, many thanks to Linda Morand, the wonderful friend and artist whose beautiful testimony of art adorns the cover of this book.

I am eternally grateful to all my family and friends, all of whom helped to make this work possible—by being there, by being interested and supportive, and by encouraging me at every step

INTRODUCTION

Iwrote Greta, an Erotic Odyssey because of all the years—most of my life, in fact—when I was feeling guilty, ashamed, and afraid of my own sexuality.

Afraid to be myself as a woman.

I thought I had been ‘born wrong’ and wished I could have been born as a boy, so I could grow up to be a man just like my father—powerful, confident, and always right no matter what.

But because I was a girl, I tried very hard to be what other people wanted me to be, to do what I was told, to be a ‘good girl,’ but whatever I did was never good enough, and I was always wrong.

I grew up believing that sexual desire outside of marriage was not only wrong but was also dirty, bad, a frightening sin for which a girl would ultimately end up being punished.

By the time I was a young woman, so much of me was repressed and hidden that I had no idea who I really was anymore.

In fact, I say I didn’t know who I was ‘anymore’—but the reality is, I’d never even developed into the woman I knew I could be in the first place. There was no ‘anymore’ about it.

I had buried the real me, the woman who carried her sexuality with confidence, and who saw a deep and special value in being female.

She was there on the inside somewhere, but so afraid to be seen, fearful of letting her voice be heard. Being me, a real woman, would have been wrong according to my upbringing and beliefs.

And so, I had given away my power and myself.

Now, I was being controlled, manipulated, and used by others— just as I would come to control, manipulate, and use them.

You see, as children do, I’d learned.

I had taken on board all the lessons of my young life, soaking them up like a sponge. Guilt and self-admonishment were clearly the way to go. To be a good girl meant to deny so much of oneself.

Raised in a very strict Catholic household in Switzerland, it left me feeling as though I was barely allowed to live and breathe.

I soon knew I was wrong, cheap and bad, a worthless nothing, because of all my sexual feelings and other feelings too. All those feelings a girl was not allowed to have and had to deny, were there.

So, as a bad girl, didn’t I deserve to be treated badly?

It seemed natural for the men in my life to mistreat and use me.

And as I allowed myself to become manipulated more and more, I didn’t even see a problem with any of it.

A girl like me was to accept it.

A girl like me deserved torment.

That was what I constantly told myself.

Yet despite telling myself this, I ran away from my country and city, from men, from my feelings, and from my own chosen path.

My inner self was putting up some sort of a fight.

But that wasn’t working out too well either.

I was making myself sick to avoid having to deal with my repression. Finally, I was forced to admit to deep unhappiness and unhealthiness, and just like Greta, I went in search of something better.

For many years, I’d been keeping all the pain, loneliness, and sadness deep down inside me, so deep I didn’t even know that most of it was there. It was a cellar of my hidden dreams and desires, all of my would-be pleasures and fantasies lying concealed.

I had been stuffing sex and guilt, and shame and anger down there, too, until one day, I exploded. I could not take it anymore.

Who were these people who had subjected me to this?

And what did that society even mean to me, the society that had dared to repress me like that, and without any shame of its own?

And why should I care about all these people and obey them?

No. I wouldn’t do it anymore. I wouldn’t.

I had to let it out.

And when I did, I soon found out that sex was the key to great happiness and satisfaction, a healer, a beautiful thing to be celebrated.

And so, I wrote Greta, an Erotic Odyssey, to encourage other women and men to accept who and what they were, facilitating them to express themselves through their natural sexual selves—free of shame, guilt, and the weight of judgment. And if other people did judge, then that would be their problem.

Not your problem.

Not my problem.

Just their own.

Let those suppressed and repressed people think what they think!

Let those of us who recognize and love our beautiful, sexual selves go forward anyway because we have uncovered the reality of it.

The reality is that sexuality is a freedom, a right, a gift, and it’s wonderful! There is nothing at all sordid or shameful about it.

It is only the misguided manipulation of our tormented and often dysfunctional past that makes it seem so till we each break free.

The seven stories in Greta are pure and joyful fantasy, but they are about real problems that cause many women real pain in their lives.

Greta, of course, is an imaginary character, but writing about her and her journey helped me to heal. So, I hope these stories will encourage other women to cherish who they are and explore themselves and their imaginations, sexually and otherwise.

These are, after all, sexual fantasies written with laughter and love, as well as a lively and shameless libido.

Read, enjoy—and join me in becoming free!

PROLOGUE

When I began writing this little book, at first I interspersed Greta’s stories with some facts from my own life, and I divided these into chapters. I wanted you, the reader, to know some of my own story and to be able to relate the sections of Greta’s life to my own. But my copy editor suggested that those parts were better separate, so you could really immerse yourself in Greta’s world without any distractions! So we decided to put my explanations at the end. These insights may help you understand why Greta was created and who she eventually became.

Chapter One PROBLEM

One morning, the sun came filtering in through Greta’s thin curtains into her small yet cozy studio.

A golden shaft of light crossed her bed, casting a warm glow on her skin as she stretched out there, reading a psychology book.

The heat traveled through her veins and sinews, bringing a wide smile to her lips. It was amazing how something so simple could bring tranquility, inner peace, warmth, and a tingle in her toes.

Right now, lying here like this, nothing could be better.

Greta’s homely little room was filled with books and records, just as she loved it to be, and she was fresh and clean, just out of the shower. She stretched out even more, now lying diagonally, attired in nothing but her fine negligee.

Greta was everything a man could dream of tall with a tiny waist, beautiful firm breasts, long dark hair, and blue-green eyes. She also had a warm heart, an honest mind, a great sense of humor, and a charming European accent. But in spite of it all, she never really believed she was attractive or worthwhile, and this was a torment. Studying psychology could hopefully get to the bottom of why she felt confused, insecure, and unhappy deep down. She was in search of herself—to find the Greta she knew she could become.

Somewhere, surely, was a Greta who could feel this way all the time. The Greta with tingles in her toes and a warm, contented feeling in her heart. One who liked herself and was happy…

A key turned and clattered in the door lock, and all of a sudden, the door of the apartment was flung wide, and a breeze came through, spoiling the sunshine that had been kissing Greta’s soft skin.

It was Mickey, Greta’s boyfriend.

She gathered up her negligee around herself and sat up quickly, pushing the book onto the bedside table and hugging her knees on the edge of the bed. So much for finishing that chapter, then. Her heart sank a little, and a slight irritation bristled at her neck.

Greta’s boyfriend would often drop by whether she knew he was coming or not. But why would she mind? After all, he was a martial arts instructor and quite a catch; handsome and tall, he had blond shoulder-length hair and a strong, muscular body.

Now, Greta hopped off the bed and padded across the soft carpet to greet him. He would always like her to get up for him and go kiss him full on the lips like a woman was supposed to.

The sight of Greta half-naked instantly and violently aroused Mickey. He was hot now and hard already, and he had to have what he wanted and the only thing he had come for.

And have it, he would.

Immediately, right there, and his way.

She was in proximity now, poising herself on tiptoes to kiss him the way he believed he liked it. Only she didn’t get the chance.

Mickey’s hands were already reaching out, grasping and groping at her negligee and her body, and now he had grabbed her in his clutches and was kissing her hard, pushing her down to the floor, his body weight pinning her there.

Greta flailed a little, unable to breathe properly.

“Mickey… Mickey, you’re—”

She wanted to say you’re hurting me. But she didn’t dare to speak the words that danced in her mind. She nipped at her own lower lip to stop the words coming tumbling free. She tried to shuffle a little sideways to take some of the weight off herself. But he had her.

“What? I’m what?” he asked her, his breaths coming coarse and fast as his sexual excitement overtook him. He was already making thrusting movements on top of her despite their clothing.

“You’re… you’re hard and hot,” she said, unable to find any words that would really do instead. But he was still hurting her.

Only she never said so. And it always seemed to go this way.

It was just what she had to do to keep him. Mickey was a real man, after all, and his libido wasn’t his fault. It was just how real men were. They got carried away, and it was even kind of flattering, she thought. She would go with it, and then it would be over more quickly.

She wasn’t wearing much at all and preferred to keep something on, but Mickey wanted her completely naked, same as always. The negligee was thin and sheer and something she had saved to buy, hoping to please him with the sight of her in it.

Well, it didn’t please him, or not as she’d hoped. Because all he ever wanted was for her bare skin and her pussy to be on show.

He grappled with the fabric as usual, pulling the delicate garment high around her neck, then heaved an irritated sigh and tugged the negligee off, flinging it to the floor. She swore she had even heard it rip a little because—once again—he didn’t take his time. This was probably something else she would have to sew later, and she thought of her two summer dresses with their own torn stitching.

No matter; she was giving Mickey what he wanted and what she’d been told he deserved.

Now, he was unzipping his fly.

In seconds, his big, stiff organ came leaping out, and it stood there, erect, staring her in the face.

“Fuck me, baby,” he mumbled coarsely under his breath as his penis looked for her pussy, stabbing between her thighs.

Greta loved foreplay. Mickey didn’t. So that was that.

He liked it rough and fast, never wasting much time licking and sucking her first, so she wasn’t ready. Her vagina was never very wet, and this time, it was barely moist. Mickey forced two fingers in any way and thrust them up and down as fast as he could, as if that would somehow work magic. It didn’t. It hurt like hell.

No matter.

His rough finger-fuck was as much foreplay as she was going to get, but the resistance was the same as ever. So, he had to push hard to enter her, and she cried out a little and tensed up.

Well, that just excited him all the more.

“Fuck, you’re tight, baby,” he moaned. “That tight little pussy is all mine.”

“It is, baby, it is,” she whimpered, feeling the jabbing pain and hating every second. A tear came to her eye. But she mustn’t let it go.

“Give it up, Greta; give up that tight, sweet cunt!” he groaned as he forced himself all the way in right up to the balls.

In fact, if he could have fit the balls in, too, he certainly would have done. And once he was in, he made sure to stay put, not even raising his eyes to look at her face or to kiss her or to say a word in checking that she was ready for what came next. He began to pump as fast and strong as possible, all the way in, as deep and hard as he could.

“Oh, fuck… oh, fuck… Good girl, that’s my girl; take it, give it up, my girl!”

Mickey knew he had great technique, never missing a chance to show it. Still moving inside her, he lifted her up and carried her to the kitchen table. First, he was on top; then he rolled over so she was on top—as if it made a difference. For him, maybe it did.

For her, it didn’t.

It felt like a knife going in, no matter from which angle he pushed it or who was where. And all the time, he interspersed his thoughtless, hard thrusts with “Fuck me, baby,” or “You’re going to make me explode, baby.”

When he had had enough of whichever position he had thrown her into, he changed it again. Now, he took her from behind, making her bend over and fucking her even harder. This was Mickey’s favorite position, and after moving like crazy inside her, he exploded, screaming, “Oh, yes! Ooooh, unh!”

“I’m glad you had fun!” Greta said as Mickey collapsed on top of her. She was feeling empty, meaningless, and—yes—angry. She’d gotten fucked all right, but what she really wanted was still missing: namely affection. She had not seen any of that from Mickey. Not ever.

“What’s your problem?” Mickey asked, still breathing hard.

“I’m just sick and tired of faking it,” said Greta, “I wish for once you’d care a little bit about how I feel, about pleasing me instead of always just you, you, you, and coming and going—literally! It’s always about you!”

Surprising even herself, she was screaming out the words in spite of the fact that deep down, her inner voice was insisting that a good girl would just take it, and a good girl would make Mickey happy…

And then, as a good girl, she would simply be happy he