I just started a new website it can be found HERE
I will be posting at least once a week with new stories, my experiences as an erotic author, and tips for aspiring erotic authors.
I just started a new website it can be found HERE
I will be posting at least once a week with new stories, my experiences as an erotic author, and tips for aspiring erotic authors.
An excerpt from Daddy’s Debt Book One of His Debt My Innocence Series:
I’m Carly. At least, that’s my real name, the name I went by when I lived in Clark Town. That all seems so long ago now. I don’t go by that name now, in fact if you called me that I would probably grab you by the neck, force you to the ground and make you beg for mercy.
Yeah, I’ve changed. If you recognize me it will be because you’ve seen my name or my photo in the paper. The local press call me the Teen Terror. I kind of like that, and I like the picture they use of me, standing in the street, dressed in leather, holding a baseball bat. That was a fun night. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.
I haven’t been back to Clark Town since I left. I don’t think they’d recognize me. I wear a lot more make-up now and a lot fewer clothes. I swear and I drink and I guess by their standards I’m a bit of a whore. My life is a rollercoaster of violence, sex and danger and no, I haven’t been to church for quite a while. But I love the way things are.
A few months ago, it was all different. Cedar County is a pretty rural place. The city isn’t too far away, maybe twenty miles, and my Dad used to go there a lot on business. He never took me with him on those trips. Maybe he sensed what could happen to me there. So I grew up in Clark Town. It’s an old colonial town, kind of pretty I guess, with a heritage center for the tourists and a row of big houses up on the hills.
We didn’t live up there, where the big money was, but weren’t poor. I never knew my Mom. She passed away before I was two, so my Dad raised me. My Dad worked hard, had a lot of contacts, and I never wanted for anything. I can’t say ours was a particularly loving home, but my Dad wasn’t unkind, he didn’t treat me badly, and he showed me affection from time to time. I did well at school, didn’t have that many friends, kept up regular church attendance and by last summer, I was getting ready to go study business at college. When I graduated, I was going to help my Dad and maybe take it over one day.
His name is Frank. Active in the church, he served on the town council and the school board, owned a couple of properties, and had a reputation as a minor local success story. Being Frank’s daughter meant being simultaneously respected and also disliked. Half the town thought I was a spoilt little brat, the other half saw me as an angelic princess. I wasn’t either of those things, and, looking back, I don’t think I was very happy either.
My Dad had always been a little moody. He wasn’t one of those people you could describe as ‘even-tempered’. There was nothing dramatic, no shouting or smashing things but I knew when he was in a bad mood and when not to approach him. My adventure started while he was in exactly that sort of mood. His mood had lasted for days, during which time he had hardly spoken. I asked him several times what was wrong, but he refused to tell me.
One night I was up late, reading my Bible when I heard the front door being opened. As I listened, I could make out low, rough voices with distinctive city accents. After listening for a while, I put my book down and sneaked out of my bedroom, hiding just out of view at the top of the stairs. Trying hard not to make a sound, I eavesdropped on their conversation with Dad.
“So where’s the money, Frank?”
“I don’t have it.”
“I don’t fucking believe you, Frank. You owe us.”
“Look I will get it, I swear.”
My Dad’s voice was higher-pitched than usual. He was scared. Who were these people? I felt so powerless. I wanted to run down the stairs to tell them to leave him alone, but I was scared too. There was something about their voices, their tone that terrified me.
“You had long enough,” said the other one.
“Jesus what are you going to do with that!”
“Relax we aren’t going to shoot you, not here, and not like this.”
“How’s your daughter?” asked another voice. My blood ran cold as I heard them mention me. I wanted to run back to my room and hide but I was frozen to the spot with fear.
“Don’t talk about her.”
“Why not Frank? I have a proposition.”
“I don’t care, I don’t want you talking about her.”
“She a virgin?” asked another voice. I covered my mouth in shock.
“What the hell!” said my Dad, “I’m not going to answer that!”
“Listen Frank, you are in no position to refuse.”
“Go to hell!”
“Maybe I will. But I want her. I want her virginity. As part-payment.”
“What the hell!”
“If she’s a good fuck, maybe full payment. We’ll see.”
“You’re out of your mind!”
“Think about it Frank, you’ve got a week.”
I heard the door opening and shortly after, it was slammed shut. I thought I heard my father sighing as their car started up on the driveway. I wandered back to my bedroom in a daze. I had so many questions. Who were those terrible people? How could my Dad get involved with them? And why would they ask such horrible, disgusting things?
As I lay on my bed, my heart was pounding and my mind racing. I couldn’t stop myself thinking about what the men had said, about their filthy words, their degraded lust for a teenage girl. I turned it over and over in my mind and I tried to tell myself that the strange tingling sensation I felt deep in my being, the stirring of all my secret, disgraceful fantasies didn’t mean anything. But I didn’t pick up my Bible again.
Next day at breakfast, my Dad confessed. He owed some money to some very bad people. He told me he would sort it out, but he was ashen faced and looked as though he hadn’t slept, When I asked him who he owed the money to, he told me, in an emotionless voice, as though he wasn’t really there, then he asked me to promise him that I would be careful.
I thought about it all day and barely noticed a word that any of the teachers said. By the time I got home that evening, I had already begun to make a plan.
But first I needed to know more. The name my Dad had given me, Benutti, sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. So that night, after dinner, I went online to research them. What I found was horrible. The Benuttis were a crime family. Not just any crime family, but the worst in the whole city. They were involved in racketeering, illegal loans, prostitution, smuggling and kidnapping. I couldn’t believe that my Dad had gotten mixed up with people like that.
But I was going to be the one to save him. I would sort it out. I would go to them myself. I would beg them, plead with them, and make them see what a good guy my Dad was. They would be so impressed that a girl my age had been brave enough to do that, they would let my Dad off. I would be a hero. At least, that was the official plan.
Looking back, though, I think I knew at the time what I really wanted. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. I couldn’t admit that the story I had written months before, the dirty, filthy, disgusting story in which a strong, handsome mob boss kidnaps a girl like me and does terrible degraded things to her, was my deepest fantasy. I had thrown that story away, terrified that someone might find it, but it was still in my thoughts, embedded in my imagination.
So when fate handed me a chance to live out my fantasy for real, I couldn’t give myself permission to do it. I had to wrap up my real instinct, my real motive in duty, in the idea that I was going to be the hero, that I was going to save my Dad.
I planned it for the next night. I told my Dad I was going to Amy’s house on the other side of town. But under my jeans and cardigan, I wore a business skirt, a blouse and a blazer, and I caught a taxi on Main Street. The driver looked at me strangely when I told him where to go.
“You sure about that?”
“Perfectly sure, thank you,” I replied. He shrugged and turned the car round to head back to the city. I noticed him glancing at me as I slipped out of my jeans and straightened out my suit, and I wanted to tell him not to be such a pervert, but I told myself that the people I was going to meet were tough and I would need to be able to deal with it.
The cab dropped me downtown and the driver wished me good luck before slamming the door and speeding away. I stood on the trash-scattered sidewalk, looking around at the dimly-lit street and the boarded up stores and I felt my legs weaken. What had I done?
But there was no going back now. Hearing my heels echo on the sidewalk as I moved, I tried to still my thudding heart as I headed to the bar. Gino’s was the place where the Benutti family met, plotted and ran their empire. It was a tatty, run-down kind of place, with just a small sign above the door. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Inside, it was a lot more plush than I had expected. The walls were decorated with pictures, the tables and chairs were clean and expensive-looking and there was a huge, ornate mirror running the length of the wall behind the bar. The lights were down low and the place was virtually empty. I tried to look confident as I walked to the bar and took a seat.
“Can I help you?”
The barman was young, tall and handsome, and he seemed a little surprised to see me. I began to speak in a wavery voice, then stopped, closed my eyes, summoned up my courage, and said, as clearly as I could that I was there to see Mr Benutti, senior.
“Senior?” he replied, looking even more surprised.
“Yes please,” I said. The barman shrugged, turned and walked through the door at the back of the bar. A minute or two later, he came back and inclined his head.
“Mr Benutti will see you,” he said.
Feeling my heart thudding under my ribs, I followed the barman down a short corridor to an office door. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, smiled at me and then walked away. Still blushing from the look the barman had given me I didn’t notice that the door had opened and a short, squat, angry looking bald guy in a tight suit was glaring at me.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I…I’m Carly Cartwright. I…I’m here to see Mr Benutti.”
The thug looked me up and down then took a step back and, nervously, I walked into the room. It was a spacious study. The walls were covered in pictures, some of them of famous actors, while others seemed to be family photos. On one side of the room was a green leather couch and at the end of the room, an enormous desk, behind which sat Mr Benutti. He was more handsome than he had appeared in the pictures I’d seen online. Even sitting down I could tell he was tall. He wore an expensive suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, his dark hair was thick and wavy and he had a broad, attractive smile. He looked like a film star.
“And who are you?”
“I’m Carly Cartwright,” I stuttered.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled again. Then he looked at the bald guy behind me and indicated that he should leave. I heard the door close behind me and Benutti smiled again.
This is an excerpt from The Cage – Book One Of Groupie Series:
I love music. I love life on the road. I love everything about this industry. There are so many great bands. Well, there’s only really one great band, one band that have changed my life, one band that truly, truly makes me happy.
Let me start at the beginning. My name is Katy. I used to be journalist for Metal Road. You’ve probably heard of it, and if you haven’t, your teenage son or daughter has. It started in the 90s as a fanzine, but its online these days, and it does pretty well. It’s still in the top twenty of most read US metal sites, at least, I think it is. I haven’t checked recently.
Metal Road was my first writing job after college. I was pretty raw, keen, thought I was going to be the next big thing in journalism, was going to change the world. I didn’t manage that, instead I changed my world, which is much, much better.
My first six months at the Road were pretty frustrating. I was mainly employed checking sources, booking tickets, covering for reception and fetching coffee for the editor, Stu, and the other senior writers. But I did what young, hungry writers are supposed to do: I kept pestering Stu and making myself a nuisance, and eventually, they gave me an album review.
This wasn’t really a big deal. They do hundreds of these things every month. But to me it was huge. It was my big chance. I was finally going to get to make my mark. It didn’t matter who the band were, this review was going to be the best ever.
As it happens, the band were a three-piece from LA called Sugar Bean. I didn’t realize that the band name had a particular meaning, I just thought it was pretty lousy. I listened to some of their music. It was kind of punky, kind of glam, and I kind of liked it. But I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to like it. So I casually mentioned them to a couple of the writers and got their feedback. Turns out Sugar Bean were generic sub-grunge re-treads, shallow emo wanabes, and lesbian music porn. So I went back to my desk and listened to them again.
You might think this was pretty shallow, and it was, but I’d been there long enough to know that it was easier to go with the majority opinion than against it. Only one or two of the writers, like Ed or Steph were allowed to set trends and break moulds. The rest of us didn’t have much leeway. Anyway, the evidence was clear. Metal Road did not like Sugar Bean.
I put the promotional picture of the band on my keyboard and started to write. The photo, which apparently was also going to be the album cover, was pretty ropey. It showed the three band-members: Misha, AJ and Chloe dolled out in black leather, boots heels and way way too much make-up. The other promotional picture was even more dodgy. It featured AJ kneeling on a bed, Misha lying back with her head covering AJ’s crotch, while a naked Chloe knelt between Misha’s legs, and appeared to be licking her out. It was pretty gross, I thought.
In fact, it looked like a low budget lesbian porn shoot. So I put that into the review. Then I went on for a couple of paragraphs about how silly the name was, and by this time, I had hit a seam of snark and was really going for it. I went on about how they were selling their sexuality, how their music was wannabe metal, the worst of pop and the worst of metal, and rounded it all off with a few lines about how they were degrading to women.
Almost as soon as I pressed send, I felt doubt loom up over me like a dark cloud. But I pushed the feeling aside. I had done it. I had submitted my first piece. I was an actual music journalist now, or so I thought.
Still, I couldn’t quite shake my doubts. On the subway home, I saw a poster for their new single. They looked so cool; exactly the kind of band I had wanted to be in at high school. I tried to snap myself out of it by remembering what Stu had said when I started: you’re a music journalist, everyone will hate you. If people take your writing personally, that’s their fault, and if you get squeamish about criticizing music, you aren’t doing your job, and you’re letting the readers down.
I managed to keep that thought in my head until I got back to my apartment, then I made the mistake of looking at one of their videos on line. It was pretty good. The music was fresh, and they had exactly the kind of punky attitude that I thought I was in tune with. Then I found an interview from a few weeks before. It confirmed what I had already discovered: I liked them.
Chloe, the white, blonde, lead singer swore a lot and made me smile. Misha, the black bass player was a totally kick-ass, incredible woman and delicate Latina AJ turned into a demon when she began to thrash her drums. They were good. Better than good. They were great.
But it was too late. My social media was already lighting up as readers, writers and fans began to spew their bad takes on top of my bad take. The comments seemed split between likes and dislikes, but by this time I agreed with the dislikes. Worst still, it seemed that the band had read the review too. Misha posted an angry face and AJ wrote something about haters and losers on her feed. I closed my eyes and lay back on my bed. What a mess!
Just then, my phone rang. It was Stu. I braced myself for a tirade of abuse. Stu had approved the piece, but that didn’t matter. I’d seen him turn on people before.
Turns out I read him wrong. He said he loved it. It was just the kind of big opinion, going against the grain kind of conversation starter he wanted. I was relieved, and I thanked him. Maybe I was wrong, I thought, maybe I was being too sensitive, maybe it was all just part of the industry, and I should be grateful for the exposure.
Well, turned out that was wrong too. Stu loved it, but Jack Wildermann, the CEO of Metal Road and the sister magazine Shred Work, hated it. He thought it was exactly the wrong kind of message about a band that was taking off with key demographics. So he chewed Stu’s ear off and when I came in the next day, Stu banished me from reviews.
I was back on coffee duty. Still, I kind of felt it was poetic justice, and for a few days, I was glad to sink into the obscurity of office flunky once again. As the online abuse began to dry up, I thought maybe I could put this behind me and have a re-do.
So a week later, when Stu called me into his office to discuss a news piece, it felt like redemption. I was going to get a chance to relaunch my writing career.
“Katy, my favorite reviled hack, how are you?”
“I don’t really care, I was just being polite. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve got you an assignment. Actually Jack suggested it.”
“Great,” I said, “What is it?”
“It’s a band interview.”
“Cool. Who is it?”
“Guess,” he said, grinning.
* * * *
Sugar Bean were leaving on tour that afternoon and Stu said I had to meet them on their tour bus. My heart sank as he handed me the details. He also told me not to screw it up.
How could I interview them after what I’d written? All the way there in the taxi, I tried to come up with ways of apologizing but everything I rehearsed either sounded like I didn’t mean it or like I was trying too hard. As the taxi pulled into the street where their pink, black and silver tour bus was parked up, I tried to reassure myself. After all, this was a business, it was just part of the game. They were professionals, they would understand, right?
Wrong. All three of them were frosty with me from the start. Chloe, who smoked the whole time despite the fact that I coughed more than once, barely bothered looking at me. Misha glared directly at me, answering questions in a hostile monotone, and AJ was slumped in a chair to one side, making an incessant drumming noise with her sticks on the armrest.
It was hard going. I’d decided to go with pen and paper not to record the conversation, as I was sure they were going to shout at me, and I didn’t want to have to replay my humiliation at some point in the future. After a few painful, awkward minutes, my notepad had begun fill up, and while the quotes I was getting were boring and generic, there was at least something to work with. I began to think that maybe I would get out of there unscathed. So I thought I’d risk something relatively controversial. Big mistake.
“So, what would you say to those who suggest that maybe your whole kind of image is like degrading to women or whatever?”
“What do you mean our image?”
“Well, I mean the whole kind of slutty clothes and the…”
I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Before I could react, AJ had leapt from her chair and grabbed me by the throat.
From February 14th – February 18th I will be making 6 of my books available for FREE on Amazon. Choose one or indulge in all six. There’s a little something for everyone from dubious consent to monster erotica.
Hotwife Valentine (cuckold)
The Plantation Owner’s Wife (white woman black man)
Full Body Search (forced lesbian submission)
Feeding The Cult Leader (lactation)
Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother (dubious consent)
Beast Me: He Does Exist (monster)
Want more stories? Go to my AMAZON AUTHOR’S PAGE
I will also be making my two erotica writing how to guides available: Confessions Of An Erotica Author: How To Write Smut That Sells & Confessions Of An Erotic Author: How To Build A Smut Publishing Empire.
*These two guides will only be available for FREE Valentine’s Day.
Hi, I’m Jasmine and I’m an accountant. That’s how I tend to introduce myself at parties. It’s one of the reasons why I haven’t been to many parties in the last five years since leaving college. No-one wants to hear about the trials and tribulations of balance sheets and revenue and cost analysis. My lack of interesting conversation topics, combined with my chronic shyness and my tendency to hide in the corner drinking red wine until it’s time to go home, means that parties were not really my natural environment.
But the last party, at Anastasia’s, changed all that. In fact, it changed everything.
Anastasia is a writer, quite a successful one. She writes fantasy and science fiction stuff. She’s won awards and there’s even talk of one of her books being made into a film, which is pretty cool. She’s promised to take me with her when she moves to LA!
I’ve known her since the first week of college. She was in the room across the hall, and she just wandered in one morning, sat on the end of my bed and introduced herself, just like that, flashing her trademark enormous, warm smile that you can’t help but feel relaxed by.
She’s pretty easy to get along with. I’m definitely not. I have issues. I’m quite fussy about what food I eat, what I wear, where we go for lunch, and I analyze everything to death. She’s the complete opposite. I’m slim and blonde and pale and she’s curvy and tanned, with flaming red hair and wicked green eyes. She’s a natural people person, as well as having a fabulous imagination. I really don’t know why she is my friend. She said that I had a fairy spirit in me, which I thought was nonsense, at least, I did until the night of that party.
Ana threw a lot of parties. This one was to celebrate finishing the second draft of her latest novel. Usually I found an excuse not to go, but this time she insisted, and the guilt was pretty intense. Worse still, it was a fancy dress party.
So I compromised. I spent three hours getting ready – which is quite quick for me – and didn’t leave my apartment until my hair was silky and immaculate, my make-up was perfect and I had tried on every dress in my wardrobe. I eventually settled on a short black outfit, one of the few I had that was in any way revealing. To balance the fact that the dress clung to my thighs and emphasized my pert butt, I wore flats and opaque tights. My plan was to pretend that I had forgotten it was fancy dress. It was not a good plan.
“No, no, no, no,” said Ana, frowning, when she answered the door. Before I could object, she took me by the hand and marched me upstairs to her bedroom. She made me sit down on the bed, amid the mess of abandoned clothes, paper, books, coffee cups and strange antique objects that filled the room, while she rifled through her wardrobe.
”There,” she said, triumphantly, holding up a sparkly green fairy costume.
“No. Way.” I said.
“This is a fancy dress party, girl, and you are not going to be the only one here who isn’t joining in with the theme.”
“But, it’s so, so, short!” I said.
She pouted a little.
“Come on, you’ve got great legs, a smoking body. What’s wrong with showing it off a little?”
“I’m not a slut!” I replied.
“No-one will think you’re a slut. It’s a fancy dress party, Jas, everyone is dressed up fancy. Please. For me?”
It was my turn to sigh.
“Fine,” I said and snatched the dress.
I was wrong about it being short. It was very short. Very very short. A tiny little frilly pale green skirt, a skimpy little yellow bodice that barely contained my breasts, a pair of silly little wings that fastened to the back and golden heels with long silky ribbons that looped round my legs in a criss-cross pattern. I looked, well, I looked quite good actually. I admired myself in Ana’s mirror. Not bad at all. But still, was I really going to go out there like this? Showing my bare legs, pretty much all the way to the top of my thighs?
Well, I didn’t really have a choice.
Her house was full of people. Fortunately no-one saw me slipping down the stairs and I worked my way through the throng in Ana’s hallway, grabbed a glass of red on my way and reached the relative shelter of the corner of her dining room. My plan was to stay there for the rest of the evening. That didn’t really work out. I’d only been there about five minutes when I found myself standing next to a cute guy. Our eyes met and we both smiled a little. But he didn’t speak. Desperate to break the awkward silence, I blurted out the first thing in my head.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine, I’m an accountant,” I said.
He looked at me, nodded.
“That’s…great,” he replied. “Would you excuse me?” And then he left.
I closed my eyes. This was why I don’t go to parties, I thought.
I decided that I couldn’t stay there, with all those people. I pushed my way back through the throng and into the corridor. Fumbling at the nearest door, I found myself in Ana’s study. Alone. I closed the door behind me and breathed a sigh of relief.
I looked around the room. It was full of Ana’s trademark clutter. There were papers everywhere, books, and empty pizza boxes, along with all kinds of artifacts. As I instinctively began tidying, gathering papers together, I saw a curious looking wooden carved necklace. I picked it up. It seemed to depict fairies or pixies dancing around a tree trunk, but when I looked closer and, blushing, I realized that the thing they were cavorting about was not a tree. It was an enormous, swollen, monstrous cock.
At that moment, I heard voices outside the door and the handle started to turn. Panicking, I looked around. Despite the clutter there was nothing to hide behind. My only option was the French windows. I ran over and opened them, stepping outside into the darkness and closing the windows behind me. As I did so, I heard a click. I fumbled at the handle. The doors were locked, and I was trapped, in my fairy costume, outside in the dark.
My legs were already feeling cold and I didn’t want to stay out there but the thought of going to the front door and knocking on it and having strangers gawp and stare at me and having to introduce myself all over again was too much. And then I saw her. Ana, wearing a long medieval princess gown, was hurrying across the garden, heading to the apple orchard.
I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. Looking around to see if anyone was about, I walked quickly after her. As I entered the darkness of the orchard, I felt a throbbing in my hand. I realized I was still holding the wooden necklace and for some reason it was vibrating. I put it round my neck because it was one of Ana’s things and I didn’t want to drop it and lose it in the dark.
I couldn’t see Ana, but I thought I saw movement in a row of shrubs that marked the end of the orchard. I ran through the trees to the shrubs. There was no sign of Ana, but beyond, I could hear what sounded like voices. I called her name again, but there was no response. Taking a deep breath, and closing my eyes in case they got poked by twigs or thorns, I pushed through the bushes.
I opened my eyes to find myself standing at the top of a gentle slope. The sun was out, and there was a soft gentle breeze passing over my legs and bare shoulders. Ahead of me, a little way off, was a dense, dark forest, which spread in all directions, and beyond it were snow capped mountains, gleaming in the sun.
I turned. The bushes were gone, and so was the orchard. All I could see was a high brick wall, taller than three, maybe four women. It didn’t make any sense.
“Hello little lost fairy,” said a voice nearby. I jumped with alarm and span around. I couldn’t see anyone at first, and then I looked down. A small creature, wearing a rustic tunic stood gazing up at me. He had a ruddy, almost red complexion and was beaming up at me with a sinister smile. Peaking out from the top of his mass of curly hair were the tips of what looked like horns. As I stared, open-mouthed, I watched the creature reach under his tunic, lift up the material and reveal an enormous, swollen, deep-red cock.
They say that you should always be wary of getting what you want. Sometimes, when your innermost desires are realized, you find that your life is changed completely. That certainly happened to me. But I don’t regret it. Not for a second.
My name is Amy. At least, it is as far as you’re concerned. I can’t tell you my real name because I’m kind of a celebrity. I’m a news anchor for AYTV, broadcasting to twenty million Americans every day. I’m kind of on the fourth rung of celebrity, but soon I will be moving up. Thanks to a recent change of circumstances, and the help of a new patron who has a lot of influence, I will be starting work for one of the national networks in a few weeks time.
Don’t get me wrong, I deserve this shot. I’m good at what I do. I’m perky and cheerful in the mornings, but I can do solemn, and I’ve even been told I have good comic timing when I introduce the lighter items, like footage of a skateboarding duck or a politician falling over. I was even voted the second hottest female anchor in the region in a kind of creepy internet poll.
I love the thrill of the news industry. I adore the drama, the hustle, the excitement, and the buzz I get when the cameras go on, particularly if a big story is breaking. I didn’t grow up as a typical exhibitionist; I’ve always been kind of quiet, and I’d never thought of myself as a performer, until I got a part in a production of Grease in tenth grade. As soon as I stepped onto the stage, I felt calm, happy and alive. It’s been that way ever since. The bigger the audience, the better. It’s like there’s a whole other side to my personality. But that’s not the only other side to my personality
I guess I look like the girl next door. I’m often described as wholesome. I don’t know what that means, exactly. It makes me sound like a high fibre snack. It also makes me feel guilty; always has. All my life, people have been telling me I was a good girl, even when I wasn’t particularly well-behaved. There’s even a meme about me circulating on social media, in which my face is superimposed onto a nun’s body, and I’ve had emails asking me to dress up like that for Halloween. I guess I just look like a good girl. If only they knew! All those guys out there fantasizing about corrupting me, when it reality, it would be the other way round.
I do get a lot of fan mail, but my agent gets them first. I’m very careful of my privacy and I have to be extremely careful of anything I do in public. These days, one wrong move can be the end of your career. That’s one of the reasons why dating was hard. I had dated occasionally, but not with any success. All my dates fell into two categories: older industry execs who turn out to be creeps, and younger, fit, sports guys are usually boring and vacuous.
Caution wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t date much. The fact is that, up until a few weeks ago, I had got used to the idea that no man was going to be able to satisfy me. You see, about that other side of my personality, well the truth is, I am kind of, well, filthy. Behind closed doors, my favorite hobby is reading hard core erotica; the really extreme stuff.
Most nights, I ran home, tore off my clothes, took a long shower, retreated to my bed, opened up a book and then opened up my legs. I can tell you’re shocked!
The overriding theme of these books was submission. Most of the stories were about girls being tricked or forced into bondage and then forced to endure one sexual torment after another until finally they surrender to a life of wanton sex and servitude. Oh I know it was wrong and I had tried to stop, really I had. Ditching that bad habit would have made a lot of sense. But I couldn’t help it. And I always thought that, as long as it was my little secret, what harm could it do? Turns out, it could do a lot of harm. Guilty little secrets can be life changing.
It started a few weeks ago. I’d got home from the office on a Friday evening. I was pretty tired and just wanted to slip into my casual clothes and chill for a few hours. I’d just climbed up to my bedroom and taken off my blouse when my phone pinged. It was a text. Casually, I picked it up.
‘I’ve been watching you.”
Immediately I felt a chill running through me. What should I do? I threw the phone on the bed and hoped that whoever it was would go away. That didn’t work. Every minute, there was a new text. Eventually, angrily, I picked up the phone and replied, telling them to get lost.
‘Don’t think you can speak to me like that. I know where you live.’
‘No u are lying,’ I replied
‘227 Westchester Street.’ I froze. This person did know where I lived. My heart was thudding now. What should I do? Taking a deep breath, I texted back to say that I was going to call the police.
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I know what you do in your spare time. I know about your dirty books.’
My face flushed. I looked at myself in the mirror. Guilt was written all over my face. How could they possibly know? I replied that I didn’t know what they were talking about.
‘Look behind the light fitting in your bedroom. You will find a camera.’
For the second time I felt a creeping cold feeling down my spine. Quickly, I climbed up onto the bed and looked. There it was! A tiny camera, attached to the light fitting, aiming directly at my bed, where I lay, where I read my books, where I touched myself! I ripped the camera off and threw it onto the ground.
‘You bastard!” I texted furiously. ‘I am going to the police.’
‘No you won’t. Unless you want your videos all over the internet.’
I hesitated. Could I take the chance? If a video of me masturbating made it onto the internet, I don’t know what I would do. It could be the end for my career.
‘What do you want? Money?’
‘No. Tomorrow you will get a package. Open it. Follow the instructions’.
That was it. Nothing else. I tried to find out what was going to be in the package; who they were, what they wanted with me. But they had stopped replying. Eventually I dropped the phone on the bed, and when I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I saw that my nipples were hard, poking through the silky black material of my bra.
* * * *
The package arrived early the next day. My hands were shaking when I opened it, sitting on my bed. What was inside came as a shock. There were two clear plastic bags. In the first was an in impossibly sheer black lacy body, along with a thong and stockings. In the other, a collection of outrageous bondage gear. I recognized some of the items from my stories: a bright pink ball gag, ankle cuffs, a collar and lead, wrist cuffs and a paddle.
There was a note too. It was typed. It simply instructed me to put on the clothes, the cuffs and the lead, to leave my apartment door open and to be kneeling in my bedroom at 11 that night.
I told myself that there was no way I would be doing that. But as the day went by, I found my mind drifting continually to the bondage gear. I could feel a little tingle inside me, and I couldn’t explain it. The number that had texted me was not responding and as the day drew on and darkness fell, I felt increasingly trapped. I couldn’t go to the police; I couldn’t risk it.
At 1030 that night, I walked into my bedroom, slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the lacy body, the thong and then the stockings. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked hot, I had to concede. My blonde hair framed my face perfectly. I was slim, toned and my breasts were heavy and full. I would never have bought this outfit for myself, but I couldn’t help admiring how it looked on me as I turned this way and that in front of the mirror.
Next came the cuffs and the collar. It took me a while to adjust them, but they felt natural, comfortable. I am usually sensitive to anything constricting my neck, but the fur-lined collar, though it was tight, felt somehow right. Finally, I padded across my apartment to the door. With my heart thudding, I unlocked the door and returned to my bedroom, kneeling and facing the door.
I waited. It seemed like an eternity. Several times I heard footsteps in the distance and paused my breathing, only for the footsteps to fade. My heart was thudding in my chest so hard it felt like it was shaking the whole room. What was I doing? This was madness.
Just when I was thinking about dashing back out to close and lock the door, I heard more footsteps. These steps stopped. I heard the sound of my door opening. Whoever it was had entered my apartment. There was no turning back!
I heard heavy footfall across my apartment and then the door of my bedroom opened and I saw him. My tormentor. My stalker. My nemesis.
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You know, I’ve often thought that relationships are like volcanoes. Early on, they are fiery, convulsing with passion and everything is hot and fluid and exciting. That doesn’t last, particularly if your relationship is long term. In fact, pretty soon after the wedding, you find that the heat cools, and the relationship settles, to lie dormant for years. For some couples, the volcano fizzles out entirely and they become extinct; cold and rocky, where once they were hot and dangerous.
The thing about volcanoes is that you can never entirely be sure that they are extinct. Sometimes, with a volcano, after years of inactivity, there is a sudden, dramatic eruption, and all the pent up heat pours out, transforming the landscape. That’s kind of what happened to me.
I’m Sarah. I’ve been married to Mike for six years. We met in college. He was fit, tall and handsome, worked out and played sports, a really active guy with a great smile and a confidence that put me at my ease, and I was on the rebound from my second boyfriend. We dated, and three years after college we were married. Mike majored in finance and took a job at an investment bank, which means he earns enough for both of us and I can afford to live a life of leisure.
That part of our relationship is great. Not so great is our sex. I’m not going to be shy about it; I like sex; much more than Mike, in fact. I found that out the first time we made love. I had been planning all kinds of wild antics. I wanted him to fuck me in every conceivable position. I wanted us to fuck all night. Mike, however, is not that sort of guy. One orgasm and he was spent.
He’s also pretty, well, vanilla. In all our time together, I had never managed to get him to come up with an unusual fetish or a fantasy, beside wanting me to dress up like a cheerleader, and let’s face it, as fantasies go, that’s about as low-fat vanilla as it comes.
I did once tell him that I wanted him to be as dominant in bed as he appeared to be in real life. His reply was that he didn’t see himself as dominant. He said that he was confident, yes, but not dominant, and certainly not up for being sexually dominant. He was so apologetic about it that I had to reassure him it was no big deal. I mean, it was, but it didn’t change how I felt about him.
There was something else as well, another fantasy that Mike was not capable of fulfilling on his own, although that was hardly his fault. Let me explain.
It all started one night not long before Christmas. I had been at Marie’s house, helping her to get over her break-up with Chris, and by the time I got home, I just wanted to go to bed and hold my husband. It seemed that he had other ideas. When I opened the front door and wandered into the house, he was waiting for me in the living room, with the lights off.
“Honey? What are you doing still up?”
I flicked the light on. He was sitting down, staring straight ahead. I kind of wandered if he had been waiting up to surprise me with a session of impromptu sex, but one look at his serious expression dispelled that notion. Besides, Mike did not do impromptu anything, particularly not sex. I sat in the chair opposite and waited for him to say what was clearly on his mind.
“I know,” he said, eventually.
“Your little secret.”
“What little secret? What are you talking about?”
“Over there,” he said, pointing at the sofa.
“Books?” I said, gazing at the pile of books on the middle of our sofa. “Books aren’t a secret.” And then I recognized the cover of the top book. Instantly, I knew what had happened. The last time I had seen that book, it was hidden securely at the bottom of my wardrobe, with all the others. He had found them. My only option was to go on the offensive.
“How did you? How dare you go in my wardrobe?”
He looked directly at me. His calmness was kind of intimidating. Mike was generally easy to read. If he was angry, he didn’t seem it, but then he didn’t seem particularly happy either.
“I was after the blue shirt. The one you borrowed.”
He was right. I had borrowed his shirt. I wore it one evening, with a skimpy little thong in an attempt to surprise him with kitchen sex. Needless to say, it didn’t work.
“The shirt fell on the floor and that’s when I found the books.”
“They were in a box!” I protested
“The lid was off the box.”
That was probably true. I had been reading one of the books that evening when Mike came home and had to fling it into the wardrobe quickly when I heard the door opening.
We sat there, in silence, neither of us looking at the pile of books. You might be wondering, what kind of books these were, that had caused such a strange reaction in my husband? Well, if I tell you that they went by titles such as Harlem Lover and Across The Divide and Milk and Chocolate, perhaps you might get the idea. My favorite, the one I had been reading that afternoon, was called Wild Stallions. The cover depicted a delicate young white woman reclining in the arms of two powerful black men, while two more stood behind her.
So, yes, I’d been caught. It was more than a little embarrassing. But I wasn’t going to apologize. I tried to brazen it out. I told him that everyone has some kind of fantasy. This is mine. I didn’t sound particularly convincing. I looked at him, trying to work out what he was thinking – a new experience with Mike. I concluded he either thought I was some kind of racist or that I had betrayed him.
In fact, it turned out to be neither of those things.
“I’m not angry, in case you’re wondering.”
“No. In fact, I’m a little turned on.”
His remark hung in the silence between us, echoing around my head. It was one of those situations in which you think you’ve heard something but you can’t quite trust your ears.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Okay…” I said, warily.
“Maybe you should try it?”
“I’m sorry, try what?”
“Try it. With a black guy. If that’s your fantasy.”
I think my jaw may have hung open a little. Was he really suggesting that I go and find some random black guy and have sex with him? Seriously?
“Honey, I love you.”
“I know. This isn’t to do with love, is it.”
Well he was right about that. It was about lust. Pure, glorious lust. The lust and pent-up desire of a young woman approaching thirty who just wasn’t getting enough sex.
“All I’m saying,” he continued, “Is that if you wanted to do it, it wouldn’t make any difference to our relationship. I am giving you permission.”
My head was reeling.
“No!” I replied. “I…I’m not going to do that.”
“It’s okay honey. I will ask just two conditions. That you only do it once. And that you record the whole thing.”
“Yes. I want to watch my beautiful wife being fucked by a big strong black guy. A guy like Derren.”
“Yes. Bet you’d love to.”
I was struggling to keep up with the way this was developing. My husband wanted me to have sex with a black guy, and to record it? And now he was suggesting Derren?
“No, honey, I don’t want to fuck Derren,” I lied.
Derren was our neighbor. He was tall, much taller than Mike, built like an athlete and imposing. He was polite, formal, but not warm and there was something about him that stirred my deepest darkest fantasies. Oh yes, I would love to fuck Derren. I had imagined it so often. But I couldn’t.
“Look, I don’t know if this is some kind of test, but I’m not going to do it, so can we just drop it please,” I said.
“Okay,” he shrugged. “But remember this. I gave you permission.”
* * * *
We didn’t mention our strange conversation for several days. I hid the books, properly this time, and I tried to pretend that the whole thing hadn’t happened. But deep down I was in turmoil. My husband was giving me permission to fulfill my wildest dreams. All the barriers that I had put up in my head about having a wild fling had been removed. The path was open. I could do it. But still, it was wrong. Wasn’t it?
Two weeks later, Mike came home from work early and told me he had to go away for the weekend. There was an emergency pre-Christmas executive meeting in New York and he had to represent his trading floor. It meant an early start the next day.
“You know, this could be an ideal opportunity,” he said.
“Derren,” he replied, smirking.
“Seriously? This again? Look, I told you, I’m not doing it.”
“Okay, okay, but you know, if it should happen, we have those mini security cameras in the garage that we never installed. They’re wireless so you won’t need to do anything.”
“Consider it my Christmas present to you.”
“I’m not doing it, okay. I don’t want to,” I lied. Again.
“Okay, honey, whatever you say.”
Mike left early the next morning and was gone by the time I woke. I fixed myself some breakfast and watched a little television, as I planned myself a lazy day, and then I remembered that I had promised to dig out the Christmas decorations from the garage.
As I headed down to the garage, my conversation with Mike of the night before had gone out of my head completely, until I saw the cameras. They were still in their box, on the top of a pile of recycling materials. A thrill tingled down my spine as it all came back to me: Mike’s suggestion, Derren, the early Christmas present, the books.
I shook my head, as though to get rid of the idea and found the decorations. As I hauled them out of the garage, I passed by the cameras and absent-mindedly put them on the top of the pile.
In the living room, I dropped the boxes and sat down. The cameras were right there. It would be easiest thing in the world to set one up. I could sense my fevered, sexually-frustrated brain trying to find ways to make this happen, despite myself. Eventually, I gave in; sort of. My plan was to set up the camera and put on a show for Mike. Just me. That way I would get rid of some of my sexual tension, without having to break my marriage vows.
Setting up the camera on a high bookshelf, I connected it to my laptop, and then I hurried upstairs to get ready. I wanted to make myself look extra hot for Mike.
I tied my hair up and spent some time perfecting my make-up, wearing a little more mascara and eyeliner than usual and making my lips more luscious and redder than I was accustomed to. If I was going to perform, I told myself, I should look the part of a porn star.
I chose a slinky, tight black dress, which clung to my curves so sexily, particularly as I wore no bra. Sheer stockings and a diamond-decorated thong completed my outfit, along with my shiny five-inch black heels. I admired myself in the mirror. Mike was in for a treat.
Just then, I heard a noise outside. I clattered over to the window and felt a surge of trembling lust and excitement as I saw Derren. He was working on his car. The hood was up and I could see his powerful upper body as he hunched over the engine. I bit my lip as I watched him, imagining that he was hunched over me. I wanted him. I needed his strong black body against me…
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Bella is my best friend, really, I don’t know where I would be without her. She’s kind of flaky, but then I like that about her. She adds something to my personality, cause I’m a pretty strait-laced girl. I don’t take risks. Well, not usually. In my defense, I think you’ll have to admit, that when I do take a risk, it’s usually a pretty damn big one. Like the one I took last winter.
It started after another bad date, my third in a month. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t usually go on a lot of dates. In fact, I’ve probably been on ten since I left college two years ago. First there was Brad, an old school friend of Bella’s. She set me up with him but it turned out that although Brad had left school, school had not left Brad. Next there was Brad’s cousin, who had to turn up to take Brad home because Brad got drunk in the bar before our meal. The cousin was smart, a college graduate, but also a raging narcissist. He talked about himself the entire time and then expected me to pay for our meal. And finally there was the cousin’s friend. He turned up late to the movie, then broke down in tears halfway through the film. It turned out that he had just gone through a messy divorce and was particularly fragile. I spent two hours consoling him before seeing him off in a taxi.
I was relating this sorry tale to Bella, in between gulps of vodka, as we sat around my apartment one Friday night.
“You know, it’s got to the point where I just want to have sex, you know,” I said.
“I mean, physical intimacy. Is that too much to ask for?”
“No, not at all. I’m just not used to you talking like this.”
“It’s the vodka.”
“No, sweetie, it’s your inner voice. But look, if you want sex, just put on that little tiny black dress you wore at Halloween and go to a bar. There’s usually some hot guys at that place in town, by the movie theater.”
“No, I can’t do that. I don’t want to just throw myself at a guy. I’m not that kind of person.”
Bella nodded and fell silent. She began to smile, or rather, to smirk.
”There is an alternative.”
“What kind of alternative?”
“It’s a huge secret. You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Come on Bell, you can trust me.”
“I’m serious. Not a soul. I’m not supposed to pass the secret on unless the person is really desperate and can be sworn not to tell anyone.”
“Okay. Well, there’s a book.”
“Yes. It tells you how to perform this ceremony and after you’ve done it, according to the book, you will be able to experience like intense sex but without responsibility and without having to go on any dates or go to any bars.”
“It’s from the sixties. This old hippy wrote it. She says that if you perform the ceremony, you will get visited by incubi.”
“Ghosts. Sort of. Well, sex ghosts. They will visit you and give you all the pleasure you need. It will be like having your own personal sex slaves. Except they’re in charge.”
I looked at her to see if she was being serious. She was, but after a while, she began to smile and then admitted that she hadn’t actually tried it herself. I poured myself vodka and we both began to giggle.
“Sex ghosts? Seriously?”
We got pretty drunk that night and I’d completely forgotten about the book and the incubi until a week later, a parcel arrived for me after work. It was the book. Old and musty, and not particularly impressive, it had a note on it from Bella, which read, ‘Have fun!”.
I shook my head. Bella was crazy. I put the book down. I didn’t need it anyway. I had a date that night and I had to get ready.
Steve was a friend of Anna, my work colleague. He was tall, strong, kind and entirely unattached. As I slipped into my slinky tiny black dress and zipped it up, I admired myself in the mirror. I looked good. I’d always been sensitive about my big breasts, but I knew that men loved them, and as I turned this way and that, I could see why. Oh, and then there was my cute butt and my gorgeous, kissable lips, as Bella had once described them.
At that moment, the phone rang. I danced across my apartment to answer it. It was Steve. He was really sorry, but something had come up. He was going to have to cancel.
After I hung up, I wandered back to my bedroom and fell on the bed. I sighed and stared at the ceiling and told myself that it was time to face facts. No-one wanted me. I was going to die alone. More importantly, I was never going to have sex again.
As I turned my head I saw the little red book. I didn’t remember putting it on my bedside table, but there it was. Sighing, I reached out and began to flick through it. The writing style was old fashioned and the pages were littered with warnings in capital letters about what not to do, and how powerful the magic was. It was pretty silly.
Skipping through it, I found the ceremony part. According to the old hippy, all you had to do to access a world of carnal abandon was to perform this ceremony solemnly. It required a candle, a bottle of wine and a piece of paper.
I found the candle in my kitchen, at the back of a drawer and I still had half a bottle of Merlot in the fridge. So, feeling rather foolish, I knelt in the middle of my bedroom, lit the candle and then, according to the instructions, wrote on a piece of paper what I wanted:
‘I want to be fucked over and over by a crowd of horny men and not feel any guilt or risk.’
I took a swig of wine from the bottle, and then I held the paper over the candle until it began to flame and disintegrate into charred fragments. And then I waited.
I knelt there for about ten minutes. All I could here was traffic and my neighbors moving about in their homes. Nothing happened. After twenty minutes of that, my knees were aching and I felt foolish. I sniffed out the candle, slipped out of my clothes, apart from the thong, pulled on my little black silk slip and went to bed.
* * * *
I couldn’t sleep. I felt restless, as though there was something I should have done but hadn’t. My body was tingling too, like my skin was itching. It was the strangest feeling. Eventually I began to drift off to sleep, only to be awakened by a cold breeze. My blanket had been pulled off me. Irritated, I pulled it over me again and tried to sleep. Again, I started to drift into slumber but was woken by the cold. Once again my blanket was gone. This time there wasn’t just a cold breeze; I also felt clamminess at my neck. It felt like…like someone or something was breathing on my skin.
I sat upright in bed, eyes wide open. I looked around the room. I couldn’t see anything or anyone in the darkness. As I listened to my breathing and my heartbeat began to settle I suddenly felt the clamminess at my neck again, and then, a slow build up of pressure on my chest. Something heavy was pressing on my breasts, as though a weight was being pushed against me and there was another feeling too, a ticklish sensation, as though invisible fingers were probing through the silk material, poking into my breasts, prodding my stiffening nipples.
“Who’s there!” I whispered, then repeated it, louder. There was no answer. But an instant later I felt a cold clammy sensation on my legs and a feeling like hands slipping over my knees, up my thighs, under the hem of my slip.
I screamed. At least, I tried to scream. I opened my mouth and let my terror summon up from the depths of being a desperate scream. But it made no sound. I couldn’t make a sound. My mouth felt clammy too, and there was a whispering, crawling, damp sensation passing over my neck and my bare shoulders. With horror, I felt the strap of my slip being pulled, eased off my shoulders. I grabbed at it to stop it, but almost immediately felt the other strap being pulled. The feeling of hands under my slip had reached my waist and a horrible, tickling sensation was passing over the tops of my thighs, underneath me, following by probing, poking and prodding, between my ass cheeks and through my thong.
I tried to scream again without success, but in my desperation I was able to scramble off the bed and run across the bedroom to the window. I turned to look at the bed. There was nothing there, but as I stared, I thought I could see shapes, the vague outline of shapes, no more than shadows flickering across the gloom. What was happening?
And then I remembered. The book. The ceremony. The incubi. It was all true. It was true!…
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Beast Me: Incubi will be available on Amazon for $0.99 from Dec. 16th to Dec 18th.
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.