Missionary Position

By: Daisy Prescott

“Five romantic, exotic, and erotic stars.” The Book Enthusiast

“Funny, sexy, and super-entertaining!” Vilma’s Book Blog

“Brilliant, magnificent, Best Book of 2014!!!! Reading Selah’s story made me realize age is just a number.” Books and Beyond Fifty Shades

“… a captivating story about life, love, supernova hot sex, and an exciting and unintentional quest for self-discovery.” Nestled in a Book

“Engaging, pulled me right in… I loved the twists… the sex scenes are layered with passion, lust, and ultimately love.” Shh Mom’s Reading

“Reading Missionary Position felt like taking a fabulously sexy vacation.” Ficwishes

Geoducks are for Lovers


Ready to Fall

To the Doers of Deeds

“Love never loses its way home.”


“YOU SHOULD MEET my brother.”

I had been picked up many times in airport bars, but a brother set up was a first. Not that I expected the woman sitting next to me—with her glass of Pinot Grigio—to be the type to hit on strange women, but this was JFK. A crossroads of world travelers meant anything was possible. We’d been sitting silently next to each other at a sushi bar, poking away at our phones when our identical orders of spicy tuna hand-rolls were placed in front of us. She initiated a conversation and we fell into an animated discussion about the delicious merits of quality sushi.

Married? Never. Her? Divorced

Kids? No way. Her? A thirteen-year-old daughter.

From? Portland. Her? Chicago. Her accent told me she wasn’t born there. I guessed someplace like Scandinavia where they bred supermodels.

The typical questions of where we were headed and sharing our woes of travel followed. I liked her.

“Is your brother in Dubai?” I asked. Anita had shared her excitement over her upcoming week there. I admitted it sounded glamorous and far more luxe than my travel plans.

“No, Dubai is for business and a little fun. My brother’s in Amsterdam, where I’m from. You did say you’re going to Amsterdam, didn’t you?”

Dutch. I was close. Must be all the cheese. Or chocolate.

“Oh, right. I’ll be there for a week before my work takes me to Ghana.”

“Are you a missionary?” the athletic blonde asked me.

“A missionary in Amsterdam? Is anyone that much of a masochist? I’m not even a fan of the missionary position.”

She spit out her wine. Wiping her chin with a napkin, she gathered her composure. “I thought perhaps you planned to visit Amsterdam to sin a little before doing the good work in Africa. Isn’t that what most Americans do there? Meddle with the best intentions in the name of a church?”

I blinked at my bar mate. “Not a fan of religion?”

“I grew up in the Netherlands. Churches are for tourists in most towns.”

I laughed. “I think I’ll fit right in there. To answer your question, I’m a professor. My sabbatical is taking me to Amsterdam, and then on to Accra to study the female form in Ashanti sculptures.”

“You study naked women?”

“Not only women. I’m an equal opportunity nudist. I mean I study the human form across cultures. Nothing against the penis, but it’s hard to represent one in all its glory without it seeming silly or grotesque.” I giggled, and Anita did, too. “I prefer female bodies in art with all the beautiful variation.”

She blatantly swept her gaze over my body, from my messy, dark bob down to my overnight flight outfit of an open cardigan over exposed, but tasteful, cleavage, down to my yoga pants and comfortable but not fashionable flats. Maybe she was hitting on me. I straightened the scarf around my neck.

“You really should look up my brother.” She tapped her phone, bringing it to life. “I’ll give you his information. Text him. He’ll be perfect company while you’re in Amsterdam.” Out of her designer bag, she pulled a business card and an expensive looking pen, which she used to scrawl a name and number on the back of her card.

“Your brother’s name is Gerhard?” I failed to fully stifle my snort. Get hard. Gerrharrd. Gerhard would make the perfect name for a scoundrel pirate. I’d have to remember it for my next pirotica novel.

“I know. Isn’t it the most uptight name? I wish I could say it doesn’t suit him, but he can be a complete prat sometimes.”

The garbled voice of a boarding announcement broke over the speakers. She glanced down at her watch.

“Oh, my flight’s boarding. Call Gerhard. I think you’d have fun with him.”

“Didn’t you just say he was a prat?”

“Sometimes, but women seem to love the bad boys, don’t they?” She gathered her things and left a sizable tip on the bar. “Great to meet you, Selah. Best of luck with your sabbatical.”