Taken By The Tribe

When I was growing up I always felt that life should be an adventure, that there was always something more to living, something more to see, a wider world. Well, turns out I was right, but I couldn’t possibly have guessed how things would turn out. Sometimes life can sneak up on and surprise you, and it sure did with me!

My name is Hannah, or at least it used to be. I moved out to Kansas with my pa when I was a little girl. I don’t remember my ma, sadly, though I have a locket with her picture in it and pa always said she was a high-spirited, adventurous kind of woman. I like that. And I like to think that she might be happy at the way I’ve ended up.

My pa started a farm and I helped him as well as I could. I really wanted to go to school, but pa didn’t believe in anything like that, especially not for a girl, so I spent all my time on the farm. It wasn’t a bad life, much better than our lives would have been in the city, so my pa said, but still, I was bored. All the talk was farm talk or Indian talk and I soon got bored of all that. I knew that I wanted more from life and that when I got the chance, I was going to take it.

Sadly, my poor pa passed away suddenly with a fever when I was just fourteen and so I had to go and live with my uncle. He was a farmer too, and a big whisky drinker, but he was civil to me, though he liked to pretend to be all tough. Still, he wasn’t a kind man, and there was no warmth or companionship on my uncle’s farm. I had to do all the cooking and cleaning and some days he barely said two words to me. He wasn’t being disrespectful, it was just his way.

It was awfully lonely on that farm. I was getting to be the age when a girl is supposed to think about marrying, but I couldn’t ever see how that was going to happen, because I never saw anybody except my uncle from one day to the next. Well, not counting Billy.

Billy was a sweet boy, a little older than me, who used to help out around the farm sometimes. My uncle treated him pretty rough and paid him next to nothing, but I kind of took a shine to Billy. I wasn’t in love with him or anything, and even if I had been, he was totally unsuitable as a husband, but still, I did used to watch him from my bedroom window. Some days, Billy took his shirt off when he worked. At first I thought it was disgusting and immodest, but even so, I couldn’t stop looking at him. The sight of his young, fit body, glistening with sweat in the afternoon heat used to have a strange effect me. And, though I blush to recall it, there was more than one time while watching him that I hitched up my dress and slid my fingers between my legs and touched myself, making myself a little wet. I used to pray for forgiveness afterwards, and swear I would never do it again, but sure enough, the next time I heard Billy scratching and digging in the yard, I couldn’t help wandering to the window.

One day, I heard my uncle’s footsteps on the landing outside my room just as I was settling down to watch Billy. I hastily rearranged my underclothes and jumped down from the window.

“Hannah, I got to go into town.”

“Oh can I come!”

“No, I got to take care of business.”


I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. Even though whenever we headed into town, my uncle never left my side, it was still a wonderful break from the monotony of farm life. There were so many people, so many shops, so much noise and color.

“I won’t be gone more than an hour. Besides, you got Billy here.”

“Yes uncle.” I brightened up a little at the thought of Billy.

“Right. Well, just don’t do anything foolish, okay.”

“I won’t uncle,” I sighed.

I could see the reluctance in his expression. He didn’t want to leave me. But really, I remember thinking, what on earth did he think would happen?

I watched his cart trot out of the front gate, and then I settled down to watch Billy in the yard. His shirt was off as it was a baking hot day and I bit my lip as I slid the tip of my finger across my pussy. The sight of Billy bent over, working, his muscles bulging was making me feel all tingly, and as I find my sweet spot I gave a little moan. At that moment, Billy looked up.

I ducked down, trembling with shame. What if he had seen me? How would I explain what I was doing? Oh what if he came into the room?

After a few seconds, I risked a peak out of the window. But Billy wasn’t looking up at my room, he was staring out, beyond the farm, towards the low hills in the distance, shielding his eyes as though straining to see something in particular. It was then that I heard a faint noise. It was barely audible, but insistent, a sort of distant hollering or whooping. There was a rumble of thunder, too, like the kind of sound you get used to hearing in the late summer heat when hurricane season is on the way. But this was no hurricane.

All at once I put the two noises together in my mind and I realized that what I was listening to had nothing to do with the skies. It was the thunder of horse hooves. And that hollering could only mean one thing. Indians!

Just then, Billy seemed to recognize it too because he dropped his spade and ran. He ran clean across the yard to where his horse Sally was tied. I watched him unwind the reins in a blind panic, hitch himself up onto Sally’s back and kick hard at her flanks, spurring her out of the farm, through the same gate where my uncle had passed and away.

He had left me all alone! The hooves were rattling hard now and the hollering was louder than ever, but I was rooted to the spot. Where could I go? What had my pa always said to do if the Sioux attacked? I couldn’t remember and cursed myself that I had not paid more attention whenever the subject of the Sioux came up. I had never even seen a Sioux, except in newspapers and books and I was sure my pa was exaggerating. I was just about ready to start hollering and crying for help, when I remembered. My pa always said that if the Sioux came and there were no men folk about, I should hide under my bed.

I scrambled on my knees across the wooden floor and into the cramped space beneath my bed and lay as still as I possibly could, listening.

I heard horses galloping around outside, and the shouting and hollering was so loud that it made me tremble. I hoped and prayed that they would just ride around and then leave. I didn’t even know how many of them were out there. What if it was a whole tribe? What if they decided to burn the farm house with me inside?

I waited and waited, and just when I thought they might have left, I heard the unmistakable creaking of the front door to our farmhouse. I tensed up, desperate not to make a sound and give myself away. I heard them creeping through the building, and I knew exactly where they were because of the precise sounds of the floorboards and the doors, which I knew so well. They spent time in the kitchen, then they explored the dining room, and the cellar, and then, to my horror, I heard footsteps on the stairs.

The footsteps drew closer and closer. I heard them head to the room next door, where my uncle slept, but they didn’t spend long in there. I dared not even breathe for fear. I prayed and prayed that they wouldn’t open my bedroom door, but my prayers were not answered because soon I heard the handle turn and the door opened.

I froze, remaining as still as I could as I listened to them walking around. I couldn’t tell how many of them were in my bedroom, but I heard someone opening my wardrobe and someone pulling at the drawers of my bedside table. Their voices were low, and I couldn’t catch any of the words they used, but it seemed that they hadn’t found anything and were leaving. I heard footsteps on the stairs. They hadn’t found me.

Suddenly, a face appeared at the opening between the bed and the floor and I screamed. A hand soon followed, and another and I was being grabbed at the wrist and the ankle. I felt myself being dragged across the floor and I struggled, trying to grab onto anything I could, but it was no use. They were too strong and soon they had pulled me free of my hiding place.

Out in the open I tried to scramble away, but that didn’t work either. There were four of them in my room, surrounding me. As I tried to scrabble to safety on my hands and knees, I felt my ankles being held down. I yelped and tried to scream, but a sweaty, dirty hand was soon pressed against my mouth and as I tried to yell I could feel another of them pulling my wrists behind me. Rope was being fastened about my legs and arms and I felt my shoulders ache as they pulled my arms behind me, and hitched up my legs at the same time. I was completely stuck, trussed up like a hog. A thick leather strap was forced between my teeth and tied tight behind my head.

I wriggled and squirmed, but I couldn’t move. I was totally helpless. As I struggled, two of them picked me up and I felt the disorientating sensation of the room shifting and the walls sliding as I was lifted through the air, out of my room and down the stairs.

Outside, they carried me to a team of waiting horses and I was thrown across the horse’s back. Again I tried to struggle free but it was no good. They lashed me to the saddle and then I felt one of the braves climb up onto the horse. A second later, we were riding, away from my farm, away from safety. I screamed and screamed into my leather gag but I made no sound and my efforts were anyway drowned out by the whooping and hollering all around me.

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Bimbofying The Brat

Meeting Beth was the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, meeting Beth and her daughter Katie, but I’ll get to that later.

I’m Bill. A few years ago my life was going nowhere. I’d been single for a long long time, I was close to hitting fifty and I’d pretty much given up on having a family life. My work as a software engineer was going great and the money was okay. I had a good house in a reasonably safe neighborhood. But I was lonely. Beth changed my life.

We met at a works party, one of those awful, self-conscious things, where everyone stands around not knowing what to say to one another, until the drink begins to flow. I bumped into her at the bar and on the spur of the moment, for something to say, asked her if she wanted a drink. To my surprise, she said yes.

Beth was a teacher, had been divorced for a while, and had lost her confidence with dating. I had never had much confidence to begin with, so we had that in common. It turned out that we also both loved 1940s movies, the countryside, and Italian food. I asked her on a date, she said yes, and amazingly, I didn’t screw it up.

My first few months with Beth were incredible. We could talk for hours, and the sex was incredible. We’d meet at my place or a hotel. Once we even did it in my car. She explained after one particularly hot session, that she had been starved of sex for years and wanted to make up for lost time. Well, we certainly did that, and, even after we were married and they moved into my place, it continued.

We had a great family life. As I worked from home, I could take care of the housework and when Beth and Katie came home, I’d cook for them, then we’d spend the evenings together. At weekends, we went for long walks, or went to the movies or had friends over. It was perfect. Well, almost perfect.

The only thing wrong with this movie was Beth’s dwindling interest in sex. It happened slowly, and started with excuses. She would say she was feeling ill or that we couldn’t because Katie was still awake or that she had an early start the next day and sex was too draining. Eventually, sex was something that happened at weekends, then every month, then once or twice a year, and by the time Katie was in her final year at school, it had virtually stopped.

I didn’t blame her, particularly. I knew that these things can happen in relationships, that it was something that couples needed to work through. But every time I raised it with Beth she shut the conversation down. Eventually, I became so frustrated that I started watching porn during the day. That was a big mistake. They say porn can be addictive, and they’re right. My work began to suffer as my appetite for porn grew. I couldn’t stop myself. I felt guilty about it, sure, but that wasn’t the only thing I felt guilty about.

Katie was my other guilty secret. She was eighteen. She was tall, willowy, with long blonde hair and a tanned, lithe body. Her breasts were perfect: round, perky, and when she ran through the house in just a little top and shorts – no bra – I had to close my eyes so that she wouldn’t see me staring at her breasts. Seriously, the way they jiggled under her tight tops was incredible. She didn’t seem to have any clothes that were not short, skin-tight or low-cut. One dinner, she sat directly opposite me and I could see her nipples clearly through her white tee. I sat there, unable to look up from my food because I knew I would stare.

It didn’t help that she appeared to have no self-consciousness. She had always been precocious – in every way – but she also seemed to enjoy showing off her body, or at least, felt very relaxed about it. In fact, I barely saw her wearing more than two items of clothing. She had the habit of working out in just a pair of yoga pants and a lycra top, or wandering through the house after showering, wearing just a white towel.

The combination of being sex-starved and in close proximity to Katie was too much for me. One night, I woke in the middle of an erotic dream about my step-daughter. My cock was rock hard and my heart was pounding. I sneaked out of bed to the bathroom, and there, I stroked myself to orgasm. I couldn’t help it. I crept back to bed, slipped between the sheets, and lay there, listening to Beth snoring. As I lay, wallowing in guilt, I made a decision. I had to resolve this situation, one way or another.

The next day, I deleted all of the links to porn on my computer, cleared my browser history and started my search for solutions. As Beth didn’t want to talk about our sexual problems, it was down to me to do the work. I logged on to some forums for marital problems and laid out my issue. I got loads of responses, many from women, offering suggestions and I began to feel optimistic that this was something we could work through.

But how would I broach the subject with Beth? She seemed certain that there was no problem and never wanted to even discuss the issue. As I was pondering how to go about it, I had a message from a guy who was a member of one of the sites. His name was Brad, and he sounded pretty sleazy. He said that in my case, Beth was the problem and that I should consider an affair. I told him I would never do that. So then he suggested an alternative.

Brad sent me a link to a site that he said would change my life. Naturally, I was skeptical. But I was in between work tasks at the time, so I clicked on the link, which took me to a site for Marital Intimacy Solutions. The solutions, it turned out, were pharmaceutical: specifically a pill that it was claimed could turn the least amorous woman into a sex-obsessed bimbo.

Obviously, I was appalled. The site looked dodgy, and the pictures of sexually-provocative blonde bimbos, that had clearly been taken from porn shows, were rather degrading, though I could feel my cock stirring as I gazed at them. Surely it was wrong to use drugs to solve this problem? But then, I reasoned, that the pills probably wouldn’t even work. I could always test them on myself, I thought, if I didn’t want to give them to Beth. They weren’t that expensive, so I ordered a packet, and soon forgot about it.

A week later the drugs arrived. When I opened the plain parcel, the packaging inside depicted another blond sex goddess lying semi-naked and pouting. I quickly ripped up the package and stuffed the pills into my pocket.

All day I pondered what to do? Was I really going to do this? Was it fair? By that evening, I had decided that I wasn’t going to do it, that was, I had decided until Beth came through the door. She had been at work all day but she still looked gorgeous. I wanted her so much, wanted to feel her pressing her enormous breasts against me, wrapping her smooth legs around me, pushing her tongue into my mouth, like we did when we were first together.

She asked me to fetch her a glass of wine, and I made up my mind, there and then. Shakily, I poured the glass of Cabernet and was about to pop one of the pills out of its casing when Beth came into the kitchen. Quickly I dropped the pill into the medicine draw.

“Oh honey, by the way, I have to go to a teaching conference this weekend. I’ll be leaving in the morning. You don’t mind do you? I’ll be back Monday.”

“Of course not,” I replied, smiling nervously.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, kissing me on the cheek and returning to the living room. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Thank goodness I hadn’t given her that pill.

“Honey, can you bring my wine now?” she called from the other room.

“Just coming,” I replied, reaching into the medicine drawer without looking and grabbing the packet of pills.

*  *  *  *

I dropped the pills into the drawer by my side of the bed while Beth was in the bathroom. I had hoped that perhaps the two glasses of wine she’d drunk that evening would have relaxed her and maybe stirred something in her, but when I kissed her lightly on the shoulder, she had murmured something about having to be up early the next day and moved away, so I rolled over and soon fell asleep.

I woke with the sun streaming into our bedroom. I turned over and saw an empty space. The wardrobe was open and some of her clothes were missing. I couldn’t hear anyone moving around. Beth had gone. I sighed, turning to lie on my back, instinctively slipping my fingers into my shorts. I was hard, as usual, though I couldn’t remember what I’d dreamt about.

Suddenly I heard a soft, light tapping on the door. I didn’t have time to reply before the door opened and Katie sauntered in. My cock instantly stiffened. As usual she was wearing a flimsy little top – a grey one with a pink Barbie on it – and a tiny pair of shorts. She walked over to the bed, smiling, and slumped down onto it.

“Hey, good morning. Do you mind if we hang out for a bit?” she said, kneeling on the bed, and tilting her head at me.

“N…no…not at all,” I replied, shifting in the bed, hoping that my erection wasn’t obvious. She smiled and thanked me.

“It’s just I’m really stressed with all the exams and everything. I was up late last night and I dropped another tab of adderall but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

I tried not to stare at the ample curves of her young breasts that were clearly visible through her tee but my cock was rock hard now.

“Well…if there’s anything I can do to help…”

She smiled and put her hand down onto the bed.

“Oh thanks, you’re the best. Older guys are so wise. I guess that’s why I have a thing for them,” she said, smiling.

I couldn’t reply. Her hand was just an inch or two away from the bulge in the bedsheet that betrayed my erection. As I watched, my throat dry, she slid her slender hand up the sheet until it was almost at my bulge. I looked up into her eyes. Her pupils were dilated and between her parted lips I could see the tip of her tongue.

At that moment, a loud musical ringtone burst out. Katie closed her eyes.

“Oh that’s probably Tiffany. I have to get that.”

I watched her flounce off the bed and hurry out of the room and closed my eyes. I adjusted position in the bed, trying to push my erection down. What had happened to her? Why was she behaving like this? And then it dawned on me.

Hurriedly, I opened the bedside draw and pulled out the set of pink bimbo tablets. Except the row of tablets in my hand were not pink. I was holding a set of adderall tablets. If I had the adderall, that must mean that Katie had…

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The Hitman’s Sex Doll

I was back late that night. I’m not sure what time it was exactly, but it was well after one in the morning, because I remember Emily checking her watch as we left the bar. I hadn’t had much to drink, just those two glasses of Merlot with that hot guy who’d been checking me out at the bar.

Meeting random strangers in bars is not the kind of thing I normally do, unless there’s a story in it, but he was exactly my type: strong, broad shoulders, well over six foot, the sort of guy I could imagine overpowering me in bed. And the party at the News had been so dull that I wanted to make a night of it. As it turned out, I had quite the night after all. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The guy was cute, but boring as hell. His main topic of conversation was himself, followed by his workout regime, and then his ex-wife. I bailed after an hour or so, and was about to leave the bar when I saw my friend Emily. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, since she went to work for the Clarion. She was on her way home after a bad date, so we commiserated with one another over non-alcoholic fruit drinks, trashing men in general and agreeing that we both needed some romance in our lives. It was fun, but eventually she called it a night and, sober, tired and frustrated, I climbed the steps up to my apartment because the lift was out as usual.

In my bedroom I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Despite the fact that I had been out for six hours, I still looked good, which was some compensation for a generally boring night. Every year it was the same. The office held a staff get-together and I got dressed up. The first time, I was definitely trying to make an impression. But as time went by and I realized my career was stuck in a dead-end, I only carried on dressing up for these occasions out of a strange sense of duty. I was the youngest one in the place, and well, someone had to make the effort.

So once again I had squeezed into the tightest, second-shortest outfit in my wardrobe: a black, clingy, off the shoulder thing that reached maybe a third of the way down my thigh. As it was nearly holiday season, I thought I could get away with sparkly hold-ups, and glittery five inch heels, which I loved because they made a powerful thudding sound as I walked around the office, and they made me taller than my boss.

I looked good, no in fact, I looked hot. I turned round slowly, admiring myself in the mirror. I had always been gawky and awkward in high school, but now I looked damn good. My hips had filled out, I had great legs, and a cute butt and my breasts were just right. A real handful, as Emily had described them, giggling. I smiled, but then I sighed. I had no problem attracting hot guys, the problem was finding someone who fitted my needs. I had no time for timid or feminine men. I wanted a strong man, a guy who would take control, a masterful man.

That had been my fantasy since I was a teenager. It was why I had written those erotic stories about the innocent girl who gets kidnapped and turned into a sex slave by a strong man. They were pretty wild, and pretty hardcore. I really let my creative juices flow when I wrote them and surprised myself with how hot they were. I deleted them from the internet site where I’d uploaded them when I got the job at the News. Still, I’d often felt tempted to try out the fantasies. I’d even bought some bondage gear, but finding a man who fitted the bill, who would be able to help me fulfill my dreams; well I’d given up on that.

Sighing again, I slipped out of my heels and wandered out of my bedroom into the kitchen to make myself a snack. I’d just opened the refrigerator when I heard a strange noise, like one of the neighborhood cats scratching. The scratching grew louder, and there was a tapping noise too. I sighed and wandered over to the window. I couldn’t see anything, but I could still hear it, so I walked over to the balcony door and opened it, slowly. That was my first and last mistake.

It happened so quickly. A hand was clamped across my mouth, a hand in a leather glove and I felt the weight of someone pushing me backwards into the kitchen, slamming me against the refrigerator. Eyes wide, I tried to struggle, but it was no use. Whoever it was had me pinned tightly in the dark. And then I felt it. Something that made my blood run cold: the icy metal of a gun barrel pressed against my temple.

*  *  *  *

My name is Nikki. I was a journalist at the Daily News, the city’s seventh largest newspaper. I had been there for five years, though it felt longer. I worked hard, I mean, really hard. I had been focused on being a journalist for a long time. It wasn’t my first choice. I wanted to be a poet. But poetry doesn’t pay the bills, so journalism it was.

I worked hard, damned hard. From the day I started at the News I was always one of the first through the doors in the morning and the last to leave. I took every story that came my way. I attended hundreds of tedious municipal meetings, sat through endless boring court cases and pounded the streets looking for the big story. Some days I didn’t leave until two in the morning and was back in the next day at six.

That may sound extreme, but the newspaper industry is pretty competitive and if you aren’t getting ahead, then you’re falling behind. I was determined to be the best. But sometimes, your best isn’t good enough. It gradually dawned on me that the newspaper industry was all about who you knew, and at the News, that was the golden rule. Sure, I made contacts, I cultivated people, I tried to network, but some of the relationships in that office and across the city’s newspaper trade went back decades. All the best stories, all the best leads and all the profile went to the paper’s senior writers. Even if I did land a big story, it was taken away from me.

I wanted to leave. But to leave, like Emily, I needed a big story, otherwise I’d be just moving sideways to the Bugle or the Chronicle, and I knew from the girls who worked there that those papers were no different. I wanted to move up into the big leagues, and I wasn’t going to do that with articles about the Mayor’s budgetary reconciliation plan or write-ups of shoplifting cases.

So when I got a lead, a big lead, to one of the biggest stories the city had seen for years, I grabbed it. We were supposed to update the editor about what we were working on every day, but I kept it quiet. My plan was to do the research, do the write up, get it ready to go, and then confront the editor. If he tried to take the story off me, I would walk, and take it to the Post or the Times.

The story had started with a call from a clerk at city hall. I had chatted to him about the budgetary reconciliation story and, in between his attempts to look down my blouse, he had explained to me how the budget committee worked.

Out of the blue, one morning, he called me at work. He sounded very nervous. He said that he had a big story, a huge story, but that he couldn’t talk on the phone and wanted to meet me, alone, in a place where we couldn’t be overheard. When I asked where, he suggested a parking area of the National Forest about five miles out of the city.

The prospect of meeting him alone didn’t exactly delight me, and the fact that he suggested meeting in a secluded woodland rang all my alarm bells. But he did claim to have a big story, and he did genuinely sound frightened, so I took the chance. I borrowed a car from a friend and drove out to meet him in the woods. I was right. He was terrified. He refused to get out of his car, and kept looking behind him. Through the window he passed me an envelope and told me that the Mayor was involved in money laundering and was siphoning public funds into his own account. He wouldn’t let me question him and drove off after he’d given me the documents.

I didn’t entirely believe him. Mayor Ferguson was one of the most popular politicians in the country. Why would he jeopardize that for the sake of a few thousand dollars? Turns out, it wasn’t a few thousand. It was more like a few million. As I looked through the documents I felt a shiver go through me. It was all true. There was clear evidence: bank statements, deleted emails, screenshots from accounting programs. And there were transcripts of phone calls between the Mayor and others, discussing how to launder the money.

I didn’t tell anyone I was working on it. This was going to be my story alone, and I was going to get the credit for it. As the days went by and I dug deeper, I couldn’t believe the information I was getting. Everything checked out. I was able to lay out a chronology of events that conclusively implicated the Mayor, not just in money laundering for Russian and Chinese gangs, but also the siphoning of millions of dollars from various city funds into his own account. The story was dynamite, and I was sure it would make my name. It was my ticket to the big time.

But about two weeks after I’d got the documents, things started to get weird. First, the clerk skipped town. His wife said he’d left on work business, but that didn’t make sense. I finally tracked him down on his mobile. He spoke to me for about thirty seconds, telling me to drop the story, that he was in danger; that I was in danger. That was the last I heard from him.

The next day I had the first anonymous phone call. At the beginning, these calls were just odd. I would answer, but there would be nothing at the other end. Then the calls started happening in the middle of the night. I got into the habit of turning off my phone, but I couldn’t turn it off during the day, and the frequency of the phone calls increased. On one call, a man threatened to break my legs, and then hung up. The threats grew worse, more intimidating. They were going to kill me, they were going to rape me, they were going to throw me in the river.

I was scared, but I couldn’t tell anyone. If I went to my editor, he would take the story off me, and would think I lacked courage into the bargain. He was an old-school editor, who believed journalists had to be tough, physically brave and mentally strong. I wasn’t going to be labelled as a lightweight and pulled off the story. I would probably never get another story like this.

I could go to the police, but how could I be sure they would take it seriously? Mayor Ferguson was tight with all the senior police figures; their support had played a big role in his election. I couldn’t trust the police. Hell, for all I knew, they were the ones behind the calls.

But it wasn’t just calls. I started receiving letters. They were usually short but always contained explicit, violent threats, written in red ink. Every time I got one, I took a deep breath, read it, then screwed it up and threw it in the bin. I pushed on. I wasn’t going to be intimidated and I was going to finish my story. The night of the paper’s get together I had nearly done. But I needed to get out the house, away from my phone and away from the increasingly paranoid fears that had been taking me over. The night out was a disappointment but it had taken my mind off my fears, particularly the nagging feeling that I was being watched, stalked, that I wasn’t safe.

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* this book includes bonus book: Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother

The Queen’s Concubine

I couldn’t tell how long I had been in that filthy dungeon. I had drifted in and out of sleep a few times, but every time I woke up I was greeted with the same dismal, damp surroundings. My ragged floor-length dress didn’t keep me warm and the iron manacles at my wrists and ankles were making my skin sore.

I was the only prisoner in that cell, and the loneliness added to my despair. I was locked deep underneath the Queen’s castle, with no food or water. I was cold, hungry and hopeless and every so often I heard a blood-curdling scream that made me tremble.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the corridor outside and I froze. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock. Instinctively, I huddled back into my corner of the dungeon. The heavy stone door opened slowly. Two of the Queen’s accursed guards came in and stood either side of the doorway. They were followed by a haughty-looking woman in a long red robe. She wore elaborate make-up and her hair was tied up tight atop her head.

”Is this the peasant girl?”

”Yes ma’am.”

She looked at me and sniffed.

“Scrawny little thing isn’t she. Still, the Queen’s appetite is insatiable these days. Take her upstairs. My servants will prepare her.”

As the guards drew close to me, I hunched up and tried to back away further into my corner. When would my nightmare end?

*  *  *  *

My name is Alina. I was born to a simple family in a small village on the edge of our nation. The village is a long way from the capital and close to the border with Slizea. A long time ago, the Slizeans had a great empire, built through kidnapping and enslaving people from the neighboring territories, including our village.

My parents taught me that the Slizeans were cruel, immoral people, who cared nothing for right and wrong, and only understood violence and desire. They told me terrible stories of what happened to young girls from our village when the Slizeans attacked. Many of our girls were taken, captured, dragged back to the castles and palaces of the Slizeans and never seen or heard from again. My parents taught me that if the alarm sounded to signal a Slizean attack, I was to drop everything, not to look back and to run into the forest outside the village, there to hide until the danger was past.

Yet none of these raids had happened in my lifetime. Our village was kept safe by patrols sent by our king to guard the borderlands. Those of us who had never seen a Slizean raid began to doubt that they had ever happened, or at least, suspected that the elders were exaggerating about how terrible they were.

But in my twentieth year, things changed. A new ruler came to the throne in Slizea, a Queen known only as the Dark One. She was reputed to be the most terrible, evil and insatiable ruler that Slizea had ever known. Her armies soon began to attack our lands, and gradually, the patrols that protected our village became less and less frequent.

I still wasn’t worried. It all seemed so far away, the war and the Dark One. My parents and their neighbors sat around the fire at night frightening one another with stories of the Slizeans, but I ignored it. I thought they were being foolish. I was young, free and happy.

One day, I was carrying a pail of milk from the village milking shed to our hut when I heard a distant horn sounding. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, but then I heard screaming and saw villagers starting to run. One of them shouted that the Slizeans were coming.

Dropping my pail, I turned and started to run. But I wasn’t quick enough. I had barely reached the open grassland behind our village, when I heard the thunder of hooves. Over my shoulder I caught a glimpse of black riders and huge horses. As I tried to run, I felt something wrap around my legs and tighten, causing me to sprawl onto the ground.

I struggled desperately, shaking my whole body, but I couldn’t escape. Two black-armourer soldiers had dismounted and were turning me over, tying rough, tight rope around my wrists, pulling on the rope so hard that I screamed out. I tried to shout for help, but they laughed at me, and dragged me along the ground. Eventually, I was lifted up and thrown onto the back of a horse. Lashed to the saddle, they galloped back through the village. I saw houses and people and other soldiers as we sped by, but it was so disorientating that I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, we had stopped. Two more soldiers lifted me off the horse and dragged me to a wooden cage on the back of a cart. I was lifted up and thrown inside, along with three other girls from my village. They were all too frightened to speak, but we all hugged one another, with tears in our eyes as the cart began to roll away, rumbling out of our village and across the border, heading into the black heart of Slizea.

*  *  *  *

I was grateful to be free of the manacles but I was weak and stumbled more than once as I was led up a flight of stone steps to the upper levels of the castle. A door was opened onto a room with straw on the floor and a roaring fire. On the fire was a black cauldron full of something boiling and in the centre of the room was a giant bowl made of polished white stone. Two servant girls, with long blonde hair and delicate white gowns were busy with the cauldron, but stopped what they were doing to stare at me.

“What is that?” I muttered, pointing at the bath in fear.

The courtier shook her head.

“You peasants are disgusting. That is a bath.”

She clapped her hands and the servants hurried over.

“See to it that she is clean and presentable for her majesty. You have one hour.”

With that, the courtier turned on her heels and left me alone with the servant girls. They both smiled at me. They were tall and clean-skinned and seemed to be well-practiced in dealing with village girls. The first servant led me to the white bowl and told me to climb into it, which I did, with some help. I watched the other girl take water from the cauldron and mix it with water from a pail into a second bucket.

Distracted, I didn’t notice what the second servant girl was doing, until I felt a tugging at the waist of my dress. Before I could react, she had unfastened it and the dress was slipping off my shoulders. I tried to hold it on, but it was too late. The dress fell away, and she pulled it clear of me. I was standing naked in the room, feeling the combination of cold air and the heat from the fire bathing my skin. I tried to cover my nakedness, but the servant girls didn’t seem to notice it. The first one brought the bucket of water over and then they both began to bathe me, tipping one bucket of water after another over me. Between each dousing, they rubbed fine-smelling oils and potions against my body. At first I recoiled in shame at their touch, but they continued with their work and I got used to it. It reminded me of how my mother used to bathe me, in the bucket we shared with our neighbors.

When they had finished with the bathing, I climbed out of the bath and they gave me a soft cloth to dry myself. Then they handed me my new clothes, which was nothing more than a single black leather tunic. As the first servant girl pulled the cord at the front of it tight, pressing my breasts together, I breathed in sharply. The tunic was so short, it barely reached halfway down my thigh. Worse still, there were no other garments. I was completely naked underneath it. It was awful! It was immoral! I couldn’t wear something like that!

“I can’t wear this!” I protested.

“It is her majesty’s preference,” said the first servant girl, smiling.

“What…what will she do to me?”

The second servant girl giggled.

“You will find out.”

“Beware her kiss,” said the other girl.

I did not have time to ask what she meant, because just then the door opened and the courtier reappeared. She looked me up and down, then nodded.

“Good. Follow me,” she said.

I was escorted out of the room, feeling the cold air against my legs, against my half-exposed breasts, and between my thighs. I felt so ashamed. That strangers were able to gawp and gaze at my body was a great disgrace.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was led up another flight of stairs to a high wooden door, watched over by two more black-armored soldiers.

“We have brought her Majesty’s prize,” said the courtier. One of the guards leered at me and opened the door. The courtier nodded at me to enter. I took a few, cautious steps forward and then heard the heavy wooden door slam closed behind me.

The room was huge and warmed by an enormous roaring fire set in one wall. The floor was covered in deep, luxurious rugs. Off to one side was a table piled with plates of food, upon which my gaze lingered, longingly. And dominating the centre of the room was a large, imposing bed, covered in red silk sheets, upon which reclined the Queen of Slizea.

She said nothing for a moment or two, looking at me with her head tilted to one side, until finally, she spoke, her voice ringing loudly in that room.

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Cuckolded Unlimited: 18 Wife Watching Books

I’ve got a NEW bundle of 18 wife watching books.  It consists of:

  1. He Follows
  2. The Bully
  3. Island Fever
  4. Black Bull White Wife
  5. Hotwife Valentine
  6. Blindfolded Surprise
  7. Forced To Watch Over Skype
  8. The Photo Shoot
  9. I Made Him Watch
  10. My Wife Gets Even
  11. Mafia’s Plaything
  12. Revenge
  13. The Mafia & My Wife
  14. The Chalet: Watching My Wife With Sasquatch
  15. The Cavern: Watching My Wife With Sasquatch
  16. Betting My Wife: Cuckolded By Republican Journalist
  17. Honey Is That You?
  18. My Schizophrenic Slut Wife

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My Swinging Confession

My name is Helen and I guess you could say that this is my confession.

I live in a respectable street of a respectable suburb upstate. I won’t tell you exactly where, but you can probably already imagine the place. A secluded road with neat, comfortably-apportioned houses; each house with its own immaculately trimmed and tended lawn; pure white picket fence; wide, welcoming drive way and delicate floral borders.

The Avenue. It could not be more suburban and stereotypical. But I, we, like it here. I live at number four, with my husband, Jack. We married five years ago, when we were both just out of college and we are still very much in love. In many ways, our life in the Avenue for the first five years was idyllic. I worked as a librarian at the local adult college and Jack worked as a software developer. We worked hard, we spent our evenings at the movies, or curled up on a sofa together. We could afford long holidays, we gardened, attended charitable functions. Sometimes we went to a baseball game, sometimes we took in a show. Life was perfect.

Well, almost perfect. There was one thing that nagged at me, one little persistent, consuming, burning itch that I longed to scratch. It was something that I didn’t dare share with Jack for a long time. For around four years, in fact, until it just came out.

I had drunk too much Merlot. We were in bed, I had slipped out of my panties while Jack was in the bathroom and had been stroking myself, teasing my nipples, my clit, with my fingers and feeling like such a naughty, filthy, wanton slut. So I told him. When he came out of the bathroom, with just a towel wrapped around him, I told him my dirty secret. I told him I wanted to see him fuck another woman, in our bed. I just blurted it out.

He was silent. I could hear my heart thudding. Then he smiled. He came and sat on the bed, kissed me full on the lips, and then nodded.

“That would be fun,” he said.

The next morning I asked him if he remembered what I’d told him. His wicked grin told me that he had. At first I was ashamed and embarrassed, but he held my hand and said that he was honored that I had felt able to share something so personal and that he loved me. And after all, I told myself, it was just a fantasy. There was nothing wrong with fantasy.

So I got over my embarrassment, and for a few days, the relief of unburdening myself was glorious. It felt so naughty, so wicked, so transgressive. I had bared my innermost desires, exposed them to the man I love and he hadn’t flinched. I felt like the kind of dangerous, disreputable girl I had always fantasized about being, but at the same time it also felt as though I had found a new level of love and intimacy with Jack.

That feeling would only grow deeper the following Saturday, when Jack, after three whiskies, took my hand as we sat on our bed and told me that it would be hot if I was with another man. It was dark in our room when he said those thrilling, dangerous words, and I saw the fear in his eyes, his fear that I might be horrified. But I wasn’t horrified. Not at all. Though I had never really thought about it before, the idea stirred something in me. Yes, I wanted that too.

Jack told me that he loved it when I moaned and gasped with pleasure and he wanted to see me like that, with another man, like I was starring in an erotic film. He wanted me to gaze into his eyes as I was fucked by a stranger. The way he described it was so hot. I asked him to tell me again and he did, embroidering the fantasy with all kinds of erotic talk, dirty words, wild ideas, all of which sent shivers of pure lust through me.

We made love that night, as passionately as we ever had, at least, before we met the Porters. Three, four, maybe five weekends in a row, we got drunk together and told one another all about our dirty secret fantasies, embellishing the stories with ever more outlandish ideas, until we had driven each other wild and then we would fuck over and over until we were exhausted.

Over the weeks, the heat of that passion grew less intense. We spoke of it less frequently, and the novelty and thrill of being open about it faded. But the itch remained. That didn’t fade. It was always there, whenever I touched myself, whenever Jack touched me, whenever I closed myself and surrendered to the all-consuming fire of my orgasm. The thought of Jack and another woman and me watching, sitting naked at the end of the bed as he fucked another woman, sensing their sweating, glistening bodies as he made her scream. Oh I wanted that so much.

I’m not sure where it came from. I guess a skilled psychiatrist could plumb the depths of my subconscious and drag out the truth, but I didn’t really care. All I knew was that the thought of Jack with another woman, a hot woman, a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous woman, was both frightening and gloriously exciting. Perhaps it was the forbidden aspect. That isn’t how it is supposed to be. A woman is supposed to be jealous of her husband’s affection. Perhaps it was that risk. What if he enjoyed having sex with her more than me? The risk that he would leave. The risk that I would lose everything. It was partly that, but it was also the idea of watching it, watching Jack being passionate, the writhing limbs, the forbidden, transgressive sex in our bed.

But after a few weeks, Jack stopped referring to it, and as we had never got round to working out how to arrange it, I resigned myself to it remaining as just a glorious fantasy.

Around six months after I had confided in him, Jack came home late from work one day and gave me some bad news. Apparently, we had to entertain his boss, Michael Porter, and his wife. I groaned when he told me. We don’t do a lot of entertaining. Sure, we have friends over from time to time and family, but those are all people we know, people we don’t have to impress. The Porters were different. But according to Jack, there was no way round it. He was desperate to get the promotion to head of section, and he needed to improve his relationship with his boss.

So that Saturday night, I slipped into my tightest black party dress – my only black party dress – which was much shorter than I remembered. As I tugged at the hem to try to pull it down at least over my mid-thigh, Jack came into the bedroom and whistled.

“Is it too much?” I asked

“It’s perfect,” he replied, patting me on the ass and kissing me on my neck, which sent a little tingle of pleasure all the way through me.

The Porters were punctual, and brought two bottles of expensive wine with them, which I gladly swapped for the rather cheap bottle I had bought. They were older than us, maybe late forties, but both obviously worked out. Michael Porter was tall, greying a little at the temples, but square-jawed with big shoulders and a wide, welcoming smile. I found myself blushing a little the first few times he turned the smile on me, like a nervous girl at a high school dance.

Anna was a little taller than me, with short dark hair, but the kind of body that I have always been envious of. Curvy to the point of being overtly sexy, her breasts heaved in a tight red velvet dress, and she swayed when she walked. Her sparkling smile was kind of captivating too, and it was obvious that Jack was having trouble not staring at her chest whenever he looked at her. I didn’t mind that. I thought it was cute, and told myself I would tease him about it later.

Dinner went well. The Porters were good company, charming, but not showy. They talked about their holiday home in Florida, their wedding, and both had a store of anecdotes from their previous lives. Michael had been a footballer, while Anna had done a little modeling. The wine was flowing and the conversation was easy when Michael asked if we’d like to play a little poker.

As it happened, we had played quite a lot while we were in college, and the idea sounded fun. Jack dug out some old poker chips from the back of the wardrobe, I cleared away the plates and soon we were sitting around the dining table playing a little Texas Hold ‘Em.

Jack, Michael and I were playing pretty well, winning our share of hands, but Anna, who seemed to be drinking a little more than the rest of us, was soon down to her last chip. When she turned over a pair of Kings and I showed three twos, she laughed and pushed her chip across the table to me.

“I guess I’m done,” she said, laughing, casually resting her hand on Jack’s arm. He was a little flustered, which I thought was so cute. I smiled across the table at him and he smiled back, before blushing and looking at his cards.

“Oh now, we can let you stay in. But you have to offer a little something,” said Michael, dealing the next hand. Anna looked at him with a smirk.

“Oh really? And what did you have in mind?”

Michael smiled and said nothing.

“Well I don’t have any valuable jewelry to play with, so I guess I’ll just have to strip,” she said, pouting a little.

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Showing Her Who’s Boss: Forced Lesbian Submission

*This book has been ADULT listed by Amazon.  It will only be found through my links and Author’s page.

My name is Tina Strong. I’m the CEO of GlobeCorp. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s one of the world’s fastest-growing corporations. I oversee operations that employ half a million people. I’ve been featured in Time and profiled in every business magazine in the world. My contacts book includes world leaders, billionaires, religious leaders, Hollywood producers, UN officials; I’m one of the most well-connected women in international business.

As you can imagine, I’m used to getting my own way. It’s always been like that. I guess I was quite a spoilt girl. My daddy was an oil executive and he used to give me everything I wanted. The other kids were jealous. They would call me Lady Strong. But it didn’t bother me. Yes I had advantages, but I worked damn hard, at school, at college and in business and I’ve reached the top faster than all of my peers. Want to know how I did it?

I have high expectations of myself and I apply those standards to others. I can’t stand inefficiency, incompetence or idleness. If you want to work for Tina Strong, you’ve got to be the best. I learned early on in business that you’ve got to be tough; you’ve got to dominate every meeting, every conversation. And that’s what I do. I know people call me a bitch behind my back. I don’t care. I know that I’m in charge and I am dominant in every situation, with everyone I meet.

Well, almost everyone. As with any rule there is always an exception. Let me tell you about mine.

It started about a year ago when I broke in a new personal assistant. I go through a lot of PAs. What can I say? I have high standards. A new PA doesn’t shape up, I cut them loose very quickly, and I make no apologies for that. GlobeCorp can’t afford to carry passengers. Of course, the downside of the high PA turnover is that I’ve built up a reputation among the agencies and none of them will take my calls. Fortunately, a business friend of mine, Tom, was able to recommend a PA, Maria, who had worked for him before. When I asked him on the phone what she was like, he hesitated, and then he said just one word. “Ruthless.”

I didn’t understand what Tom meant. Ruthlessness isn’t a quality that you need in a PA. He had also suggested that Maria was attractive. This didn’t bother me. I’m not jealous when it comes to other women, in fact having a stunning PA can be an asset. Most of the people I had to deal with were men, and men are always knocked off balance by hot women.

Two hours later, Maria was standing in my office. Tom had not done her justice. She was more than attractive, she was gorgeous. Shorter than me, with long, dark, silky hair, a perfect petite body, pouting lips, high cheekbones and she was wearing the shortest skirt I’ve seen in an office environment. There was also something strange about her. Every PA I’ve interviewed has been nervous in my presence, but Maria wasn’t at all nervous. She smiled throughout. In fact, it was more of a smirk than a smile. But I was busy, so I overlooked it.

It turned out that Maria’s effectiveness as a PA was in inverse proportion to her looks. I could see through my office window that there was a steady stream of men finding pretexts to come up to my floor and gawp at her. I didn’t particularly appreciate that, because rather than putting them in their place, she seemed actively to encourage it. I heard her giggling and flirting more than once but I let it go for the first day or two. That wasn’t the only thing I let go.

Maria’s phone manner was awful. The emails she sent on my behalf were poorly written and rudely addressed. She didn’t seem to know where any of the files were, and often I would have to buzz her three times before she bothered to reply. When she double-booked me for a meeting on her third day, and didn’t even apologize when I pointed out her error, I decided I would have to let her go. That evening, after I’d taken my last appointment, I buzzed her to come through into my office. There was no reply. I buzzed again, twice more. Still nothing.

Irritated, I marched through into her office, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called through to Lisa, one of the other secretaries to find out what had happened to Maria. Lisa told me that my new PA was drinking coffee with Michael, one of the sales directors. By this time I was fuming, so I marched into Michael’s office. To say he was surprised to see me was an understatement. He was sitting at his desk, but seemed slightly disheveled and had also turned a bright shade of pink.

“Oh, hi Miss Strong, I…er…can I help you?”

“Have you seen Maria?”


“My PA.”


“That’s not really true is it,” said a voice from underneath his desk. Moments later, Maria emerged, refastening the top button of her blouse and straightening her hair. Mortified, Michael began fumbling with his pants as Maria calmly walked around the desk to stand in front of me.

“My office! Now!”

“Yes boss,” said Maria, smirking and doing a little bow.

*  *  *  *

“What the hell was that?”

Maria stood at my desk. I had made her stand in front of me instead of sitting but neither that nor my tone had managed to wipe the smirk off her face.

“What was what?”

“Do you think that is acceptable behavior for a PA?”

She shrugged.

“It was fun.”

I shook my head. What the hell had Tom been thinking? Actually, as soon as I thought about it, it was obvious that Tom hadn’t been thinking at all, at least not with his brain.

”I’m going to fire you, Maria, but before I do that, I’m going to set you straight on a few things.”

“No you’re not,” she said, and tilted her head, smiling at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not going to fire me.”

“Who do you think you are girl?”

She smirked again.

“Someone who knows. About George.”

“George? I don’t know any George?”

“George Markham.”

George Markham. My God! How did she know about George Markham. I don’t have many regrets in my life, but that was one.

I should explain. George is, was, one of my father’s business associates, a very wealthy man, who made his money from shrewd investments and buyouts. I was in college and struggling. My father always said that when it came to college, I had to learn how to budget and survive on my own. It was an essential component to being successful in business. Of course, I didn’t take it seriously. I spent all my money on parties, on maintaining my pre-college lifestyle and when I went back to him for a loan, he refused to help.

That’s where George came in. I guess it was a sort of business relationship, though I didn’t like to think of it like that. He would pick me up outside the college, we’d go to a hotel or sometimes to one of his apartments and he would fuck me. He was a kind man, but he had a few kinks, a few fetishes. He liked me to dress up as a schoolgirl or a maid. Sometimes he tied me up and spanked me with a paddle. Fortunately our sessions never lasted long, because he could never hold himself back. I guess I can see that. The hot eighteen year old daughter he had been lusting after for months was suddenly lying on his bed dressed as a slutty schoolgirl.

It only lasted for the first year in college. I cut him off after that, sorted myself out and never looked back. I had assumed I would never hear that name again, particularly after he passed away through a heart attack at the age of 72. But now he was back. How the hell did she know?

“Let’s not waste any time,” she said. “Check your email.”


“You are going to want to check it, believe me.”

Irritated, I flicked up my email on my phone. There was a new message, from Maria. It had a video attachment. With a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach, I opened the video. The footage was grainy at first, then the light improved and I gasped. It was me. I was lying, naked on the bed, then George, also naked, came into shot. He climbed up on the bed and began to kiss me. I snapped my phone shut.

“How the hell did you get that?”

Maria smiled, stepped closer and perched on the edge of the desk.

“Never mind how I got it. I’ve got photos too.”

“What do you want?”

Maria leaned across the desk. Her glistening lips were close to mine and her perfume was a mixture of expensive flowers and a musty lingering scent that I took to be Michael. I thought for one moment that she was going to kiss me. Instead she smiled again.

“You will come to my apartment tonight at ten.”

“No I won’t.”

Maria shook her head and slipped off my desk.

“Oh yes you will,” she said and wandered out of my office. I watched her slink away, her hips swaying, temporarily paralyzed with fear and anger. What was this sensation? For the first time in my life, I was not in control. And it was terrifying.

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Feeding The Frat

My son’s keening wakes me for the third time that night. Muttering expletives, I get out of bed and blearily make my way to his crib, just at the foot of my bed. It would be easier to sleep with him, but I’m an active sleeper and he’s still quite small. I pick him up and he searches eagerly for my breast, which I offer without thinking. I am too tired to appreciate the magic of motherhood tonight.

As his cries fade away into happy sucking sounds, I stare out the window of my little one-bedroom apartment. I let myself wonder, as I never do during the day, where my son’s father might be now. The honest truth is that he’s probably drunk somewhere, or asleep with another woman. In none of my fantasies does he come back to me, but in all of them he is miserable and never knows happiness again for leaving me with a son that looks like him and no money to care for his child.

Miles, my son, coos happily and I settle him back into his crib, straightening my shirt and going to lie down on my Temperpedic mattress, which I had the fortune to claim at the local Goodwill for only $40. One man’s trash…

I awake the next day to dusty sunlight filtering through the windows that won’s stay clean no matter how many times I wipe them. The irony of this does not escape me as I’m perusing the “Wanted” section of the paper and my eyes light on an ad: Maid wanted for night shifts.

A couple calls later and I’m strapping Miles into the backseat of my crappy little car that no longer passes safety tests, and making a short drive into the downtown area for the interview. Rich UPenn students mill around and cut in and around me like they own the streets as well as a trust fund. A few of the boys do a double take when they see me but I ignore the attention; I no longer want it or care about it.

I pick up my maid’s outfit and grimly ignore the creepy man’s passes at attempted flirting. Even on a day like today, running on maybe three hours of sleep and dressed in sweats and a blue long-sleeve shirt, something about me draws men like flies to honey. I ignore this particular loser’s buzzing and make my escape quickly, wishing not for the first time that an article of clothing existed that would disguise the enormous roundness of my ass.

I spend the day relaxing the only way I know how to, lying with my son in a little park in a rich neighborhood that I literally smile my way into-the entrance is gated and most days I can get in. As long as the woman isn’t working the shift. It gives me a kind of perverse pleasure to see the other parent’s faces when they see my beat up little black car, and look around trying to guess who the intruder is. None of them have the guts to guess it’s me and ask me to leave but all of them could have been in my shoes, so fuck them. I make eyes at the men who occasionally walk by when their wives aren’t looking, not because I want attention but because I’m sure that somewhere, they left a woman out in the cold too.

Miles crawls rolls around and puts soft little hands on my tits, that spill up and over the little scoop-neck of my shirt. His hands are softer than my tits, something I didn’t know was possible, and I laugh and let him play with my large white globes. He doesn’t know any better, and the least I can do is teach him how to be gentle early. I try to teach him how to push himself up on his arms, to every other woman’s dismay, pushing my own arms up and arching my back like a yoga instructor. The pose makes my waist impossibly tiny and my chest impossibly big, and my curly brown hair is shaken out behind me like a lion’s mane. My son, however, is happy to gurgle and laugh at Mommy from his belly, and is resolutely uninterested in any more physical exertion. I feed him in the shade of the tree and feel the glares of the other mothers, which I also ignore. After a couple hours, I pack up and drive away, practically able to see the haze of resentment I’m driving through. The gateman’s friendly smile makes it all evaporate though, and I’m in good spirits for the rest of the day.

I drop Miles at my mother’s house that night. She can’t watch him during the day because she works too, but she eagerly takes him and the milk I’ve pumped for him tonight.

“I’m really happy you’ve found another job, Arabella.”

I hug her tightly and head out in my new work ensemble, which is just as ridiculous as a costume on my voluptuous body.

Getting back into my car, I route myself to my first address.

22 Green Street.

Backing out of the driveway, I follow the instructions carefully, and inwardly groan as they take me into the downtown area again. My destination appears to be on campus. Even worse, the app concludes my short journey in front of a large fraternity house on Greek row, the letters DKE emblazoned on the balcony in gaudy gold that probably cost as much as my rent for a month, per letter.

I get out of the car and hear the deep thumping of a bass, but the street itself is still relatively quiet. A pregame. Sighing inwardly, and anticipating the enormity of the mess I’ll probably be walking into, I walk up to the house and ring the doorbell. Steeling myself for the worst, I’m taken aback when the door is opened and a handsome face probably only a couple years younger than my own looks out at me with an eager grin.

“You’re early!” He says eagerly, ushering me inside.

“I thought you wanted me to come at eight.”

“Miscommunication, I guess,” he says, still grinning broadly. “We’re going this way.”

I follow him through the opulent entrance hall lined with portraits of rich former members who are only important in this circle of rich current members, and roll my eyes behind the back of the guy leading me from room to room. A sitting room, past a kitchen. I vaguely note that everything looks surprisingly clean, and that maybe this won’t be as bad as I’m expecting. We arrive outside a closed door and the guy turns to me, his face eager but a little serious.

“Okay, everyone is downstairs, and the idea is to intimidate the new guys but also make them feel welcome. Think you can do that?”

I’m totally taken aback and scramble for a composed answer while I work out what’s happening. “Sure.”

Seems like the safest option and thing to say.

“Perfect. You’re really hot, by the way.” He winks at me and slides the door open, gesturing for me to follow him and close the door behind me. Music starts, low and sexy, as we descend the stairs, and there’s a perceptive change in environment. I can feel…nerves? Not my own, I’m now pretty sure what’s happening and wondering how the mix-up happened, but really just glad that it’s a group of young guys instead of ones like the guy who gave me my outfit. Right before we reach the bottom, I reach out and brush my host’s hand.

“I need to tell you…I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I really am supposed to be a maid.”

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Blacked Wives: Big Black Boxer

“Janie, you wouldn’t believe how much of a release it is. Like sex, but kind of better, almost.”

Janie smiled but didn’t reply, forking a big bite of salad into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to say no, thank you, politely. Again. Thankfully, Kerry jumped in.

“Better than sex? Maybe you’re just not having good sex.”

Melissa didn’t take the bait. “Not all of us can have hot Argentinian boyfriends we met while on sabbatical for a biography project, Kerry. For my part, I’m stuck with George.”

Kerry grinned and raised her yogurt cup to toast Melissa’s comment. But Melissa wasn’t to be deterred.

“Seriously, Janie, I know you’ve got some pent-up something in you.” Kerry flashed her a warning look and she chose her next words carefully.

“Don’t you want to get all mad and hot and sweaty and hit things?”

“Not remotely,” Janie replied, having finished her big bite. “I happen to like getting up and doing a few sun salutations. Never had the urge to start hitting things.”

“That’s why you go after school, when you want to throttle some freshman for fucking up MLA format again. I swear these kids are getting dumber, there are websites that can do this shit for them.”

Janie laughed. “Imagine if you actually had to teach freshmen this year.”

“Hey,” Melissa said indignantly. “I did my time.”

“I know, I know,” Janie replied. “But still,” she added. “Not interested in hitting things. Thanks though.”

“It’s self-defense! Also,” she said casually, “The instructor is really, really hot.”

“Ah, there it is.”

“How hot are we talking?” Kerry cocked her head to the side.

“Scale of George to your Argentinian?”

“Wrong scale. He’s in another league.”

Kerry raised her eyebrows. “Janie, I think you’re going to have to go and see what she’s talking about.”

Janie sat and let the women prod and encourage her for a few minutes more before finally rolling her eyes skyward and holding up her hands. “Okay, okay, I’ll go. Today?”

Melissa’s eyes gleamed. “Yes! And yes. I’ll grab you from your afternoon class.”

A couple hours later, Melissa’s small blue Toyota rolled up to the English building and Janie slid in, her workout backpack on her lap. A short fifteen minute drive later, where the fall countryside drifted by in a haze of oranges and reds, they came to a dilapidated little garage.

Janie raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t join a cult and just need to find someone to sacrifice did you?”

“Oh, shut up, it’s just not a yoga studio. C’mon.”

They entered the building and Janie relaxed. About seven other women were already there, putting their things into large, crudely-made wooden lockers, and changing out of various work attire.

“Ladies, this is Janie!” Melissa made the announcement as her shirt came off, and her generous bust made all the women who quickly turned to look, laugh and look away. “Put those away, you hog,” one of the women called. Melissa stuck her tongue out good-naturedly and began pulling her two sports bras over the offending boobs.

Janie smiled and changed quickly, her own small bust presenting no trouble or causing no ripples. She tended to slide through the cracks like that, being built as slim and willowy as she was. She definitely hadn’t been captivating enough for her last boyfriend. Her already-flat stomach tightened at that thought, and she yanked her hair back harder than necessary into a long blonde ponytail. Maybe she did need this class.

She followed the women out of the locker room into the other large room, which was probably an out garage at some point. Music blared from overhead speakers, a bass causing a very real vibration on the floor. Punching bags were spaced at generous intervals in lines and rows in the middle of the room, and the instructor’s was at the front. Still no sign of him though, she noted. She also noted the subtle-but-fierce scramble between the women to claim the bags at the front. Melissa didn’t deign to participate, selecting a bag a couple rows back and off to the side, and confident that her rack would draw the same amount of attention as if she had claimed on front-and-center.

Looking around at all of the tightly toned bodies around her, Janie hissed. “Melissa, how long have you been coming here?”

“I’m just finishing my first session, nine classes, why?”

“I feel like a waif.”

“Should have come the last three weeks I asked you.”

Janie tugged her loose hoodie back over her torso.

“You’re going to get hot,” Melissa warned. Janie ignored her and Melissa laughed. Suddenly, there was a hush that settled like a buzz, and Janie saw him for the first time. He strode out of an office tucked into the far corner of the building that she hadn’t noticed upon entering, phone in hand, tapping the volume button down as he came.

“Holy shit.”

The words escaped her before she could help herself. Melissa laughed, low and sexy behind her. “I know, it’s absurd.”

The man was dark-skinned and tawny-eyed, and there was a feline, sexy grace to his walk that made her feel like she was being watched even as he casually strolled over. Like nothing was escaping his notice even though he couldn’t possibly have been aware of all nine of them. His shoulders were rounded with rippled muscle, and his waist was narrow, his glutes full and powerful in the black workout pants that hugged his legs. He reached the instructor’s bag and there was a small but collective sigh from the assembled. He gave a patient smile—of course he was used to this sort of thing—and his eyes roamed over them, lingering on the last, unfamiliar face.

“This is Janie, my friend I’ve been telling you about,” Melissa volunteered.

“Hi, Janie. Welcome.” He smiled slowly, appreciatively? But the glimmer was gone as soon as she thought she’d spotted it. She felt confused, warm. Surely he wouldn’t find her attractive, standing as skinny and small as she was amongst all these other lean, hungry, well-muscled women? Women that he’d helped discover their muscle, their power?

The warm ups began and she found she did whatever he asked of her. Not without struggle, but she did it. His voice was dynamic and deep, cutting across the tones of the music that again blared overhead, calling out conditioning exercise moves and repetitions and giving a substantial amount of encouragement. It was gratifying to see that even the other women, as fit as they were, were tired more than halfway through, and they hadn’t even used the bags yet. During a quick interval break, Janie turned to Kerry, who was hunched over with her hands on her knees, tits spilling out of her sports bra and gleaming with sweat. She looked up and answered before Janie asked. “Now we get to hit things.”

Her prediction came true and he called for a water break. “Okay, ladies, catch your breath and hydrate well, because when you come back onto this floor, we’re throwing some punches.”

The mood shifted, became harsher and more focused. Suddenly, even though his attractiveness was still there, Janie was aware of the frustrations, the pains, the regrets, the anger in the other women. Their break ended and they filed out onto the mat again, almost grim in their unison. Melissa’s mouth was set and her eyes were the dark color they became when she thought about her son away for a weekend at his father’s house.

He began with some basic cuts, showing them how to strike and spring back, always bearing in mind the defensive, and cautioning to never let the attack take over. “Because when that happens,” he said firmly. “You lose to yourself.”

He walked amongst them as he set them repetitions, correcting a form here, observing a particularly powerful cut here. When he reached Melissa he watched for several moment before moving to Janie without comment.

“A little less force with your arm, put more of your whole body into it. Better.” He watched her intently, his eyes flickering in different colors as the slim pixie in front of him gave her punching bag a series of smacks that wouldn’t have hurt a child. He walked away without comment.

After the class all the women’s bodies drooped in exhaustion, but they buzzed with a fierce pride and camaraderie. Showers hissed, fog mingled with sweat and the door was propped open without shame to air out the locker room, because they were all in the middle of nowhere and who cared, anyway?

Janie realized that she’d left her water bottle out on the mats, and padded out to go find it. Fortunately, it was right where she’d left it, and she was about to turn back and head back in when she noticed movement in the corner of the room, behind the glass of the office. Unsure what compelled her to walk all the way over, she paused by the window and looked in, pretty sure what she was going to see and curious to see who he’d chosen. Her eyes grew wide. Melissa’s own eyes were rolled back so she couldn’t see that she was essentially looking at her friend, but it was the instructor behind her who she couldn’t tear her eyes away from. He curled around Melissa’s body like a dark secret, his hands cupping her tits as he nipped and kissed her neck, her earlobes, her back, his body pulsing along with hers. Neither of them had showered yet, making the fog creeping up the window somehow dirtier, more secretive. Melissa came in a soft shriek and a widening of her full lips into a pretty pink O, ad he followed soon after, collapsing on top of her and sending papers streaming off his desk.

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Beast Me: Submit To The Minotaur

My name is Dana. At least, it used to be. I go by a different name these days. In fact, my life is different in every way. Now I get to fly all over the world, staying in the best hotels, attending top line scientific conferences, where I earn the respect of all my peers. Yeah, my life is pretty great. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how all of this happened.

It started around a year ago. Back then I was still Dana, a twenty-two year old research assistant to Dr Theseus Jones, a world-renowned expert on scientific ethics at the Anthromorph Institute. The Institute had been funded by the government and was Dr Jones’ personal project. His job was to enforce ethical standards in our area of science, and above all, to make sure that no-one dabbled in animal-human hybrids.

You may think that sounds a little far-fetched. I mean, animal-human hybrids? Well if there’s one thing you should know about the science world, it’s this: if you can think of an experiment, there will be someone somewhere who’s already trying it. In my months working at the Anthromorph Institute, I saw some unbelievable things, things that would blow your mind. But none of them compared to what happened when we investigated Dr Minos.

I was too junior to be involved in an investigation. In fact, throughout my nine months at the Institute, I had learned that I was too junior to be involved in anything, other than being the eye candy for the male scientists – which was all of them. Every time I walked into the lab, no matter how modest my clothing or how severely I’d tied my hair back, or how bulky my lab coat was, I could feel them all leering at me. Some days I just wanted to stand in the middle of the lab and scream at them. Hadn’t they ever seen a woman before?

Dr Jones, fortunately, wasn’t like that. I never caught him leering at me. On the other hand, he was rude, obnoxious and arrogant. Not just with me, but as the youngest member of the team, I seemed to bear the brunt of it. So when he walked into the lab, barked out my name and then disappeared back into his office one morning, I closed my eyes. With a feeling of dread, I trudged across the lab and walked into his office.

“You wanted to see me, Dr Jones?”

“I don’t want to see you, Miss Porter, but I have no choice. I’m heading out to carry out an enforcement order upstate and I need an assistant. Unfortunately, there is literally no-one else. These are the details. Get up to speed and meet me in the garage in an hour.”

With that, I was dismissed. Despite the familiar rudeness from Dr Jones, I was excited. An enforcement visit? That was where working for the Institute got serious. Every so often, a rogue unit or an unlicensed research facility failed to comply with an order so the FBI paid them a visit and one of our team got to go along. It was pretty damn exciting!

By the time I got down to the garage, I was pretty pumped, and I was up to speed on Dr Minos. A brilliant geneticist, dismissed from the Institute ten years previously, and rumored to be working on top secret borderline unethical projects, Dr Minos had been ordered to hand over his documentation a month ago, but had not complied.

His research facilities upstate were supposed to be some of the most impressive in the world, though no-one knew who was funding him. He had his own virtual kingdom, including labs, residential quarters, entertainment facilities and even his own airport. But Dr Minos had gone too far. Now we were going to enforce the order.

Oddly, though, there were no FBI personal around in the garage.

”Are we meeting the FBI there?” I asked Dr Jones.

“Not that I have to explain to the likes of you, Porter, but it won’t be necessary to have the FBI with us this time. I know Dr Minos. He is arrogant, but he isn’t foolish enough not to comply with a direct order from the Federal Government. Now, I would be grateful if you could ensure that your last inane comment is your last. I hate people talking when I drive.”

That was fine by me. Making conversation with Dr Jones was like trying to converse with a statue. An angry-looking statue. So I sat in the passenger seat as we sped out into the country heading north towards the research base known as the Maze.

We drove for an hour or so, then turned off the highway and headed down a gravel entrance road that must have been two miles or more before we arrived at a set of iron gates. Dr Jones got out the car and announced us and before he had resumed his seat, the gates had begun to creak and swing open, revealing the Maze.

It was seriously impressive. The path we followed was lined with immaculately trimmed hedges and statues of strange, mythical creatures: a dragon with several heads, a hideous old woman with the body of a snake, a swan with shapely curves and breasts. Up ahead of us was a huge country house, the kind that you only see in English films.

“Wow!” I muttered as we drew up in front of it.

We got out of the car and I hurried to catch up with Dr Jones. Before we had reached the top of the entrance steps, the massive oak doors opened. A blonde woman wearing an incredibly tight black body suit and shiny black boots, stood in the doorway.

“Dr Minos will see you now,” she said, then turned on her heels and led the way down a polished oak-lined corridor and then up a flight of stone stairs. At the top of the stairs, she opened a door and stood to one side, indicating that we should go in.

It was a kind of board room, dominated by a large desk at which sat Dr Minos. Around the room were portraits and pieces of art depicting all kinds of mythical creatures and myths and behind him a wide window showed a view of the whole site, including an enormous maze, that I presumed had given the place its name.

“Welcome Theseus, please do take a seat. And won’t you introduce me to your delightful assistant.”

“I’m Dana,” I said.

“Charmed,” said Dr Minos.

Dr Jones and I took the offered seats on the other side of the desk.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“You know why we’re here,” said Dr Jones. “You have been given an order to hand over your research. It’s time to comply.”

Dr Minos smiled.

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“You forget,” said Dr Jones, “I have seen the files. I know what you are creating here, what you have created. That creature is an unethical abomination. Human animal hybrids are strictly in violation of Federal law.”

“Ah, but the creature to which you are referring is not an animal. Nor is it human. More importantly, I found it. I did not create it.”


Dr Minos smiled.

“Dr Jones, I know where to look. And if you spent more time on studying the wisdom of ancient civilizations, you would know too.”

“Enough,” snapped Dr Jones. “You will hand over the creature and you will hand over your research to me. Now.”


“Or the FBI will execute their warrant.”

“Hmm,” said Dr Minos. “You should know, Theseus, that I don’t take kindly to threats.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“That’s a shame. You really should.”

Dr Minos pressed a button on the desk. Dr Jones and his chair disappeared suddenly from view. There was a hole in the floor where he had been sitting. I heard a distant splash and then a burst of screaming before the trapdoor snapped back into place.

“What have you done?”

“I have simplified our situation. Dr Jones was boring me. I hope you don’t make the same mistake.”

I stood up and looked around me, but two guards were already coming into the room.

“Please take Dana to one of our rest rooms and make sure she is comfortable.”

One of the guards grabbed my arm and I tried to break free, but as I did so, the other guard pressed some kind of flannel onto my face. There was an overpowering chemical smell and I felt dizzy. The room began to spin and I closed my eyes.

*  *  *  *

I was awoken by the sound of a heavy door opening. Slowly, I adjusted to my surroundings. It was a prison cell, with a stone floor and a high barred window. I was lying on a bench, covered by a thin blanket.

“Dr Minos wants you to put this on. You have five minutes.”

The woman in black threw a flimsy garment across my bed and smirked at me.

“No! Let me go! You can’t keep me prisoner.”

“I suggest you do as you are told. Dr Minos has given me orders to have you eliminated if you refuse to comply. You have five minutes.”

She smirked again and I watched her strut back out of the room, the heels of her black knee-length boots striking the stone floor hard. The door closed behind her and I was alone.

I picked up the clothes that she had left behind. They were incredibly flimsy and skimpy, just a white chiffon dress that was off the shoulder and would barely reach my thighs and a pair of strappy sandals. There was no way that I wanted to dress like that. On the other hand, I remembered what had happened to Dr Jones, so reluctantly, I stripped out of my trousers and blouse and slipped into the white dress. It was so light and delicate, it felt as though I was not even wearing any clothes.

The door to my cell opened. This time it was Dr Minos, with the same two guards who had taken me from my office.

“Ah, a true goddess. Utterly delightful. Yes. He will like you. He will like you very much.”

“Who will like me? What do you mean? You can’t keep me here like this!”

“Ah, but I can, my dear,” said Dr Minos. “Take her,” he said. I backed away but there was nowhere to hide. One of them grabbed me roughly and the other pressed another flannel into my face. I struggled and tried to shout, but I couldn’t stop myself from losing consciousness again as I watched Dr Minos’s smiling face blur and fade to black.

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