dubcon

3 NEW BUNDLES – (Forced Submissions, Lesbians, & Monsters)

3 new bundles, 24 books, and over 570 pages.

Forced To Come: A Dubious Consent 10 Book Bundle

FORCEDTOCOME

A sadistic billionaire playboy, a ruthless mafia boss, hordes of rugged vikings, and a gang of perverted intruders.

Get ready to be taken against your will by alphas that don’t take no for an answer.

This bundles contains:

Tormented: I’ve Been Watching You

Tormented: The Woodland Ordeal

Tormented: The Box

His Debt My Innocence: Daddy’s Debt

His Debt My Innocence: Ganged By The Guests

His Debt My Innocence: Mr. Benutti’s Pet

Vixen Of The Norse: Captured

Vixen Of The Norse: Taking The Entire Horde

Vixen Of The Norse: Becoming She-Wolf

Naked Symphony: An Artist’s Forced Submission

Read This Bundle!

 

Reluctant Lesbians: 7 Books Of Forced Lesbian Submissions

ReluctantLesbos

An all female rock band, lesbian robots, and roller derby girls.

Thought you were straight?

You won’t be after these rough and dominant ladies get their hands on you.

This bundle contains:

Groupie: The Cage

Groupie: Kitty Kat

Groupie: The Exhibtionist

Lesbots: Experiment Gone Wrong

Lesbots: Dominating Mika

Lesbots: Breaking Mika

Roller Derby Ravishment

Read This Bundle!

 

Alice In Wonderland: 7 Books Of Tentacles, Aliens, Ogres & More

ALICEINMONSTERLAND

Ready to get weird?

Check out this 7 book bundle of HOT MONSTER ACTION!

This bundle contains:

Lustica: Ganged By Trolls

Lustica: The Mating Ritual

Lustica: The Swamp Creatures

The Mating Games: Abducted

The Mating Games: The Cell

The Mating Games: Probed

Where The Wild Things Ravish

Read This Bundle!

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Naked Symphony: An Artist’s Forced Submission

an excerpt from Naked Symphony:

My name is Maddy de Shade. That’s not my real name, it’s a kind of stage name; well more of a professional name. I’m not an actor, I’m working at a higher level than that. I’m an artist; a performance artist, to be precise, and I’m very good.

Of course, there is some crossover between acting and performing art, and in recent months I’ve found that all kinds of audiences value the acting component of my craft. But I’ll get to that later. Don’t worry, I promise you’ll enjoy it.

I trained as an artist and spent a year after college trying to sell my oils. No-one was interested. I got two local exhibitions, both at schools downtown, and they didn’t lead anywhere. My colours at that time were mainly reds and oranges and all the neo-Fauvists were shifting into blues and greens. Why couldn’t I just shift colours? Well that’s not how art works. Blue and green didn’t fit my motivation.

One day a friend invited me to see a performance artist. Like you, I didn’t think much of performance art and I wasn’t expecting to be impressed. The performance was short. A girl with shaved hair and tattoos came out onto the stage in a silk robe. She stripped naked, then she squatted over a bucket and pretended to pee, while Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony was played at ear-splitting volume. Then she wandered off stage to rapturous applause.

It maybe doesn’t sound that impressive on paper, but, well you had to be there. Something about the sheer primal nature of her squatting there, her primitive tattoos, yet this incredibly sophisticated music. Were we supposed to be shocked, aroused or uplifted? It was an overwhelming rush of contrary emotions and impressions. And I knew then that this was the kind of art that I wanted to do. Plus I looked a lot better naked than she did.

Turns out I am a natural at performance art. At first, I was unsure what aspect of my talent to expose. And then my friend Kat, who graduated at the same time as I did, said I should use my body because that’s the first thing people notice about me. I think I kind of sighed at the time. What she meant was that was the first thing she had noticed about me, and has been noticing it ever since. She’s always finding ways to mention my perfectly round breasts, my cute ass, my long legs, my lips, my silky hair. It’s flattering, of course, but then I don’t swing that way, at least, I didn’t think I did.

I was lucky that my career as a performance artist got off to a big start. My very first piece got some major attention in the art community. It was called, ‘Object’. I borrowed a perspex box that my friend Alexia had used for her ‘Touchy Feely’ installation and had it suspended from the ceiling of the room next to my studio. I stripped off and had Kat lock me inside and then invited visitors to squirt bottles of paint at me through the holes in the walls of the box.

It was amazing, an incredible sensation. Everyone who came to see it was struck by the power of the art, and by the way that the smooth pain lingered over every curve and sleek surface of my body dripping onto the floor of the box. Kat couldn’t take her eyes off it and some viewers even lay down underneath the box to get a better look.

It was so popular that a local gallery agreed to stage it and I had an extended run naked in the box. Sitting there for hours at a time was a bit tricky, but I do a lot of yoga so I’m pretty flexible and seeing the pleasure it gave the visitors was such a buzz that I didn’t notice my numb butt or the paint trickling into every orifice.

Well, ‘Object’ got me noticed, but I had to keep the momentum going. The problem was what to do next? Then one morning I caught Kat looking at porn on her laptop and the solution came to me. I was going to give people so much porn that they would be overwhelmed. At least, figuratively, not literally. I sent Kat out with $1000 to buy up every sex toy she could find and then I borrowed a larger Perspex box that Tina had used for her ‘Butt Muncher’ display. I filled the box with dildos and then tipped on two bottles of lube, stripped naked and climbed inside. I called it, ‘Sea of Men’ which I thought was quite witty and playful.

That performance was picked up by a bigger gallery and every morning and afternoon for two weeks, I performed ‘Sea of Men’. It was lots of fun. Being naked and lubed up and squashed in by dildos can lead to some ‘intense’ moments. There were times when I didn’t dare move in case one of the bigger toys split me in half. On a couple of occasions, I got pretty wet and forgot myself. Fortunately no-one seemed to notice as the lube was glistening on my skin, making me look, according to the review on the local arts site, ‘like a sex eel’. I took it as a compliment.

Unfortunately, by this time, the morality police had caught up. There was an online petition, and a complaint to the gallery and even a disapproving feature on a local news channel. This is great news for any artist, but it did mean that at my next exhibition, at the State Gallery, there was a small group of protestors outside and a news crew.

This time I had gone for a more interactive experiment, drawing on the success of Object. I had an even larger Perspex box built and inside it I lay on the floor, naked. Next to me, I had Kat, not naked (she refused). Visitors were invited to push one word suggestions on pieces of paper through a slot in the box and Kat was obliged to write the word on me. She got pretty embarrassed at first, but by the end of the first day, my body was covered in her incredibly neat, painstaking script. The word ‘whore’ appeared to be the most popular, followed by ‘slut’ and ‘sex’ but I wasn’t keeping count. I called the piece, ‘Raw’.

The performance was a big success and led to a phone interview with the leading art magazine, Art Smash. Inevitably they wanted to know what was next for Maddy de Shade. I told them that I wasn’t yet sure, but that I was determined to be more daring, perhaps to reach out beyond the narrow confines of a gallery, maybe to do something online.

It’s probably fair to say that I was a bit arrogant by that stage. But then arrogance often goes hand in hand with genius. And after all, at the age of 22, I was hot stuff, a big hit, and being talked about in art circles as one of the top twenty next big things. I guess I started to feel invulnerable. Of course, no-one, no matter how successful, is invulnerable.

It started one morning, a week or two after the last performance of Raw. I headed to my studio early, keen to get started on the design for an even bigger Perspex box. As I reached the door, I noticed that it was already open. There was no sign of force being used, so I assumed that Kat had used her key. Inside, I clattered up the steps to the big studio space where I kept all my canvases, drawings and wine and immediately stopped.

Three men were standing in the centre of the room. All three were well-built, I noticed that immediately, as though they were bodyguards, or sports people. All were wearing identical black jeans and black polo neck sweaters. Two wore black masks, but the third, who had a wide-jawed, easy on the eye kind of face, wore no mask and was smiling at me.

“Miss de Shade, I presume,” he said.

“Yeah, What the fuck do you want?”

Continue Reading…

Lesbots: A Forced Lesbian Submission Series

Excerpt from Experiment Gone Wrong: Book One of Lesbots Series

My name’s Mika. I’m a computer programmer, a software monkey, a coder, and yes, since you ask, I am a massive geek. I know everything, literally everything about Star Wars, and pretty much everything about Star Trek, Attack on Titan, Pokemon and Battlestar Galactica.  My apartment, which I haven’t been back to for a while, is stuffed with gadgets, toys, games, consoles, collectible cards and mint condition figures.

I don’t say that as an admission, by the way. I’m proud of being a geek. Being dumb and sporty went out with the old millennium. The geeks are inheriting the earth, literally. We are reshaping the culture and the world, opening up new possibilities. Of course, sometimes those new possibilities can get just a little too real.

But first I need to tell you the basics. I write code for whoever wants it. I mainly work at a company called Code Base, supplying software to the gaming industry. They have a swish headquarters complete with bean bags, classic games cabinets, you know the kind of thing. They don’t really care for their employees, they just need to look as though they care.

Code Base is actually part of Horizon Corp, and Horizon Corp, as you know, belongs to CEO Alab Querry. Yeah, that guy. One of the pioneers of self-replicating code, AI and a dozen other crazy ideas that other people might think up but never make real. Yes, you might hate those guys, but they are changing human experience, one invention at a time. That level of genius comes at a price, as I have discovered for myself.

Querry is a legend, particularly in the field of robotics where my friend Avery works. She has a huge crush on him, though obviously she’s never met him and never come close to meeting him, unless you count stalking him online and using social media and satellite feeds to try to find his house. She even has a little shrine dedicated to him at the back of her kitchen, covered in pictures. Yes, it is as creepy as it sounds.

The money I make from coding is good, very good in fact. My skills are in demand and having been involved in writing code for most of my life, I find it comes naturally. Still, for a long time I had found it kind of limiting. I had a growing feeling that I was missing something, something that could not be found through debugging scripts or designing random number generating software optimization protocols. Turns out I was right.

It all started one day at work. I’d just booted up my PC when Graham, the section supervisor pinged me to head into his office. I sighed. I had been up till two playing Elf Wars and I hadn’t yet had my first sip of coffee so I wasn’t ready for a lecture on email protocol or the correct completion of time sheets.

I trudged into his office and slumped into the only chair that wasn’t piled high with papers, wires and earphones.

“I’m not a beat around the bush kind of guy,” said Graham

“Okay,” I said. I’d worked there for two years at this point, so I knew that already, although I would have described it as ‘entirely lacking in any understanding of social conventions.”

“Alab Querry wants to meet you.”

What did he say?

“Technically he doesn’t want to meet you. You aren’t special. But he wants someone from our company to take part in some kind of robotics thing and it has to be a girl apparently because girls are under-represented or something, and you’re the only girl here.”

“I….”

“I’ll send you the details. Don’t be late.”

Back at my desk, I stared, bewildered, out of the window for a while. Then I texted Avery, counted to three-and-a-half and read her first reaction, which was a line of exclamation marks, emojis with hearts for eyes and asterisks. As you would expect.

*  *  *  *

Between us Avery and I decided that I should go smart. That wasn’t my first choice. Avery dug up two interviews with Querry using her cross-referenced topics Querry index. In the first interview, he said that formal business wear was unnecessary and outdated. In the second he said he preferred to see people in suits. He seemed to be more adamant in the second interview, so with reluctance I dug the suit out of the back of my wardrobe.

It was the same suit I’d worn to my interview at Code Base two years earlier, just three months out of college. I was pleased to find that it still fitted, though was a little tighter around the ass, and the hem of the skirt was an inch or two shorter than I’d remembered.

Avery hugged me, with tears in her eyes and waved me off as though I was going on a long journey to distant lands and would never see her again. As it turned out, that wasn’t too far from the truth.

The taxi dropped me at the end of the dust road that led to Palo Querry, his compound. As I trudged along the road, I remembered that a college professor had once said that only  Somalian warlords, mad scientists and the NSA had compounds. If someone does their business in a compound, it is likely to be illegal, dangerous or both. He was right.

The security guards at the gate looked at me suspiciously, made me show them the email I had received inviting me to the compound, took my fingerprints, and then made me sign non-disclosure papers and an indemnity form. Eventually, they decided it was okay to let me in and led the way around a giant mound topped with cacti to a low, but massive grey warehouse with a towering entrance. One of the guards opened a small door in the side of the warehouse, told me to take the stairs on the left and then clanged the door shut behind me.

The interior of the warehouse was dingy, lit by feeble strip bulbs that looked like they belonged in the 1980s. I followed my instructions, wandering down a gloomy corridor, turning left and climbing a set of metal stars. At the top of the stairs was a door and behind the door a wide, cluttered office, in the centre of which sat Alab Querry.

It was a minute or two before he noticed me, and when he did, it was with a distracted air, as though I had interrupted him at a crucial moment.

“Yes?”

“I…I’m Mika. From Code Base. You invited me.”

He looked at me, frowned, and then stood up.

“Yes, that’s right, I remember.”

He was dressed in blue and pink plaid trousers, a tatty black Star Wars t-shirt, and expensive sunglasses. His desk was overflowing with papers and the floor was strewn with paper too, as though someone had thrown all of his files into the air and left them where they fell.

“Are you ready to begin?”

“Begin? Begin what?”

“The experiment.”

“Oh yes, I mean, yes of course. Can I just say my friend is a big, big admirer of your work.”

He nodded.

“That’s great. Now, as you may or may not know, for some time I have been working on producing robots that display consciousness and awareness. In fact, it is pretty much my life’s work. You’ve heard of the Turing test?”

“Yes, if artificial intelligence can communicate with someone without that person realizing they are talking to a robot, the Turing test is passed.”

“Quite. Well I have created lifelike robotic machines that have passed the Turing test.”

“That’s…wow.”

“Yes, yes it is,” he said, nodding. “But now I want to go further.”

“Further?”

“Yes, further. Please don’t interrupt.”

“Sorry.”

“All of my robots are women. That was a deliberate choice. Do you know why?”

I can guess.

“Er…no.”

“Because women are more interesting socially than men and society is the focus of this experiment. I want them to interact. With other women. You are ideal: young, open to new ideas, no family, and you signed a non-disclosure form when you joined the company.”

“I’m sorry, you want me to socialize with them?”

“Yes. I want to see if they are capable of genuine thought and consciousness.”

“Well, the thing is, I’m not actually very sociable.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “Now, the robots are in a sort of replica of a house. I wanted to set them in a typical human environment. You will enter the house, converse with them, share drinks, secrets, whatever you would normally do with your girlfriends.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t have friends plural and that my leisure time with Avery was generally spent playing console games, arguing about Star Wars trivia and eating chips. As a representative of woman kind I may not have been what he had in mind.”

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Good,” he said, without waiting for my reply.

*  *  *  *

“It’s important that they don’t see me,” said Alab. We’d stopped in front of a traditional looking porch outside a traditional looking suburban home, recreated in his warehouse.

“Why?”

But Alab had already retreated out of site, back through the gate in the electrified fence that he had assured me was purely precautionary. I was left standing there, so thought I might as well knock on the door. It was opened almost instantly.

I have only a slight interest in robotics, but from what I know, based on Avery’s work, there are two kinds of robots: those that look realistically human but have limited functions, and those that look like collections of mechanical spare parts but perform well.

The robot that answered the door, however, was like none I had ever seen before. In fact, if I had met this robot in the street, I doubt that I would have been able to tell it was not human. It actually felt rude to think of it as an it. It, or she, was tall, maybe, 5’10, with perfect skin, immaculately coiffured blonde hair, make-up that looked like she’d spent three hours in a salon and the body of an Olympic athlete crossed with a Greek goddess. She was wearing an absurdly short and elaborate black evening dress that barely reached her thighs and had a complicated arrangement of straps across her shoulders.

“Hi…” I said.

She looked me up and down, then smiled, a little too widely.

“Won’t you please come in,” she said, opening the door.

“I’m Mika,” I said.

“My name is 178b,” she said, in a sing-song voice, as though she was proud of her number. She walked with an elaborate, swaying gait, like a super model strutting down the catwalk. It wasn’t too hard to see that this female robot had been built by a man.

178b led me into the lounge area. Two other robots were waiting there, sitting on a sofa as though at some kind of cocktail party. The first had short red hair, pale skin and wore an impossibly tight and clingy green dress. The other had an Asian complexion, silky black hair and wore a red shiny dress that barely reached her knees.

“This is XQ7,” said 178b, pointing at the red-haired robot.

“And I am 445.6,” said the third robot, smiling broadly. All three of them stared at me, smiling, as though waiting for a response.

“Why don’t you sit with us?” said 178b, patting the sofa. This was beyond weird. I sat between them and then listened as they began to exchange relatively meaningful comments on the weather and the state of the non-existent garden and the plot of television programs that they almost certainly hadn’t seen. But despite the weirdness of the conversation and a slight sheen to their skin, they were virtually indistinguishable from real humans.

“So,” said 178b, clapping her hands together and smiling. “I think it is time to get naked.”

Continue Reading…

His Debt My Innocence

An excerpt from Daddy’s Debt Book One of His Debt My Innocence Series:

I’m Carly. At least, that’s my real name, the name I went by when I lived in Clark Town. That all seems so long ago now. I don’t go by that name now, in fact if you called me that I would probably grab you by the neck, force you to the ground and make you beg for mercy.

Yeah, I’ve changed. If you recognize me it will be because you’ve seen my name or my photo in the paper. The local press call me the Teen Terror. I kind of like that, and I like the picture they use of me, standing in the street, dressed in leather, holding a baseball bat. That was a fun night. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.

I haven’t been back to Clark Town since I left. I don’t think they’d recognize me. I wear a lot more make-up now and a lot fewer clothes. I swear and I drink and I guess by their standards I’m a bit of a whore. My life is a rollercoaster of violence, sex and danger and no, I haven’t been to church for quite a while. But I love the way things are.

A few months ago, it was all different. Cedar County is a pretty rural place. The city isn’t too far away, maybe twenty miles, and my Dad used to go there a lot on business. He never took me with him on those trips. Maybe he sensed what could happen to me there. So I grew up in Clark Town. It’s an old colonial town, kind of pretty I guess, with a heritage center for the tourists and a row of big houses up on the hills.

We didn’t live up there, where the big money was, but weren’t poor. I never knew my Mom. She passed away before I was two, so my Dad raised me. My Dad worked hard, had a lot of contacts, and I never wanted for anything. I can’t say ours was a particularly loving home, but my Dad wasn’t unkind, he didn’t treat me badly, and he showed me affection from time to time. I did well at school, didn’t have that many friends, kept up regular church attendance and by last summer, I was getting ready to go study business at college. When I graduated, I was going to help my Dad and maybe take it over one day.

His name is Frank. Active in the church, he served on the town council and the school board, owned a couple of properties, and had a reputation as a minor local success story. Being Frank’s daughter meant being simultaneously respected and also disliked. Half the town thought I was a spoilt little brat, the other half saw me as an angelic princess. I wasn’t either of those things, and, looking back, I don’t think I was very happy either.

My Dad had always been a little moody. He wasn’t one of those people you could describe as ‘even-tempered’. There was nothing dramatic, no shouting or smashing things but I knew when he was in a bad mood and when not to approach him. My adventure started while he was in exactly that sort of mood. His mood had lasted for days, during which time he had hardly spoken. I asked him several times what was wrong, but he refused to tell me.

One night I was up late, reading my Bible when I heard the front door being opened. As I listened, I could make out low, rough voices with distinctive city accents. After listening for a while, I put my book down and sneaked out of my bedroom, hiding just out of view at the top of the stairs. Trying hard not to make a sound, I eavesdropped on their conversation with Dad.

“So where’s the money, Frank?”

“I don’t have it.”

“I don’t fucking believe you, Frank. You owe us.”

“Look I will get it, I swear.”

My Dad’s voice was higher-pitched than usual. He was scared. Who were these people? I felt so powerless. I wanted to run down the stairs to tell them to leave him alone, but I was scared too. There was something about their voices, their tone that terrified me.

“You had long enough,” said the other one.

“Jesus what are you going to do with that!”

“Relax we aren’t going to shoot you, not here, and not like this.”

“How’s your daughter?” asked another voice. My blood ran cold as I heard them mention me. I wanted to run back to my room and hide but I was frozen to the spot with fear.

“Don’t talk about her.”

“Why not Frank? I have a proposition.”

“I don’t care, I don’t want you talking about her.”

“She a virgin?” asked another voice. I covered my mouth in shock.

“What the hell!” said my Dad, “I’m not going to answer that!”

“Listen Frank, you are in no position to refuse.”

“Go to hell!”

“Maybe I will. But I want her. I want her virginity. As part-payment.”

“What the hell!”

“If she’s a good fuck, maybe full payment. We’ll see.”

“You’re out of your mind!”

“Think about it Frank, you’ve got a week.”

I heard the door opening and shortly after, it was slammed shut. I thought I heard my father sighing as their car started up on the driveway. I wandered back to my bedroom in a daze. I had so many questions. Who were those terrible people? How could my Dad get involved with them? And why would they ask such horrible, disgusting things?

As I lay on my bed, my heart was pounding and my mind racing. I couldn’t stop myself thinking about what the men had said, about their filthy words, their degraded lust for a teenage girl. I turned it over and over in my mind and I tried to tell myself that the strange tingling sensation I felt deep in my being, the stirring of all my secret, disgraceful fantasies didn’t mean anything. But I didn’t pick up my Bible again.

Next day at breakfast, my Dad confessed. He owed some money to some very bad people. He told me he would sort it out, but he was ashen faced and looked as though he hadn’t slept, When I asked him who he owed the money to, he told me, in an emotionless voice, as though he wasn’t really there, then he asked me to promise him that I would be careful.

I thought about it all day and barely noticed a word that any of the teachers said. By the time I got home that evening, I had already begun to make a plan.

But first I needed to know more. The name my Dad had given me, Benutti, sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. So that night, after dinner, I went online to research them. What I found was horrible. The Benuttis were a crime family. Not just any crime family, but the worst in the whole city. They were involved in racketeering, illegal loans, prostitution, smuggling and kidnapping. I couldn’t believe that my Dad had gotten mixed up with people like that.

But I was going to be the one to save him. I would sort it out. I would go to them myself. I would beg them, plead with them, and make them see what a good guy my Dad was. They would be so impressed that a girl my age had been brave enough to do that, they would let my Dad off. I would be a hero. At least, that was the official plan.

Looking back, though, I think I knew at the time what I really wanted. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. I couldn’t admit that the story I had written months before, the dirty, filthy, disgusting story in which a strong, handsome mob boss kidnaps a girl like me and does terrible degraded things to her, was my deepest fantasy. I had thrown that story away, terrified that someone might find it, but it was still in my thoughts, embedded in my imagination.

So when fate handed me a chance to live out my fantasy for real, I couldn’t give myself permission to do it. I had to wrap up my real instinct, my real motive in duty, in the idea that I was going to be the hero, that I was going to save my Dad.

I planned it for the next night. I told my Dad I was going to Amy’s house on the other side of town. But under my jeans and cardigan, I wore a business skirt, a blouse and a blazer, and I caught a taxi on Main Street. The driver looked at me strangely when I told him where to go.

“You sure about that?”

“Perfectly sure, thank you,” I replied. He shrugged and turned the car round to head back to the city. I noticed him glancing at me as I slipped out of my jeans and straightened out my suit, and I wanted to tell him not to be such a pervert, but I told myself that the people I was going to meet were tough and I would need to be able to deal with it.

The cab dropped me downtown and the driver wished me good luck before slamming the door and speeding away. I stood on the trash-scattered sidewalk, looking around at the dimly-lit street and the boarded up stores and I felt my legs weaken. What had I done?

But there was no going back now. Hearing my heels echo on the sidewalk as I moved, I tried to still my thudding heart as I headed to the bar. Gino’s was the place where the Benutti family met, plotted and ran their empire. It was a tatty, run-down kind of place, with just a small sign above the door. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Inside, it was a lot more plush than I had expected. The walls were decorated with pictures, the tables and chairs were clean and expensive-looking and there was a huge, ornate mirror running the length of the wall behind the bar. The lights were down low and the place was virtually empty. I tried to look confident as I walked to the bar and took a seat.

“Can I help you?”

The barman was young, tall and handsome, and he seemed a little surprised to see me. I began to speak in a wavery voice, then stopped, closed my eyes, summoned up my courage, and said, as clearly as I could that I was there to see Mr Benutti, senior.

“Senior?” he replied, looking even more surprised.

“Yes please,” I said. The barman shrugged, turned and walked through the door at the back of the bar. A minute or two later, he came back and inclined his head.

“Mr Benutti will see you,” he said.

Feeling my heart thudding under my ribs, I followed the barman down a short corridor to an office door. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, smiled at me and then walked away. Still blushing from the look the barman had given me I didn’t notice that the door had opened and a short, squat, angry looking bald guy in a tight suit was glaring at me.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I…I’m Carly Cartwright. I…I’m here to see Mr Benutti.”

The thug looked me up and down then took a step back and, nervously, I walked into the room. It was a spacious study. The walls were covered in pictures, some of them of famous actors, while others seemed to be family photos. On one side of the room was a green leather couch and at the end of the room, an enormous desk, behind which sat Mr Benutti. He was more handsome than he had appeared in the pictures I’d seen online. Even sitting down I could tell he was tall. He wore an expensive suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, his dark hair was thick and wavy and he had a broad, attractive smile. He looked like a film star.

“And who are you?”

“I’m Carly Cartwright,” I stuttered.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled again. Then he looked at the bald guy behind me and indicated that he should leave. I heard the door close behind me and Benutti smiled again.

Continue Reading…

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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