The Queen’s Concubine

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

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

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

”Is this the peasant girl?”

”Yes ma’am.”

She looked at me and sniffed.

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

The courtier shook her head.

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

She clapped her hands and the servants hurried over.

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

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

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

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

“I can’t wear this!” I protested.

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

“What…what will she do to me?”

The second servant girl giggled.

“You will find out.”

“Beware her kiss,” said the other girl.

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

“Good. Follow me,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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Cuckolded Unlimited: 18 Wife Watching Books

I’ve got a NEW bundle of 18 wife watching books.  It consists of:

  1. He Follows
  2. The Bully
  3. Island Fever
  4. Black Bull White Wife
  5. Hotwife Valentine
  6. Blindfolded Surprise
  7. Forced To Watch Over Skype
  8. The Photo Shoot
  9. I Made Him Watch
  10. My Wife Gets Even
  11. Mafia’s Plaything
  12. Revenge
  13. The Mafia & My Wife
  14. The Chalet: Watching My Wife With Sasquatch
  15. The Cavern: Watching My Wife With Sasquatch
  16. Betting My Wife: Cuckolded By Republican Journalist
  17. Honey Is That You?
  18. My Schizophrenic Slut Wife

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My Swinging Confession

My name is Helen and I guess you could say that this is my confession.

I live in a respectable street of a respectable suburb upstate. I won’t tell you exactly where, but you can probably already imagine the place. A secluded road with neat, comfortably-apportioned houses; each house with its own immaculately trimmed and tended lawn; pure white picket fence; wide, welcoming drive way and delicate floral borders.

The Avenue. It could not be more suburban and stereotypical. But I, we, like it here. I live at number four, with my husband, Jack. We married five years ago, when we were both just out of college and we are still very much in love. In many ways, our life in the Avenue for the first five years was idyllic. I worked as a librarian at the local adult college and Jack worked as a software developer. We worked hard, we spent our evenings at the movies, or curled up on a sofa together. We could afford long holidays, we gardened, attended charitable functions. Sometimes we went to a baseball game, sometimes we took in a show. Life was perfect.

Well, almost perfect. There was one thing that nagged at me, one little persistent, consuming, burning itch that I longed to scratch. It was something that I didn’t dare share with Jack for a long time. For around four years, in fact, until it just came out.

I had drunk too much Merlot. We were in bed, I had slipped out of my panties while Jack was in the bathroom and had been stroking myself, teasing my nipples, my clit, with my fingers and feeling like such a naughty, filthy, wanton slut. So I told him. When he came out of the bathroom, with just a towel wrapped around him, I told him my dirty secret. I told him I wanted to see him fuck another woman, in our bed. I just blurted it out.

He was silent. I could hear my heart thudding. Then he smiled. He came and sat on the bed, kissed me full on the lips, and then nodded.

“That would be fun,” he said.

The next morning I asked him if he remembered what I’d told him. His wicked grin told me that he had. At first I was ashamed and embarrassed, but he held my hand and said that he was honored that I had felt able to share something so personal and that he loved me. And after all, I told myself, it was just a fantasy. There was nothing wrong with fantasy.

So I got over my embarrassment, and for a few days, the relief of unburdening myself was glorious. It felt so naughty, so wicked, so transgressive. I had bared my innermost desires, exposed them to the man I love and he hadn’t flinched. I felt like the kind of dangerous, disreputable girl I had always fantasized about being, but at the same time it also felt as though I had found a new level of love and intimacy with Jack.

That feeling would only grow deeper the following Saturday, when Jack, after three whiskies, took my hand as we sat on our bed and told me that it would be hot if I was with another man. It was dark in our room when he said those thrilling, dangerous words, and I saw the fear in his eyes, his fear that I might be horrified. But I wasn’t horrified. Not at all. Though I had never really thought about it before, the idea stirred something in me. Yes, I wanted that too.

Jack told me that he loved it when I moaned and gasped with pleasure and he wanted to see me like that, with another man, like I was starring in an erotic film. He wanted me to gaze into his eyes as I was fucked by a stranger. The way he described it was so hot. I asked him to tell me again and he did, embroidering the fantasy with all kinds of erotic talk, dirty words, wild ideas, all of which sent shivers of pure lust through me.

We made love that night, as passionately as we ever had, at least, before we met the Porters. Three, four, maybe five weekends in a row, we got drunk together and told one another all about our dirty secret fantasies, embellishing the stories with ever more outlandish ideas, until we had driven each other wild and then we would fuck over and over until we were exhausted.

Over the weeks, the heat of that passion grew less intense. We spoke of it less frequently, and the novelty and thrill of being open about it faded. But the itch remained. That didn’t fade. It was always there, whenever I touched myself, whenever Jack touched me, whenever I closed myself and surrendered to the all-consuming fire of my orgasm. The thought of Jack and another woman and me watching, sitting naked at the end of the bed as he fucked another woman, sensing their sweating, glistening bodies as he made her scream. Oh I wanted that so much.

I’m not sure where it came from. I guess a skilled psychiatrist could plumb the depths of my subconscious and drag out the truth, but I didn’t really care. All I knew was that the thought of Jack with another woman, a hot woman, a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous woman, was both frightening and gloriously exciting. Perhaps it was the forbidden aspect. That isn’t how it is supposed to be. A woman is supposed to be jealous of her husband’s affection. Perhaps it was that risk. What if he enjoyed having sex with her more than me? The risk that he would leave. The risk that I would lose everything. It was partly that, but it was also the idea of watching it, watching Jack being passionate, the writhing limbs, the forbidden, transgressive sex in our bed.

But after a few weeks, Jack stopped referring to it, and as we had never got round to working out how to arrange it, I resigned myself to it remaining as just a glorious fantasy.

Around six months after I had confided in him, Jack came home late from work one day and gave me some bad news. Apparently, we had to entertain his boss, Michael Porter, and his wife. I groaned when he told me. We don’t do a lot of entertaining. Sure, we have friends over from time to time and family, but those are all people we know, people we don’t have to impress. The Porters were different. But according to Jack, there was no way round it. He was desperate to get the promotion to head of section, and he needed to improve his relationship with his boss.

So that Saturday night, I slipped into my tightest black party dress – my only black party dress – which was much shorter than I remembered. As I tugged at the hem to try to pull it down at least over my mid-thigh, Jack came into the bedroom and whistled.

“Is it too much?” I asked

“It’s perfect,” he replied, patting me on the ass and kissing me on my neck, which sent a little tingle of pleasure all the way through me.

The Porters were punctual, and brought two bottles of expensive wine with them, which I gladly swapped for the rather cheap bottle I had bought. They were older than us, maybe late forties, but both obviously worked out. Michael Porter was tall, greying a little at the temples, but square-jawed with big shoulders and a wide, welcoming smile. I found myself blushing a little the first few times he turned the smile on me, like a nervous girl at a high school dance.

Anna was a little taller than me, with short dark hair, but the kind of body that I have always been envious of. Curvy to the point of being overtly sexy, her breasts heaved in a tight red velvet dress, and she swayed when she walked. Her sparkling smile was kind of captivating too, and it was obvious that Jack was having trouble not staring at her chest whenever he looked at her. I didn’t mind that. I thought it was cute, and told myself I would tease him about it later.

Dinner went well. The Porters were good company, charming, but not showy. They talked about their holiday home in Florida, their wedding, and both had a store of anecdotes from their previous lives. Michael had been a footballer, while Anna had done a little modeling. The wine was flowing and the conversation was easy when Michael asked if we’d like to play a little poker.

As it happened, we had played quite a lot while we were in college, and the idea sounded fun. Jack dug out some old poker chips from the back of the wardrobe, I cleared away the plates and soon we were sitting around the dining table playing a little Texas Hold ‘Em.

Jack, Michael and I were playing pretty well, winning our share of hands, but Anna, who seemed to be drinking a little more than the rest of us, was soon down to her last chip. When she turned over a pair of Kings and I showed three twos, she laughed and pushed her chip across the table to me.

“I guess I’m done,” she said, laughing, casually resting her hand on Jack’s arm. He was a little flustered, which I thought was so cute. I smiled across the table at him and he smiled back, before blushing and looking at his cards.

“Oh now, we can let you stay in. But you have to offer a little something,” said Michael, dealing the next hand. Anna looked at him with a smirk.

“Oh really? And what did you have in mind?”

Michael smiled and said nothing.

“Well I don’t have any valuable jewelry to play with, so I guess I’ll just have to strip,” she said, pouting a little.

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Showing Her Who’s Boss: Forced Lesbian Submission

*This book has been ADULT listed by Amazon.  It will only be found through my links and Author’s page.

My name is Tina Strong. I’m the CEO of GlobeCorp. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s one of the world’s fastest-growing corporations. I oversee operations that employ half a million people. I’ve been featured in Time and profiled in every business magazine in the world. My contacts book includes world leaders, billionaires, religious leaders, Hollywood producers, UN officials; I’m one of the most well-connected women in international business.

As you can imagine, I’m used to getting my own way. It’s always been like that. I guess I was quite a spoilt girl. My daddy was an oil executive and he used to give me everything I wanted. The other kids were jealous. They would call me Lady Strong. But it didn’t bother me. Yes I had advantages, but I worked damn hard, at school, at college and in business and I’ve reached the top faster than all of my peers. Want to know how I did it?

I have high expectations of myself and I apply those standards to others. I can’t stand inefficiency, incompetence or idleness. If you want to work for Tina Strong, you’ve got to be the best. I learned early on in business that you’ve got to be tough; you’ve got to dominate every meeting, every conversation. And that’s what I do. I know people call me a bitch behind my back. I don’t care. I know that I’m in charge and I am dominant in every situation, with everyone I meet.

Well, almost everyone. As with any rule there is always an exception. Let me tell you about mine.

It started about a year ago when I broke in a new personal assistant. I go through a lot of PAs. What can I say? I have high standards. A new PA doesn’t shape up, I cut them loose very quickly, and I make no apologies for that. GlobeCorp can’t afford to carry passengers. Of course, the downside of the high PA turnover is that I’ve built up a reputation among the agencies and none of them will take my calls. Fortunately, a business friend of mine, Tom, was able to recommend a PA, Maria, who had worked for him before. When I asked him on the phone what she was like, he hesitated, and then he said just one word. “Ruthless.”

I didn’t understand what Tom meant. Ruthlessness isn’t a quality that you need in a PA. He had also suggested that Maria was attractive. This didn’t bother me. I’m not jealous when it comes to other women, in fact having a stunning PA can be an asset. Most of the people I had to deal with were men, and men are always knocked off balance by hot women.

Two hours later, Maria was standing in my office. Tom had not done her justice. She was more than attractive, she was gorgeous. Shorter than me, with long, dark, silky hair, a perfect petite body, pouting lips, high cheekbones and she was wearing the shortest skirt I’ve seen in an office environment. There was also something strange about her. Every PA I’ve interviewed has been nervous in my presence, but Maria wasn’t at all nervous. She smiled throughout. In fact, it was more of a smirk than a smile. But I was busy, so I overlooked it.

It turned out that Maria’s effectiveness as a PA was in inverse proportion to her looks. I could see through my office window that there was a steady stream of men finding pretexts to come up to my floor and gawp at her. I didn’t particularly appreciate that, because rather than putting them in their place, she seemed actively to encourage it. I heard her giggling and flirting more than once but I let it go for the first day or two. That wasn’t the only thing I let go.

Maria’s phone manner was awful. The emails she sent on my behalf were poorly written and rudely addressed. She didn’t seem to know where any of the files were, and often I would have to buzz her three times before she bothered to reply. When she double-booked me for a meeting on her third day, and didn’t even apologize when I pointed out her error, I decided I would have to let her go. That evening, after I’d taken my last appointment, I buzzed her to come through into my office. There was no reply. I buzzed again, twice more. Still nothing.

Irritated, I marched through into her office, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called through to Lisa, one of the other secretaries to find out what had happened to Maria. Lisa told me that my new PA was drinking coffee with Michael, one of the sales directors. By this time I was fuming, so I marched into Michael’s office. To say he was surprised to see me was an understatement. He was sitting at his desk, but seemed slightly disheveled and had also turned a bright shade of pink.

“Oh, hi Miss Strong, I…er…can I help you?”

“Have you seen Maria?”

“Maria?”

“My PA.”

“Er…no…”

“That’s not really true is it,” said a voice from underneath his desk. Moments later, Maria emerged, refastening the top button of her blouse and straightening her hair. Mortified, Michael began fumbling with his pants as Maria calmly walked around the desk to stand in front of me.

“My office! Now!”

“Yes boss,” said Maria, smirking and doing a little bow.

*  *  *  *

“What the hell was that?”

Maria stood at my desk. I had made her stand in front of me instead of sitting but neither that nor my tone had managed to wipe the smirk off her face.

“What was what?”

“Do you think that is acceptable behavior for a PA?”

She shrugged.

“It was fun.”

I shook my head. What the hell had Tom been thinking? Actually, as soon as I thought about it, it was obvious that Tom hadn’t been thinking at all, at least not with his brain.

”I’m going to fire you, Maria, but before I do that, I’m going to set you straight on a few things.”

“No you’re not,” she said, and tilted her head, smiling at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not going to fire me.”

“Who do you think you are girl?”

She smirked again.

“Someone who knows. About George.”

“George? I don’t know any George?”

“George Markham.”

George Markham. My God! How did she know about George Markham. I don’t have many regrets in my life, but that was one.

I should explain. George is, was, one of my father’s business associates, a very wealthy man, who made his money from shrewd investments and buyouts. I was in college and struggling. My father always said that when it came to college, I had to learn how to budget and survive on my own. It was an essential component to being successful in business. Of course, I didn’t take it seriously. I spent all my money on parties, on maintaining my pre-college lifestyle and when I went back to him for a loan, he refused to help.

That’s where George came in. I guess it was a sort of business relationship, though I didn’t like to think of it like that. He would pick me up outside the college, we’d go to a hotel or sometimes to one of his apartments and he would fuck me. He was a kind man, but he had a few kinks, a few fetishes. He liked me to dress up as a schoolgirl or a maid. Sometimes he tied me up and spanked me with a paddle. Fortunately our sessions never lasted long, because he could never hold himself back. I guess I can see that. The hot eighteen year old daughter he had been lusting after for months was suddenly lying on his bed dressed as a slutty schoolgirl.

It only lasted for the first year in college. I cut him off after that, sorted myself out and never looked back. I had assumed I would never hear that name again, particularly after he passed away through a heart attack at the age of 72. But now he was back. How the hell did she know?

“Let’s not waste any time,” she said. “Check your email.”

“What?”

“You are going to want to check it, believe me.”

Irritated, I flicked up my email on my phone. There was a new message, from Maria. It had a video attachment. With a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach, I opened the video. The footage was grainy at first, then the light improved and I gasped. It was me. I was lying, naked on the bed, then George, also naked, came into shot. He climbed up on the bed and began to kiss me. I snapped my phone shut.

“How the hell did you get that?”

Maria smiled, stepped closer and perched on the edge of the desk.

“Never mind how I got it. I’ve got photos too.”

“What do you want?”

Maria leaned across the desk. Her glistening lips were close to mine and her perfume was a mixture of expensive flowers and a musty lingering scent that I took to be Michael. I thought for one moment that she was going to kiss me. Instead she smiled again.

“You will come to my apartment tonight at ten.”

“No I won’t.”

Maria shook her head and slipped off my desk.

“Oh yes you will,” she said and wandered out of my office. I watched her slink away, her hips swaying, temporarily paralyzed with fear and anger. What was this sensation? For the first time in my life, I was not in control. And it was terrifying.

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Feeding The Frat

My son’s keening wakes me for the third time that night. Muttering expletives, I get out of bed and blearily make my way to his crib, just at the foot of my bed. It would be easier to sleep with him, but I’m an active sleeper and he’s still quite small. I pick him up and he searches eagerly for my breast, which I offer without thinking. I am too tired to appreciate the magic of motherhood tonight.

As his cries fade away into happy sucking sounds, I stare out the window of my little one-bedroom apartment. I let myself wonder, as I never do during the day, where my son’s father might be now. The honest truth is that he’s probably drunk somewhere, or asleep with another woman. In none of my fantasies does he come back to me, but in all of them he is miserable and never knows happiness again for leaving me with a son that looks like him and no money to care for his child.

Miles, my son, coos happily and I settle him back into his crib, straightening my shirt and going to lie down on my Temperpedic mattress, which I had the fortune to claim at the local Goodwill for only $40. One man’s trash…

I awake the next day to dusty sunlight filtering through the windows that won’s stay clean no matter how many times I wipe them. The irony of this does not escape me as I’m perusing the “Wanted” section of the paper and my eyes light on an ad: Maid wanted for night shifts.

A couple calls later and I’m strapping Miles into the backseat of my crappy little car that no longer passes safety tests, and making a short drive into the downtown area for the interview. Rich UPenn students mill around and cut in and around me like they own the streets as well as a trust fund. A few of the boys do a double take when they see me but I ignore the attention; I no longer want it or care about it.

I pick up my maid’s outfit and grimly ignore the creepy man’s passes at attempted flirting. Even on a day like today, running on maybe three hours of sleep and dressed in sweats and a blue long-sleeve shirt, something about me draws men like flies to honey. I ignore this particular loser’s buzzing and make my escape quickly, wishing not for the first time that an article of clothing existed that would disguise the enormous roundness of my ass.

I spend the day relaxing the only way I know how to, lying with my son in a little park in a rich neighborhood that I literally smile my way into-the entrance is gated and most days I can get in. As long as the woman isn’t working the shift. It gives me a kind of perverse pleasure to see the other parent’s faces when they see my beat up little black car, and look around trying to guess who the intruder is. None of them have the guts to guess it’s me and ask me to leave but all of them could have been in my shoes, so fuck them. I make eyes at the men who occasionally walk by when their wives aren’t looking, not because I want attention but because I’m sure that somewhere, they left a woman out in the cold too.

Miles crawls rolls around and puts soft little hands on my tits, that spill up and over the little scoop-neck of my shirt. His hands are softer than my tits, something I didn’t know was possible, and I laugh and let him play with my large white globes. He doesn’t know any better, and the least I can do is teach him how to be gentle early. I try to teach him how to push himself up on his arms, to every other woman’s dismay, pushing my own arms up and arching my back like a yoga instructor. The pose makes my waist impossibly tiny and my chest impossibly big, and my curly brown hair is shaken out behind me like a lion’s mane. My son, however, is happy to gurgle and laugh at Mommy from his belly, and is resolutely uninterested in any more physical exertion. I feed him in the shade of the tree and feel the glares of the other mothers, which I also ignore. After a couple hours, I pack up and drive away, practically able to see the haze of resentment I’m driving through. The gateman’s friendly smile makes it all evaporate though, and I’m in good spirits for the rest of the day.

I drop Miles at my mother’s house that night. She can’t watch him during the day because she works too, but she eagerly takes him and the milk I’ve pumped for him tonight.

“I’m really happy you’ve found another job, Arabella.”

I hug her tightly and head out in my new work ensemble, which is just as ridiculous as a costume on my voluptuous body.

Getting back into my car, I route myself to my first address.

22 Green Street.

Backing out of the driveway, I follow the instructions carefully, and inwardly groan as they take me into the downtown area again. My destination appears to be on campus. Even worse, the app concludes my short journey in front of a large fraternity house on Greek row, the letters DKE emblazoned on the balcony in gaudy gold that probably cost as much as my rent for a month, per letter.

I get out of the car and hear the deep thumping of a bass, but the street itself is still relatively quiet. A pregame. Sighing inwardly, and anticipating the enormity of the mess I’ll probably be walking into, I walk up to the house and ring the doorbell. Steeling myself for the worst, I’m taken aback when the door is opened and a handsome face probably only a couple years younger than my own looks out at me with an eager grin.

“You’re early!” He says eagerly, ushering me inside.

“I thought you wanted me to come at eight.”

“Miscommunication, I guess,” he says, still grinning broadly. “We’re going this way.”

I follow him through the opulent entrance hall lined with portraits of rich former members who are only important in this circle of rich current members, and roll my eyes behind the back of the guy leading me from room to room. A sitting room, past a kitchen. I vaguely note that everything looks surprisingly clean, and that maybe this won’t be as bad as I’m expecting. We arrive outside a closed door and the guy turns to me, his face eager but a little serious.

“Okay, everyone is downstairs, and the idea is to intimidate the new guys but also make them feel welcome. Think you can do that?”

I’m totally taken aback and scramble for a composed answer while I work out what’s happening. “Sure.”

Seems like the safest option and thing to say.

“Perfect. You’re really hot, by the way.” He winks at me and slides the door open, gesturing for me to follow him and close the door behind me. Music starts, low and sexy, as we descend the stairs, and there’s a perceptive change in environment. I can feel…nerves? Not my own, I’m now pretty sure what’s happening and wondering how the mix-up happened, but really just glad that it’s a group of young guys instead of ones like the guy who gave me my outfit. Right before we reach the bottom, I reach out and brush my host’s hand.

“I need to tell you…I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I really am supposed to be a maid.”

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Blacked Wives: Big Black Boxer

“Janie, you wouldn’t believe how much of a release it is. Like sex, but kind of better, almost.”

Janie smiled but didn’t reply, forking a big bite of salad into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to say no, thank you, politely. Again. Thankfully, Kerry jumped in.

“Better than sex? Maybe you’re just not having good sex.”

Melissa didn’t take the bait. “Not all of us can have hot Argentinian boyfriends we met while on sabbatical for a biography project, Kerry. For my part, I’m stuck with George.”

Kerry grinned and raised her yogurt cup to toast Melissa’s comment. But Melissa wasn’t to be deterred.

“Seriously, Janie, I know you’ve got some pent-up something in you.” Kerry flashed her a warning look and she chose her next words carefully.

“Don’t you want to get all mad and hot and sweaty and hit things?”

“Not remotely,” Janie replied, having finished her big bite. “I happen to like getting up and doing a few sun salutations. Never had the urge to start hitting things.”

“That’s why you go after school, when you want to throttle some freshman for fucking up MLA format again. I swear these kids are getting dumber, there are websites that can do this shit for them.”

Janie laughed. “Imagine if you actually had to teach freshmen this year.”

“Hey,” Melissa said indignantly. “I did my time.”

“I know, I know,” Janie replied. “But still,” she added. “Not interested in hitting things. Thanks though.”

“It’s self-defense! Also,” she said casually, “The instructor is really, really hot.”

“Ah, there it is.”

“How hot are we talking?” Kerry cocked her head to the side.

“Scale of George to your Argentinian?”

“Wrong scale. He’s in another league.”

Kerry raised her eyebrows. “Janie, I think you’re going to have to go and see what she’s talking about.”

Janie sat and let the women prod and encourage her for a few minutes more before finally rolling her eyes skyward and holding up her hands. “Okay, okay, I’ll go. Today?”

Melissa’s eyes gleamed. “Yes! And yes. I’ll grab you from your afternoon class.”

A couple hours later, Melissa’s small blue Toyota rolled up to the English building and Janie slid in, her workout backpack on her lap. A short fifteen minute drive later, where the fall countryside drifted by in a haze of oranges and reds, they came to a dilapidated little garage.

Janie raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t join a cult and just need to find someone to sacrifice did you?”

“Oh, shut up, it’s just not a yoga studio. C’mon.”

They entered the building and Janie relaxed. About seven other women were already there, putting their things into large, crudely-made wooden lockers, and changing out of various work attire.

“Ladies, this is Janie!” Melissa made the announcement as her shirt came off, and her generous bust made all the women who quickly turned to look, laugh and look away. “Put those away, you hog,” one of the women called. Melissa stuck her tongue out good-naturedly and began pulling her two sports bras over the offending boobs.

Janie smiled and changed quickly, her own small bust presenting no trouble or causing no ripples. She tended to slide through the cracks like that, being built as slim and willowy as she was. She definitely hadn’t been captivating enough for her last boyfriend. Her already-flat stomach tightened at that thought, and she yanked her hair back harder than necessary into a long blonde ponytail. Maybe she did need this class.

She followed the women out of the locker room into the other large room, which was probably an out garage at some point. Music blared from overhead speakers, a bass causing a very real vibration on the floor. Punching bags were spaced at generous intervals in lines and rows in the middle of the room, and the instructor’s was at the front. Still no sign of him though, she noted. She also noted the subtle-but-fierce scramble between the women to claim the bags at the front. Melissa didn’t deign to participate, selecting a bag a couple rows back and off to the side, and confident that her rack would draw the same amount of attention as if she had claimed on front-and-center.

Looking around at all of the tightly toned bodies around her, Janie hissed. “Melissa, how long have you been coming here?”

“I’m just finishing my first session, nine classes, why?”

“I feel like a waif.”

“Should have come the last three weeks I asked you.”

Janie tugged her loose hoodie back over her torso.

“You’re going to get hot,” Melissa warned. Janie ignored her and Melissa laughed. Suddenly, there was a hush that settled like a buzz, and Janie saw him for the first time. He strode out of an office tucked into the far corner of the building that she hadn’t noticed upon entering, phone in hand, tapping the volume button down as he came.

“Holy shit.”

The words escaped her before she could help herself. Melissa laughed, low and sexy behind her. “I know, it’s absurd.”

The man was dark-skinned and tawny-eyed, and there was a feline, sexy grace to his walk that made her feel like she was being watched even as he casually strolled over. Like nothing was escaping his notice even though he couldn’t possibly have been aware of all nine of them. His shoulders were rounded with rippled muscle, and his waist was narrow, his glutes full and powerful in the black workout pants that hugged his legs. He reached the instructor’s bag and there was a small but collective sigh from the assembled. He gave a patient smile—of course he was used to this sort of thing—and his eyes roamed over them, lingering on the last, unfamiliar face.

“This is Janie, my friend I’ve been telling you about,” Melissa volunteered.

“Hi, Janie. Welcome.” He smiled slowly, appreciatively? But the glimmer was gone as soon as she thought she’d spotted it. She felt confused, warm. Surely he wouldn’t find her attractive, standing as skinny and small as she was amongst all these other lean, hungry, well-muscled women? Women that he’d helped discover their muscle, their power?

The warm ups began and she found she did whatever he asked of her. Not without struggle, but she did it. His voice was dynamic and deep, cutting across the tones of the music that again blared overhead, calling out conditioning exercise moves and repetitions and giving a substantial amount of encouragement. It was gratifying to see that even the other women, as fit as they were, were tired more than halfway through, and they hadn’t even used the bags yet. During a quick interval break, Janie turned to Kerry, who was hunched over with her hands on her knees, tits spilling out of her sports bra and gleaming with sweat. She looked up and answered before Janie asked. “Now we get to hit things.”

Her prediction came true and he called for a water break. “Okay, ladies, catch your breath and hydrate well, because when you come back onto this floor, we’re throwing some punches.”

The mood shifted, became harsher and more focused. Suddenly, even though his attractiveness was still there, Janie was aware of the frustrations, the pains, the regrets, the anger in the other women. Their break ended and they filed out onto the mat again, almost grim in their unison. Melissa’s mouth was set and her eyes were the dark color they became when she thought about her son away for a weekend at his father’s house.

He began with some basic cuts, showing them how to strike and spring back, always bearing in mind the defensive, and cautioning to never let the attack take over. “Because when that happens,” he said firmly. “You lose to yourself.”

He walked amongst them as he set them repetitions, correcting a form here, observing a particularly powerful cut here. When he reached Melissa he watched for several moment before moving to Janie without comment.

“A little less force with your arm, put more of your whole body into it. Better.” He watched her intently, his eyes flickering in different colors as the slim pixie in front of him gave her punching bag a series of smacks that wouldn’t have hurt a child. He walked away without comment.

After the class all the women’s bodies drooped in exhaustion, but they buzzed with a fierce pride and camaraderie. Showers hissed, fog mingled with sweat and the door was propped open without shame to air out the locker room, because they were all in the middle of nowhere and who cared, anyway?

Janie realized that she’d left her water bottle out on the mats, and padded out to go find it. Fortunately, it was right where she’d left it, and she was about to turn back and head back in when she noticed movement in the corner of the room, behind the glass of the office. Unsure what compelled her to walk all the way over, she paused by the window and looked in, pretty sure what she was going to see and curious to see who he’d chosen. Her eyes grew wide. Melissa’s own eyes were rolled back so she couldn’t see that she was essentially looking at her friend, but it was the instructor behind her who she couldn’t tear her eyes away from. He curled around Melissa’s body like a dark secret, his hands cupping her tits as he nipped and kissed her neck, her earlobes, her back, his body pulsing along with hers. Neither of them had showered yet, making the fog creeping up the window somehow dirtier, more secretive. Melissa came in a soft shriek and a widening of her full lips into a pretty pink O, ad he followed soon after, collapsing on top of her and sending papers streaming off his desk.

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Beast Me: Submit To The Minotaur

My name is Dana. At least, it used to be. I go by a different name these days. In fact, my life is different in every way. Now I get to fly all over the world, staying in the best hotels, attending top line scientific conferences, where I earn the respect of all my peers. Yeah, my life is pretty great. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how all of this happened.

It started around a year ago. Back then I was still Dana, a twenty-two year old research assistant to Dr Theseus Jones, a world-renowned expert on scientific ethics at the Anthromorph Institute. The Institute had been funded by the government and was Dr Jones’ personal project. His job was to enforce ethical standards in our area of science, and above all, to make sure that no-one dabbled in animal-human hybrids.

You may think that sounds a little far-fetched. I mean, animal-human hybrids? Well if there’s one thing you should know about the science world, it’s this: if you can think of an experiment, there will be someone somewhere who’s already trying it. In my months working at the Anthromorph Institute, I saw some unbelievable things, things that would blow your mind. But none of them compared to what happened when we investigated Dr Minos.

I was too junior to be involved in an investigation. In fact, throughout my nine months at the Institute, I had learned that I was too junior to be involved in anything, other than being the eye candy for the male scientists – which was all of them. Every time I walked into the lab, no matter how modest my clothing or how severely I’d tied my hair back, or how bulky my lab coat was, I could feel them all leering at me. Some days I just wanted to stand in the middle of the lab and scream at them. Hadn’t they ever seen a woman before?

Dr Jones, fortunately, wasn’t like that. I never caught him leering at me. On the other hand, he was rude, obnoxious and arrogant. Not just with me, but as the youngest member of the team, I seemed to bear the brunt of it. So when he walked into the lab, barked out my name and then disappeared back into his office one morning, I closed my eyes. With a feeling of dread, I trudged across the lab and walked into his office.

“You wanted to see me, Dr Jones?”

“I don’t want to see you, Miss Porter, but I have no choice. I’m heading out to carry out an enforcement order upstate and I need an assistant. Unfortunately, there is literally no-one else. These are the details. Get up to speed and meet me in the garage in an hour.”

With that, I was dismissed. Despite the familiar rudeness from Dr Jones, I was excited. An enforcement visit? That was where working for the Institute got serious. Every so often, a rogue unit or an unlicensed research facility failed to comply with an order so the FBI paid them a visit and one of our team got to go along. It was pretty damn exciting!

By the time I got down to the garage, I was pretty pumped, and I was up to speed on Dr Minos. A brilliant geneticist, dismissed from the Institute ten years previously, and rumored to be working on top secret borderline unethical projects, Dr Minos had been ordered to hand over his documentation a month ago, but had not complied.

His research facilities upstate were supposed to be some of the most impressive in the world, though no-one knew who was funding him. He had his own virtual kingdom, including labs, residential quarters, entertainment facilities and even his own airport. But Dr Minos had gone too far. Now we were going to enforce the order.

Oddly, though, there were no FBI personal around in the garage.

”Are we meeting the FBI there?” I asked Dr Jones.

“Not that I have to explain to the likes of you, Porter, but it won’t be necessary to have the FBI with us this time. I know Dr Minos. He is arrogant, but he isn’t foolish enough not to comply with a direct order from the Federal Government. Now, I would be grateful if you could ensure that your last inane comment is your last. I hate people talking when I drive.”

That was fine by me. Making conversation with Dr Jones was like trying to converse with a statue. An angry-looking statue. So I sat in the passenger seat as we sped out into the country heading north towards the research base known as the Maze.

We drove for an hour or so, then turned off the highway and headed down a gravel entrance road that must have been two miles or more before we arrived at a set of iron gates. Dr Jones got out the car and announced us and before he had resumed his seat, the gates had begun to creak and swing open, revealing the Maze.

It was seriously impressive. The path we followed was lined with immaculately trimmed hedges and statues of strange, mythical creatures: a dragon with several heads, a hideous old woman with the body of a snake, a swan with shapely curves and breasts. Up ahead of us was a huge country house, the kind that you only see in English films.

“Wow!” I muttered as we drew up in front of it.

We got out of the car and I hurried to catch up with Dr Jones. Before we had reached the top of the entrance steps, the massive oak doors opened. A blonde woman wearing an incredibly tight black body suit and shiny black boots, stood in the doorway.

“Dr Minos will see you now,” she said, then turned on her heels and led the way down a polished oak-lined corridor and then up a flight of stone stairs. At the top of the stairs, she opened a door and stood to one side, indicating that we should go in.

It was a kind of board room, dominated by a large desk at which sat Dr Minos. Around the room were portraits and pieces of art depicting all kinds of mythical creatures and myths and behind him a wide window showed a view of the whole site, including an enormous maze, that I presumed had given the place its name.

“Welcome Theseus, please do take a seat. And won’t you introduce me to your delightful assistant.”

“I’m Dana,” I said.

“Charmed,” said Dr Minos.

Dr Jones and I took the offered seats on the other side of the desk.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“You know why we’re here,” said Dr Jones. “You have been given an order to hand over your research. It’s time to comply.”

Dr Minos smiled.

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“You forget,” said Dr Jones, “I have seen the files. I know what you are creating here, what you have created. That creature is an unethical abomination. Human animal hybrids are strictly in violation of Federal law.”

“Ah, but the creature to which you are referring is not an animal. Nor is it human. More importantly, I found it. I did not create it.”

“Where?”

Dr Minos smiled.

“Dr Jones, I know where to look. And if you spent more time on studying the wisdom of ancient civilizations, you would know too.”

“Enough,” snapped Dr Jones. “You will hand over the creature and you will hand over your research to me. Now.”

“Or?”

“Or the FBI will execute their warrant.”

“Hmm,” said Dr Minos. “You should know, Theseus, that I don’t take kindly to threats.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“That’s a shame. You really should.”

Dr Minos pressed a button on the desk. Dr Jones and his chair disappeared suddenly from view. There was a hole in the floor where he had been sitting. I heard a distant splash and then a burst of screaming before the trapdoor snapped back into place.

“What have you done?”

“I have simplified our situation. Dr Jones was boring me. I hope you don’t make the same mistake.”

I stood up and looked around me, but two guards were already coming into the room.

“Please take Dana to one of our rest rooms and make sure she is comfortable.”

One of the guards grabbed my arm and I tried to break free, but as I did so, the other guard pressed some kind of flannel onto my face. There was an overpowering chemical smell and I felt dizzy. The room began to spin and I closed my eyes.

*  *  *  *

I was awoken by the sound of a heavy door opening. Slowly, I adjusted to my surroundings. It was a prison cell, with a stone floor and a high barred window. I was lying on a bench, covered by a thin blanket.

“Dr Minos wants you to put this on. You have five minutes.”

The woman in black threw a flimsy garment across my bed and smirked at me.

“No! Let me go! You can’t keep me prisoner.”

“I suggest you do as you are told. Dr Minos has given me orders to have you eliminated if you refuse to comply. You have five minutes.”

She smirked again and I watched her strut back out of the room, the heels of her black knee-length boots striking the stone floor hard. The door closed behind her and I was alone.

I picked up the clothes that she had left behind. They were incredibly flimsy and skimpy, just a white chiffon dress that was off the shoulder and would barely reach my thighs and a pair of strappy sandals. There was no way that I wanted to dress like that. On the other hand, I remembered what had happened to Dr Jones, so reluctantly, I stripped out of my trousers and blouse and slipped into the white dress. It was so light and delicate, it felt as though I was not even wearing any clothes.

The door to my cell opened. This time it was Dr Minos, with the same two guards who had taken me from my office.

“Ah, a true goddess. Utterly delightful. Yes. He will like you. He will like you very much.”

“Who will like me? What do you mean? You can’t keep me here like this!”

“Ah, but I can, my dear,” said Dr Minos. “Take her,” he said. I backed away but there was nowhere to hide. One of them grabbed me roughly and the other pressed another flannel into my face. I struggled and tried to shout, but I couldn’t stop myself from losing consciousness again as I watched Dr Minos’s smiling face blur and fade to black.

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Her Pleasure Slave: Forced Lesbian Submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?” I asked.

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

“Your costume,” she said brightly.

“I’ve already got a costume,” I said.

She frowned.

“What costume?”

“I’m going as vampire Abraham Lincoln.”

Amy shook her head.

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

“Oh Amy, you know I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Beast Me: Forceful Phantom (Monster Erotica)

Let’s be clear. I hate Halloween.

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

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

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

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

It started the day before Halloween last year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t be such a baby,” said Allie.

“It will be fun,” said Kitty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Do we have to?” said Kitty.

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

“What room?” I asked.

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

“She did not!” said Kitty

Allie shrugged.

“That was one of the rumors.”

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

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

“I guess,” said Kitty.

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

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

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

“Don’t do that!” I said to Allie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kitty?”

The shuffling stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Initiation: A Dubious Foursome

“Kayleigh! Time for breakfast!”

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

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

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

Good morning 😊 How are you?

This is one of those latter times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I roll my eyes with no restrain.

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

“He’s boring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Definitely lost,” Shane drawls. I bristle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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