“The Rookie” is the first volume of my Marion F series, in which readers learn about Marion, her job, her hobbies – and her way with men.

Is it possible to describe explicit sexuality from a female perspective without immediately getting caught in the crossfire of various feminist groups? “The Erotic Diary” attempts a sex-positive approach without the protagonist throwing her roots from the women’s movement overboard.

What is it about?

Bastian doesn’t take his studies too seriously. When his parents find out about him, they radically cut off their support. Now the question arises how he is supposed to pay his living and tuition fees. And he comes up with the great idea of getting paid for sex. But how on earth do you find customers for that?
Marion is having a bad day. When a young punk smiles at her on the street, she reacts gruffly. It quickly turns out he wants to get into the callboy business but has no idea how it works.
Marion is the right address for him. She takes him to her loft and shows him a few tricks he can use later. In the process, he proves to be a docile student.

Reading sample:

I dropped onto the bed and watched him peel himself out of his pants and stockings. I had imagined the evening differently.
„You haven’t slept with many women yet in your new job as a call boy, have you?“
„Can you tell?“
„Oh, just a guess!“
„I haven’t gotten any dough from my old folks in three months. I’m starting to run out of money.“
„And you think sex is a solution?“
„Sex always works. We need the feeling of being desirable.“
„That sounds disillusioned,“ I said, feeling caught. „You have no qualms about taking money for it?“
„I can’t say yet. You’re my first client.“ I looked at him incredulously and had to laugh. By now, he had laid down with me, his head nestled against my chest. I grabbed his cock and stroked it. It felt good. Smooth and warm.
„Do something for your money, then,“ I said. I didn’t even ask Bastian if he had a condom with him but opened my nightstand drawer with my free hand and took out a rubber.
He took it out of my hand and ripped it open. But then he left it to me to put it on him. It sat well on him, and I watched with pleasure as his cock continued to grow and harden under my hands.
Finally, he made a move to spread my legs to pleasure me in the missionary position. In my opinion, this is a position that cannot be surpassed in unimaginativeness. It is ideologically biased and agonizingly passive for us women.
There are countless exciting positions during sex, and it is a hobby of mine to try them all once. Some are quite simple but have beautiful poetic names, others remind me of advanced yoga, and I only engage in them when I already know a partner very well. My young punk still had a lot to learn. Smiling, I directed him under my body.
With my legs bent, I sat down on his lap and bent my head down to his. Our tongues played with each other, teasing each other as his cock strayed into the thick tangle of my Venus mound, occasionally visiting my pearl. Admittedly, I didn’t sit there entirely still but directed his shaft with my pelvis as I pleased. That’s how I gradually got into the swing of things. I like to be in control of the movements and the rhythm.
I only slowly increased the pressure I applied to Bastian‘s cock with my pussy. I rubbed my lips against him until I felt them swell to bursting. Only then did I press my abdomen harder against him. He lay there calmly and let it happen. He accepted that I didn’t take him into me right away and seemed quite satisfied with how carefully I approached it.
By now, I had reached the point where I was pressing my lips firmly around his shaft. I slid lengthwise over him, back and forth, rhythmically, with increasing pressure. His cock drove along my clitoris, making it tingle. A wave of arousal ran through my body.
His glans, which kept briefly appearing between my thighs during this movement, had taken on a dark red color. I couldn’t help myself and stroked the highly excited tip with my index finger. Bastian groaned.
When I noticed how my juices began to flow, I whispered in his ear, „Remember the position. It’s ideal for getting a woman going. It’s called ‚the fountain.‘ I’m sure you can guess where the name comes from.“ I rode him for a while but didn’t let him shoot his fountain just yet. I usually recognize the telltale twitch in a man that suggests he’s struggling with his composure, so I can vary my pace as needed. For this, the „fountain“ is ideal because we women keep the upper hand on all movements, bypassing the men’s brief, depressing in-out game.

[End of reading sample]