Author: sablecollinserotica

Groupie: The Complete Box Set

This is an excerpt from The Cage – Book One Of Groupie Series:

I love music. I love life on the road. I love everything about this industry. There are so many great bands. Well, there’s only really one great band, one band that have changed my life, one band that truly, truly makes me happy.

Let me start at the beginning. My name is Katy. I used to be journalist for Metal Road. You’ve probably heard of it, and if you haven’t, your teenage son or daughter has. It started in the 90s as a fanzine, but its online these days, and it does pretty well. It’s still in the top twenty of most read US metal sites, at least, I think it is. I haven’t checked recently.

Metal Road was my first writing job after college. I was pretty raw, keen, thought I was going to be the next big thing in journalism, was going to change the world. I didn’t manage that, instead I changed my world, which is much, much better.

My first six months at the Road were pretty frustrating. I was mainly employed checking sources, booking tickets, covering for reception and fetching coffee for the editor, Stu, and the other senior writers. But I did what young, hungry writers are supposed to do: I kept pestering Stu and making myself a nuisance, and eventually, they gave me an album review.

This wasn’t really a big deal. They do hundreds of these things every month. But to me it was huge. It was my big chance. I was finally going to get to make my mark. It didn’t matter who the band were, this review was going to be the best ever.

As it happens, the band were a three-piece from LA called Sugar Bean. I didn’t realize that the band name had a particular meaning, I just thought it was pretty lousy. I listened to some of their music. It was kind of punky, kind of glam, and I kind of liked it. But I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to like it. So I casually mentioned them to a couple of the writers and got their feedback. Turns out Sugar Bean were generic sub-grunge re-treads, shallow emo wanabes, and lesbian music porn. So I went back to my desk and listened to them again.

You might think this was pretty shallow, and it was, but I’d been there long enough to know that it was easier to go with the majority opinion than against it. Only one or two of the writers, like Ed or Steph were allowed to set trends and break moulds. The rest of us didn’t have much leeway. Anyway, the evidence was clear. Metal Road did not like Sugar Bean.

I put the promotional picture of the band on my keyboard and started to write. The photo, which apparently was also going to be the album cover, was pretty ropey. It showed the three band-members: Misha, AJ and Chloe dolled out in black leather, boots heels and way way too much make-up. The other promotional picture was even more dodgy. It featured AJ kneeling on a bed, Misha lying back with her head covering AJ’s crotch, while a naked Chloe knelt between Misha’s legs, and appeared to be licking her out. It was pretty gross, I thought.

In fact, it looked like a low budget lesbian porn shoot. So I put that into the review. Then I went on for a couple of paragraphs about how silly the name was, and by this time, I had hit a seam of snark and was really going for it. I went on about how they were selling their sexuality, how their music was wannabe metal, the worst of pop and the worst of metal, and rounded it all off with a few lines about how they were degrading to women.

Almost as soon as I pressed send, I felt doubt loom up over me like a dark cloud. But I pushed the feeling aside. I had done it. I had submitted my first piece. I was an actual music journalist now, or so I thought.

Still, I couldn’t quite shake my doubts. On the subway home, I saw a poster for their new single. They looked so cool; exactly the kind of band I had wanted to be in at high school. I tried to snap myself out of it by remembering what Stu had said when I started: you’re a music journalist, everyone will hate you. If people take your writing personally, that’s their fault, and if you get squeamish about criticizing music, you aren’t doing your job, and you’re letting the readers down.

I managed to keep that thought in my head until I got back to my apartment, then I made the mistake of looking at one of their videos on line. It was pretty good. The music was fresh, and they had exactly the kind of punky attitude that I thought I was in tune with. Then I found an interview from a few weeks before. It confirmed what I had already discovered: I liked them.

Chloe, the white, blonde, lead singer swore a lot and made me smile. Misha, the black bass player was a totally kick-ass, incredible woman and delicate Latina AJ turned into a demon when she began to thrash her drums. They were good. Better than good. They were great.

But it was too late. My social media was already lighting up as readers, writers and fans began to spew their bad takes on top of my bad take. The comments seemed split between likes and dislikes, but by this time I agreed with the dislikes. Worst still, it seemed that the band had read the review too. Misha posted an angry face and AJ wrote something about haters and losers on her feed. I closed my eyes and lay back on my bed. What a mess!

Just then, my phone rang. It was Stu. I braced myself for a tirade of abuse. Stu had approved the piece, but that didn’t matter. I’d seen him turn on people before.

Turns out I read him wrong. He said he loved it. It was just the kind of big opinion, going against the grain kind of conversation starter he wanted. I was relieved, and I thanked him. Maybe I was wrong, I thought, maybe I was being too sensitive, maybe it was all just part of the industry, and I should be grateful for the exposure.

Well, turned out that was wrong too. Stu loved it, but Jack Wildermann, the CEO of Metal Road and the sister magazine Shred Work, hated it. He thought it was exactly the wrong kind of message about a band that was taking off with key demographics. So he chewed Stu’s ear off and when I came in the next day, Stu banished me from reviews.

I was back on coffee duty. Still, I kind of felt it was poetic justice, and for a few days, I was glad to sink into the obscurity of office flunky once again. As the online abuse began to dry up, I thought maybe I could put this behind me and have a re-do.

So a week later, when Stu called me into his office to discuss a news piece, it felt like redemption. I was going to get a chance to relaunch my writing career.

“Katy, my favorite reviled hack, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I don’t really care, I was just being polite. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve got you an assignment. Actually Jack suggested it.”

“Great,” I said, “What is it?”

“It’s a band interview.”

“Cool. Who is it?”

Stu smiled.

“Guess,” he said, grinning.

*  *  *  *

Sugar Bean were leaving on tour that afternoon and Stu said I had to meet them on their tour bus. My heart sank as he handed me the details. He also told me not to screw it up.

How could I interview them after what I’d written? All the way there in the taxi, I tried to come up with ways of apologizing but everything I rehearsed either sounded like I didn’t mean it or like I was trying too hard. As the taxi pulled into the street where their pink, black and silver tour bus was parked up, I tried to reassure myself. After all, this was a business, it was just part of the game. They were professionals, they would understand, right?

Wrong. All three of them were frosty with me from the start. Chloe, who smoked the whole time despite the fact that I coughed more than once, barely bothered looking at me. Misha glared directly at me, answering questions in a hostile monotone, and AJ was slumped in a chair to one side, making an incessant drumming noise with her sticks on the armrest.

It was hard going. I’d decided to go with pen and paper not to record the conversation, as I was sure they were going to shout at me, and I didn’t want to have to replay my humiliation at some point in the future. After a few painful, awkward minutes, my notepad had begun fill up, and while the quotes I was getting were boring and generic, there was at least something to work with. I began to think that maybe I would get out of there unscathed. So I thought I’d risk something relatively controversial. Big mistake.

“So, what would you say to those who suggest that maybe your whole kind of image is like degrading to women or whatever?”

Misha frowned.

“What do you mean our image?”

“Well, I mean the whole kind of slutty clothes and the…”

I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Before I could react, AJ had leapt from her chair and grabbed me by the throat.

Continue Reading…


6 FREE Erotic Shorts For Valentine’s Day + 2 FREE Guides On Writing Erotica

Spice up this Valentine’s Day with 6 FREE absolutely filthy erotica shorts

From February 14th – February 18th I will be making 6 of my books available for FREE on Amazon.  Choose one or indulge in all six.  There’s a little something for everyone from dubious consent to monster erotica.

Hotwife Valentine (cuckold)

The Plantation Owner’s Wife (white woman black man)

Full Body Search (forced lesbian submission)

Feeding The Cult Leader (lactation)

Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother (dubious consent)

Beast Me: He Does Exist (monster)

Want more stories? Go to my AMAZON AUTHOR’S PAGE


I will also be making my two erotica writing how to guides available:  Confessions Of An Erotica Author: How To Write Smut That Sells & Confessions Of An Erotic Author: How To Build A Smut Publishing Empire.

*These two guides will only be available for FREE Valentine’s Day.

Lustica: The Complete Box Set (3 Books)

Hi, I’m Jasmine and I’m an accountant. That’s how I tend to introduce myself at parties. It’s one of the reasons why I haven’t been to many parties in the last five years since leaving college. No-one wants to hear about the trials and tribulations of balance sheets and revenue and cost analysis. My lack of interesting conversation topics, combined with my chronic shyness and my tendency to hide in the corner drinking red wine until it’s time to go home, means that parties were not really my natural environment.

But the last party, at Anastasia’s, changed all that. In fact, it changed everything.

Anastasia is a writer, quite a successful one. She writes fantasy and science fiction stuff. She’s won awards and there’s even talk of one of her books being made into a film, which is pretty cool. She’s promised to take me with her when she moves to LA!

I’ve known her since the first week of college. She was in the room across the hall, and she just wandered in one morning, sat on the end of my bed and introduced herself, just like that, flashing her trademark enormous, warm smile that you can’t help but feel relaxed by.

She’s pretty easy to get along with. I’m definitely not. I have issues. I’m quite fussy about what food I eat, what I wear, where we go for lunch, and I analyze everything to death. She’s the complete opposite. I’m slim and blonde and pale and she’s curvy and tanned, with flaming red hair and wicked green eyes. She’s a natural people person, as well as having a fabulous imagination. I really don’t know why she is my friend. She said that I had a fairy spirit in me, which I thought was nonsense, at least, I did until the night of that party.

Ana threw a lot of parties. This one was to celebrate finishing the second draft of her latest novel. Usually I found an excuse not to go, but this time she insisted, and the guilt was pretty intense. Worse still, it was a fancy dress party.

So I compromised. I spent three hours getting ready – which is quite quick for me – and didn’t leave my apartment until my hair was silky and immaculate, my make-up was perfect and I had tried on every dress in my wardrobe. I eventually settled on a short black outfit, one of the few I had that was in any way revealing. To balance the fact that the dress clung to my thighs and emphasized my pert butt, I wore flats and opaque tights. My plan was to pretend that I had forgotten it was fancy dress. It was not a good plan.

“No, no, no, no,” said Ana, frowning, when she answered the door. Before I could object, she took me by the hand and marched me upstairs to her bedroom. She made me sit down on the bed, amid the mess of abandoned clothes, paper, books, coffee cups and strange antique objects that filled the room, while she rifled through her wardrobe.

”There,” she said, triumphantly, holding up a sparkly green fairy costume.

“No. Way.” I said.

“This is a fancy dress party, girl, and you are not going to be the only one here who isn’t joining in with the theme.”

“But, it’s so, so, short!” I said.

She pouted a little.

“Come on, you’ve got great legs, a smoking body. What’s wrong with showing it off a little?”

“I’m not a slut!” I replied.

She sighed.

“No-one will think you’re a slut. It’s a fancy dress party, Jas, everyone is dressed up fancy. Please. For me?”

It was my turn to sigh.

“Fine,” I said and snatched the dress.

I was wrong about it being short. It was very short. Very very short. A tiny little frilly pale green skirt, a skimpy little yellow bodice that barely contained my breasts, a pair of silly little wings that fastened to the back and golden heels with long silky ribbons that looped round my legs in a criss-cross pattern. I looked, well, I looked quite good actually. I admired myself in Ana’s mirror. Not bad at all. But still, was I really going to go out there like this? Showing my bare legs, pretty much all the way to the top of my thighs?

Well, I didn’t really have a choice.

Her house was full of people. Fortunately no-one saw me slipping down the stairs and I worked my way through the throng in Ana’s hallway, grabbed a glass of red on my way and reached the relative shelter of the corner of her dining room. My plan was to stay there for the rest of the evening. That didn’t really work out. I’d only been there about five minutes when I found myself standing next to a cute guy. Our eyes met and we both smiled a little. But he didn’t speak. Desperate to break the awkward silence, I blurted out the first thing in my head.

“Hi, I’m Jasmine, I’m an accountant,” I said.

He looked at me, nodded.

“That’s…great,” he replied. “Would you excuse me?” And then he left.

I closed my eyes. This was why I don’t go to parties, I thought.

I decided that I couldn’t stay there, with all those people. I pushed my way back through the throng and into the corridor. Fumbling at the nearest door, I found myself in Ana’s study. Alone. I closed the door behind me and breathed a sigh of relief.

I looked around the room. It was full of Ana’s trademark clutter. There were papers everywhere, books, and empty pizza boxes, along with all kinds of artifacts. As I instinctively began tidying, gathering papers together, I saw a curious looking wooden carved necklace. I picked it up. It seemed to depict fairies or pixies dancing around a tree trunk, but when I looked closer and, blushing, I realized that the thing they were cavorting about was not a tree. It was an enormous, swollen, monstrous cock.

At that moment, I heard voices outside the door and the handle started to turn. Panicking, I looked around. Despite the clutter there was nothing to hide behind. My only option was the French windows. I ran over and opened them, stepping outside into the darkness and closing the windows behind me. As I did so, I heard a click. I fumbled at the handle. The doors were locked, and I was trapped, in my fairy costume, outside in the dark.

My legs were already feeling cold and I didn’t want to stay out there but the thought of going to the front door and knocking on it and having strangers gawp and stare at me and having to introduce myself all over again was too much. And then I saw her. Ana, wearing a long medieval princess gown, was hurrying across the garden, heading to the apple orchard.

I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. Looking around to see if anyone was about, I walked quickly after her. As I entered the darkness of the orchard, I felt a throbbing in my hand. I realized I was still holding the wooden necklace and for some reason it was vibrating. I put it round my neck because it was one of Ana’s things and I didn’t want to drop it and lose it in the dark.

I couldn’t see Ana, but I thought I saw movement in a row of shrubs that marked the end of the orchard. I ran through the trees to the shrubs. There was no sign of Ana, but beyond, I could hear what sounded like voices. I called her name again, but there was no response. Taking a deep breath, and closing my eyes in case they got poked by twigs or thorns, I pushed through the bushes.

I opened my eyes to find myself standing at the top of a gentle slope. The sun was out, and there was a soft gentle breeze passing over my legs and bare shoulders. Ahead of me, a little way off, was a dense, dark forest, which spread in all directions, and beyond it were snow capped mountains, gleaming in the sun.

I turned. The bushes were gone, and so was the orchard. All I could see was a high brick wall, taller than three, maybe four women. It didn’t make any sense.

“Hello little lost fairy,” said a voice nearby. I jumped with alarm and span around. I couldn’t see anyone at first, and then I looked down. A small creature, wearing a rustic tunic stood gazing up at me. He had a ruddy, almost red complexion and was beaming up at me with a sinister smile. Peaking out from the top of his mass of curly hair were the tips of what looked like horns. As I stared, open-mouthed, I watched the creature reach under his tunic, lift up the material and reveal an enormous, swollen, deep-red cock.

Continue Reading…


Tormented Series (3 Book Box Set)

They say that you should always be wary of getting what you want. Sometimes, when your innermost desires are realized, you find that your life is changed completely. That certainly happened to me. But I don’t regret it. Not for a second.

My name is Amy. At least, it is as far as you’re concerned. I can’t tell you my real name because I’m kind of a celebrity. I’m a news anchor for AYTV, broadcasting to twenty million Americans every day. I’m kind of on the fourth rung of celebrity, but soon I will be moving up. Thanks to a recent change of circumstances, and the help of a new patron who has a lot of influence, I will be starting work for one of the national networks in a few weeks time.

Don’t get me wrong, I deserve this shot. I’m good at what I do. I’m perky and cheerful in the mornings, but I can do solemn, and I’ve even been told I have good comic timing when I introduce the lighter items, like footage of a skateboarding duck or a politician falling over. I was even voted the second hottest female anchor in the region in a kind of creepy internet poll.

I love the thrill of the news industry. I adore the drama, the hustle, the excitement, and the buzz I get when the cameras go on, particularly if a big story is breaking. I didn’t grow up as a typical exhibitionist; I’ve always been kind of quiet, and I’d never thought of myself as a performer, until I got a part in a production of Grease in tenth grade. As soon as I stepped onto the stage, I felt calm, happy and alive. It’s been that way ever since. The bigger the audience, the better. It’s like there’s a whole other side to my personality. But that’s not the only other side to my personality

I guess I look like the girl next door. I’m often described as wholesome. I don’t know what that means, exactly. It makes me sound like a high fibre snack. It also makes me feel guilty; always has. All my life, people have been telling me I was a good girl, even when I wasn’t particularly well-behaved. There’s even a meme about me circulating on social media, in which my face is superimposed onto a nun’s body, and I’ve had emails asking me to dress up like that for Halloween. I guess I just look like a good girl. If only they knew! All those guys out there fantasizing about corrupting me, when it reality, it would be the other way round.

I do get a lot of fan mail, but my agent gets them first. I’m very careful of my privacy and I have to be extremely careful of anything I do in public. These days, one wrong move can be the end of your career. That’s one of the reasons why dating was hard. I had dated occasionally, but not with any success. All my dates fell into two categories: older industry execs who turn out to be creeps, and younger, fit, sports guys are usually boring and vacuous.

Caution wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t date much. The fact is that, up until a few weeks ago, I had got used to the idea that no man was going to be able to satisfy me. You see, about that other side of my personality, well the truth is, I am kind of, well, filthy. Behind closed doors, my favorite hobby is reading hard core erotica; the really extreme stuff.

Most nights, I ran home, tore off my clothes, took a long shower, retreated to my bed, opened up a book and then opened up my legs. I can tell you’re shocked!

The overriding theme of these books was submission. Most of the stories were about girls being tricked or forced into bondage and then forced to endure one sexual torment after another until finally they surrender to a life of wanton sex and servitude. Oh I know it was wrong and I had tried to stop, really I had. Ditching that bad habit would have made a lot of sense. But I couldn’t help it. And I always thought that, as long as it was my little secret, what harm could it do? Turns out, it could do a lot of harm. Guilty little secrets can be life changing.

It started a few weeks ago. I’d got home from the office on a Friday evening. I was pretty tired and just wanted to slip into my casual clothes and chill for a few hours. I’d just climbed up to my bedroom and taken off my blouse when my phone pinged. It was a text. Casually, I picked it up.

‘I’ve been watching you.”

Immediately I felt a chill running through me. What should I do? I threw the phone on the bed and hoped that whoever it was would go away. That didn’t work. Every minute, there was a new text. Eventually, angrily, I picked up the phone and replied, telling them to get lost.

‘Don’t think you can speak to me like that. I know where you live.’

‘No u are lying,’ I replied

‘227 Westchester Street.’ I froze. This person did know where I lived. My heart was thudding now. What should I do? Taking a deep breath, I texted back to say that I was going to call the police.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know what you do in your spare time. I know about your dirty books.’

My face flushed. I looked at myself in the mirror. Guilt was written all over my face. How could they possibly know?  I replied that I didn’t know what they were talking about.

‘Look behind the light fitting in your bedroom. You will find a camera.’

For the second time I felt a creeping cold feeling down my spine. Quickly, I climbed up onto the bed and looked. There it was! A tiny camera, attached to the light fitting, aiming directly at my bed, where I lay, where I read my books, where I touched myself! I ripped the camera off and threw it onto the ground.

‘You bastard!” I texted furiously. ‘I am going to the police.’

‘No you won’t. Unless you want your videos all over the internet.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘Try me’.

I hesitated. Could I take the chance? If a video of me masturbating made it onto the internet, I don’t know what I would do. It could be the end for my career.

‘What do you want? Money?’

‘No. Tomorrow you will get a package. Open it. Follow the instructions’.

That was it. Nothing else. I tried to find out what was going to be in the package; who they were, what they wanted with me. But they had stopped replying. Eventually I dropped the phone on the bed, and when I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I saw that my nipples were hard, poking through the silky black material of my bra.

*  *  *  *

The package arrived early the next day. My hands were shaking when I opened it, sitting on my bed. What was inside came as a shock. There were two clear plastic bags. In the first was an in impossibly sheer black lacy body, along with a thong and stockings. In the other, a collection of outrageous bondage gear. I recognized some of the items from my stories: a bright pink ball gag, ankle cuffs, a collar and lead, wrist cuffs and a paddle.

There was a note too. It was typed. It simply instructed me to put on the clothes, the cuffs and the lead, to leave my apartment door open and to be kneeling in my bedroom at 11 that night.

I told myself that there was no way I would be doing that. But as the day went by, I found my mind drifting continually to the bondage gear. I could feel a little tingle inside me, and I couldn’t explain it. The number that had texted me was not responding and as the day drew on and darkness fell, I felt increasingly trapped. I couldn’t go to the police; I couldn’t risk it.

At 1030 that night, I walked into my bedroom, slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the lacy body, the thong and then the stockings. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked hot, I had to concede. My blonde hair framed my face perfectly. I was slim, toned and my breasts were heavy and full. I would never have bought this outfit for myself, but I couldn’t help admiring how it looked on me as I turned this way and that in front of the mirror.

Next came the cuffs and the collar. It took me a while to adjust them, but they felt natural, comfortable. I am usually sensitive to anything constricting my neck, but the fur-lined collar, though it was tight, felt somehow right. Finally, I padded across my apartment to the door. With my heart thudding, I unlocked the door and returned to my bedroom, kneeling and facing the door.

I waited. It seemed like an eternity. Several times I heard footsteps in the distance and paused my breathing, only for the footsteps to fade. My heart was thudding in my chest so hard it felt like it was shaking the whole room. What was I doing? This was madness.

Just when I was thinking about dashing back out to close and lock the door, I heard more footsteps. These steps stopped. I heard the sound of my door opening. Whoever it was had entered my apartment. There was no turning back!

I heard heavy footfall across my apartment and then the door of my bedroom opened and I saw him. My tormentor. My stalker. My nemesis.


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…


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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!…

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Taken By The Tribe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hannah, I got to go into town.”

“Oh can I come!”

“No, I got to take care of business.”


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

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

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

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

“I won’t uncle,” I sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Bimbofying The Brat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled and put her hand down onto the bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Hitman’s Sex Doll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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