
A new anonymous confession has just been published in Jeff’s Corner.
This one explores how a long-held fantasy suddenly became real—and how one unexpected conversation changed everything.
Writers are often asked where their ideas come from.
Sometimes the answer is complicated. Sometimes a story is inspired by several different events, people, and places blended together over months or even years.
And sometimes the inspiration comes from a single conversation that lasts less than five minutes.
That was the case with The Camel He Promised.
In 2023, my wife and I were travelling through Jordan on a group tour. After visiting the Dead Sea and several historical sites, our group was making its way towards Petra. Late in the afternoon, our guide suggested swapping one of the castles on the itinerary for a short detour to Little Petra instead.
None of us knew much about Little Petra, but the idea sounded more interesting than another castle, so the group voted in favour of the change.
It turned out to be a good decision.

Little Petra is a beautiful place. The narrow canyon, the carved alcoves, and the winding paths offer a taste of what awaits visitors in Petra itself. My wife and I spent some time exploring, taking photographs, and climbing up to some of the viewpoints before following the trail further through the canyon.
That was when we met him.
He wasn’t actually called Jack, but he immediately reminded me of Jack Sparrow from the Pirates of the Caribbean films. His appearance, mannerisms, and easy confidence all contributed to the impression. He was selling small souvenirs, including bronze camels.
I asked whether he accepted US dollars.
His answer came instantly. “Dollars, dinars, a wife.”
My wife burst out laughing.
The comment was clearly intended as a joke, but there was no mistaking that he found her attractive. To be fair, we’d noticed throughout our travels in the region that she attracted plenty of attention. Her blonde hair and appearance made her stand out, and she often drew admiring looks.
Neither of us was offended. The exchange was light-hearted, and my wife simply pointed towards the camel she wanted.
The salesman wrapped it up and handed it over.
I pulled out a ten-dollar note and held it towards him. Still playing along, I asked, “You sure you want the dollars?”
He glanced at my wife again and smiled. “No. I really don’t want the dollars.”
My wife shook her head, smiling too.
Then he looked back at me. “Alright, I’ll take them.”
He took the note and slipped it into his pocket.
We all laughed.
Before we left, he asked whether we were visiting Petra that evening. We told him we were.
“Do you need a guide?” he asked, his eyes briefly drifting towards my wife.
She smiled politely. “We’ve already got one.”
Still laughing, my wife and I waved goodbye and headed back towards the coach.
The conversation lasted only a couple of minutes, but it stayed with us long afterwards. As we walked back through the canyon, I teased my wife about whether she’d been flirting with him.
“No,” she said. “He was flirting with me.”
A few moments later, she admitted, “Well… maybe a little.”
That was all.
Nothing happened.
The story ended there.
Or at least the real story did.
Later that evening, while walking through Petra and watching the famous Treasury illuminated by candlelight, a question kept returning to my mind.
What if that guide had actually joined us?
What if the conversation had continued?
What if the playful flirtation had gone further?
As a fiction writer, those little “what if?” questions are often where stories begin.
The Camel He Promised grew from that moment.
The characters changed. The events changed. The fictional version travelled far beyond anything that happened in real life.
But the seed of the story came from a real place, a real journey, a bronze camel, and a salesman with a sense of humour.
Sometimes that’s all a writer needs.
If you’d like to see how that brief encounter eventually evolved into fiction, you can find The Camel He Promised in Hotwife Digest Issue 6, alongside stories from other members of the ACHE collective.
The Camel He Promised takes that simple real-life moment and explores the “what if?” that stayed with me long after we left Little Petra.
A football splashed into the water at our feet.
It landed in the shallow surf just in front of us as my wife and I walked along one of those long, quiet stretches of beach in Boa Vista—windy, almost deserted, with only the sound of the waves and the occasional figure in the distance.
A moment later, he appeared.
Running down from the dunes, straight into the surf, chasing the ball with effortless energy. Athletic, confident, completely at ease in that wild stretch of shoreline.
He apologised with a quick smile, retrieved the ball, and lingered just long enough for a glance to be exchanged.
Nothing more.
But sometimes, that’s all it takes.

Because the idea stayed with me.
Later that evening, over a drink at the bar, I brought it up.
“That guy on the beach,” I said to my wife. “He was something, wasn’t he?”
She smiled—softly at first, then with just a hint of mischief—and nodded. “He was.”
I leaned in a little closer. “Would you have done it with him?”
She looked at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, as my own smile gave away that I wasn’t entirely serious… she tilted her head slightly and answered, almost playfully—
“Maybe I would have.”
Then she turned it back on me. “Would you have wanted me to?”
I laughed. “What do you think? I write hotwife stories.”
She raised a finger, gently shaking it. “Those stay in your books.”
But then something shifted—just slightly.
She glanced down at her cocktail, lifted it towards her lips… and paused.
When she looked back at me, her tone had changed. Still soft, still controlled—but different.
“I think tomorrow,” she said quietly, “we should go back to that same beach.”
Before I could respond, she stood. “Let’s go and see what’s happening over there.” She nodded towards a small gathering further along the bar.
And just like that, the moment passed.
The next day, we did go back.
The beach was just as empty.
But he wasn’t there.
We didn’t talk about it again. Not the man, not the conversation, not what she’d said the night before. It was as if none of it had happened.
But by then…
The story already had.
Coming soon: Volume 2 of Her First Time – A Collection of Short Hotwife Stories
In May.
And this time, I didn’t have to imagine it from scratch.
A squirrel crossed my path. Then another. And another.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I stepped off the trail, pushing through the low brush, following them deeper in. One, two, three… more than I expected. I found myself counting without really knowing why — just something to do as I walked, letting the quiet of the place settle around me.
Then the trees opened.
Tall trunks spaced just enough to let the late March sun filter through, warming the ground beneath my feet. A fallen trunk lay at the centre of it, thick and worn smooth with age. Secluded. Still. The kind of place you don’t stumble across unless you’re looking — or perhaps not looking at all.
And then the image came.
Uninvited, but clear.
My wife, one foot propped up on the trunk… and someone else, his arms sliding around her waist. And me there, watching.
That was all it took.
Not an action. Not a plan. Just a moment — a feeling, a possibility.
And somewhere between that fallen trunk and the walk back through the trees, the story began.
It always surprises me how little it takes. A place. A mood. A single thought that lingers just long enough to grow into something more.
This one stayed with me.
It followed me home, lingered over the next few days, and slowly became one of the stories that will be part of my next collection:
Her First Time — Volume 2
I’m working through the stories now — some already complete, others still taking shape — with a plan to release the collection towards the end of April or early May.
So if you’re curious, keep an eye on this space.
And when the book is out, I wonder if you’ll be able to spot it — the one that started with a quiet walk, a handful of squirrels, and a secluded clearing under the late March sun.
Alongside that, I’m also putting the final touches on my submission for the next issue of Hotwife Digest in May — a piece I’m looking forward to sharing.
And, in a slightly different direction, I’ve been working on a short story set in a small village in the Balkan mountains — a setting that brings its own kind of atmosphere and tension.
After that, I’m hoping to return to Anthony’s Confidence, a longer project I set aside last year and one I’m keen to finish.
For now, though, it all starts with moments like this — a quiet walk, a handful of squirrels, and a thought that lingers.
P.S. For those who prefer reading outside Amazon, you can now get some of my books directly from my site — including EPUB and PDF editions to keep and read on any device:
It started, as these things often do, with a quiet evening and a glass of wine.
My wife and I found ourselves drifting back to our early days—before we were married, when we were both working at the same company and not yet ready to let anyone know we were together. Young and careful, we kept things to ourselves while navigating the strange balance of being both colleagues and something more.
One memory surfaced that neither of us had thought about in years.
It was a company weekend away—one of those slightly chaotic trips where too many people are squeezed into too little space. By the time the evening drinks had run their course, the villa felt warmer, louder, looser. When it came time to sleep, there weren’t enough beds. Mattresses were spread across the floor, bodies laid out side by side, conversations fading into the dark.
We ended up next to each other—my wife between another colleague and me. A man who, back then, had taken more interest in her than she ever encouraged—unaware that we were together.
Nothing happened. Not really.
But I remember the moment.
The room was heavy with heat and drink, and we lay facing each other, about to drift off, when I felt her shift closer to me. A moment later, a hand from behind her—hesitant, testing, where it shouldn’t have been. She tensed, her body pressing into mine. A pause. A decision. And then it was over. The hand withdrawn, the moment gone.
We never spoke of it at the time.
But years later, sitting together with that same shared glance, she smiled and admitted what I had always wondered—that for a second, just a second, the thought had crossed her mind.
Not action. Not permission. Just… possibility.
That was all it took.
Because sometimes a story doesn’t come from what happened—but from what almost did.
That memory—the closeness, the tension, the unspoken question—became the seed for my latest story:
Red Room in the Outback

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