Month: October 2017

Her Pleasure Slave: Forced Lesbian Submission

I love Halloween. I know lots of people say that, but I really mean it. It’s an awesome time of year, though my reason for loving Halloween is probably not the same as yours. In fact, until last Halloween, I had spent many years dreading the holiday.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Charlie, short for Charlotte, and I’m an English major in my freshman year at college. I’m not like most of the students in this place. I take my studies very seriously, and I hardly ever go to parties. Actually, those aspects have been two of the three constants in my life for as long as I can remember: being surrounded by books and not going to parties. And the third? That’s Amy, my best friend.

Amy is kind of the direct opposite of me. She is totally outgoing, she is always talking to new people, has loads of acquaintances, friends and contacts. She spends most of her time partying and she always has. Every time she goes to a party, or any kind of social event she always invites me. I always decline and she always shrugs and goes anyway, but then she comes back and hangs out with me, and she tells everyone that I am her best friend.

That is how it has been since kindergarten. I don’t know why she still hangs round with me, but I am so glad that she does. Without her my life would be pretty lonely. I was so happy when she announced that she was applying to the same college as me. I had to work hard with her to make sure she passed, and she only just scraped in, but now we share a room and I have someone to talk to, to share my thoughts with. I really don’t know what I would do without her, and that was the case, even before the events of last Halloween.

Until last year, Halloween had been the cause of some tension between us. It was the one time of year when she had a hard time not accepting that I wouldn’t go to a party with her. She knew how I felt about parties, she knew how self-conscious I was, and she seemed to understand, but at Halloween, for whatever reason, she was less accepting. Last year she seemed determined that I wasn’t going to be allowed to say no.

“You’ve got to go this time, just this one.”

“I can’t Amy, I have this assignment…”
”Oh screw the assignment. I really want you to come.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t feel comfortable…”

“You can’t even make an exception? Just once? For me?”

Her voice had a hard edge to it and I felt sick, as I always did whenever Amy was on the brink of being cross with me, as though my world was about to cave in, so I found myself shrugging and saying that I would on this one occasion, come with her.

I regretted it instantly, and hoped that she might forget or that the party would be cancelled, but she didn’t. As if the prospect of going to the party wasn’t bad enough, it was on the other side of the state, so I would have to drive. Worse still, Amy was going over earlier in the day to help with the preparation, so I would have to drive there alone, though she said she would come out and meet me so I didn’t have to walk in on my own.

The morning of Halloween, Amy came into our room carrying something in a large plastic bag. She laid it on my bed and then handed me a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“That is a map. It’s the quickest way to get there, no more than forty-five minutes.”
”And the bag?”

“Your costume,” she said brightly.

“I’ve already got a costume,” I said.

She frowned.

“What costume?”

“I’m going as vampire Abraham Lincoln.”

Amy shook her head.

“Are you kidding? It’s Halloween. You have to wear something sexy. It’s the rules.”

“Oh Amy, you know I…”

“Wear it,” she commanded. “And if you turn up as Abraham Lincoln I will pretend I don’t know you, and leave you on your own the whole night.”

She wouldn’t do that, of course, but I didn’t want to disappoint her so as soon as she left I opened the bag. The costume was some kind of maid’s outfit. It was really, really short, and had a kind of frilly underskirt attached. Curious, I locked the door to our room, and undressed. I’m not particularly proud of my body, at least, not compared to Amy. She is shorter than me, with pale ivory skin, but she looks hot, she has great lips, a cute butt and gorgeous legs. Me? Well I’m kind of gawky. My hair is long and blonde, and I guess I have nice eyes and am quite skinny, but that’s about it.

Of course the maid’s costume looked ridiculously slutty. It was made of a kind of latex and was so tight that I had to take my bra off to lace it up. It came with a silly little white choker and some stockings with frilly laced tops, which came halfway up my bare thighs. Was I really going to wear this in public? As I looked at myself, I ran my hands over my body, over the clingy material, smoothing it over my breasts, my hips and my butt, and I felt a kind of tingling. I guess I did look hot, sort of. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

By the time that evening came around, I had changed my mind. I wore my long trench coat to walk to the car. No way was I going to wander across the campus dressed like that!

I’m a very careful, methodical kind of driver so I’d memorized the route, but I also brought along a map and had my phone tracking my progress as I set out across state. It was already dark so I was going extra slow as I hate driving in the dark. Half an hour had gone and I wasn’t even halfway, according to Amy’s directions. I was going to be late, which just served to make me even more nervous.

I didn’t understand why Amy had sent me that way, either. I was driving on what seemed like an endless road through blank, dark forest. A mass of trees loomed in shadow on either side of me as I drove and I began to feel quite eerie. I was the only car on the road.

Suddenly I spotted something up ahead, standing in the middle of the road. At first it looked like it had antlers. I flashed my lights and sounded my horn assuming that the deer would be startled and move. But it didn’t move. And as I got closer, I realized it wasn’t a deer. It was standing upright. It was a human figure, but its head was somehow that of a deer, and it was not moving. I realized, too late that I didn’t have time to brake before I hit it. As my foot slammed down on the brake pedal I span the wheel and lost control of the car. There was a horrific screeching sound and I think I screamed as the car slid across the road and I caught a glimpse of a horrific, deformed human face underneath a pair of cruel antlers. There was a crunch, the sound of tinkling glass and then I blacked out.

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Beast Me: Forceful Phantom (Monster Erotica)

Let’s be clear. I hate Halloween.

Oh I know what you’re thinking. How can you not like Halloween? When I tell people, they look at me like I’m stupid, like I’m a freak, or a heretic.

“Isn’t that, like, sacrilegious or something?” said Kitty when I told her back in my freshman year. Yes, I know, Kitty isn’t the brightest, but she’s a good friend, one of my closest, and one of the few sane people at this stuck-up, stuffy college.

But she’s wrong about Halloween. I hate it. I hate the dressing up, I hate the whole paraphernalia of the costumes and the parties and the invites and the build-up. I hate that whole thing about being forced to go through the same rituals as everyone else and pretending that you’re having a good time while you’re standing in a corner dressed as Catwoman being inexpertly groped by a vampire Abraham Lincoln. Okay, maybe that’s a very specific complaint, but it was just one of my many depressing Halloween experiences.

All of which probably explains why fate decreed that I should go through the most intense, most incredible, most intense Halloween ordeal that anyone has ever experienced ever. Maybe I exaggerate, but not much. It’s like one of those cheesy Christmas movies, where the grouchy Christmas hater is forced by a series of emotionally charged but unlikely events to embrace the true meaning of the holiday. Well I don’t know if I learned the true meaning of Halloween but hell did I learn a few things!

It started the day before Halloween last year.

Well technically, it started fifty years before that, when the St James Hospital for the Elderly was finally closed to the public following the murder of one of its patients, George Avalon.

Where am I going with this? Well Allie could fill you in, if you met her. Allie is my other closest friend and she’s majoring in History. Allie is super smart, but she has two flaws. The first is that she flirts with anyone and doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Seriously, the girl has a problem. And the second is that when she learns something she has to tell us all about it.

So that’s how we all learned about the death of George Avalon. He was an elderly man who was supposedly killed by a nurse at the hospital. According to Allie, there was one newspaper report that said the two were having what the reporter described as ‘intimate relations’ when she killed him. There was even a rumor that Mr Avalon still had an erection when the police found his body. Allie had been banging on about the Avalon case and the hospital for months. She even said she was going to write a paper on it.

“Seriously, Soph, it has everything: sex, murder, detective work, history and the paranormal.”

The paranormal? Oh yes, because George Avalon was doubly unlucky. Not only was he killed by a homicidal nurse, he also had the misfortune to pass away on Halloween, thus ensuring his death would forever more be dragged up as topic of conversation at this time of year by locals, history buffs and weird college girls who really had to get out more. And, inevitably, there are people, people like Allie, who keenly relate the tale that George Avalon’s ghost haunts the corridors of the abandoned hospital on October 31st every year.

Since the death of Mr Avalon, the hospital had been decaying quietly on the edge of town for about fifty years. I’d passed it occasionally, when going back home at holidays, and admittedly, it always looked creepy: a greyish green ruin in the middle of wasteland, with gaps in its boarded up windows and a general air of rot.

Anyway, two days before last Halloween, we were debating where to go while sitting in Allie’s cramped room. I, as usual, didn’t want to go anywhere. They both wanted to go to various boring campus parties. So, in a spirit of friendship, I offered to compromise. I said I would go anywhere, but not to a normal Halloween party. As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it.

“Oh, I know, let’s spend the night in the hospital!” said Allie, with obvious delight. Kitty, who loves ghost stories, practically squealed with delight and I knew right then that I’d lost the battle. Kitty is so sweet that neither of us would ever want to disappoint her and anyway, I’d offered to accept a compromise and this was it.

So it was that on the night of Halloween, a sexy vampire, a sexy devil girl with a tiny little red dress and Catwoman caught a taxi to the edge of town and walked along the abandoned, leaf-strewn track that led to the fence around the abandoned St James Hospital.

“It looks creepy,” I said as we stood at the fence. The abundance of signs saying things like ‘Stay Out’ and ‘Enter At Your Own Risk’ were not exactly encouraging either.

“Don’t be such a baby,” said Allie.

“It will be fun,” said Kitty.

I sighed and followed as the two of them clambered up the fence and then helped me up, hauling me to the top before we all dropped to the other side. The whole site was full of rubble and leaves and refuse and we trod carefully as we walked – well as carefully as possible for a trio of girls who’ve already shared two bottles of Merlot between them.

“This is so fucking creepy,” I said, as we drew near to the entrance. This time, Kitty said nothing and hung back as Allie took a closer look at the door.

“It’s okay,” she said, “I think I can open it.”

She was right. With a little force, the double doors of St James Hospital, one of which was hanging sickeningly from its hinges, gave way enough to let people enter.

“Come on!” said Allie, slipping through. We saw the light of her flashlight blink on as she went inside. I looked at Kitty who looked back at me. I shrugged.

“She does have the only flashlight,” she said.

Kitty squeezed through next and I followed. Inside, Allie was already flitting around, shining the flashlight into every nook and cranny, squealing with the delight of the historian as she discovered a genuine 1960s filing cabinet and an authentic 1960s floor tile. Meanwhile Kitty and I hung back a little, looking around us. Kitty’s red dress looked particularly flimsy and there was an unpleasant and frankly eerie draft in the place.

“Come on you guys, don’t just stand there. We’ve got to go and look around.”

”Do we have to?” said Kitty.

“Yes,” said Allie. “Don’t you want to find the room?”

“What room?” I asked.

“The room where George Avalon was killed, of course. The place where the nurse strangled him with her own pantyhose.”

“She did not!” said Kitty

Allie shrugged.

“That was one of the rumors.”

“I don’t know, Allie, it’s a bit too scary and dark here.”

“Oh come on you guys, we haven’t come this far just to turn back.”

“I guess,” said Kitty.

“Besides, I’ve got the flashlight. We’ll be fine,” said Allie, leading the way. Kitty and I followed her reluctantly as she headed towards a door at the back of the abandoned reception area. The door led into a corridor that was even more eerie and spooky than the room we’d left. Allie’s flashlight helped bring a little illumination but it also cast strange, unusual shadows on the wall as we walked, which didn’t help us to feel any calmer.

“I wonder which room it was,” said Kitty, absently.

”Oh I know that. It was room twenty-seven. I remember it clearly,” said Allie. Then she gave a little shriek that made Kitty start and grab my arm.

“Don’t do that!” I said to Allie.

“This is room twenty-four. We must be close.”

“Great,” I said, Kitty was hanging onto my arm tightly but I didn’t mind, in fact, I felt like hugging her tightly and not letting go until the morning. But to Allie’s disappointment, it turned out that there were no more rooms in that corridor, just an empty storage closet. Eventually the corridor made a sharp left turn and there were yet more rooms.

“Hey, come and look at this,” said Allie.

“I don’t care,” I said, “Can we go now?”

Kitty slid her arm out of mine and I could sense, though I could not see, that she was doing one of her pouty expressions that were the closest she came to appearing cross.

“You can be a real downer sometimes, Soph,” she said, “Allie’s just very enthusiastic.”

“Whatever,” I said. Kitty walked over to Allie who was standing at the next door along, around two feet to my left, studying some faded sign on the wall. I let them get on with it and leant with my back against a locked door. My eyes were adjusting a little to the lack of light and I was sure that on the door opposite I could make out a number twenty-six. I turned to tell the others but they weren’t there. Allie and Kitty had gone. They had completely disappeared.

“Kitty?” I said, in a whisper. “Allie?” There was no reply. “Oh come on, stop messing around!”

My voice echoed through the dark corridor and bounced back at me from the rotting walls. I recoiled a little at how loud it was. Where were they? They couldn’t have just disappeared, so they must be hiding, but if it was a joke, it was not funny.

As I stood there, against the locked door, trying to calm my rising panic and tell myself that there was nothing to worry about, I heard a distant noise. It sounded far off, a kind of shuffling, maybe a rat, or maybe a college girl hiding and trying to stay quiet.


The shuffling stopped.

“Kitty, is that you? If you’re there guys, this isn’t funny.”

I listened as my voice died away in the corridor. There was nothing, no reply, no sound, apart from a distant murmuring. The murmuring grew steadily louder as I listened and began to change subtly into a moaning and groaning sound, a mess of noises, some of which were animal, some human, and some unearthly. The sounds began to get stronger and closer and there was a strange scrabbling, scraping that seemed to be coming along the corridor towards me. I pressed myself against the door, too terrified to move, trying to quiet my breath as the scuffling and moaning grew closer and closer. Something snapped in my mind. I had to escape. Squealing pathetically I tried frantically to open the door I was leaning against, rattling at the handle and bashing my shoulder against it over and over to make it open.

Eventually, with one final crash, the door caved in and I fell inside, stumbling and scrabbling across the floor in the dirt and leaves and dust. There was nothing to hide behind, just a tatty old iron bed-frame in the other corner of the room, so wailing a little, I scrambled into the corner of the room and pressed myself against the wall. I hunched my legs up to my chest, feeling so exposed and silly in my clingy Catwoman costume.

The moaning and sighing and scraping grew louder and there was an eerie whistling sound. I was so terrified I could hardly speak. As the noise grew to a deafening volume, a bright white light shone in the corridor outside the room. Kitty and Allie! I breathed heavily with relief.

“Guys, thank God. I was so scared, I…”

The door to the room was flung open, light flooded in and, eyes wide in terror, I screamed. What I saw was like nothing I had ever seen before…

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Initiation: A Dubious Foursome

“Kayleigh! Time for breakfast!”

My eyes snapped open, then immediately shut against the glare of the sun streaming in from the bedroom window. The smell of toast and butter, maple syrup, and pancakes warming fresh fruit floats around me like a dream.

“Okay, Mom,” I call, voice husky with sleep. Promptly, I rolled over, long pale legs tangling in the lavender duvet, the high thread count soft and smooth on my fresh-shaven legs. In a pleasant Sunday-morning haze, I listen to the clinking sounds of the table being set; I can visualize the exact scene from my room. The small, round wooden table, set with a neat blue tablecloth. Ceramic plates in four different hues—will I get the green or the orange today? Mom and Brian, my brother, always take the red and the yellow. Coffee mugs set beside small glasses for Tropicana Orange Juice. I hear Brian stirring in the room next to mine as a loud hiss downstairs signals the addition of bacon to the family breakfast menu.

I sit up and yawn, full lips stretched wide over white, straight teeth. I run my hand through my long, dirty-blonde hair, more blonde than dirty blonde right now thanks to the sun and the natural highlights it gives me. Absently I run a hand over my soft tits, enjoying the feeling of my body’s softness the way all teenage girls do. My phone buzzes and I lay on my back to check my messages. It’s from my boyfriend Alan, who sometimes I like and sometimes I find more boring than Mr. Allen’s math class.

Good morning 😊 How are you?

This is one of those latter times.

I set the phone down without opening the message and sit up, swinging my legs out of bed and rising to my full height. I tug a comfy hoodie over my head before going down to breakfast, but not before appraising my slim figure in the mirror. Obviously I would change some things about myself if I could—my small round butt could be fuller, my collarbones could be more apparent, I could have two dimples instead of one and eyes with more green than blue—but overall I’m happy with what I see every morning.

I step lightly down the thick-carpeted stairs and slide into my seat at the table last; Brian’s just finished setting out the little cloth napkins we only use for Sunday brunch, that Mom will wash after we’ve eaten.

Mom and Dad are a suburban-attractive couple if there ever was such a thing; Dad’s been salt and pepper for ages now and Mom keeps her fading-brown hair a youthful chestnut brown. They both have kind brown eyes and have always been able to afford mine and Brian’s extracurriculars—football and lacrosse for him and volleyball and dance for me. Next year they’ll go watch me play volleyball for a quiet Division II school about two hours away, and who knows where Brian will go at this point because he’s only a freshman, but you can bet it probably won’t be very far either.

Silverware clinks like familiar conversation in the silence, interspersed with normal chewing and Brian’s inhalation of about two-thirds of the available food. Mom asks Dad a question about work that she asked him during Friday night’s dinner, and he gives an answer similar-but-not-identical. Then Dad asks Brian what his plans are for the day, and Brian mumbles something through a mouthful of food. Mom turns to me.

“What about you, sweetie? Any plans with Alan today?”

Why is everything about me suddenly contextualized within the framework of my relationship? I’m chewing so I just shake my head, but Mom waits for me to finish with her head cocked expectantly.

“Nope. I’m thinking about breaking up with him, actually.”

I have no idea what makes me say it, but once the words are out I’m amused and pleased with myself—the atmosphere around the table changes, there is no script for what I just said, and even Brian looks vaguely interested in what’s going on around him now.

“But…why? You two are such a good-looking couple.”

I roll my eyes with no restrain.

“Kayleigh,” Dad says, surprise and warning in his voice.

“He’s boring.”

I go back to eating my phone, feeling the energy crackle around me like the electricity in the air before the storm. Unfortunately, the storm passes without ever breaking and I’m stomping back upstairs for no particular reason twenty minutes later after having rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher and helped put the leftover fruit and food into Mom’s extensive Tupperware container collection.

Back in my room, I sprawl on my bed in a heap of soft pale limbs and long soft hair, and I scroll through my Instagram and Facebook feeds, ignoring a second message from Alan asking if I’d like to get ice cream today. We got ice cream last week, I want to tell him scornfully. Don’t you have anything original to suggest?

Without thinking too much about it, I click open his messages and stare at the boring, dull words sent by a boring and dull guy who will probably grow up to be my dad. They’re both nice and all, but the idea of living in this house forever with my dad makes me want to run for as long as I can as far away as I can, and suddenly what I need to do becomes a little clearer. I type the message that will free me from this weight of boredom, and immediately feel lighter upon hitting send. I set the phone down and leave it as it begins to vibrate with frantic “what happened what can I do to change your mind please don’t do this” texts. I dress thoughtfully, in a little bit of a daze. Tiny jean shorts with suggestive rips near the pockets, a flowing black camisole with a scoop along the bodice to tease a view of my generous-for-someone-so-slim cleavage. My bronzed skin glows against the plain black fabric, and I complete the look with small gold hoops, gladiator sandals, and a hint of blue eyeliner beneath my eyes.

As I’m heading down the stairs I call, “Going to get ice cream with Alan, be back later!”

There’s a surprised silence but then my dad calls “Okay!” and I close the door and walk jauntily out of the little cul-de-sac where my house is located. I start to make my way to the park, but stop halfway there, intrigued by a sudden idea. A little ways into the remnants of a densely-wooded forest that used to cover this area before developers made a subdivision is an area where a group of kids from my school who I never interact with hangout. It exists in a kind of bubble between kids and authorities—keep it to cigarettes and cheap beer and don’t bring it out of the trees, and we’ll let you be. The path in is clearly marked by many people regularly moving in and out of the underbrush. To the left, an abandoned train track is set on a small, gently sloping hill. I don’t know what makes me turn right and start walking, but I do.

It’s peaceful at first, or as peaceful as walking through thick forest carpeted with leaves and cigarette butts with the occasional crunch of an old Miller Lite can, can be. After about ten minutes though I start to hear voices, rough and loud and unmodulated, totally unlike Alan and Mr. Allen and my dad. I emerge into a clearing just as someone sinks a cup in beer pong, on a broken plastic table that’s being held as even as possible by two old broken lawn chairs, propped up in the middle.

“Kayleigh girl, you lost?” The words are slightly slurred but Kevin’s eyes are sharp and probing, surprised and not sure what to expect, or what to do in this situation.

Three other boys take me in, and an older, but still young man, who I don’t recognize. I’ve had classes or bee in school with everyone except the older guy since I was five, which I think we’re all realizing at the same time.

“Definitely lost,” Shane drawls. I bristle.

“Just trying to find something to do.” I try my best to sound unconcerned and bored, and to my surprise the tone comes out as intended. The guys exchange looks.

“You know we’re like, a group right? Not really looking to add new friends, if you know what I mean.” This time the speaker is the guy I don’t know, a rugged-looking outdoorsy-type with piercing green eyes.

“If anyone’s intruding here, it’s you,” I say coolly. “Who even are you, anyway?”

There’s a collective intake of breath from the other guys and immediately I’m worried I’ve gone too far, but my skin is alive with tingling goosebumps and for once I don’t know exactly what I should say or do but I’m not following any script and it feels wonderful.

“I’m Jake,” the stranger says, just as coolly, but I think with a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. It’s hard to tell because he’s got a beard and he could also be grimacing in annoyance. I roll back my shoulders and meet his eyes—we’re about the same height, not because he’s short, but because I’m tall, and for the first time, I’m not trying to conceal that. He advances on me slowly and I feel a small thrill and for the first time a pocket of fear, that I swallow like a bitter pill and ignore. He’s right in front of me now, and the other guys have slowly circled around me as well, much more uncertain than Jake but following his lead because they don’t know what else to do. They don’t seem to know what’s happening either, which gives me the courage to keep standing tall even as Jake runs a hand over my chest, dipping his fingers insolently beneath the neckline and grazing the soft roundness that’s spilling out. My eyes flash green, meeting his own gaze in a burst of disdain that he thinks he can just intimidate me by touching me.

“You’re going to have to work a little harder if you want a response,” I taunt.

He laughs once, dangerously, and suddenly grabs my arm and jerks me around so that I’m held captive in one place. There’s a muffled sound of surprise from the other guys, but none of them dares to interfere. I meet Kevin’s eye as Jake turns me around and, strangely, the first thing I remember is coloring beside him in kindergarten and admiring how neatly he colored, for a boy.

Facing the other guys, Jake keeps one hand firmly gripping my arm and lazily puts his other hand carelessly on one of my tits. He squeezes it experimentally through the cloth and over the bra before addressing us.

“Alright boys, I say she can hang out with us. But, she has to be initiated first.” Their eyes widen and only Shane is brave enough to respond.

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Coach Kennedy: Forced Lesbian Submission

My name is Marcia Deacon. Remember that name, because you’ll be hearing from me very soon. This season I’m playing for one of the biggest teams in NCAA basketball and after that I’m going to be tearing up the WNBA. I’m going to be huge.

I sound really arrogant, don’t I? Good. That’s because I am. My arrogance is the best kind though, the kind that’s based on talent. Oh yeah, a lot of the girls in the game hate me. Well you know what they say about haters, don’t you. I tell people I’m good, because I’m good. Really good. I doubt if you’ve seen a player like me in the women’s game in your whole life.

I didn’t always talk this way. In fact, not so long ago I was pretty different. I guess I’ve come a long way in just a few months. And I have one woman to thank.

*  *  *  *

I was always naturally gifted. I started playing on my driveway. At the age of seven I was the best player in my street. By the age of ten, I was the best in my school and by the age of sixteen, I was the best in the state. The sport has always come naturally to me. I’m 5’8” and kind of gangly and uncoordinated and clumsy too. I’m like one of those creatures that only comes alive in one environment. Put me on a date or working in a restaurant or tidying my room and I’m hopeless. I break things, I fall over, I tread on people’s toes. But get me on a court and I come alive. Dribbling, passing, shooting; I had it all, and I could hold my own in the paint too.

I held the school and state scoring records every year right up to eleventh grade. My form fell off a bit that year, and at the time I didn’t really know why. I was still the best player on the varsity team, but I was missing a few shots and didn’t feel quite right out there. Still, no-one thought it would last and when my senior year rolled round, I was ready to go again.

Senior year. New challenges, new opportunities and a new coach. Coach Kennedy. She was a last minute deal, a replacement for old Coach Connor, who’d retired the previous spring. We’d heard rumors; that she was tough, that she used to beat up her students, that she was totally lesbian, but no-one really took it seriously, that is, until our first session.

We were all gathered in the hall, ready for practice when the door slammed open and Coach Kennedy walked in. Strode in, would be a more accurate assessment. She was tall, tanned with bright blonde hair tied back in a fiercely tight ponytail. Tight was probably the best word to describe her. Tight hair, tight body, tight little shorts, tight tee.

“Right then ladies, let me tell you something about yourselves. I gather you think you’re good. Well let me explain exactly why everything you have achieved so far is worthless.”

And that’s what she did. She stood on the spot, like a cross between a super model and a Marines drill sergeant and told us all how useless we were, how fat, how slow, how lazy, how weak and how pathetic we were. Then she told us that the only way she believed in was total obedience. We were to do exactly what she said, when she said it and anyone who disagreed would be off the team. When she’d finished, she looked at us all and shook her head.

Things didn’t get any better. Training was horrible. Endless, punishing physical endurance work, push-ups and forfeits if we missed a shot and a constant stream of shouting and abuse and more shouting. By the time of the first game, we were on the brink of breaking down.

We lost our first game 85-60. We lost our next two, by increasing margins. By the time we were 0-5 and staring at the worst season in the school’s history, the girls decided that someone had to confront her and they decided that it had to be me.

“No way!” I said.

“But you’re the best player on the team,” said Hannah.

“You have to do it,” said CC. “If you don’t this season is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s already a disaster,” I said. “Confronting her won’t make any difference.”

I looked up. All the other girls were looking at me. I could see the desperation in their eyes. I wasn’t the only one with ambitions, and even those girls who wouldn’t go far in college ball still wanted to end their senior year on a winning team. They would only get one shot at this, after all.

I sighed.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

The truth was, I was terrified, and I didn’t feel any less terrified when, half an hour later, I stood in Coach Kennedy’s office, waiting for her to finish on her computer.

“Right. Deacon. What do you want?”

“I…that is…”

“Get on with it, girl, I’m busy.”

“I…me and the girls, the team, we…well we don’t think it’s working and we…”

My voice trailed off as she glared, icily at me. There was a silence, which lasted about thirty seconds. Then she stood up, suddenly and I flinched.

“I’ve finished here today,” she said. “Are you ready to go.”

“I…er yes.”

“Good. I will give you a lift to my house. We can talk more about your concerns there.”


It didn’t really feel right but I kind of felt obliged to go with her. I mean I had started the conversation and anyway she had the tone of voice that you don’t argue with.

She didn’t talk at all as we drove to her house, which was in the wealthy Green Acres suburb. In fact, her house was more of a mansion. She showed me into a huge reception area, and then through the biggest living room your’ve ever seen, through a big kitchen and then opened another door. As I stepped through the door, there was the sound of lights going on and I found myself standing on the edge of a court.

“You have a court in your house?”

“Of course.”

I looked around in wonder. It wasn’t as big as the school court, but it was cleaner and professional looking and even had benches along the side.

“I have a reputation for finding young talent and team owners pay me well for it. I work hard, and if you work hard, you get the rewards.”

Back in the living room, still thinking about the court, I sat on one of her leather sofas and tried to compose the speech I was going to make. I was still thinking about it when she thrust a drink into my hand.

“Drink this,” she said, “It’s an energy drink. Replenishes what’s important.”

I looked at the fizzing green juice which didn’t seem particularly wholesome but she was standing over me so I drank it in three gulps.

“Good girl,” she said, smiling.

I didn’t like her smile, mainly because I had never seen it before and it was kind of sinister. I didn’t have long to think about it though because not long after I felt the juice slide down my throat, the room began to spin, and the light faded. My eyelids began to feel incredibly heavy and I wanted nothing more at that moment to lie down, put my head on her cool leather sofa and sleep.

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Erotica For Men: Bimbos & Brats

I’ve got a 12 book bundle for my male readers.

It contains some of my older titles that focus on barely legal teens & women who transform into horny bimbos ready to serve.

Stories in Erotica For Men: Bimbos & Brats:

Bookworm To Bimbo
Stretching Sabrina
Nagging Wife To Bimbo
Stretching Mallory
Plain Jane To Bimbo
Stretching Simone 
The Bimbo Wormhole
Fertile Exchange Student
Daddy’s Creamy Christmas Present
Innocent Brat Does Hollywood
Seducing The Man Of The House

Own Erotica For Men: Bimbos & Brats

Beast Me: He Does Exist (Bigfoot Erotica)

I was alone, completely alone. There was a full moon but it didn’t cast much light on the dense dark forest as I wandered through the undergrowth, helplessly lost. I had given up calling out for Brad or Chad or Scott or the other one. All that accomplished was to give me a sore throat as my strained, desperate cries for help died into silence.

Still clutching my camera, I stopped and leant on a tree. I was too cold and tired to cry and it made no sense to go wandering on through the dark.

Then I heard it. A low, rumbling noise, like the approach of a tractor or a steam roller, a grumbling that seemed to shake the ground. But this was no vehicle. It had an animal quality to it, a growling, menacing edge. I held my breath, frozen in fear. The rumbling growl started again, this time accompanied by shuffling and snuffling sounds and the crack of branches giving way. Desperately, I looked around me, trying to see where it was coming from. Then I saw it. A little way off, the implacable darkness of the trees was shifting, the shadows resolving into new shapes. In the half-light of the moon, I caught a glimpse of something truly, truly terrifying.

I was too frightened to scream. So I ran. Still clutching my camera, scampering headlong through the trees and bushes in the pitch black, I ran.

*  *  *  *

My name is Fae. I’m a documentary film maker from Seattle. Make that a struggling documentary film maker from Seattle. When I first decided to be a film maker, I imagined I’d end up dispatching pulse-racing bulletins from dangerous war zones, but getting to war zones takes either money or contacts and I had neither. I didn’t have any relevant qualifications either – blame a bad choice of college courses and a fondness for parties – and so I had ended up living over a Chinese restaurant, trying to find ways to make rent while gathering a healthy collection of rejection emails.

Yes, it’s fair to say that the independent documentary film business is not exactly lucrative, but then you could say that about most creative jobs. So when I happened to hit on a theme that earned me money, well I had no choice but to exploit it.

Decoding Roswell was a rushed ninety minute piece about a group of UFO truthers – the result of me spending a week in Albuquerque interviewing a collection of lunatics, misfits and morons. It was supposed to be for a conspiracy channel called American Truth but it turned out better than I thought, so I tried pitching it to a major online news company and they loved it. They liked the psychological angle, they liked the shaky camera footage, and most importantly, they paid me.

So having found my niche, I started scouting round for other truthers, and didn’t have to look far. After a few days chatting to people on various forums, I got in touch with a collection of weirdoes who had dedicated their lives to solving another great American mystery that didn’t need solving, and after some mind-bendingly tedious online conversations, I managed to arrange a day of filming in Wenatchee National Forest, or Big Foot Central, as one of them described it.

*  *  *  *

After a long and tedious drive into the Washington forests, involving several wrong-runs, a flat tire and numerous outbursts of violent swearing, I steered my beat-up old car along a rutted track and pulled up outside a feeble collection of tents.

I’m a city girl, and, as a rule, I don’t do the countryside. Naturally, being a documentary film maker sometimes involves leaving civilization, but I absolutely refuse to get into all of that country clothing nonsense. I dress in the country as I dress in the city, which on this particular day meant purple leggings – to match my purple hair – and a battered, faded denim jacket over a faded Sonics tee.

I don’t know what aspect of my appearance was most alarming for the Big Footers. It might have been my hair, my nose piercing, or the fact that I hadn’t bothered to wear a bra, but whatever it was, they looked as though I had landed from another planet. All four of them stood, open-mouthed and rooted to the spot as I got out of my car. I remember thinking that if the arrival of a punky girl from Seattle caused them such terror, then they might not be entirely cut out for an encounter with Big Foot.

After some prompting, they introduced themselves. There was Brad, Chad, Scott and someone else whose name I don’t recall. Three of them were sporting bushy beards. Three of them were overweight and three of them were wearing plaid lumberjack shirts and baseball caps. There was some overlap in these categories.

First impressions were not encouraging. I tried to set up a set-piece opener around the camp fire, but Brad, Chad, Scott and the other one were not big on talking, and their discomfort at being around a girl was embarrassingly palpable. It was as though I had travelled back in time to High School and was once again trying to make friends with terrified nerd boys, although these specimens were a few IQ points short of nerd status.

The afternoon was drawing on and the prospect of spending a night and another day with this group didn’t really appeal, so I suggested that we could strike out into the woods, with the plan of filming them all individually. They didn’t seem to think this was a good idea, but were handicapped by their inability to speak to me in complete sentences, and so after a little bullying and a little journalistic insistence, we were soon setting out into the gloomy, sombre-looking woodland.

After some time of crunching through the woods in silence, during which I tried but failed to provoke them into interesting conversation, Chad – or it may have been Brad – decided that it would be a good idea to split into two groups. By this time I was thoroughly tired and bored as I trudged off behind Brad – or possibly Chad – and the other one. With one last burst of journalistic enthusiasm, I pointed my camera at each of them in turn as we walked, hoping to provoke them into saying something – anything – of interest. But all I managed to elicit was mumbling and long silent interludes, and after half an hour of this, I was thoroughly dispirited. I sat down on a tree stump, to check my camera and when I looked up I noticed two things. Firstly, that it was getting really dark, and secondly, that there was no-one in sight.

*  *  *  *

I was running blind, staggering into the darkness, whimpering as I ran, but no matter how quickly or desperately I ran, I couldn’t outrun the bellowing and grunting behind me. Gasping for breath, my lungs raw from the effort, I made the mistake of looking behind me and as I turned back, I lost my footing, skidding on a leaf litter and then felt my toes thud into a stubborn root and I tumbled headlong, landing on my hands and knees.

As I scrambled to my feet, I felt a dark shadow looming over me, blocking out the moonlight and I turned in time to see the vast bulk of something horrible and enormous bearing down on me. I screamed, involuntarily and began to scrabble desperately along the ground, feeling my leggings catch on a stray branch and tear and my jacket fall away from my shoulders as I tried to wriggle away.

I had begun to get some momentum in my desperate fight for freedom, when suddenly, a great weight was pressed down on my calves and I sank, face down into the earth. I screamed again, but the soil muffled the sound. I tried to shake my legs desperately, jerking as hard as I could, but something had me in its grip, and then, the ground shifted and moved beneath me and with horror, I realized that instead of pulling free, I was being dragged in the opposite direction!

As I was pulled across the rough earth, I tried to grab anything I could: tree branches, roots, shrubs, but nothing worked. I shouted and cried and screamed but there was no-one to hear me as I was dragged along the forest floor, until eventually I stopped trying to resist and, sobbing, surrendered to my fate, my ankles lifted in the air, my body scraping among the leaves and stones and soil.

After a few minutes of being dragged through the forest, I came to a halt. I opened my eyes and screamed out again, because close to me, close enough that I could feel its breath on my skin, was the face of a hideous, deformed creature, covered in matted hair, with gleaming sharp canine teeth and a vast, bulbous nose. I felt rough hair against my legs, my side, my neck and suddenly the ground began to shift again and I felt the dizzying, disorienting effect I’d previously only encountered in roller coasters as I was lifted into the air. I felt heavy weight clamping down on either side of me, and the creature’s foul-smelling hair was smothering my face as we once more began to move through the forest, though this time my body rose and fell as it walked.

Once again, I tried desperately to free myself, but once again my efforts were wasted. I was held fast under its arm. Looking down at the ground only made me dizzy so I tried to look at the creature. It was tall, maybe eight or nine foot, and walked on its hind legs, like a human, but was covered all over in thick dark hair that was illuminated occasionally when the moonlight broke through the trees.

I was feeling sick and dizzy and exhausted and so I closed my eyes, telling myself first that this was a horrible dream and then, when I’d failed to convince myself of that, that I would gather my strength, bide my time and break free when I could.

A rush of cold air and a splash of moonlight on my face caused me to open my eyes and I realized we had left the tree-line and were now climbing up a pebbly incline towards nearby cliffs. Summoning my strength, I shouted for help with all my might, begging, screaming for someone, anyone to help me. But there was no answer, the creature appeared unconcerned by my screams, and before long we passed into a dark cave at the base of the cliffs.

The cave was damp and cold but not very deep. The creature dropped me onto the ground near the rear of the cave and I scrambled away into the shadows, sitting against a rock, my arms hugged around my legs.

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Experimentally Overflowing

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I sit on the floor of my tiny studio apartment in Twin Falls, Minnesota, the city that I can’t seem to escape or even make a living in.

I had plans to go to New York after graduation. I stayed in-state to go to school so that I wouldn’t come out saddled with debt and the need to ride a stripped pole until it got paid off, like Marcie Hamlin had to do. (Is still doing? I don’t know, she actually moved to New York a couple years ago). But now here I am, sitting on this fake-wooden floor surrounded by portraits of myself that together comprise all of me, even though I’m unrecognizable in some of them.

Faces have always fascinated me, the way they twist and contort and can be soft as velvet or hard as granite in a moment’s notice. My ex-boyfriend had the sharpest planes of a face that I’ve ever seen, and his jet-black hair really contributed to this dark, sharp aesthetic he had. We broke up shortly before graduation and he moved to Florida to be a bartender for a fancy five-star hotel. I don’t really know what I ever saw in him really, except we were together for three years so there must have been something about him initially.

My problem is I’ve always been passive. A passive child, doing what my parents told me to do. A passive adolescent, listening to the screaming of my parents from my bedroom (do they think the walls are sound proof?). When it became too much, I painted faced. Their faces, mine in the mirror, watching my face react even as I sat still and stoic in the wake of their torrential outpouring of hate for one another.

It’s hard learning that you were the only thing that brought two people together.

Mom gave up first, kissing me on the cheek one morning before school like nothing was wrong, and then suddenly her car was gone and the house felt like a graveyard of both her marriage and hopes and dreams.

Dad gave up when I was in my second year at school. We’d never particularly gotten along; he made it clear I was an obligation to him before anything else and spent most of his time on the reclining cushion seat in front of ESPN, regardless of whether I was around or not. I found his stash of porn magazines when I was fifteen and took to wearing slouchy, oversize clothes around him and anything else with a penis for a long time after that, but word spreads fast when you’re a solid C cup with a tiny waist and bubble butt, and it’s not like I couldn’t not change for gym class around a bunch of other girls. Their jealousy fed the flames of the boys’ desire that I evaded nimbly all throughout high school.

Getting to college was like stepping off a jam-packed bus for the first time in several hours. Yes, lots of people knew who I was by name, but there were a lot who didn’t as well, and for once I was able to control who could and couldn’t approach me. I started wearing all black and I got a sharp undercut that offset my own heart-shaped face and soft green eyes; the boys really didn’t know what to make of me most of the time, and the girls thought I was a fashion freak and left me alone and gave me my space.

When I came back from break and realized that Dad was gone-gone this time, not just off with a friend from work motel-hopping, I slunk in and out for as long as possible before the eviction notice came, and then I just stopped going back. I packed up two large backpacks’ worth of stuff I thought was worth salvaging, and seriously considered setting the place on fire just before I left. I compromised by selling his vintage record-collection so that I could buy new art supplies and move into an apartment downtown.

That was three months ago. Fast forward and the money’s run out and my last canvas is drying in the corner, next to a picture of my parents on their wedding day. I’ve swapped their faces and given them both my eyes and the effect is chilling and symbolic and everything I could have hoped for.

The phone rings and I dive for it, hoping that I’m being called into work, but no luck. It’s just my landlord reminding me that rent is due in a week. I sigh and sit back, legs folded neatly under me, and peruse the weekend paper that I stole from my neighbor’s doorstep. I always check the Classified section in the hope that somebody needs an artist or someone to paint or draw something, but there’s even less of a market for artists than there is for part-time workers. Pro tip: they advertise like crazy but don’t actually need you, which is how I ended up working “part-time” for Pizza Hut and Subway within a week of arriving and am still only totaling about 20 hours a week.

It’s really not enough to get by.

I sigh and push my hair back out of my face and into a low ponytail. My undercut is growing out and the soft chestnut hair has a slight wave to it. My own face, small and with soft edges and curves that swell with swear words I can’t say to nasty customers, my boss, and my landlord, and that spill like a gin-and-tonic knocked to the ground by a careless elbow in bars and clubs.

Suddenly, my eyes light on the bottom-right hand corner of the paper.



The simplicity and “I don’t give a fuck” vibe of the ad is utterly intriguing, and before I fully realize what I’m doing I’m picking up the shitty black plastic phone again that’s connected to the apartment complex’s shitty landline and dialing the sketchy number. The 69 isn’t lost on me and I’m on guard as the phone rings neutrally in my ear.


The voice is deep and masculine and I get the impression if I could see him I’d be attracted to him.

“Hi, I’m calling about an ad for a new hormone drug that I saw in the paper?”

“Oh hey, you’re our first callback!”

“Well, that might be because the ad was really creepy and I need the money.”

“You mean you don’t have a personal investment in whether or not this new drug works? You could be helping loads of women!”

“Nah, not particularly.”

The silence drops as it always does when I deadpan and I wait for the inevitable nervous laugh or some sort of blustery response. I’m surprised.

“Nice to have some honesty for a change,” the tone is easygoing and unaffected; he really doesn’t seem to be put off that I’m doing this purely for the money and have no interest in helping other people.

“So you’ll have me for the study?”

“Sure, could you come in tomorrow at 9AM? Westfield and Chestnut Avenue, right on the corner. It’s a big office building and you’ll want to go up to the fourth floor and door 412.”

“Yeah, no problem. So, what exactly is the compensation?”

“$2,000 and whatever side effects the drugs cause.”

“Very funny.”

“See you tomorrow.” His tone is amused, and I can hear him begin to speak as he puts the phone down on his end, but I can’t make out the words.

I return to my most recent painting for the rest of the afternoon, playing with the shading and the lighting but maintaining the semi-panicked expressions that they wore on their faces even on the happiest day of their lives.

What a fucking joke.

For dinner, I slouch down to a corner store and buy a microwave pizza and a dark beer, which gives the cashier pause when he’s ringing me up and trying to decide whether or not to hit on me—most frozen-dinner-gals pair themselves with a box of Franzia or a StrawberRita.

He decides to let me be.

I eat my dinner and drink my beer on the stairs, where I can sort of hear the television from the landlord’s room downstairs. He’s watching Wheel of Fortune and, as usual, all of the contestants are idiots.

I finish my dinner, go back into my room, and get ready for bed, quietly changing into my soft cotton boy-shorts and a soft gray tank top. My skin is porcelain white against the gray, which hardly any marks—not even a freckle. I used to hate my skin because I thought it was essentially transparent but over time I’ve come to appreciate it; it makes me look fragile and uncertain and forces me to exercise facial expressions I might not otherwise. Like disgust, anger, blankness, and irritation. I curl up on the ugly blue duvet I bought from Goodwill for four dollars and go to sleep almost instantly—I’ve never been the insomnia type of artist.

The next morning I realize I have no idea what to wear. I’m standing in front of my tiny closet in a matching bra and panty set (my only matching set, for the record) and I’ve got goosebumps along my arm and still no idea what to wear. A dress? Jeans and a T-shirt?

In the end I opt for yoga pants and a slim-fitting, sky-blue tank top that brings out my eyes and shows off the curve of my breasts, which swell over the top of the shirt with more playfulness than I could ever exhibit myself. Right before I leave, I line my eyes in brown eyeliner to naturally make them look fuller and larger. I don’t really know what to expect, but I want to be prepared.

I ignore the stares and ogles on the bus, as usual, as it creaks and snakes its way around the city. Occasionally I lose patience and swipe a glare over a man who’s about to miss his bus stop, or a husband who thinks his wife isn’t looking. She is, and so am I, and I don’t appreciate feeling desired and detested at the same time. I get off two blocks early just because I’m sick of feeling like it’s my fault I’m beautiful and haughty.

The office building is easy to locate and the room easy to find as well. No one stops me or interferes as I make my way up; it seems like a normal amount of people working a normal 9-5. When I enter room 412 though, I get the distinct impression that I’ve left the office building and entered another, more strange place. I don’t feel unsafe, exactly, but right when I walk in I see two massive fish tanks lining the walkway in. Tropical fish in a hue of rainbow colors swim and sway in the water as I pass, and there is a receptionist now, a young, lanky man in a blue button-up shirt that’s only a few shades darker than my tank top.

“You must be Kelly.” He smiles easily, flashing a small dimple.

“Yeah. You must be the receptionist.”

He raises an eyebrow, taking in my attire and the set of my jaw. “I’m guessing you came here on public transport.”

I raise my eyebrows in response. Who are these people?

Another man comes out of the room behind the receptionist and greets me, shaking my hand firmly. I immediately recognize this one as the one I spoke to on the phone, the way his eyes linger over my body the way mine linger over his tells me that he made an assumption about me based on my voice as well.

“If you’ll just come on back here, we’ll get the paperwork sorted and get down to business.” His eyes don’t leave mine on that last part of the sentence, which I appreciate.

I follow him, Jake, I think is who he introduced himself as, into the back room, and accept the clipboard and pen he offers me. The paper has more information about the drug I’ll be taking; apparently it’s for women who aren’t producing enough milk for their babies. The idea behind the study is to take women who aren’t currently lactating and see what degree, if any, the hormone supplement has on them so that more accurate dosages can be prescribed for lactating mothers according to their norms pre-baby. Makes sense, I suppose.

I fill out the required information and accept the drug when it’s brought in, and oral tablet that’s a violent shade of violet.

“Should take about fifteen minutes to kick in, so I’ll be back soon. If you don’t mind lying down, that will allow us to see the effects immediately once we come back in.”

“Sure.” I stretch out on the doctor’s table, breathing slowly and calmly. My chest is too big to see over without raising my head, but I feel certain that Jake cast another look at me as he exited.

After a few minutes I feel a strange sensation around my lower abdomen, like a warming in my belly after eating ramen. I take a breath and watch my chest rise and fall; everything is normal. My mouth is starting to taste a little odd; not bad at all, almost sweet. Of my own volition, I sit up, and immediately the door opens a crack.

“Kelly? Remember we need you lying down.”

I hadn’t realized the men were just standing outside and that the window must be one of those special examination windows they use for experiments. Obediently, I lie back down.

The next thing I feel is a tingling across my chest, that spreads and then settles like a soft vibrating sheet over my breasts. I swear I can feel them swelling, growing warm and hot at the same time, and just then the door opens and three men come in—Jake, the receptionist, and another man I’ve never met but I’m assuming is on the drug trial team. I give them a jaunty smile even as I internally gasp at the sight of my chest literally expanding before my eyes. The receptionist begins jotting notes frantically on his clipboard, but Jake just surveys me quietly.

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