Aya Fukunishi Romance: The Complete Collection 2011-2016 Read online

  The Aya Fukunishi Complete Collection

  Hi there! I'm Aya Fukunishi.

  If you've read romance or erotica in the last five years you've probably seen my name pop up in the charts at least once or twice. I'm an old hand, a veteran of the world of sexy words, and I've made a living thinking of attractive synonyms for the word 'penis', and avoiding the word 'moist' at all costs.

  I've had some great successes, too. My most popular novel, Stepbrother Fallen, made it all the way to the top 50 in the Amazon bestseller charts, and I've had a handful more that have broken into the top 100. I've sold more than a million copies of my books, a fact that makes me grin whenever I think of it.

  But I'm tired. Exhausted, in fact, and eager to take a break and try something new. Next week (as of writing) I'll be moving to Mongolia with my spouse to see what it has to offer. I'll ride horses in the Gobi, make friends with camels and eat the occasional goat. Maybe I'll feel reinvigorated after this break, and come back with an epic. Maybe I'll quit writing altogether and become a nomadic herder. Who knows?

  While I figure out what I want to do next, though, I want to leave you with a little something special: this book.

  This is the complete Aya Fukunishi collection. It contains pretty much every story I've published since 2011, including a number of stories exclusive to this collection that haven't been on sale for several years. It's hard to tell when it's on your Kindle, but this book is so big it could be used as a murder weapon if you held it in paperback form. It's 350,000 words long, and since I don't like the idea of felling a dozen trees to print each copy I'm releasing it exclusively for Kindle.

  This collection is designed so you can dip in and out whenever the mood strikes. It contains everything from full length stepbrother romance novels to ten page steamy erotica, and everything in between. I've thrown in my first ever published story, Bondage in Bangkok, and the two paranormal romance novels I wrote under my nom de plume K A Taylor, The First Alpha and The Alpha King. Hell, there's even a weird – but fun – tentacle erotica story here, In Every Hole. It's a real grab bag, and a reflection of my rapidly shifting moods and kinks over the last five years.

  OK, that's me done. I want to thank you for reading my work over the last five years. Thank you for supporting independent authors. Thank you for posting reviews. Just thanks for everything. I hope I'll see you again soon.

  With love,

  Aya xxx

  The Complete Collection

  The Aya Fukunishi Complete Collection 1

  Swim With Me 4

  Author's Note on Swim With Me 46

  The Original Swim With Me 47

  Come: A Forbidden Romance 56

  Her First Submission 87

  She Learns to Kneel 118

  Master Teaches Her Control 144

  Stepbrother, Where Art Thou? 163

  Stepbrother Forbidden 197

  Hung: A Stepbrother Romance 237

  At His Command 260

  On His Orders 272

  With His Consent 287

  For His Affection 304

  With Her Obedience 324

  The First Alpha 343

  The Alpha King 429

  Wolves of the Five Tribes: Bloodcoat Rogue 515

  Thrown to the Wolves 528

  Sating the Wolves 540

  Submitting to the Wolves 552

  The Dictator's Concubine 560

  The Dictator's Concubine 2 576

  Unrequited 595

  Bondage in Bangkok 617

  Satisfying Sarah 624

  Forbidden Desire 630

  Breeding in Class 639

  Breeding in Class 2 652

  Breeding For the Future 668

  Captive Breeding 680

  Bred by the Beasts 696

  Fat Camp Curves 712

  Mating Amelie 725

  My Lover the Bigfoot 744

  In Every Hole 764

  Stepbrother Fallen 776

  Swim With Me

  by

  Aya Fukunishi

  Chapter One

  "Jack, are you sure you're OK with this?" Sarah gnaws nervously on her thumbnail, and gives me a questioning look that deepens the crow's feet around her eyes. "Maybe we can get her some kind of... I don't know, some kind of emergency visa. Shouldn't we at least try to call the embassy?"

  I can't help but laugh at her naïveté. "Sarah, let me tell you for the tenth time, you're talking crazy. It's..." I push my shirt sleeve up my wrist and glance at my watch. "It's 1PM on a Friday. The embassy closes in an hour, and Chinese New Year starts tomorrow. Believe me, not even God could get a visa tonight. I have experience with this kind of thing, OK?"

  Sarah rocks nervously from foot to foot, glancing compulsively from the departures board to her cell phone. "I know, I know. It's just..." She sighs. "You didn't sign up for babysitting duties, Jack. This was supposed to be a fun week, and now you're gonna spend the whole time cleaning up after a sullen teen. I feel like such a bitch."

  I take her shoulder and hold her still. "Stop blaming yourself, Sarah. I've been out here long enough to expect plans to change at the last minute. You just roll with it, understand?" I can't help but feel sorry for her, despite the fact that it's her fault my week is about to turn to shit. I flash her an upbeat, cheerful smile. "Besides, it could be fun. We can spend some time out at the beach house. I can get some writing done, and Primrose can... I don't know, what do 18 year old girls like to do? Knitting? Maybe she can knit."

  Sarah gives me a look to see if I'm serious, and lets out a chuckle when she sees my deadpan expression. "You ever spent any time around teenage girls? You'll be lucky if you can get her to look up from her phone long enough to eat. I swear, that girl is just..." Her voice trails off at the sound of the musical bing bong of the PA system. "Oh, crap, they're calling my flight. I gotta go, Jack." She hefts the strap of her carry-on higher on her shoulder and offers me a grateful, guilty smile. "Look, thank you so much for doing this, and I'm so, so sorry. I'll call the minute I touch down in Shanghai, OK?"

  "OK, honey. And look, try not to worry too much. We'll have a great time. I mean, how much trouble can one girl be?"

  Sarah throws herself at me, wrapping her arms as far as she can around my broad shoulders. She laughs, her voice muffled by my chest. "Ask me again after you've had a week of it, Jack. You'll be ten years older by the time I get back. You have the sign?"

  "Yeah, I got the sign." I pull out of her embrace and tug a crumpled sheet of paper from my pants pocket. Primrose Dawn, it reads, in Sarah's elaborate cursive handwriting. "Now go before they close the check in counter. We'll see you soon."

  Sarah flashes me a final guilty smile before turning into the crowd, her heels clattering on the tile floor, her blond hair standing out against the uniform dark locks of the Vietnamese folks around her. I watch her move through passport control, and the moment I'm sure she can no longer see me I let the stupid hey, this'll be fun smile slip from my face and turn to the door of the terminal. I've already lit my cigarette by the time the hot, humid Saigon air hits me.

  Fuck. After this week I'm done being a nice guy. Assholes have more fun.

  Chapter Two

  You look a little lost. You want some background? OK, here goes.

  Sarah is, if you want to put a label on it, my surrogate mom, and the woman responsible for the fact that I'm still breathing. She was there the day I was born, in a hippy commune out in New Mexico; the sort of Mad Max style tent city where the kids aren't vaccinated, the adults are constantly stoned and everyone has their own favorite type of mystical healing crystal. It was a weir
d place. Like Burning Man, only nobody ever got to go home and take a shower.

  My mom landed there not because she subscribed to the lifestyle, but because she couldn't really function in the real world. I never figured out exactly what was wrong with her, but I know there were at least a couple of screws loose in her head. She could barely take care of herself. She sure as shit couldn't hack parenting. As a baby she'd forget to feed and bathe me for days on end, and if it wasn't for Sarah I'm pretty sure I would have starved to death before I was out of diapers.

  Sarah was a life saver. She was also a hardcore dropout, second generation hippy. Patchouli incense, CND patches, angry second wave feminism... the whole nine yards. I guess she would have been around ten years old when I was born, and for the first fifteen years of my life she was the mother my own mom couldn't be. She made sure I got three square meals a day. She taught me to read and write. When my mom died, Sarah was the person I leaned on the most to get through the pain.

  Then one night she left without so much as a goodbye. I was a dumb teenage kid, too young to understand what was going on, but it turns out she'd been sleeping with the head of the commune, a tall, skinny prick who fancied himself something of a spiritual leader. He was married, and that jackass was so terrified his wife would find out about his affair he rode Sarah out on a rail. He drove her to the nearest bus station in the middle of the night, handed her a few dollars and forbade her from ever setting foot in the commune again. I know, right? What an asshole.

  Anyway, life moved on. With Sarah and my mother gone there was nothing to keep me tied to the commune, and for a couple of years I drifted from town to town, picking up work where I could. One night some random drunk 'Nam vet at a Greyhound station told me you could live like a king on a dollar a day out in Asia, and back then I was so poor I didn't need much convincing. I scraped together enough cash to pay for a one way ticket to Thailand, and a couple of weeks after my eighteenth birthday I landed in Bangkok, a dumb kid with nothing in my pocket but a new passport and a few bucks.

  I've been out here twenty years now, and Asia has been good to me. Great, in fact. After a couple of years of fucking around I read The Great Railway Bazaar and got it in my head that I could become the next Paul Theroux. I knocked out a book, a memoir of sorts, called End of the Silk Road, dropped a bunch of manuscripts in the mail to a few publishers in the States, and not much more than a year later I was sitting at the top of the New York Times bestseller list. Readers went crazy for that shit, and my agent begged me to write more.

  People really seemed to love my down and dirty take on traveling through Asia. They loved how I made everything about it seem daring and exciting. Most of all, I think, they loved the way my books made them seem daring and exciting when they got back to their suburbs and described their trips, even though few tourists ever venture more than a few steps from the pool of their Marriott. Even today they use my name to make their little vacations seem intense and dangerous. 'I really Jack Sloaned that week in Cambodia, bro.' 'I'm gonna Jack Sloane my way down the Mekong.' They've turned me into a fucking verb.

  Whatever. As long as they keep buying the books I really don't give a crap.

  So, yeah. That's me, I guess. If you've ever been through an airport bookstore you've probably seen a copy of one of my books sandwiched between Eat, Pray, Love and a stack of John Grishams in the discount rack. They're not great literature by any stretch of the imagination, but all told I've sold more than ten million copies over the years. I'm a wealthy man, and I can afford to do pretty much anything I like thanks to my little stories. Beat that with a stick.

  Oh, and Sarah? We only reconnected a few months ago. It turns out that since we parted ways she discovered that you can buy nice things with money, and after she was kicked out of the commune she shook off her hippy roots, went to college and eventually became some kind of big shot in finance. When she told me she had business coming up in Vietnam I suggested she drop by my summer place out on the coast for a reunion.

  And then... then it all started to go wrong. Sarah told me that her daughter, Primrose Dawn - I'm guessing the name was her final act of hippy defiance before she put away the bong - had been kicked out of college half way through her freshman year. It seems Primrose inherited an activist streak from her mother. She was caught breaking a bunch of rabbits out of a lab used for testing cosmetics. That wouldn't have been so bad, but it turns out the college owned the lab, and it was only a rumor that it was used for animal testing. The Dean didn't take too kindly to the fact that the kid tried to set fire to the place on her way out.

  So, Sarah decided to bring Rose along for the ride, if only to keep her out of trouble until she could figure out what the hell to do with her. The fun reunion I'd been looking forward to suddenly became a school field trip with an 18 year old girl in tow.

  Wait. It gets worse.

  Just a few hours ago I arrived at Saigon airport to collect Sarah, and I found her with a phone in each hand. She yelled angrily into one of them, trying to deal with some emergency in her Shanghai office, and into the other she routed an apology through several satellites to her daughter's plane, begging Primrose to forgive her.

  I guessed what was coming before Sarah even noticed I was there. The Chinese Yuan was tanking, and the Shanghai stock exchange was... something something interest rates central bank collapse. No, I have no idea what she was taking about - all I know about money is that I have more than I'll ever need sitting in the bank - but the crisis was bad enough that it requires Sarah's immediate presence in Shanghai, and by immediate I mean next flight out of fucking Saigon.

  Here's the problem: Sarah's daughter doesn't have a Chinese visa. The application takes at least a couple of days to process, and right now, at the start of the Chinese New Year, you can easily make that a week. There's no way Primrose can join her mother in Shanghai, and Sarah has a seat booked on the next flight.

  So here I am, standing in the baking heat by the taxi rank at Saigon airport, in one hand a cigarette, and in the other a sheet of paper with the name of an 18 year old girl I've never met... a girl I've stupidly agreed to babysit for however long it takes Sarah to get back here.

  Like I said, after this week is over I'm done being a nice guy.

  Chapter Three

  After an hour of waiting I can feel my temper beginning to fray in the close, sticky heat. I hate to admit it, but the years have softened me a little when it comes to creature comforts. Ten years ago I could have happily survived for months without feeling the icy gust of aircon on my skin, but my success has spoiled me. My books are full of deprivation and penury, but these days my visits to the airport take me from the first class lounge to the back of an air-conditioned Mercedes to the cool, crisp air of my hotel lobby. I can afford to avoid discomfort, and these days I usually prefer to take the easy option.

  I'm sure my fans would feel a little betrayed to find me standing here, sweating uncomfortably in the heat like a tourist on my first day, rolling up the sleeves of a shirt that cost more than their flight from the US. They'd be horrified to learn that the Rolex Submariner on my wrist cost $10,000, especially since I made my name as an adventurer who shuns the slightest hint of luxury. Someone with my reputation should have walked to the airport barefoot through the jungle, surviving on grubs and game. I really shouldn't have arrived nestled comfortably in the rear seat of an Uber Black Jaguar XF.

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, brush my thick dark hair back from my forehead, and turn my attention to the cabs flowing through the taxi rank in front of the terminal. It's an endless production line, chaotic and loud. Several cabs each minute drop sweaty, exhausted tourists back at the airport before collecting a fresh batch, rucksacks on their backs and smiles on their faces, as they step out for the first time into the punishing heat.

  As each new arrival steps out from the terminal I can't help but feel a little envious of them. After half a lifetime away from home I'm numb to the joys of
travel. Nothing surprises me any more. Nothing delights me. Every new country is just like the last, only with different pictures on the bank notes and a different language in which to argue with cab drivers.

  I'd give anything to feel some kind of novelty again, just once. I'd cut off my left nut to feel just one ounce of the excitement these kids are feeling right now, leaving their suburbs behind to set foot on foreign soil for the first time. It's all ahead of them, you know? They're about to step into the madness of Saigon with fresh eyes. They'll soon taste their first bowl of real pho bo. They'll pore over guide books tonight, and feel giddy at the thought of finally seeing Ha Long Bay in real life. They're going to get drunk on cheap beer, fall instantly, dangerously in love with strangers and fuck like frantic, horny monkeys in their hostel dorms. They'll remember this day for the rest of their lives.

  I honestly can't remember the last time I felt like that, like I was creating a memory that would stick with me forever. Like anything I did truly mattered. Five years ago? I can't even remember what that kind of excitement feels like.

  I sigh, shake a cigarette from my soft pack and bring it to my lips as another tourist steps out of the terminal, a young woman carrying a rucksack almost as big as herself. She strides confidently out into the bright light, heat and unfamiliar chaos around the taxi rank, and the moment I see her I find myself strangely transfixed. She stops a few steps shy of the taxi rank, turning her head this way and that as if searching for someone. She looks over in my direction, and the world – and my heart - stops in its tracks.