Guest Post with Author Maggie Wells

There are doers and there are watchers in this world. Which do you want to be?

We are told it’s better to be a doer, and I don’t disagree with that notion. The best way to live a life is to be right in the thick of it. No use in letting the parade pass you by, right?

But it’s rarely an either/or proposition. Being both a doer and a watcher can be quite titillating, under the right circumstances...with the right person...or people. Most of us are a mixture. That means each of us is a little bit of a voyeur.

Gasp!

I know. Shh...it’s a secret. One of those dirty bits of ourselves we keep tucked away in a deep, dark corner. But it’s true. We consume celebrity gossip and reality programming like Skittles then deny our love for them the moment we catch a glimpse of our hips in the mirror. We place those people with the grit and determination to DO IT on sky-high pedestals and shower them with admiration. That is, until we watchers catch the doers doing something naughty and rip those pedestals down just so we can watch our idols do something else...Take a fall.

We all do it. Whether that makes us doers or watchers is a question we can only answer for ourselves. My name is Maggie Wells, and I’m a bit of a voyeur. How about you? Are you a doer, a watcher, or a doer who likes to watch?

Spectators by Maggie Wells

A ‘Dirty Bits’ Short Story

From the moment she steps into the exclusive Spectator Club, Grace Andrews finds herself caught between heaven and hell. Dark and light, two halves of a delicious whole, partners Damien and Gabriel are intrigued by the newest member of the club. Intrigued enough to take her initiation in hand...and mouth. And anything else. Because at the Spectator Club, anything goes.

Excerpt:

The newest members of The Spectator Club aren’t hard to spot. The guys usually stroll through the door decked out in head to toe Armani acting like they own the place. Damien James was fairly quick at debasing them of that notion. Once in a while, a member who felt the need to channel their inner gigolo—gold chains and pinky rings—the whole nine yards. He found those guys just entertaining.

The females making their first foray into the club generally come in two varieties. The majority show up in skirts barely big enough to wipe a toddler’s nose and something see-through on top. A few feel the need to slaughter a herd of cows for their walk on the wild side. At this very moment, there was a woman on the dance floor who looked like she was answering a casting call for the next Debbie Dominatrix porno. Either way, the newbies rarely went with the subtle sell.

That’s what made this woman different. Over the rim of his glass, he eyed the latest newcomer with interest. The flowing, feminine skirt she wore skimmed the curve of her ass and swished enticingly around her knees. He gave her bonus points for that alone. A simple, tailored blouse clung to her slender torso—a crimson beacon that drew every man’s eye. The top two buttons of the blouse lay open. The slick fabric pooled draped her breastbone oh-so-perfectly. Barely a hint of skin was revealed, but the effect was enough to make his mouth water.

She moved with fluid self-assurance. Her ankles didn’t wobble as she strode toward the bar in sky-high heels. She didn’t duck her head to avoid the curious stares that followed her progress. No hint of a blush rose in her creamy porcelain cheeks. She crossed thttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=5875507781947178148he crowded room as if she owned it. Of course, she didn’t. He did.

In the five years since The Spectator Club opened, he’d seen all kinds traipse through the door. The three thousand dollar cash deposit was steep enough to ward off the curious.

Exorbitant monthly dues weeded out those who sought to experiment with their lifestyle choices. But this woman sashayed into the club’s bar area with purpose. He liked that. He liked it a lot.