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Beast Me: He Does Exist (Bigfoot Erotica)

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Experimentally Overflowing

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s really not enough to get by.

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

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

WANTED: YOUNG FEMALE FOR FIRST STAGE TESTING OF NEW HORMONE DRUG. WILL BE GENEROUSLY COMPENSATED. FOR MORE INFORMATION CONTACT

1-800-877-6966

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

“Hello?”

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

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

“Oh hey, you’re our first callback!”

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

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

“Nah, not particularly.”

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

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

“So you’ll have me for the study?”

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

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

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

“Very funny.”

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

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

What a fucking joke.

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

He decides to let me be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You must be the receptionist.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kelly? Remember we need you lying down.”

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

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

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He Follows: A Hotwife Novelette

Martin woke, saw the sun streaming through the curtains and then groaned, softly, as he always did in the mornings. He felt Karen shift next to him and the warmth of her body in close proximity stirred his pulse. How wonderful it would be if they could just lie together and make love all morning and forget about everything, he thought. He shifted in bed until he was lying closer to her, the curve of her body pressing against him, and he could feel his cock stiffening, the desire rising deep inside him. If only she would wake up, push back on him, whisper something sexy to him, ask him to fuck her slowly like they used to, when they first met.

Karen shifted, gave a brief snort, and rolled away, putting cold bed space between her and her husband and resuming her light snoring.

Martin sighed. It wasn’t going to happen. It was never going to happen. Time for porridge.

As he sat in their cold kitchen, spooning unappetizing oaty slop into his mouth, he looked around the room. It was neat, spotlessly clean and immaculately tidy. He felt two pangs of guilt. The first was the old one: that he was a man who went out to work and left his wife to look after the house. It wasn’t his choice. She had wanted it that way. He knew that the women in the office, that Karen’s friends, that his own family all regarded him as some kind of 1950s tyrant, keeping her locked up in the house while he went out and enjoyed himself, but it wasn’t like that. Now, more than ever, he wished that his wife had a job. But she didn’t. She said, whenever the subject came up, that she had always wanted to be a housewife and it made her happy.

The second pang of guilt was much, much sharper. He felt it every weekday morning. In fact he felt it regularly, several times a day, but weekday mornings – working days – were when the guilt hit him particularly hard.

Martin sighed and pushed his bowl of porridge away. He looked at his watch. Upstairs he could hear the bed creaking. Sometimes he imagined that the creaking sound he heard in the mornings was Karen, touching herself, running her slender hands over her ample breasts, slipping tentative fingers between her legs, moaning softly into the pillow.

That seemed unlikely, he reflected, as he stood and picked up his car keys. Karen didn’t like sex, didn’t like to be touched. Her creaking signaled that she would soon be up and she had mentioned previously how warm and happy it made her to find he was not there when she got up, that her husband was out there early every day, working hard for them.

He crept through the house without making a sound, locked the door behind him, and set off to catch the Express Bus. As they had agreed when he took the job, seven years ago, since the city was well-served with bus links, it made no sense to sit in a car every day, waiting in traffic and wasting money on petrol and parking and so on. Money. It all came down to money in the end.

Martin walked along Alexander Grove to the corner of Napoleon Crescent. He took a short cut through Theodore Roosevelt Drive and crossed at the lights on Macarthur Terrace, before joining the queue for the bus outside the Chinese deli. For once the bus was on time and he took a seat at the back, watching the shops, the car dealerships, the offices and business parks drift by as he headed towards the centre of the city, towards the Hercules Bank, where he had a job as an assistant counter supervisor.

At the last stop before his, a young woman got onto the bus. She was in her early twenties, looked like a model, with perfectly arranged blonde hair, possibly too much make-up and an expensive outfit, including a tiny, tiny skirt. She took the seat next to Martin and her mostly bare right thigh pressed against him as she set about rummaging through her handbag. Martin closed his eyes. He could feel his cock stirring and his sex-starved imagination beginning to turn over. His mind was conjuring images of the woman next to him slipping her hand across his leg, stroking his groin, leaning over to whisper in his ear that she felt hot, and he realized that he had no way to cover the strengthening bulge in his trousers.

He opened his eyes. The woman had moved. She was sitting two rows away next to an elderly lady who was reading a large print romance novel. Martin sighed and shifted in his seat, waiting for his erection to fade.

As he did every morning, he got off outside the bookshop, headed past the furniture store and the stationery store and the pet store, strolled through the mini-mall and crossed Caesar Street, taking the direct route to the Hercules Bank building. He stopped on the other side of the street and watched. The staff had already started arriving, the counters would be manned and Janice would probably be singing a Sinatra song while Doug complained about the coffee and Jason and Shanice flirted in the kitchen. Martin smiled. Then he turned away and walked on, past the Hercules Bank and the laundromat and the computer store, towards the park cafe.

Three weeks, two days and around twenty-three hours ago, Martin had been fired from the Hercules Bank. On that fateful morning, Sheila had called him into her office, asked him how Karen was, made general chit-chat, sighed, and then explained that Head Office had made it clear that the bank had to lose one of its lower-to-middle-ranking staff. He had been there the longest, and therefore his departure would save them the most money. She thanked him for his work, apologized again and told him to be out within the hour.

Martin ordered a pumpkin spice latte and a low-fat chocolate chip muffin and carried the plate and carton to his favorite seat outside the café, with a lovely, clear view of the park. It was a crisp, autumn morning, and the pathways through the park were thronged with grey and black suited workers heading to the office. For a moment, he felt the familiar thrill. He had always wondered what it would be like not to have to head to the office every day, to be a free person, to be able to sit back and enjoy the day.

That feeling didn’t last long – it never did, as the guilt rushed in and his brain threw up the usual chain of thoughts. He would have to tell Karen. He couldn’t possibly tell Karen – it had been too long. She would divorce him. He would be homeless. He had to tell Karen. He couldn’t possibly tell Karen – it had been too long. If he were stronger, more decisive, he would walk into another bank, tell them he wanted to speak to the HR manager, sell himself, get a job, walk home, make love to his wife and, a few days later, he’d probably casually drop it into conversation that he had a new job, and that it paid more money.

A stronger, dominant, more determined Martin would have a network of influential banking friends, on whom he could call in times like this. Hell, a Martin like that would probably already have ditched the Hercules and be working as some kind of investment banking type, sitting at a flashy computer terminal, yelling buy and sell instructions into a phone, drinking champagne at lunch and heading for an early retirement to a massive estate in Maine or Connecticut.

Martin sighed. To distract himself, he took a deep glug of pumpkin spice latte and looked around the café. Focusing mindfully on your surroundings was a good way to avoid stress, he had learned at the Hercules Bank Mindfulness for Effective Workplace Action Away Day.

Two tables away he noticed a man sitting reading the Wall Street Journal. He seemed strangely out of place, this man. For one thing, he was immaculately dressed. His suit looked as though it was straight out of some designer store. His hair was perfect, he clearly worked out and his chiseled jaw and rugged face was complemented by an expensive pair of sunglasses.

Martin fought back pangs of jealousy. If he’d been born as that guy, his life would be so much easier. He would still have married Karen, of course, he loved Karen, but they’d be living a luxurious life, a life of leisure. He wouldn’t be a former assistant counter supervisor, he’d be a law firm partner or a director or a property tycoon, and his morning coffee would be a prelude to a day spent wheeling and dealing, strutting about the city as though he owned it. Hell, maybe this guy did own the city. He looked like a film star.

The other man finished reading his paper, folded it neatly, looked at his watch and then stood. Martin watched, fascinated, as he adjusted his cufflinks, straightened his tie, picked up his briefcase, casually dropped a few coins onto the table and headed off across the park.

Where would he go, a man like that? Maybe if he could see where a man like that went, how he spent his day, Martin might learn something. They say that one of the most effective ways to change your life was to hang around with people you wanted to emulate, at least, that’s what he had read in Karen’s copy of How To Be The Person You Want To Be.

A strange instinct took hold of Martin. What if he just followed along? Competing thoughts jostled for attention in Martin’s head. On the one hand, it was silly and foolish to go traipsing along after a strange man like some deranged stalker. On the other hand, at least it was something to do, something to break up the long day of wandering around the city feeling like a homeless person, wallowing in wave after wave of guilt.

Martin stood, his chair scraping across the concrete of the café floor. He left a note on the table, wiped his mouth with a napkin and hurried out of the café, into the park, following the path of the mysterious man. As he followed at a distance, he decided he ought to name the man. What kind of a name would he have? Nothing like Martin, it would be something dynamic, bold; Chad or Brad or Storm or something along those lines. No, thought Martin, it would be something less obvious; a classic name, like Joe or Tony or Jack. Yes, Jack, that was about right.

The first thing to say about Jack was that he walked quickly. In fact, he was more of a strider than a walker, and he set a good pace through the park, scything through the ranks of commuters, joggers and strollers, heading for the far side. In order to keep up, Martin had to increase his stride beyond what he was used to, and by the time Jack and he reached the other end of the park, Martin was breathing heavily and in danger of regurgitating his pumpkin spice latte and half muffin. Jack momentarily slowed his pace as he left the park, enabling Martin to catch up, but the respite was only temporary. Turning sharply to the right, he headed along Leonidas Way, past the flower sellers and the newspaper vendors and then stopped abruptly at a bus stop.

Martin was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Jack to stop there; a man like that catching a bus? Surely he would have a BMW to climb into or a chauffeur to bring his limousine round? Slowing his pace, Martin paused at the flower seller’s stall, pretending to peruse a selection of peonies. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bus approaching and Jack holding up his arm in a bold, commanding way. Martin waited until the bus was almost at the stop, then he moved swiftly, or at least, as swiftly as he was able. Two women were hurrying to catch the same bus and he allowed them to go in front of him. He hopped on behind them, showed his all-day bus travel pass and took a seat near the front of the bus. He couldn’t watch Jack from his new seat, but he was near enough to the front to jump off when the time came.

He had settled into his seat and was allowing the gentle progression of the bus ride to lull him into sleepiness when he noticed Jack striding to the front of the bus.

Martin stirred himself and tensed ready to jump out of his seat. He waited until the bus had stopped and Jack was half way through the door before propelling himself forward. As soon as he set foot on the sidewalk, he dropped to tie his laces, looking up surreptitiously to see which way Jack had gone, before resuming his trailing activity.

They were in a residential part of the city, full of three and four story apartments and Jack was marching in quick time along the sidewalk, looking up at a row of red-brick buildings as though trying to find the right one. Martin was struggling to keep up, increasing his stride beyond what was comfortable, and then, suddenly, he was obliged to come to a direct halt. Jack hopped quickly up a flight of steps to one of the buildings, buzzed the intercom and disappeared inside.

Before he had time to think, Martin had wheezed up the same stairs and squeezed through the slowly-closing door into the hallway.

The door shut behind him with an accusatory click. Martin was breathing heavily, from the exertion required to catch up to Jack and from the guilt and fear currently overloading his brain. What on earth was he doing? This wasn’t his apartment building. He shouldn’t be here.

He heard a door opening further along the hallway. Driven by curiosity, he tiptoed down the hallway just as the door closed lightly shut. He paused outside, looking left and right. There was no-one around. He pressed his ear close to the wood and could hear voices, male and female. As he leant on the door he realized that he was accidentally opening it with his shoulder.

Through the opening, he could see a man in a suit holding hands with a woman. As they walked away into another room, he saw her black nightdress slip over her curves and caught a glimpse of her naked butt. He leant a little further on the door, and it opened wide enough for him to go through, if he had the guts.

At that moment, Martin heard the door to the building opening. Panicking, he stepped quickly into the apartment and quietly closed the door behind him.

Crouching by the door, he tried not to make a sound.

From elsewhere in the apartment, he heard giggling and low conversation. He looked around. The place was beautifully decorated and on the wall were three portraits: two of a gorgeous blonde woman and one of a man. Martin frowned. He recognized that man. It was Pete, Pete, his co-worker at the Hercules. This must be his fiancee’s apartment. Rhea was her name, she came to one of the bank parties, he remembered she had been the subject of office innuendo for several days. So this mysterious man was having an affair with Rhea?

Feeling a little bolder, Martin ventured into the apartment a little further and along a corridor towards where the voices were coming from. Kneeling down, he crept towards an open door. Holding his breath, he risked a look. It was a bedroom. At the end of the bed sat Jack, his eyes closed, legs spread. He was naked to the waist and between his legs knelt Rhea. She was entirely naked and her blond ponytail bobbed up and down with a hypnotic rhythm as she worked on Jack’s cock. Martin gazed open mouthed at her perfect body, her slender waist, her smooth butt, and the dark inviting shadow between the curves of her thighs. He could feel his own cock stirring. Suddenly Jack began to groan and move on the bed, opening his eyes. Martin ducked back behind the door, holding his breath, expecting to be caught at any moment. He waited, but the door was not thrown open and he heard a new sound, a moaning and a sighing. Taking a deep breath, he risked another peek.

This time Rhea was facing the door, but her eyes were also closed. She was straddling Jack, and as she rose and fell, impaled on his cock, she was making deep guttural noises and high pitched squeals. Her breasts, full and pert, were rising and heaving as they fucked, and were glistening in the light through the window. Martin’s cock was hardening and he couldn’t resist reaching down and touching the bulge through his trousers.

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Underground Submission: A Historical Interracial Menage

It was one of those storms that made the floorboards creak in sympathy for the roof and the windows, straining to hold the framework of the house upright against the gales of wind and torrents of rain that pummeled it mercilessly.

“Annemarie?”

I look up from where I’m trying to patch a hole in my husband’s breeches by the flickering candlelight of a tired flame, and see the culprit himself, young, clean shaven, and handsome, come into the room. He drapes one of the many blankets I’ve crocheted over my shoulders, planting a kiss on my head as he does so.

“Are you all right in here all by yourself? You should come to bed soon.”

I feel the usual flicker of annoyance that he gives me whenever he tries to be concerned and attentive; I am the oldest of five, all girls, and am accustomed to giving the orders and recommendations more than taking them. My mother warned me that this could make my marriage hazardous and unpleasant if I didn’t learn to curb my impulses, but indeed, that’s why I’ve come out here in the first place—to get away from my handsome, wealthy husband who annoys me so frequently with his idle chatter and unsatisfying attempts to care for me. If you really want to help, I want to tell him, you could offer to help me with the household chores once in a while, or take an interest in the house accounts. But these feel like impulsive things to say, the way they rise up inside me and press against the inside of my lips, so instead I say nothing at all. Of course, I know there’s another reason he wants me to come to bed early.

The wedding was a beautiful spectacle, as we rural Ohioans are wont to have. My family, ecstatic that not only was their oldest daughter marrying but marrying well, drank deeply, while George’s family sipped from fluted glasses and looked at my figure, swaying tipsily beneath the layers of white, to reassure themselves that if their son hadn’t married the richest he could, he had, at the very least, married the most beautifully.

My mother did my hair, long and startlingly black, herself, painstakingly organizing the wild curls and swooping it up and around my head like a nest of interconnected crowns. My eyes blazed an eerie blue against my pale, creamy skin, and the effect truly was mesmerizing on our guests; I thought George was going to fall over when I entered the little church and turned at the top of the aisle to begin my walk toward him. Only his little brother seemed unimpressed, already married to an elegant blonde woman whose bright brown eyes followed me curiously long after I’d passed their pew on my walk to the altar. They live just down the street from us now, Mary and Johnathon. The brothers run a successful general store in the middle of our small town, Mt. Vernon, and Mary and I are still settling into co-managing the store when our husbands aren’t there—I’m not used to deferring to another woman (besides my own mother).

The fire crackles on our hearth as I lose myself in these moody thoughts, wrapping the light-blue blanket around my thin figure. I am tired, and I do want to get out of this uncomfortable dress with all its petticoats and heavy layers. I flick my slippers off and play with the material absentmindedly as George sits own in the rocking chair opposite me with a barely audible sigh. I repress my own; maybe if he was half as proactive in bed as he was about trying to get me in it, I would be more eager to go. I upheld the expectation on my end—I was, technically, a virgin on our wedding night. But like any other arrangement, the success of our marriage lies in the technicalities, and my mother has also told me to let him take the lead between the sheets.

“Yes, he chose you, but you also chose him,” she told me sternly the first afternoon we took our afternoon tea together both as married women. “Now you need to either make do with who you have or find another outlet.”

I’d raised my eyebrows at her, shocked. “Mother…”

She’d waved her hand, her still-beautiful face open and warm with honesty for me, her favorite daughter. “Sweetheart, times may change, but some things never do. The world will tell you that there are expectations and boundaries that you must conform to, but really all anyone expects is appearances. Never forget that.” She’d paused and I’d interjected, sarcastically, “So you’re advising me to keep an underground railroad of husbands, per say?” Her eyes flashed green-blue the way they do when she gets passionate about something. “I’m advising you to always remember that women have always relied on an underground community of support to get through a life dictated by men.”

“AnnMARIE.”

I jerk out of my reverie; I have no idea how long George has been trying to get my attention.

“Sorry, dear, what is it?”

“I’m going to bed.” His tone is sulky and irritated, and I rise with him as he goes to leave the room, which takes him by surprise.

“Would you mind helping me out of my dress?” I drop my voice into a low, sexy purr while keeping my eyes cast down demurely. I feel him go rigid beside me with excitement, and allow him to tow me eagerly towards our bedroom with the enormous master bed, and fret and worry at the knots that keep my dress tightly fastened to me until I finally pretend that I can’t wait to have him, I must have him now, and I allow him to take me up my voluminous skirt, lying back on the bed in my clothes like our passion is enough to burn the clothes right off my body. Idly, I wonder what it feels like for him as he’s thrusting in and out of me with an unchanging speed and intensity. He finishes in a predictable burst that makes my breath catch, and then it’s over, and I call our maid to help release me from the dress my husband has made a prison with his fumbling fingers.

Her own dark fingers are deft and clever, loosening the knots within moments, which allows me to take large, expansive breaths of air for the first time since she laced me into the dress this morning. She pats me on the back as she gathers up the dress to take away for cleaning, and I turn to go back to my bed, where George has already fallen asleep. Although it’s still raining, I suddenly think I can make out a strange tapping on the front door. I turn back to the door and instantly know I’m right, something is making a noise amidst the natural thrumming of the rain, because the maid’s face is frozen in a strange of fear and feigned nonchalance.

“Never you mind, Missus,” she murmurs, nodding to the bed. “Aye’ll check thu door n’ lit you knaw if there’s anythun you gotta concern yerself wit.”

But her eyes, dark and luminescent in the lamplight of the bedroom, glow with a barely-contained excitement, and I know there’s something she wants to hide from me, badly. I eye her for a full minute before acquiescing to her wishes, going and laying down on the bed with my husband and pretending to roll over and fall asleep quickly. I hear the door close, imagine her footsteps padding slowly away, and then I sit up and slide back out of bed, my green cotton nightshift whispering along my ankles as I peek through the keyhole in the door to make sure that she’s not waiting to see if I’m still up. I exit the room quickly and close the door softly, so softly, behind me, and creep around the side of the bannister so I have the most direct view of the front door. Even though I’m anticipating something out of the ordinary, I have to quell a gasp of fear when the front door is opened and two young black men are ushered inside. One is clearly a relative; the maid flings her arms around him and covers him with the types of kisses that make teenage boys of all colors squirm and protest. This young man stoically waits, however, and when his mother has finished greeting him, presents his friend, who takes the maid’s hand and murmurs a couple words to her that make her whip around in fear, checking to make sure they are, really, alone. No one sees me crouched in the shadows upstairs, so they relax as she guides them through the room and out, away from the staircase and toward a different part of the house.

Safe in the shadows, I have no illusions about what’s happening; I just wonder for how long it has been operating here under my husband’s nose. Our maid is a relative of one of the many at my brother-in-law’s house…

I know I should go to bed, let this happen and think about it or talk about it with someone later. I have no issues with it; like many Northerners, I believe slavery is wrong. However, it’s not something I’ve ever discussed with my husband, and something warns me that his feelings are much more conservative on this point than I would care to deal with.

I slip downstairs silently, walking by memory in the shadows of the early hours of the night, listening to the footsteps of the little group up ahead and grateful that the rain has slackened to mere background noise by this point. The thick carpeting is damp beneath my feet and I know I’m on the right track; how long have they been in the rain, I wonder. Suddenly, I bump into someone and there’s a shriek that’s quickly cut off. Someone grabs me and roughly pins my arms behind my back, hissing, “It’s a woman!” There’s a pause, a flash of flame, and a candle is held up to my face by the maid. “Missus,” she says slowly. “Please.”

Standing with the little group, I see that the man beside the woman is the one she embraced so lovingly; he must be her son. The one behind me, then, must be the friend. I don’t strain against his grip, and I only look at her. “It’s okay,” I say, quietly, though my heart is hammering and I feel a sharp jolt of disloyalty, to what I don’t know. I know what I believe, I have my convictions, yet the darkness and lateness and threatening grip of the man behind me make me feel uncertain and something else I can’t quite place. When he releases me and moves beside his friend though, I see their eyes rake over me, sharply, and suddenly I’m very aware of the thinness of my cotton shift and the hardness of my rounded, full tits at this most insolent scrutiny from two runaway slaves. I draw myself up to my full height, which barely clears either of their shoulders, and glare at them. The maid cuffs her son and snarls a warning to him that’s universal—yes, she’s beautiful, no, you can’t have her, focus on the problem at hand. And yet, I’m enjoying myself. I grasp her hand briefly as she leads the men away and murmur for her to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, and I feel the men’s surprise even as they walk away from me.

I return to my cool side of the bed, heart aflutter and a strange tightness in my belly, my husband snoring softly beside me. All night, I lie in my bed, looking out the window as the sky lightens through the shades of the morning, filtering in pink and orange with little dust particles swirling in the air. I dress slowly, so that I don’t have to spend much time with George before he’s headed off to the store for the day. I don’t have to be there until lunchtime. I’m determined to meet the men who came into the house so quietly last night, properly. I want to know their stories and where they come from and feel like I’m a part of something bigger than a small town where I’ve already accomplished all I ever will. But the maid is nowhere to be found. She must know I’m looking for her, and though I’m irritated, I can’t help but sympathize with her. Those men were clearly at a loss without the discipline of a mother or woman figure, a tingling sensation goes through me as I remember the way they looked at me so shamelessly through the darkness. I go down into the cellar to begin my search for the men, but as soon as I open the door I realize they’re already down there. Their deep voices cut off as soon as the door opens but I can’t help but bark a laugh at their insolence and stupidity—we seem to be joined in our motives, and I try to push away my mother’s cautionary voice in my head as I descend the stairs, warning me that this goes beyond even what she would condone.

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Kelly & The Forest Creatures

Kelly is a young woman from Boston with a tiny apartment and no job who tries to make ends meet by signing up for medical experiments.

One day she accepts an unusual offer from a strange scientific research company that takes her deep into the forest and leaves her standing alone in a large, wooded enclosure. At least, she thinks she’s alone.

When Kelly comes in contact with a pack of LUSTFUL HAIRY FOREST CREATURES she soon comes to realize that this experiment is unlike any she’s done before. 

Boston is a beautiful city, a lovely place to live, that is, if you have money. On the other hand, if you don’t have money, and you don’t have access to money, well it’s not quite so much fun. In fact, being desperate for money can lead you into all kinds of strange situations.

My name is Kelly. Actually, it’s Kelley, but everyone I’ve ever met has called me Kelly so I just go with the flow. I’m that kind of girl I guess. A High School teacher said I was ‘easily led’ and ‘prone to getting into trouble’. Well boy did he get that right!

I live in a tiny apartment, possibly the smallest apartment in Boston. Seriously, if there’s a record for the smallest apartment in North America, I want to know about it, because I have a new challenger. My living area is made up of tiny bedroom, tiny kitchen, almost non-existent living room and a bathroom so small it’s like showering in an airplane.

I say I live in this apartment, but that’s not really true in two ways. First it’s not really the kind of place a girl lives in. Existing is possible, but living? No. I could never have a date round, for example, which is why I don’t go on that many dates. Even if a cute guy wants to take me to his place, at some point he’s going to want to see my place, and well that will be the end of that. Call me old-fashioned, but the guy should be the one who lives in a poky, cluttered little space with no insulation, no sound-proofing and no air-conditioning. If I was a guy, I might think that was rugged and Spartan. But I’m a girl, and girls aren’t supposed to live like that. At least, I’m not supposed to live like that.

In fact, I barely lived in that apartment at all. I spent most of my time wandering the city, plucking up the courage to walk into bars or cafés or convenience stores and ask if they had any work. Either that, or sitting in the park, or at a Starbucks, trying to make the cheapest coffee they had last as long as possible. Any time I was in the apartment was spent sleeping, showering or writing crazy erotic fiction on my battered old laptop.

Erotic fiction? Yes, don’t judge me. I started writing fan fiction, but I was finding that my super hero and science fiction tales almost always took an erotic turn, and one day someone online suggested that I should just write pure erotic fiction. So I did. There was nothing pure about it though, and some days, the filth that poured out of my laptop onto the internet surprised me. I can’t tell you how many times I deleted a story out of sheer embarrassment. But I always republished. I was kind of proud of my work. I only really wrote the stories for my pleasure, but the way I thought about it was that if my stories turned me on, then maybe they would turn other people on.

You may have noticed the past tense sneaking into that last paragraph. That’s right. I said there were two reasons why I can’t really say that I lived in my apartment and the second is that I haven’t been there for over a month. The changes in my life had been so dramatic, so amazing, that I hadn’t even thought about my apartment. I mentioned it to Adam yesterday and he said he would sort it out for me.

So who’s Adam? My husband? My new boyfriend? Well no, it’s much interesting than that. Adam is a researcher for a pharmaceutical company, but more importantly, he is the founder and director of Real Life Interactions, a scientific research start-up. Don’t think that sounds interesting? Well I think you will change your mind when you learn more.

I first met Adam when I signed up for a drug testing program. You know the kind of thing. You answer a Craigslist ad, turn up at a laboratory, sign a couple of forms, take a pill, sit around for a few hours, answer some questions, get a whole load of tests done and then go home, hopefully with a couple hundred dollars in your purse. I know what you’re thinking. Isn’t it risky? Well, I guess so, but I’ve done a few of them, and they’re very carefully controlled.

The last one I did, when I came across Adam, was for some kind of fertility drug. As it turned out, I was in the placebo group. I’d taken the drug and was waiting to have my blood pressure checked when Adam came into the room. I didn’t pay him much attention to start with. He looked like all the other laboratory people: white coat, clipboard, haphazard approach to personal grooming. He took my blood pressure, asked me the usual questions about my diet, lifestyle etc, and then, at the end of the questioning, he asked me if I was interested in another experiment.

I was skeptical at first, mainly because Adam had spent most of the interview sneaking a glance at my bare legs. I don’t know why guys think they can get away with that, as though we don’t notice! Admittedly, the skirt was a little shorter than I had realized when I bought it, but still, Adam’s wandering eyes didn’t encourage me to think his ‘experiment’ was genuine.

It did sound tempting though. He told me it would involve a residential stay in a country location, with all accommodation, food and living expenses paid for. All I would have to do is turn up, agree to engage in what he described as ‘intensive real world interactivity sessions’ and I could stay as long as I like. It sounded ideal. A few days, maybe a few weeks, away from my apartment, away from Boston, without having to worry about money. If I took my laptop, I could probably write in the evenings.

When I said I would have to think about it, Adam looked so sad. Just for a moment, he looked like a little boy who had been told there would be no Christmas this year. So I softened and said I would do it. His face lit up and he immediately began pouring out the details. He was so excited that I had to ask him to slow down and write it down for me. He said he would do better than that, and dashed off out of the room to fetch me a binder. The binder had all of the details, and, in case I needed it, Adam’s home number, mobile, and social media contact details. He did seem extraordinarily keen that I take him up on his offer, which was also kind of cute. I’d always had a thing for geeky guys, and he seemed geekier than most, almost like a teenager, though I guessed he was much older than me, probably late twenties.

The next morning, someone had pushed an envelope under the door of my apartment. It contained a note telling me to be ready with my basic belongings at four that afternoon, and to look out for a blue 4×4. I was going to a place somewhere in New Hampshire called Banana Falls. I had never heard of it and the hand-drawn map didn’t help very much.

I spent much of the day debating with myself whether to take up the offer or not. On the one hand, I desperately needed a break from my crummy apartment and my money worries. On the other hand, it was a leap into the unknown. This debate went on until five minutes to four, when I made a decision. I grabbed fresh underwear, my laptop, my purse and sprinted down the stairs of my apartment block to the sidewalk outside.

At four on the dot, the blue 4×4 rolled up. The driver, a surly looking man with a shaved head, asked me if I was Kelly. I said yes, and he opened the rear door. Throwing my stuff in, I took one last look up at my apartment and climbed into the car.

I tried making a little conversation with the driver, but his grunted replies made it hard work and eventually I gave up. We drove through Boston and out into the country and after a while, the monotony of the journey and my tiredness got to me. I found myself drifting off.

When I woke, with a start, the car was crunching along a dirt path in the dark. There was nothing but trees on both side, and only the lights of the car to show us the path. I clutched my bag to me and asked the driver where we were. He didn’t reply and I didn’t think it was worth asking him again, so fell silent.

The path took us deeper and deeper into the forest and the car slowed to a crawl as tree branches scraped on the windows, then up ahead I saw lights breaking through the trees. We came to a halt outside a small log cabin in a clearing. The driver told me it was time to go, so I yanked at the door and jumped out, glad to be free of his company. The door of the cabin was already opening, and there stood Adam.

“Hi, welcome to the experiment!” he said, beaming. He was wearing jeans and a scruffy t-shirt, but looked different without his lab coat, much more relaxed, though less geeky. I smiled a little and made small talk about the journey, as he led me into the cabin.

“So, where are the others?” I asked as we stopped outside a wooden door.

“Others?”

“Yes, the other people in the experiment.”

“Oh,” he replied, looking a little flustered. “Well, you are the only one here at the moment, but don’t worry, we can get you started tomorrow.”

“Get me…started?”

“Yes,” he said, his gaze lingering on my chest. “I mean, yes, sorry, yes. Tomorrow though. Tonight you need to rest. You need to rest. This is your room,” he said, opening the wooden door. “There’s everything you need in there: bathroom, television, fridge full of food and if you need anything else, anything else at all, just come and find me.”

The room was bigger than three of my apartments put together, and the bed was enormous. I wandered around it like Cinderella being shown round Prince Charming’s palace, patting the bed, checking out the en suite bathroom, opening the fridge.

“Wow, its lovely,” I said, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Adam, beaming. “And as I say, if there is anything you need, anything at all, please do come and find me.” He left his offer hanging for a few uncomfortable moments, gazing at me.

“Er, okay, I will,” I said. He seemed to be happy with this, and finally left the room. Throwing my bag on the bed, I took off my jacket, grabbed a sandwich from the fridge, turned on the television, lay back on the bed and promptly fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke, groaning, as the daylight was streaming through my window. It took me several minutes to adjust to the light, and several more to drag myself into the bathroom, shower and change. Eventually, I was ready to face the day and unlocked the bedroom door. Not entirely surprisingly, Adam was lurking in the corridor.

“Hi,” he said, “Good sleep?”

“Yeah, kind of,” I said.

“Are you ready to start the experiment?” The excitement in his eyes was almost palpable.

“I guess,” I mumbled.

“Great! Follow me.” I followed Adam through the cabin, through an open living space and down a small corridor to another room.

“Just take a seat in there,” he said. I wandered into the room. It was small, with a table, two chairs, a computer and a filing cabinet. Through the open window I could see more trees and part of a high, wire fence, like a zoo enclosure.

Adam came bounding back into the room. He was carrying a parcel.

“So, I guess you are wondering what this is all about?”

“Yes.”

”Okay, well I can’t tell you everything, but we have been given a special license to carry out behavioral experiments in the wild.”

“Okay.”

“Basically, these are intensive interaction sessions, in which you will be required to interact, naturally, with other entities.”

“Entities?”

“Oh that’s just a jargon word we use for certain life forms.”

“Life forms? You mean people?”

“Yes, sure.”

Typical scientist, I thought. They always have to make everything sound more complicated than it needed to be.

“So, this interaction. What do I have to do?”

“That’s completely up to you. You will just be in certain situations, that arise spontaneously and you will just react in the way that feels natural.”

“Kind of like roleplay?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Now in a moment, I’m going to take you to the experiment area, but first I’m going to need you to put this on.”

He pushed the parcel across the table to me. Curious, I opened the parcel and pulled out a thin pile of silky material. I held it up. It appeared to be the world’s smallest, skimpiest all in one suit. The material was delicate and had an unusual texture, almost rough on the inside, yet incredibly smooth on the outside.

“What is this?”

“An experimental fabric. Part of the experiment. It enables us to monitor heart-rate, pulse, levels of stimulation, that kind of thing.”

“Er, I don’t know.”

“It’s kind of essential to the experiment.”

I looked at the suit and blew out my cheeks.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Excellent. You can get changed behind that curtain if you like.”

He pointed to a curtained alcove that was like a fitting room at a clothes store. This situation just got weirder, I thought.

I went into the alcove, pulled the curtain behind me and then checked for cameras. After checking the walls thoroughly, I was fairly sure there wasn’t a hidden device there, so reluctantly I started to change.

The suit took forever to work out, but eventually I got one leg in and then the other and it started to make sense. It was incredibly tight though. It snapped tighter at the ankles and the wrists, and clung to my body. There were no wrinkles in the fabric, and it felt kind of warm, though not like leather or PVC, just warm, soft, and natural. But every curve of my body was visible, including my breasts. I mean, I am quite proud of my body, but even I felt self-conscious and my nipples were plainly noticeable. Something else felt odd as well. I reached down and realized with horror what the problem was. The suit was crotchless!

“Are you ready?” said Adam

“Nearly,” I replied. I didn’t know what to do. If I complained, first of all I would have to be talking about my crotch in front of Adam, which I really, really didn’t want to do, and then there would probably be some valid scientific reason for it, which would make me feel silly.

I closed my eyes, pulled back the curtain and stepped out, making sure not to look at Adam as I was certain that he would be ogling me.

“Wow. That looks…wow!” he said.

I think I managed a weak smile.

“Okay, well if you’d like to come this way, we can get started.”

Humiliated, I trailed after Adam all the way through the cabin and out through a rear door onto a lawn which looked onto a high wire fence.

“Don’t you think I should have some footwear?”

”Oh no, don’t worry. Barefoot is best. Yes, better barefoot.”

This made no sense at all, but I thought I might as well carry on with it. I followed him across the grass, looking anxiously this way and that to see if anyone could see me, but I could not see anyone in either direction. We paused at a gate in the fence which Adam set about unlocking. Eventually, it swung open.

“You, you go through, I’m having trouble with this lock,” he said. I was reluctant to let Adam ogle me from the rear, but I felt foolish standing there outside the gate, so I walked inside, across the scrubby grass. I had only gone a few yards when I heard the gate clang shut behind me. I turned quickly to see Adam locking it.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

I hurried to the gate.

“Don’t worry. It’s all part of the experiment. I will be back in a few hours to let you out.”

“A few hours!”

He smiled, waved and then wandered off back to the cabin.

“Hey, come back here!” I shouted. He didn’t turn his back, and soon, I was alone in the enclosure.

I turned around slowly. There didn’t seem to be any people in there, just a lot of vegetation. I couldn’t see the end of fence, so I figured it was a big, big enclosure. But what did it enclose? I sighed. As I was going to be there for a few hours, it made sense to explore a little.

I took some tentative step into the vegetation. It was mainly exotic looking shrubs and palm-type plants, but beyond that there were tall trees and after a minute or two of walking, it felt like I was in the middle of a forest. It was a strange-smelling forest too. The floor was littered with dead leaves and occasionally I passed a pile of brown rotting fruit, as though a family had worked their way through a fruit basket and thrown the remains in one place.

As I was walking through the forest, I heard a shuffling in the leaves behind me. I turned round quickly and thought I saw a dark shape slip behind a bush. I whipped round to the front and out of the corner of my eye saw another dark shape disappear behind a tree. I began to walk quickly and then broke into a run. I could hear shuffling and scraping behind me but every time I turned or looked this way or that, I saw only a fleeting glimpse of strange, hairy creatures. I began to run faster until I stumbled through thick bushes into a clearing of flattened reeds and ferns and fell forwards, landing on the soft vegetation.

As I pulled myself to my knees, I saw the vegetation rustling in front of me. I turned round and the ferns were shaking behind me. I was trapped!

From the vegetation emerged first dark hairy arms, and then came the creatures. As I saw them, I felt my stomach sink and my blood turn cold. They were shorter than humans, with hairy twisted features and red eyes. Their bodies were completely covered in matted dark brown hair and they shuffled, ambled and lumbered rather than ran. They looked powerfully built and their shoulders were particularly strong and bulky.

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The Bimbo Wormhole

In the world of science, Ned Green is a towering colossus, one of the best minds of his generation. In the world of dating, however, he’s a complete loser, doomed it seems to a lifetime of celibacy, until one night he makes the scientific breakthrough of a lifetime. Ned unravels the secrets of one of the Universe’s great mysteries, and opens the door to a world of unimaginable pleasure.

Ned Green wandered into his laboratory in the depths of the Moore Research Faculty and walked straight into the door. He was always walking into doors. It had been a regular occurrence: at school, at college, and even in the tiny apartment where he lived a few blocks away from the research facility. It wasn’t that he was stupid, in fact, quite the opposite. He was one of the finest minds of his generation, at least, he was according to Professor Lucius. It’s just that he usually had more important things on his mind than checking whether doors were open.

Sometimes he was thinking about quantum mechanics, or string theory, or the origins of the universe. And sometimes he was thinking about Jenna.

Jenna lived in the next apartment to his. Jenna was taller than him. She was toned, blonde, and utterly gorgeous. She was a fitness instructor and he usually bumped into her when she was setting out for her morning run or coming back from the gym. In fact he had never seen her without lycra clinging to her tight, luscious body.

He only knew that her name was Jenna because he had seen her mail on the shelf in the hallway. Jenna Kuzsinski. So far, he had only managed to say “Hi!” on five occasions. Jenna had not replied. In fact, she had never spoken to him. He had heard her speak, in fact, he had heard her shout, things like, “Oh my God!” and “Yes, yes, yes!” and “Oh fuck yeah, harder, harder!” but that was when she was with her boyfriend and he, Ned, had been kneeling on his bed, with his ear pressed to the bedroom wall.

It’s fair to say that Ned was a little frustrated. That was hardly surprising. At twenty he had told himself there was plenty of time to lose his virginity, and that the right girl would soon come along. Now he was twenty-nine and there was no sign of the right girl turning up. Jenna certainly wasn’t the right girl. She was the wrong girl in every way. Her toned, muscular thighs alone could probably snap him in half. He would still give anything to be naked with her.

Ned wasn’t unattractive. He just wasn’t attractive. More importantly, he had no idea how to talk to girls. None. He was geeky and awkward, gangly and angular. Being thin was better than being overweight, he supposed, although he would have given anything to be a muscled god, just to see how it felt. He’d once tried to lift weights, and had even laid out an elaborate work-out plan. But after half an hour of heaving and pulling and pushing in the college gym he was bored. He didn’t understand how people could use their time like that: hour after hour after hour doing nothing but monotonous movements. Life was too short.

Besides, it wasn’t the body that mattered, it was the personality. Ned had plenty of that, but it was not the kind of personality to which girls were attracted, it was the kind of personality to which multi-billion dollar medical and scientific research corporations were attracted. Admittedly, there were plenty of women in science, but his early experiences with girls had created such a phobia of the opposite sex that sometimes he started to sweat and shake if he was even in the same room as a woman.

Of all those early experiences, there was one in particular that had traumatized him. It happened at party organized at Freefield High School. Someone had smuggled in alcohol and the party ended up a chaotic mess of fighting, crying and at least two school expulsions. He missed most of it. He had turned up, stood inside the school hall, suffered a hail of abuse for being there, for wearing glasses, for being a virgin, and retreated, as he usually did, to the janitor’s room, though not before sneaking out a bottle of beer.

He sat there for an hour or two, sipping the foul tasting beer, thinking that at least he would be going home after dark with the smell of alcohol on his breath. He was shaken from a prolonged daydream by the sudden opening of the door. A girl sprawled across the floor of the janitor’s office. It was Chelsea.

Ah, Chelsea. Chelsea Wolff. The hottest girl in the school. Tanned, lithe, with natural long blonde wavy hair; when Chelsea twisted and gyrated in her lycra cheerleader’s outfit, no-one, not even the players were interested in the football game. And there she was, hauling herself to her feet, her breasts nearly spilling out of her tight black dress, her bare thighs hypnotizing Ned as he sat, speechless.

Frozen though he was, he had managed to stir himself to get up and by hooking her under her arms, pulled her to her feet. Even to this day he could still sense her intoxicating fruity perfume, mingling with vodka fumes.

She struggled in his arms, and tried to turn round as he was attempting to help her to a seat at the desk in the janitor’s office. For one glorious moment, he was holding her, her breasts crushed against him, her lips allowing her soft breath to escape onto his cheek. He genuinely thought that she was about to kiss him. And then she vomited all over him.

She staggered backwards, pointed at him and roared with laughter, called him a loser, and walked, unsteadily, out of the janitor’s office.

That was just one of a string of minor humiliations and setbacks that convinced him that there was no way he would ever be with a woman, and that he had better get used to it. His problem was compounded by the fact that his taste in women was ridiculously unrealistic. To put it bluntly, he was attracted to bimbos. Blonde, dizzy, big-breasted women: goddesses who would never in a million years even look in his direction, unless it was to vomit over him. He didn’t want to be with any other kind of woman, but had no chance of ever dating someone he was attracted to. Yes, Chelsea had screwed him up badly.

So instead, he had poured his frustrations into science. Science had always been his friend. In the world of science he was not a loser. In fact, he was a giant. He had graduated with honors, sailed through his post-graduate work and was now working as a researcher for the Moore Corporation – a conglomerate that was busily buying up all the most innovative tech companies on the planet, while recruiting the best and brightest talent.

Ned was officially working on quantum computing for a big commercial contract, but in the evening he used the laboratory facilities to conduct his own experiments. The director of the facility, Professor Lucius, gave him plenty of latitude as long as he completed his work to the required specifications, which Ned always did.

His current spare time activity was wormholes. Ned subscribed to the theory that an infinite number of alternate dimensions existed. He was certain of it. It was the only explanation that made sense, which threaded everything mankind had discovered about the Universe together. According to Ned’s theory, every choice we made created another alternate dimension, in which the opposite choice was played out. He was also convinced that it would be possible to travel from one dimension to another.

That was what he was working on the night he made his breakthrough.

It happened suddenly. He had been tinkering with the capacitor housing and trying to find different methods to launch the wormhole initiator without overloading the system, when he accidentally transposed the wrong circuit.

A flash of light blazed through the laboratory, throwing Ned to the floor. When he stood, he saw a perfect circle of darkness, ringed with white and purple light, hovering in the middle of the laboratory. He approached it cautiously, walking around it. It wasn’t a projection, or an illusion. It was real.

He stretched out a finger and watched as his fingertip disappeared into the blackness. He pulled it out again quickly. Could this be it, he wondered. Was this the wormhole? Had he really done it?

This was the moment he had been preparing for. The big decision. Did he take the risk and step into the wormhole or did he sit back and let the moment pass? He shook his head. What did he have to lose?

Cautiously, he stepped forward, lifting his foot and putting into the hole. It disappeared, and he could feel a force, a sucking that was pulling him in. He lifted up his other foot to step fully into the hole and instantly felt darkness close around him. Everything was completely pitch black and he felt a horrible lurching in his stomach. He felt weightless, as though he was drifting in space. And then, he realized that the darkness was tangible. It was hard, wooden. He stretched out with his arms and a rectangle of light broke through the dark.

He was in the wardrobe of his apartment.

Stepping out, he looked around. Everything was as it had been when he left that morning. The Spiderman poster. The collection of unwashed mugs. The scattered clothes. Tentatively, he walked through his apartment, opened the door and stood in the corridor. There was nothing at all unusual about it.

That was when he heard footsteps on the creaking stairs.

It was Jenna. She was coming back from the gym. He turned to go back into his apartment, to hide. The door wouldn’t open. He had locked himself out.

Left with no choice, he stood, leaning on the door, trying not to shake too much as Jenna approached. She wore a tight white sports top and tiny black lycra shorts. Her thighs glistened a little in the light of the corridor, and her face was flushed. She glanced at him, briefly, then unlocked her apartment door.

As she put the key in the lock, Ned remembered. Of course. He kept a spare key under the carpet outside the apartment. He clicked his fingers, a habit of his, usually reserved for moments of realization and enlightenment. He bent down, pulled back the carpet and took the silver key. When he rose to his feet he realized that Jenna was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. She was standing closer to him than any woman had ever stood. He stammered something that sounded like ‘Hi,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“Do you want to come in for a coffee?”

Ned wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder and looked at him, biting her lip.

“Er, no thanks, I’ve already had coffee,” he blurted. He scrambled with the key in the lock, opened his apartment door and hurried inside.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered. “And why didn’t I say yes?”

His heart still pounding, he looked around the room. None of this made sense. Had he really travelled to another dimension? He opened the wardrobe. There, he could make out the purple and white ring through which he had stepped. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the wardrobe. A second later he was standing in the laboratory.

“It worked!” he said out loud, clicking his fingers.

He had so many questions. Nothing in the alternate dimension seemed different. So which dimension was it? Obviously, one where he had made many of the same decisions as this one. That would explain the apartment, and Jenna living next door. Although it didn’t explain why she said hello to him, or why she invited him in for coffee.

Maybe he was more attractive in the other dimension?

He took another deep breath. He had to explore more. He needed more evidence. He stepped into the black ring and closed his eyes.

This time the wardrobe door was already open. He stepped out of it, into the apartment and as he was adjusting to his surroundings, heard a knock at the door. He quickly closed the wardrobe and walked over to open his apartment door. It was Jenna.

She was wearing a ridiculously tight red off-shoulder dress that revealed most of her tanned, gorgeous thighs.

“Hi,” she said, breathlessly. “Can I come in?”

Ned panicked.

“No, sorry. I, I, I’m busy at the moment.”

He closed the door.

Standing with his back against the door, he closed his eyes. You idiot! Why did you say no? But, more importantly, what the hell was going on. He walked over to the mirror, half expecting to see a muscled athlete. But no, he was exactly the same: tall, gawky and pale.

What was going on? He tried to retrace his steps, looking for clues. What was different? Initially Jenna hadn’t been interested in him. That was normal. Then she changed.

Something dawned on Ned.

Years ago, at the height of his sexual desperation, he had read a book on hypnosis. It was a highly dubious book, suggesting that you could hypnotize women into falling in love with you. Ned had thrown the book away as it was unethical, creepy and worst of all, didn’t even work. But he remembered that the author had suggested that once a woman had been hypnotized, it was important to have a trigger that could bring about the state of hypnosis at the whim of the hypnotist. The author had suggested a finger click.

Taking another deep breath, he stepped out of the apartment and knocked on Jenna’s door. Within two seconds, she opened it. She was still wearing the red dress and seemed delighted to see him, smiling broadly.

Nervously, he lifted up his fingers and clicked them.

Instantly, Jenna stopped smiling. She frowned, and then reached down as though to cover her legs.

“What do you want?” she said, aggressively.

Ned clicked his fingers again.

Her expression softened.

“Hey. Do you want to come in?”

Ned’s heart was pounding. He nodded. Almost instantly, Jenna grabbed him by his laboratory coat and pulled him inside. In her apartment, she pressed her body right up against him, crushing her breasts into his chest.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said, breathlessly.

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Casting Julia – A Two Book Series

This is an excerpt from book one of Casting Julia

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known that I was going to be an actress. In nearly all of the pictures my mother has framed of me in our little ranch house, I’m in the middle of delivering my lines. Looking at the pictures, I don’t really remember myself as a child; I remember the characters I played and think about what I would do differently if I were to be cast as them now.

There’s me as the Good Witch of the South in sixth grade when we did The Wizard of Oz, standing on a platform that had shuddered and shook every time I’d stepped onto it. Me as the Fairy Godmother in third grade when we put on Cinderella. My first lead, as Snow White freshman year, when I beat out all the upperclassmen. That was a weird one; there had been problems with the legalities of putting on the play and instead they’d modernized the storyline and changed the plot. I got to throw an apple at my arch nemesis every day for weeks during rehearsal, so I was really okay with it.

“Julia?”

My mother walks into the room and takes in the scene, me hanging upside down off the edge of our faded green couch, long legs hooked over the top, short denim summer skirt riding up around my waist, hair glowing fiery red in the sunlight filtering through the front window.

“Yeah?”

She eyes my wanton position on the couch for a moment before speaking. I roll my eyes at her.

“I’m just running to the store for a few things, do you need anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” I say, sitting up and feeling the blood rush from my face.

“What are you going to do today?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I sigh, sinking back onto the couch in a pile of long, pale limbs. “There’s an audition in the city for a new crime T.V. series, I was thinking of maybe checking that out.”

“Do you want me to take you?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll get it,” I say, carefully avoiding her eye. “And it’s just a small part, so I can go when you get back.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

The front door opens and closes and then I’m alone in the house. Well, mostly. Our fluffy gray cat, Minnie, jumps up on my lap and rubs her face against my hand. I stroke her soft fur absentmindedly, watching Mom drive away in the minivan leftover from her marriage and dreams of a big family.

I get up from the couch and place Minnie on the warm impression left by my firm, little butt. She curls up happily and doesn’t think twice as I pad upstairs and begin to get my bag together for this audition that I’ve lied about so carefully to my mother.

First of all, I’ve already auditioned, and they’ve chosen me. Second, it’s not a small part. I’ll be playing the romantic interest to the boss of a big-time crime organization. The only caveat is the role itself—I’ve played shy girls before, and identify as an introvert, so that’s not a problem. The problem is that my romantic interest is into BDSM and I’m his “sub.” There’s no reason to feel guilty, I tell myself sternly as I go upstairs. You’re eighteen, and this is what comes with adult roles. Time to do your research. In my room, painted a soft lavender and covered with proof that I did indeed have a happy childhood despite also having a dad who ran out on me, I gather up the materials that I’ve been told I’ll need to become familiar with. A whip, harsh metal handcuffs. Fluffy pink handcuffs. Fluffy navy-blue handcuffs. A rather frightening-looking chain. A fake-wooden plastic stick. Black lingerie. All of this goes into my backpack and is carefully covered by a sweatshirt and script from another audition, in case Mom sees the inside of the bag for any reason. I’m dressed unassumingly in simple jean shorts and a black T-shirt, both of which emphasize the pearly paleness of my skin and blaze of red that is my hair. My disproportionately-large tits strain against the soft fabric of my T-shirt, brushing together softly as I pace impatiently, waiting for Mom to get back.

I check the address I’m looking for one more time on my phone. The message is from someone named Jacqueline who is a practicing female-dom. I found her on Craigslist, offering classes in exchange for a fee and the promise of mentioning her to other aspiring doms. I told her I need someone to teach me to be a “Sub” and she laughed, her rough voice crackling over the phone.

“Good, that seems like it will be naturally easier for you.”

I’m still not sure if I should feel offended.

The front door opens, and I take a deep breath, gathering up my backpack carefully before heading downstairs.

“Heading out?” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek as I nod. “All right, drive safe.”

In the car, I put my hair back into a simple ponytail and put on my black sunglasses. It’s a beautiful summer day and feels really strange to be following an unknown route to an unknown house, and as I get closer I get more and more nervous.

The house doesn’t look anything like I was expecting; it looks normal. Blue with white trim. Trees in the yard, lawn recently mown. I park and walk up to the door, knock hesitantly. A completely-normal looking woman answers the door. She’s in her thirties, with long, dirty-blonde hair, and sharp green eyes that appraise me casually as she invites me in.

“Nice to meet you, Heather.”

We sit in her living room, she in a simple red summer dress and me in my girl’s summer uniform. She pours me tea and hands me a cup before settling back herself.

“So, what do you want to know?”

“Ex-excuse me?” Nothing about this is beginning the way I expected. I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected, but it wasn’t drinking tea in a random woman’s home with a backpack full of miscellaneous sex items sitting quietly at my feet. Jacqueline smiles patiently.

“Darling, I knew right when you walked in that you’re the type of girl who needs a lot of lead up to the main event. You’re an actress, right? Probably takes you absolutely forever to memorize lines, but man, when you’ve got them, you’ve got them?”

My mouth falls open. How did she know, just from meeting me two minutes ago, that that’s exactly the type of actress I am? I’ve been told over and over that it will be the making or breaking of me, but never have I had anyone assess that side of me so quickly and so casually.

She smiles at my response. “First lesson: part of being a good partner in BDSM, whether it’s as a dom or a sub, is being able to read your partner, and quickly. For the record,” she added, casting her eyes over my body, “I think this director was right to cast you. You have all the equipment to be a great sub. Crime show, big bad boss side story, right?”

I nod, and finally find my voice. “I’ve played roles alongside men before, I just don’t know, exactly…” I break off and rummage in my backpack abruptly, pulling out the real script from the bottom and handing it to her so she can see a section I’ve highlighted. “How do I act this out, the right way?”

She scans the lines, brow furrowed. “You’ve had sex, right?”

“Yeah…”

She looks up at me, sharply. “But not much?”

I drop my gaze, unable to meet her tawny eyes.

“Ooookay. Well.” She rises and go to a bookshelf, but instead of books, I now see there’s tons and tons of DVDs. She withdraws six or seven and turns back to me.

“Homework for tonight.”

“We haven’t even had a lesson today!” The words spring out of my mouth before I can stop them, and she laughs outright.

“Careful dear, that’s a dom attitude right there.”

She rearranges herself back on the chair with her tea and sips contentedly.

“Before you’ll understand anything I have to teach you, you need to understand the different angles of sex. Or at least be exposed to them. Come back here tomorrow night, at eleven. Your first day shooting isn’t until Monday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. See you later, then.”

Somehow, she’s dismissed me without moving an inch. I rise uncertainly, pull out my wallet. She waves it away. “I’m more interested in you as a project at the moment. Don’t worry about that for now.”

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The Swingers Nextdoor

That Susan loved Bill and that Bill loved Susan was never in question. They had been happily married for fifteen years and were devoted to one another. Bill hardly ever went anywhere without Susan and Susan almost always took Bill with her wherever she went. Their evenings were spent watching the same television shows, going to their favorite bar – the bar where they had first met eighteen years previously – eating at their favorite restaurant or just sitting silently while Bill read mystery thrillers and Susan worked on her crocheting. Often, they would sit without saying a word for hours. Others might think they were a bit, well, dull, but they didn’t care. They loved each other, enjoyed each other’s company and, perhaps most importantly, understood each other.

There’s was the perfect relationship. Well, almost perfect. If you’d asked Bill, after a few drinks, if there anything, anything at all, that he would change about his marriage, he might, with a little persuasion, admit to being just the slightest bit frustrated that Susan didn’t seem to like sex very much these days. They would still kiss, on occasion, and their cuddling was wonderful, but it wasn’t quite enough. And if you took Susan to one side at a work function and gave her a glass of wine – though she rarely drank at all – she might tell you that she wished Bill was a bit more adventurous physically, was prepared to just take the initiative, to kiss her and hold her and tell her that he wanted to make love to her.

But other than that, there’s was the perfect marriage. They had so much in common. They were also the kindest, most considerate neighbors in their district, and although the neighbors largely didn’t reciprocate their invitations, that didn’t alter their determination to be hospitable. They were always the first to organize charity collections, bake sales, and other events. They volunteered at their local hospital and they were the first to welcome strangers to the street, which was how they got to know Marie and Alex.

The house next to Bill and Susan’s had been empty for months, after the Bannisters had moved away. The Bannisters had been good neighbors. They were quiet and largely kept to themselves, and weren’t always the friendliest people to live next door to, but they were polite enough, and always appeared to be grateful when Susan brought them round a freshly baked pie or when they were turning down a barbecue invitation from Bill.

It was fair to say that Marie and Alex were not the sort of people who usually moved into the district. Mostly the couples and elderly folk of the neighborhood were quiet folks; relatively wealthy, of course, but not ostentatious. The Carpenters were different. Marie roared into the street one day in a red sports car that screeched into the next door drive and woke Bill from his afternoon nap. He was a little disorientated, so he stood up and wandered to the window, and was surprised to see a car on the driveway next door. He was even more surprised to see the door open and a pair of bare legs as a stunning looking woman slid elegantly out of the car and walked up the driveway.

She was shorter than Susan, maybe 5’4”, with a shock of dark, thick, glossy hair and Bill, in his groggy, half-asleep state, couldn’t help lingering on her bare thighs, on her tight, clingy mini-skirt, and her equally tight white t-shirt that could barely contain her ample breasts. As his mouth hung open, he felt his cock stirring in his shorts and before he could tear himself away from the window, he saw her look up in his direction. Frozen, he couldn’t move. She smiled, gave a casual wave of her delicate hand and then opened the door to the Bannister’s house and walked inside.

Bill stood there, in the window, for several seconds after she had gone. His heart was racing, he felt flushed, and worst of all, he wasn’t entirely sure that his erection had not been visible from the window. Feeling guilty, he turned away from the window. Part of his brain was telling him to return to the soft embrace of the bed, close his eyes and fantasize about the woman next door, but he shook his head, got dressed and walked downstairs to tell Susan that they had new neighbors.

Alex turned up later that day. Susan saw him arrive, in an SUV. She was crocheting, sitting in her favorite armchair by the window, with a good view of the neighbors’ drive, when the vehicle pulled up. She watched, intrigued as he climbed out of the car. He was about 6’2 and built like a sports star. Though he was wearing an expensive suit, the line of his biceps and strong, powerful thighs were visible through the material. Susan watched, intrigued, dropping her crochet work onto the floor as she gazed at the neighbor’s butt disappearing into the house.

The next morning, Bill went round to make his habitual visit to welcome the new neighbors. He was bearing one of Susan’s freshly baked cranberry pies, and wore his best shirt, along with a touch too much aftershave. The door opened after the second ring of the doorbell, and there stood Marie. Her hair was a little tousled and she wore no make-up, just a blue silk kimono that barely covered the top of her thighs. Bill stammered a little before he managed to explain that he was from next door and he wanted to welcome them to the street.

“Aw that is lovely, thank you,” said Marie. “I would invite you in, but we’re in a bit of a state, boxes everywhere. And Alex is still asleep.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bill, trying desperately to focus on Marie’s eyes and not her thighs, or her chest. “I didn’t intend to disturb you, but we were wondering if you’d like to come to ours tonight, just for a welcome to the neighborhood party.”

“Oh that would be lovely,” said Marie, touching Bill on the arm. Her touch sent little electric shockwaves along his arm. “We’d love to.”

“Great, about seven then?” said Bill.

“See you then,” said Marie, smiling. Bill stood there, a second longer than was strictly polite, before scurrying off down the path.

The day was spent in preparations. Susan, who seemed more fidgety and anxious than usual when preparing for guests, swept and cleaned every room twice, while Bill scrubbed the patio – in case it was a fine night and Marie and Alex wanted to sit outside – and cut the grass – in case Marie and Alex wanted to walk in the garden – and even cleaned the barbecue – in case Marie and Alex felt like an impromptu barbecue.

Seven o’clock came round, then seven thirty, before Marie and Alex finally turned up at seven forty-five. Susan saw them first. Marie was wearing the kind of red dress Susan had only seen in documentaries about strippers. Alex was more casually dressed, in a tailored t-shirt, which showed his flat abs and powerful chest.

“We’ve brought a bottle,” said Marie, handing a bottle of red wine to Susan.

“Actually, we’ve brought two,” said Alex, brandishing a bottle of white.

“Oh that’s lovely of you,” said Susan, “You really didn’t have to, you know.”

“Our pleasure,” said Alex.

“Please do come in, I will fetch some glasses.”

Susan showed them into the living room and hurried into the kitchen. She had made a point of reminding Bill to tell them it was a non-alcoholic evening. They rarely drank alcohol, well she didn’t drink alcohol at all. One glass was enough to leave her completely out of control, and she had always hated being out of control. As she fetched the glasses from the cupboard, she noticed Bill lingering in the kitchen.

“Go and say hello,” she whispered, urgently.

“Right,” he said, his eyes lingering on his wife. She was wearing that dress. The one he loved. The one she’d worn on their trip to Miami two years ago. That was the last time they had enjoyed really passionate sex, and though neither of them ever talked about it, they both thought about it often, carrying it with them as a golden memory.

Susan caught him up in the hallway, carrying glasses. They looked at one another and smiled at the same time. They could both see the nervousness in one another’s expressions. It was always a little nerve-wracking, meeting new people, but they gave one another strength to get through social occasions. This time, though, it felt different.

They sat around the table in the dining room. Although the conversation was a little stilted at first, but Marie and Alex were confident and outgoing people, who did most of the talking, which was the way that Bill and Susan liked it. They learned that Alex was an investment banker while Marie designed jewelry, though had done some modeling in the past.

“I’m not surprised,” blurted out Bill.

Susan blushed and looked at him with a quizzical expression. Bill was already on his second glass, and starting to slur his words a little.

“Susan, you’re not going to drink at all?” said Alex, smiling at her. She flushed.

“No, I don’t drink,” she said, stuttering a little.

“Are you teetotal?” said Marie, “I knew a girl who was teetotal once, in college. I had no idea how she did that. I love a glass of wine.”

“Or three,” added Alex and they both smiled at one another.

“I’m no teetotal,” said Susan, suddenly. “I just don’t usually drink.”

“Oh well, why not just have a drop of this Merlot. It’s really good,” said Alex. He raised the glass from the table.

“Go on, honey,” said Bill, “It won’t hurt.”

Under pressure from all sides, Susan gave in. What harm would it do, anyway, she thought to herself. She was forty-two years old, after all. Why couldn’t she have a little drink in the company of adults? She smiled at Alex and held out her glass. He poured her a big glass of red and smiled back at her. Bill watched, fascinated, as though he were a scientist watching the administration of a new, powerful drug to a patient.

Susan didn’t drink. That was one of the golden rules that kept their normality in place. Now the rule had been broken and both of them felt that they were in uncharted territory. It felt strange, and exhilarating. The conversation continued, but was much more natural. Susan loosened up considerably. She started to laugh. Bill loved his wife more than ever when she laughed, naturally and freely. Her whole face lit up. It was as though her true beauty was revealed when she laughed.

She laughed particularly at Alex’s jokes. Alex was a charming man, Bill, could see that, but his jokes were a little cheesy. It was during one particularly loud squall of laughter from Susan, that Bill felt a little tap on his wrist. Marie had reached across the table.

”Can I speak to you privately, for a moment,” she said. Bill, gazing into her eyes, was speechless.

“I…I…yes sure.”

”Is everything okay, hun?” asked Alex.

“Yes sure,” said Marie, “I just wanted to talk to Bill about something.”

Susan looked over at them and Bill met her gaze. For a moment he thought she looked worried, but then he recognized the look. She was already a little drunk. Marie had stood and was walking towards the door. She cast a glance back at Bill, who looked at Susan again, but Alex had grabbed her attention and was starting another joke.

What the hell, thought Bill. He stood and followed Marie out of the hallway. He watched her perfectly peachy butt in her tight clingy red dress and felt his cock stirring once again. She stopped and turned round and smiled at him.

“What would you like to speak to me about,” he stammered. She put her arms around him and before he could react, pulled him down to her and kissed him, passionately.

It took a while for him to resist, but eventually, he found some will power and pulled away from Marie’s lips.

“What are you doing? I…can’t do this.”

“Shh!” she said, putting her finger on his lips. Then she slid her hand into his and led him back down the hallway, back to the dining room. There, he saw Alex kissing his wife. They were leaning in together, across the table, and Alex was cradling Susan’s head in his hands as they kissed passionately.

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What Is The Best Sales Day? When Should You Release Your Book?

When is the best day to release a book?  What is the best sales day?

There’s no definite answer to this question.  I have, however, noticed a few trends after self publishing for two years.

Sunday is usually the highest selling day.  Saturday is a close second.  Friday and Monday can do especially well.  Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday are usually the slowest sales days.  Thursday seems to be especially slow.

Of course, this all changes with holidays.  You may experience a drop off on a major holiday like Thanksgiving, but then see a huge spike in sales the following days because people are still on vacation.  You’ll usually see a nice spike in sales leading up to Christmas.

I’ve been publishing my books Thursday nights for a while now.  They usually go live Friday afternoon, just in time for the weekend spike.

I’ve found it’s useless to release your book midweek.  You should always publish books so they go live for the weekend.

No Publish No Problem

I decided not to publish any stories in the month of August.  This doesn’t mean I have stopped writing.

I did this for a two reasons.

  1. August sales were getting off to a slow start
  2. I wanted a few books “in the chamber” for when I started publishing again in September.

By having a few books in the chamber I have the liberty to take a week off if necessary during the next couple of months.  It just made sense to hoard a few stories for the month of August since this is generally one of the worse selling months for self publishing author’s, and these books are better served being released during busy months.

The funny thing is, sales have gone up since I made this decision.  I haven’t released a single book, yet my sales are on track to beat July.  Of course by saying this I probably just jinxed myself, but oh well.  It’s still good to know I can leave the self publishing game alone at times and still bring in sales.