Jo-Anne Wiley, author of your favorite 'Sex-Thrillers'

Come meet my girls.

    Some are beautiful, most are intelligent. Some have careers... some, families.

    But all have been deceived, manipulated, abused. And none of them take kindly to being used.

These are women brimming with the kind of fire & confidence we all long to possess. And when cornered, they come out fighting for their lives. Or die trying. Warning: The details can get gritty!

    Sexual tension is the driving force. Think Stephen King, but leave all the good bits in and you’ll come close.

My books are available from the following retailers:

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    Softcover books available from

    Jo-Anne Wiley

My Books...


Women shattered under the lens

(buy it now)

What would you do? Your bra is loose, held in the crooks of your arms as you roll your pantyhose down. You hear the 'click-buzz' of the camera and realize you've been caught!

The digital camera has changed all of the rules.

No more going to the drugstore for one thing. Cameras got smaller; then miniaturized; then added to cell phones. Clandestine photographers no longer need a darkroom; just a computer and internet access. An unwary woman can literally be 'caught with her underpants down' and that could lead to all kinds of complications. Make her vulnerable to all sorts of interesting suggestions.

Three stories. Three women. What would you do: “Framed” by the viewfinder... Your life suddenly unraveling, spiraling down, out of control. Your self-respect on the line... maybe your marriage and your job along with it. Would you roll over and play the game? Or rear-up and claw your way out!

Three stories. Three women... who were 'Shutter-Buggered' and fought back:

Victim of a Victimless Crime

Working at this Secretarial Service, you shed more than your clothes. Blackmail, deceit and incriminating photographs lead a woman to risk her home and her marriage in fiery retribution.

My Husband's Private Playground

It was just a Valentine, but one that featured this newly wed's naughty self-portrait. A bad idea? Sure... but how could she have known? Ten years later it comes back to haunt her... and leads to a surprising new romance!

Hard Cover

A young librarian finds that being attracted to an older gentleman has it's complications in this small southern town. Particularly when an old boy friend catches her in the viewfinder. Providing a few sexual favors becomes the least of her worries.

Three stories... three woman... What would you do?


Please. Don't make me.

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   “Don't!” ...what woman hasn't cried out!

    A sly move. The not-so-playful squeeze. An unwanted tug on a nipple. The underhanded grope to your crotch.

    But what if you have no choice? Have to suffer the humiliation to save your marriage, your career, your child?

    Then it becomes insistent, intolerable. You fight back; scheme to use your body as your only weapon!

A Snowball's Chance...

    The winter storm had done more than fill her lane-way; the snowplow driver was right behind. And he had filled her vagina!

    It wasn't like her. Sue had been alone since her husband had run off with one of the Bubble-Heads from the Mr. Bubble's Car Wash, leaving her with debt and a delusional daughter. But the “snow cowboy” rescued her from the drifts; had driven her home. And she had been hospitable... Very!

    Just a 'quicky' she reasoned; it had been years, after all. But he stayed the night. And showed up for dinner the next evening. One quicky leads to another, and another, and suddenly you're in a relationship. The guy was coarse and hard and she wasn't at all convinced it could ever be serious. But he was so damned good. But then again, he was getting lots of practice: Sue began to see the change in her daughter.

Doing Tricks and Driving Around Naked

    She picked up the ketchup bottle from the restaurant table and, encircling the neck with thumb and fingers, caressed it with long, finite strokes. Her friend's chin lifted, eyes shimmering in surprise and excitement.

    “You did that? To him? At the office?”

    The clatter of knives and forks paled to the sound of her marriage imploding. Along with her job and her career.

    It started as a mindless diversion; from a long day seated by the dental chair: The accidental brush of breast on arm, crisp nipple-play on skin, a friendly squeeze where one would not normally squeeze. It was all innocent fun. And Holly's male patients didn't complain. But Rich Cunningham saw what the others missed: An opportunity to make her perform. To satisfy his own warped sexual idiosyncrasies.     And those of his son.

    “He's not going to call,” Holly maintained.

    “Man like dog,” her friend, Juan said, “sniffing 'round woman's leg. He get service like that? He call. You be certain of that! And when he does, this is what you say...”

There Are No Rules, When The Lights Go Out

    With the flick of a switch, her life changed. She was with the guys with whom she had worked and shared her daytime hours for close to ten years. She had been a surrogate mother... damn, a surrogate priest to most of them! So just like that, it's over? Ten years swept away in a landslide of groping hands that washed over her like muddy floodwater. What insanity had impelled her? Why in god's name had she ever let herself be talked into hosting the bachelor party?

Fortune Cookies

    Linda-Lee's dark brown aureoles were featured on the cover of the magazine with the caption, “Eat More Fortune Cookies.” The guys at work were going to go berserk. They had been betting on the size and color of her nipples for weeks. But he had declined the bet; it wouldn't be fair, after all. He was already familiar with the size and shape of Tom's fiancee's breasts. All too familiar. What he didn't understand was her compulsion to humiliate; to photograph him at his very weakest moment. For all to see.


Don't mess about with puss!

(buy it now)

    They had humiliated her.

    And got it all on camera; for the internet. Videotaped her flailing body on the table as they took their turns. And when they had satiated themselves, they rolled her over onto her knees and brought out the wooden paddle.

    The spanking was anything but playful. As they counted, they doled out twenty resounding strokes. Then laughed as they planted the daisy.

    The men were finished with her, but Tommy was far from done. The next time the men saw Tommy, she was behind the business end of a Slovenian, Obis fully automatic machine gun.

    The thugs, the “strong-arms” behind the cameras? They were easy. She chewed through them like so much paper confetti. Sucked in sweet revenge and spit out their bloodied bones. But the mastermind proved more difficult. The debit card she had sent to a postal box was being used all over town. And the money she deposited, with the hopes of keeping the video off the internet, was quickly draining away.

    So now her self-respect, and her career, are on the line. And she is hot on the trail of a killer; using sex and lies as her stock-in-trade.

    But so is Detective Lieutenant Benjamin Walsh, Homicide, and he is chewing through the same leads and hitting the same dead-ends. The race is on: if she wins, she recovers the incriminating video and she gets to clean house; if Walsh outsmarts her, the video becomes public domain. She will be ridiculed; her marriage and her career, shredded... ruined.

    She had hoped for a lead by watching the postal station, but the courier was just a high school kid. She gambled her body in hopes of more information, but came up empty. And her contact with the kid doesn't go unnoticed. Later that same day, they find the boy in the bathtub, all shot through with .41 caliber Remingtons!

    A camera's serial number leads her to a photo studio in the south end. And another corpse.     Someone's cleaning house! But there is also a treasure trove of nude photographs; a private gallery of women, caught in compromising circumstances.

    But it is Tommy's own video that provides the clue: A slight tremor as the camera pans along her naked body, hardly discernible, but there just the same. And suddenly she has the edge. Like a stack of playing cards, folding together in a gambler's hands, unrelated facts fall together and the trail leads to the upper echelons of the New York City Police Department, right to the front office of Deputy Police Commissioner, Bernice Walker...


I want it, in my mouth...

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    She is being poisoned. Not to death, but slowly into submission…

    There's the waxy taste again, numbing her lips and tongue; then a hollowness rides low down. Her nipples ache. And unexpectedly, her vagina is not her own to possess. Without warning, she is overwhelmed by the desire to do something evil. She steps outside her own flesh and is ready to be consumed.

    This surprises her. She has always been a careful, if not conservative lover, but now she stands on the brink, ready to spiral down into sexual deviancy. Facing the spy-hole, she bares her breasts. She knows the boy is there, peeking at her body from his hidy-spot, at the bottom of the linen closet. She works the buttons lower down. Let him see it all!

    The young journalist from Miami comes to the island, chasing the story of her career. But the decrepit plantation house holds more secrets than she has bargained for: The house boy in the linen closet, pleasuring himself while she opens her shirt. An unexpected sexual encounter with the au pair girl. The 'brain-dead' fieldworker, with a body she can't resist; and uses indiscriminately for her own personal pleasures. The chauffeur, the local village boys… all fall prey to her lusty advances. But then a ghostly apparition descends from the ceiling of her ancient bedroom. Has madness finally overtaken her?

    Toxic toads, sultry nights, secret spy holes, beatings and a renegade priestess set to avenge a vendetta that has been smoldering for seventy years. The rhythm of the drums is interrupted... a 'pretty white woman' has come to write 'pretty white words,' ...has come to stay in the bleak old plantation house on the side of a mountain, where deceit and deception are used without discretion to manipulate the weak and the unwary. Where her urban rules no longer apply. Where even the parish priest falls prey to her drug-induced, sexual zeal.


the end of the road for a girl who tells

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    The cops at the 14th Precinct call it the meat-locker: the City morgue. For the docs and nurses at the Rosedale Institute, it's the wall of stainless steel, refrigerated compartments in the basement. Either way, it's best avoided by a pretty young girl who knows too much.     Stripped and hosed down to remove the last traces of sexual misconduct. Laid out on the icy steel rails… slam the door… turn down the cold! Yes, best to avoid your last trip to the refrigerator. At any cost…

Eight-Inch Girls

    Rosedale. A small hospital, in a rural community. Middle of nowhere.

    So why do men come here from across the globe? What kind of specialized medicine does Rosedale provide?

    Not what, but whom: The eight-inch girls. Best care anywhere.

    But when young Jenny Armstrong lands her dream job as a registered nurse, she stumbles onto much darker secrets. Rich patients are routinely dying in the arms of a beautiful lesbian and landing themselves in the basement: In the meat-locker. And the evidence points to a young trauma victim. But large sums of money are also changing hands. What would a teenager girl, with the brain of a four-year-old, understand about money?

You'll like me... I'm better than my daughter

    Molly's gone. She was on her way to a track-meet and never made the bus. The men want two-million for her safe return. Her mom calls the only woman she trusts: Tommy Vencenzi.

    Tommy throws the men a curve: Offers a trade, mother for daughter. And mom's willing to do anything to gain the safe release of her daughter. But Tommy and her partner, Jilly, find they are also required to put their bodies on the line. Anything to bring Molly home.

    Detective Lieutenant, Benjamin Welsh says it's a case for the meat-locker, bound to end in the City morgue. But Tommy has a bone to pick… and a reason to prove him wrong. 


(buy it now)

    Malibu Beach: The love-babes and trophy wives the men bring to the table are among the most elegant women in the world; the product of the best breeding-stock: pampered, exercised, massaged, and as carefully nourished as any thoroughbred.

    They stand behind their men, who gamble for real money. And for the sexual congress the women promise to provide.

    With a quarter of a million on the table, Kathrine presides over the most prestigious poker game on the Coast. She manipulates the game as precisely as her dealer manipulates the cards: The stunningly beautiful Ava; known for her rapid-fire card play and who is not above working the table semi-nude if the game begins to lag.

    Only the ultra wealthy come to play. They own the multi-million dollar beach homes, the Italian sports cars, the gleaming tri-decks that line the waterfront, the Armani suits, and the woman: The opportunity to bed a friend’s glamorous wife is more appealing than all the poker chips stacked on the felt... Mr. Ng lays a pair of jacks on the table. It isn't enough and Mrs. Ng steps to the center of the room and rolls down her pantyhose. Martin laughs. He's never had a Taiwanese...

    But word of the game gets out. What should have been good for business, brings the vultures. The Hells Angels control the gaming on the Coast. And consider Kathrine a renegade. The crime boss wants to take over and states his case. Kathrine retaliates. But sees the error of her ways while eating her own lace panties while seated in his limousine.

    But Kathrine isn't quick to roll over. She boldly outmaneuvers him; a double-cross that nets her more money than she can carry. Now all she has to do is get away with it. Unscathed.


An American dance company trapped in Moscow

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    The Russians went berserk.

    The dancers of the 'American Dance Demon' had breasts. The Russians only knew The Bolshoi, where the girls looked painfully like little boys.

    The identical dancers of the Dance Demon were the prime of Broadway's best. Each was a perfect thirty-six ‘C’ cup; not that there was a bra to be found anywhere on stage.

    Each girl was a sultry, green-eyed brunette, same age, six-foot tall, identical build, same challenging good looks; and besides talent, all of them had slept with Bobby. At least once.

    When General Chenkov started cheering, the enthusiasm was contagious. The dancers faltered mid-step. They shyly came forward. And those men in the first rows were treated to a naughty peek under short hemlines. Excited nipples protruded through silk.

    The dancer's didn't know it yet, but their European tour had just been sidelined. Chenkov had their passports and he wanted the women.

    That was evident during the very next performance.

    Following her solo number, Andrea advanced to the edge of the stage to accept the accolades. But instead of a curtsy, she fumbled her buttons. Her costume floated down and she stood naked before three-thousand admirers. All of them military.

    Andrea stood a moment to let them see, then reached for her Danskin. She ran from the stage, clutching the silk to her flailing breasts and ducked around her startled Stage Manager.

    “What the hell?” Chay shot the question at the Wardrobe Mistress and followed her dancer into the dressing-room. “What's going on?”

    “Just trying to get my passport,” Andrea answered.


    “Yes. And I understand you're having dinner with him, after the show.”

    “Yes,” Chay admitted.

    “He likes pussy for dessert,” Andrea laughed bitterly. “Play along. Give him what he wants and you'll get your passport back; be free to leave.”

    “No. I couldn't. Not that way.”

    “Trust me, Chay. It's the only way.”


The very best sex is taken… not given…

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    Lee loves her young niece, no mistake, but the thought of Mindy being held down by three men is too delicious. Lee can't force the images from her mind. Nor does she want to.

    She makes Mindy repeat the account, detail by delectable detail, again and again.

    The repugnant lure of the sexual assault is a sudden addiction:     Books, movies, porn, a survivors forum on the internet. And, using a police scanner, Lee is always first at a rape crime-scene with hopes of catching a look at the brutalized victim. But Lee starts noticing a flaming redhead who appears to be just as fascinated; who haunts the same back streets.

    When Lee is followed into a rape crisis clinic, it's too much of a coincidence. Lee chases after the woman. Confronts her. But the red-headed stranger is far from intimidated:

    “It is so obvious who you are, Lee.” the woman tells her. “And what you are: One of the phantom vultures. You may deny it, dear, but you choose to walk the dark-side of the street. You look for despair where others seek happiness. You are touched by a woman's pain; but for all the wrong reasons. You crave lust over love; fact over the fantasy. You prefer to move among the tormented souls. You have come to realize that the very best sex is taken; not given.”

    “I thought I was the only one,” Lee concedes.

    “Oh no, child. There are others of us who live in the shadows. I can take you, show you; and you will see: You need never be alone, dear; ever again. You have sisters; angels of the darkness...”


(coming in the new year)

    The Bikini Bus, on a return flight from Columbia to a Caribbean beach resort, blows a jet turbine and crash-lands on the side of a remote South American mountain.

    Captain Irene Ross, wearing only a revealing swimsuit, must contend with both the dead, and the dying. But with rescue doubtful and faced with freezing night-time temperatures and waning food supplies, Irene prepares her scantily clad, all-girl flight crew for a trek down the mountain side.

    The surviving male passengers close ranks and openly deify Irene. And they have something she doesn’t: A gun.

    The men blame Irene for their predicament and form a quasi judicial-tribunal. Irene is made to stand trial. She is found guilty, undressed, publicly humiliated, spanked, then hung from a wooden stake for safe keeping. And to be used by anyone who might have a sudden urge.

    With all authority stripped away, the men turn rabid. And the women are fair game.

    The members of Irene’s flight crew are the first to be ravaged: Eight young girls in bikinis, hand picked by the beach resort for their exceptionally good looks, are hard to resist. Hanging in her restraints, Irene watches as her flight crew is chased down, the flight attendants thrown to the ground. The men, hooping and hollering, run from girl to girl, dropping down between splayed legs.

    But the women passengers, members of the American Olympic beach volleyball team, are also vulnerable. The men hold a beauty-pageant where they cull out the best looking women for their stable. The less attractive ones are herded into the Pigpen where an ominous sign hangs above the gate: Your only escape is on a meat-platter!

    The women, held hostage, are now virtually slaves: Serve the men, cater to their needs, and the nightly performances around the log-fire become more and more provocative; until finally the girls, pitted against each other like gladiators, fight hand to hand for the right to be gang-raped, and thus avoid adding their bodies to the dwindling food supply.

And what's between my brain and my keyboard:


(coming in the new year)

    Someone's killing lesbians. And hoisting their quivering bodies into the trees where they hang like bazaar Christmas ornaments.

    On a lonely back-road, a short cut from Scottsdale to Tijuana, Mexico, a woman finds herself suddenly stranded. When help arrives, the shocked victim is pulled from her vehicle.

    Victim No.7 is led into the woods, stripped of her clothes and suffers the indignity of having a stranger's hands on her body. Then they show her the hook.

    She sees the blatant look of intent in their eyes and knows this is more than a sexual assault. Much more. She realizes she is about to lose her life.

    Naked and bloody, she falls to her knees and begs, and then screams: An endless mindless shrieking; a piteous emotional release that does nothing but raise a heckle of laughter from the men. And then she is falling forward and unbelievably, her feet lift from the ground.

    Somewhere, just left of her spine, she feels her flesh protrude. The skin, stretched to bursting, abruptly gives way. The steel slithers through; the burn is unbearable. Her pelvis bone takes the weight and, head down, she is lifted into the pine boughs.

    All indications point to the Brothers of Zion, a cult of close-knit religious zealots who seem to act with impunity, outside the realm of the law. The Brethren occupy a guarded compound in the barrens of the Arizona desert and are led by their spiritual leader and his all-male tribunal who believe that polygamy is a young girl's golden pathway to the Lord. Any girl who is bold enough to object, condemns herself, along with her mother, to be Raptured in a heinous religious ceremony officiated by the Tribunal and a few carefully chosen female administrators.

    A girl escapes the tyranny of the Brethren; graduates from school, finds a good job, makes a new life for herself. Her mother and sister are not so lucky.

    Can the girl forgive? Can she forget?

A sinner returns to the Brethren and reeks her own brand of justice. 

    When cinematography student, Katie Bassinger, shoots video of her roommate playing tennis in the raw, it seems like a harmless lark. Her roomy wants a special gift for her boyfriend and Kate complies; filming Monica, playing head to head, against the club tennis pro.
    But when Monica offers herself up for a spanking if she loses the match, things turn naughty.
     And Katie gets it all on camera!
     So two weeks later, when sexy Monica pulls a surprise win at the US Woman’s Tennis Tournament, the press are all over her and when they hear about the naked tennis match, Kate finds herself in possession of the hottest twenty minutes of porn video in America. Everyone wants to get their hands on it. 
    Decision time: Continue on with her chosen career as a “camera-gal” with an NBC affiliate. Or sell Monica out. And the bidding is ferocious: Monica wants the incriminating video and offers up the tennis winnings. But she can’t compete with the likes of Sports Illustrated, The National Enquirer, or Hustler Magazine.
     When noted porn film-producer, Tiger Kelly, calls to offer his services as her agent, Katie is delighted to turn everything over to his expertise. But Kate wants more than money: With her sudden notoriety, she wants a studio. And with the money from the deal that Tiger hatches, she can have it.
     But there’s more to the porn-business than Kate realizes. With vice-cops, the syndicate, and interested politicians all muscling in with open hands, Katie is anxious for the big score: a “hit-and-run” that will set her up for life; with an off-shore bank. There’s just one problem: Tiger Kelly holds the key to her bank account. And, to her heart.

    Then Kate’s most provocative porn-star turns up dead. Drowned in cream from a spurting dildo.

    Someone’s scheming to put Katie out of business. And at any cost.

Bed Ridden

    Cloey had it made: A sporty little blonde with a great job as an on-air personality with the local NBC affiliate and enjoying a seven-year marriage to a super guy who can't wait for her to retire so he can fill the house with girls.

    But then the truck came outta nowhere.

    When Cloey focused, she found herself floating above an operating table, watching. Her shaved scalp was held in a stainless steel vice and a surgeon was drilling a hole in the side of her head. A weird dream, she thought.

    There was a time shift. Her vision slid; everything tilting. Her eyes flashed and she drifted up. A doctor was bent over her bedside. “Cloey,” he said. “I can't lose you. Cloey. Please, can you hear me?”

    Cloey fought for control. “Yes,” she said, but nothing came out.

    Her weird dream was just the beginning of her nightmare...

    Her neighbor let himself in by her front door. “Ahh, Cloey. You're awake. Good.”

    Oh no. Please.

    He turned to lock the door. “I was thinking about your breasts – all last night, actually. “I mean, they're so perfect.”

    God. Not my breasts. Don't ruin my breasts.

    “So I thought up a new game to play. I know you love our games. I'll just get the curtains, shall I?”

    Oh please, no. Don't close the curtains. You can't – please, oh please, don't close the curtains.