dubcon

Taken By The Tribe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hannah, I got to go into town.”

“Oh can I come!”

“No, I got to take care of business.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

“I won’t uncle,” I sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Hitman’s Sex Doll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ethereal Emma: Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother

I just released new story about a high powered lawyer name Emma who is blackmailed by her husband’s brother when he finds out about her colorful past.  This story contains dubious consent and forced sex.  Unfortunately, Amazon has deemed this story too risque and have ADULT LISTED it.  You will only be able to find this book through my Author’s Page or any links I provide.

Here’s an excerpt from Ethereal Emma: Blackmailed By Husband’s Brother:

In the soft, early morning haze of the sunlight streaming through our window, my husband’s breathing is harsh in my ear, his dick rock hard against me as we kiss. He holds my face tenderly and I feel the disconnect between his body and his actions, that he wants to take me and do dirty, dirty things to me, but somehow can never bring himself to do it. As we kiss, I find my mind drifting, not for the first time, to thoughts of what I would do to myself in his place. Sometimes I think about what I’d want another man to do to me, but I’ve never been able to envision an exact face, besides movie stars, and even so, they make me feel guilty and then I have to make up a story for why I’m not that into it. As his hand slides tentatively downward, I let out the obligatory sigh to encourage him, imagining that someone has just climbed on top of me and pushed me back roughly, making me watch him trail fingers down my belly and tease around where I want him most. Alas, no, my husband’s fingers are cautious and insecure and I fake an orgasm quickly, even though he’s about as close to my clit as California is to South Carolina.

He climbs on top of me now, and rides me into missionary boredom for a few minutes before coming in his understated way, an odd expression flickering across his face and a soft gasp.

We’ve been snuggling for twenty minutes now and I’m so bored.

Gently, I disengage and give him a quick kiss as I get out of bed. I imagine he grabs my ass with one hand as I try to leave, and uses the other hand to wrap possessively around my waist and pull me back for one last, good, morning fuck.

Alas. I get ready for work quickly, pulling on a lacy black thong and shimmying into my pantyhose. A black skirt that hugs my firm, round ass is next, but I leave it open at the back while I’m selecting a blouse. I opt for the pale-pink one and tuck it carefully into my skirt, making sure the edges are smooth and there are no weird limps or creases of fabric. Then, I pull on my black jacket over it, swipe on a little mascara and lipstick, brush my only-slightly mussed wheat-in-the-sun-blonde hair so that it hangs in a straight, glossy waterfall, and step into the black pumps that make me just taller than my husband.

My husband, who is lying on the bed watching me get ready like he can’t believe how lucky he is. To be honest, this is the best part of sex with him. The glowing admiration for me and my body, which I feel like a burst of sunshine on my otherwise cloudy, unsatisfied mood.

“Don’t forget, Dev is coming over for dinner later,” he calls contentedly as I’m leaving.

“Thanks babe, see you later.”

Outside, our sleepy suburban neighborhood is slowly blinking awake. After doing my undergrad and master’s in Chicago, this tired little town that’s so close to the Wisconsin border you can practically smell the cheese is irritatingly calm. I wave robotically to Neighbor with Annoying Yappy Dog and open the door to my black Mercedes Benz, which is utterly out of place here amidst the sensible, family-friendly Toyotas and Subarus. But part of the allure of law school was the paycheck, and part of the allure of Ben was his ability to give killer neck-massages, so there isn’t really anyone to blame for Neighbor with Annoying Yappy Dog except myself.

Still, I purse my moist, deep-red lips at myself in disdain looking at the rearview mirror, and then back slowly out of the driveway before zooming out of the subdivision and into the city as quickly as I can.

Work is uneventful. There are a couple new boys, fresh off the boat Ivy League. We have some fun, them hitting on me like I’m the coffee girl, and me giggling and widening my dark-roast eyes at them for a few minutes until I get bored and hurry them along to their first meeting with their new boss.

The looks on their faces when I walk into my beautiful, wall-to-wall paneled glass-window corner office is more gratifying than most of the sex I’ve had since I got my degree and got married. The cherry on top is always watching them fumble and shuffle their language into some semblance of professionalism, but this isn’t a skill set I’ve ever struggled with. I’ve been fluent in law jargon and aware of the line between sex and law since I started filming high-end movies for clients who largely occupy the same financial sphere that I now do.

My name was Ethereal Emma, and back then I had Irish-lass red-hair, permed into an ultimate hidden-in-plain-sight disguise. Lots of my projects are still being adapted into shittier Pornhub versions, even today, some four years later, but the quality stuff, my stuff, is only available to those who subscribe to a closed website with access restricted to those who can pay the staggering fee to see my fantastic tits and ass in action. I politely glaze over as the boys tell me about their path to practicing law, thinking instead about the first time the two worlds merged for me and I played a paralegal who let herself get taken by a person-of-interest on the floor in front of the witness stand. At the end, she wins the case, and the final shot is of her, me, subtly untwisting my lacy black bra-strap so that it lies smooth and flat against my slightly sweaty skin.

Memories like these get me through my day, and sort of my life.

After a long day, I relax in the usual crush of cars on the highway and play with a small hole that I’ve found in my pantyhose. It’s on my inner thigh. I wiggle my pointer finger around and feel the pulses of excited nerve receptors on my leg. Are we getting laid soon?

I wish.

When I finally get home, Ben’s brother’s car is already there and I allow myself a small sigh of impatience. This evening is almost sure to be trying; both Dev and I know that I settled with Ben, but Ben is as blissfully unaware of that as he is that Dev and I had sex on New Year’s last year, two weeks before The Wedding.

“Never again,” I’d told him, after letting him eat me out while I sat on the drying machine in the laundry closet of some mutual friend’s home. Even so, my legs almost gave out on landing when I tried to hop down from the drier.

I enter my home, and both men turn to greet me, one with a soft, sappy look, and the other with calculating dark eyes and a lazy smile that still drives me wild. Even their embraces couldn’t be more different; Ben pulls me against him while Dev places a hand possessively on my neck in a brief embrace that still tell me he wants me.

“I’ll just go change,” I mutter. I feel Dev’s eyes on my ass as I walk up the stairs, and, I can’t help it, my cheeks flame.

“Do you need any help with dinner, or can I run away for minute too? I gotta take a dump.” Dev’s voice floats up after me in that drawling financial investor’s voice of his.

“Sure,” Ben says, unconcerned. “I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

I hear footsteps on the stairs as I’m in my room, but utterly taken aback as Dev barges in. “What the fuck,” I hiss, trying to hug my bra to my tits. It’s difficult to rein in 34Es.

Dev’s eyes slide over me, and he takes his time answering before reaching behind him, untucking his shirt, and producing a DVD.

My eyes narrow. “Again, what the fuck?”

“The funny thing about porn, my beautiful Emma, is that it’s amazing the type of quality you can get if you’re willing to pay.”

His sentence hangs in the air as I realize what he’s saying, and without thinking I gasp and snatch at the DVD, but he quickly jerks it out of reach.

“Dev, I’m not joking, give that to me.”

“I’m not joking, and I’m not going to give it to you.” His voice is soft now, low and dangerous.

“You’re going to turn around and do exactly as I say while my sweet brother works on his latest hippie-dippie vegan sauce with six thousand ingredients to measure out.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond, tossing the DVD on the floor where I can see it, but as I instinctively twitch toward it he grabs me roughly and twists me around, almost like I’m under arrest. He marches me to the bed and shoves my head down onto the downy comforter. No foreplay, he’s not touching me, but suddenly I hear his belt buckle clink and the zipper fwhiip down. His cock is at least seven inches and nosing up under my skirt, between my ass cheeks, exploring. I hear him like a finger and trail it up the inside of my inner thigh. I’m still wearing my pantyhose, still trying to hold my bra to my chest with one hand, and still in my skirt and heels. He jerks my arms down and rips the bra from me and my enormous, round tits bounce free, with one hand he caresses them, the other working my skirt up around my middle and reminding me so much of being in one of my movies that for a moment I truly am caught between two worlds. But then I remember who I’m with and where I am and my body gives a jerk of protest even as my mouth opens. He claps a hand over it, none too gently, and hisses.

“Don’t even try to speak.”

Bored with the hole, he simply tears the panty hose off me, and I hear his breathing grow more excited as he feels the silky skin of my inner thighs, the wetness I can’t control up between my legs, soaking through my black lace thong that matches the bra strewn on the floor with the DVD.

“You haven’t returned my phone calls or my texts.”

“No,” I mumbled through his hand, still defiant. His hand slides around my throat and squeezes, hard. I let out a strangled gasp and squirm against him; I genuinely can’t breathe. He presses harder for one moment longer and then releases me, but only to push me down and spread my legs, taking one, two fingers and slowly inserting them inside me, stroking and playing and only pretending to sometimes notice my clit. I’m slick with heat and my juices and shaking now, so turned on but so horrified at what is happening to me that I’m paralyzed. My hair is all around me as he grabs most of it in his fist and draws me up against him, both hands still working my body into a fever as he snarls into my ear.

“You are mine. You will do what I say, or I will ruin you. I wonder how the little boys at the office would respond to having a boss who starred in some of their favorite movies?”

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