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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Coach Kennedy: Forced Lesbian Submission

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No way!” I said.

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

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

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

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

I sighed.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

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

“Right. Deacon. What do you want?”

“I…that is…”

“Get on with it, girl, I’m busy.”

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

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

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

“I…er yes.”

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

“Oh…well….I…”

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

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

“You have a court in your house?”

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” she said, smiling.

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

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Erotica For Men: Bimbos & Brats

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

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

Stories in Erotica For Men: Bimbos & Brats:

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

Own Erotica For Men: Bimbos & Brats

Beast Me: He Does Exist (Bigfoot Erotica)

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Experimentally Overflowing

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s really not enough to get by.

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

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

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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