Month: December 2017

Holiday Deals On Erotica! 4 New Bundles!


Happy Holidays!  I’ve got 4 NEW BUNDLES that are sure to get you HOT & BOTHERED during the holiday season…

Forced Lesbian Submissions II: 7 Books Of Girl On Girl Action


Looking for HOT GIRL ON GIRL ACTION with shades of grey?

This 7 book 200 plus page bundle contains:  Scared Unstraight, Trailer Park Girl, Full Body Search, Coach Kennedy, The Queen’s Concubine, Her Pleasure Slave & Showing Her Who’s Boss



Milked: 19 Books Of Cream


More than a mouthful… 

19 books and over 330 pages that is sure to quench your thirst.



Big & Black: 11 Books Of Interracial Black Men White Women Erotica


Sometimes a white housewife needs something a bit BIGGER & BLACKER…

11 books and over 250 pages of white wives being ravished  by black studs.

Stories included: Big Black Cop, Big Black Bachelorette Party, Big Black Boss, Big Black Massage, Big Black Boxer, Big Black Christmas Present, The Plantation Owner’s Wife, Underground Submission, Home Invasion 1 & 2, & Blackmaled.



Monster Erotica Unlimited: 14 Books Of Beasts, Ogres, Spirits, Demons & More


Bigfoot, Ogres, Minotaurs, Demons & more..

This 14 book 325 page bundle will make scream with terror as well as pleasure.




Want more? Visit my AUTHOR’S PAGE


Blacked Wives: Big Black Christmas Present (My Hubby Gives Me A Hall Pass)

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.

“Know what?”

“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.”

“You’re not?”

“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.

“Turned on?”

“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.”

“Record it!”

“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.

“For what?”

“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.”

“Mike, please.”

“Consider it my Christmas present to you.”

“I’m not doing it, okay. I don’t want to,” I lied. Again.

He smiled.

“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…


Want more?  Grab a copy on Amazon

Blacked Wives: Big Black Christmas Present will be available on Amazon for $0.99 from December 16th to December 18th.

*This book has been ADULT LISTED by Amazon, which means it can only be found through links I provide and my AUTHOR’S PAGE.




Beast Me: Incubi

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.

Bella giggled.

“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.”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Well, there’s a book.”

“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!…

Want more?  Grab a copy on Amazon 

Beast Me: Incubi will be available on Amazon for $0.99 from Dec. 16th to Dec 18th.  

Taken By The Tribe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hannah, I got to go into town.”

“Oh can I come!”

“No, I got to take care of business.”


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

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

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

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

“I won’t uncle,” I sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want more?  Grab a copy on Amazon

Bimbofying The Brat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled and put her hand down onto the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Hitman’s Sex Doll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Queen’s Concubine

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

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

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

”Is this the peasant girl?”

”Yes ma’am.”

She looked at me and sniffed.

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

The courtier shook her head.

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

She clapped her hands and the servants hurried over.

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

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

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

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

“I can’t wear this!” I protested.

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

“What…what will she do to me?”

The second servant girl giggled.

“You will find out.”

“Beware her kiss,” said the other girl.

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

“Good. Follow me,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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