dubious consent

Groupie: The Complete Box Set

This is an excerpt from The Cage – Book One Of Groupie Series:

I love music. I love life on the road. I love everything about this industry. There are so many great bands. Well, there’s only really one great band, one band that have changed my life, one band that truly, truly makes me happy.

Let me start at the beginning. My name is Katy. I used to be journalist for Metal Road. You’ve probably heard of it, and if you haven’t, your teenage son or daughter has. It started in the 90s as a fanzine, but its online these days, and it does pretty well. It’s still in the top twenty of most read US metal sites, at least, I think it is. I haven’t checked recently.

Metal Road was my first writing job after college. I was pretty raw, keen, thought I was going to be the next big thing in journalism, was going to change the world. I didn’t manage that, instead I changed my world, which is much, much better.

My first six months at the Road were pretty frustrating. I was mainly employed checking sources, booking tickets, covering for reception and fetching coffee for the editor, Stu, and the other senior writers. But I did what young, hungry writers are supposed to do: I kept pestering Stu and making myself a nuisance, and eventually, they gave me an album review.

This wasn’t really a big deal. They do hundreds of these things every month. But to me it was huge. It was my big chance. I was finally going to get to make my mark. It didn’t matter who the band were, this review was going to be the best ever.

As it happens, the band were a three-piece from LA called Sugar Bean. I didn’t realize that the band name had a particular meaning, I just thought it was pretty lousy. I listened to some of their music. It was kind of punky, kind of glam, and I kind of liked it. But I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to like it. So I casually mentioned them to a couple of the writers and got their feedback. Turns out Sugar Bean were generic sub-grunge re-treads, shallow emo wanabes, and lesbian music porn. So I went back to my desk and listened to them again.

You might think this was pretty shallow, and it was, but I’d been there long enough to know that it was easier to go with the majority opinion than against it. Only one or two of the writers, like Ed or Steph were allowed to set trends and break moulds. The rest of us didn’t have much leeway. Anyway, the evidence was clear. Metal Road did not like Sugar Bean.

I put the promotional picture of the band on my keyboard and started to write. The photo, which apparently was also going to be the album cover, was pretty ropey. It showed the three band-members: Misha, AJ and Chloe dolled out in black leather, boots heels and way way too much make-up. The other promotional picture was even more dodgy. It featured AJ kneeling on a bed, Misha lying back with her head covering AJ’s crotch, while a naked Chloe knelt between Misha’s legs, and appeared to be licking her out. It was pretty gross, I thought.

In fact, it looked like a low budget lesbian porn shoot. So I put that into the review. Then I went on for a couple of paragraphs about how silly the name was, and by this time, I had hit a seam of snark and was really going for it. I went on about how they were selling their sexuality, how their music was wannabe metal, the worst of pop and the worst of metal, and rounded it all off with a few lines about how they were degrading to women.

Almost as soon as I pressed send, I felt doubt loom up over me like a dark cloud. But I pushed the feeling aside. I had done it. I had submitted my first piece. I was an actual music journalist now, or so I thought.

Still, I couldn’t quite shake my doubts. On the subway home, I saw a poster for their new single. They looked so cool; exactly the kind of band I had wanted to be in at high school. I tried to snap myself out of it by remembering what Stu had said when I started: you’re a music journalist, everyone will hate you. If people take your writing personally, that’s their fault, and if you get squeamish about criticizing music, you aren’t doing your job, and you’re letting the readers down.

I managed to keep that thought in my head until I got back to my apartment, then I made the mistake of looking at one of their videos on line. It was pretty good. The music was fresh, and they had exactly the kind of punky attitude that I thought I was in tune with. Then I found an interview from a few weeks before. It confirmed what I had already discovered: I liked them.

Chloe, the white, blonde, lead singer swore a lot and made me smile. Misha, the black bass player was a totally kick-ass, incredible woman and delicate Latina AJ turned into a demon when she began to thrash her drums. They were good. Better than good. They were great.

But it was too late. My social media was already lighting up as readers, writers and fans began to spew their bad takes on top of my bad take. The comments seemed split between likes and dislikes, but by this time I agreed with the dislikes. Worst still, it seemed that the band had read the review too. Misha posted an angry face and AJ wrote something about haters and losers on her feed. I closed my eyes and lay back on my bed. What a mess!

Just then, my phone rang. It was Stu. I braced myself for a tirade of abuse. Stu had approved the piece, but that didn’t matter. I’d seen him turn on people before.

Turns out I read him wrong. He said he loved it. It was just the kind of big opinion, going against the grain kind of conversation starter he wanted. I was relieved, and I thanked him. Maybe I was wrong, I thought, maybe I was being too sensitive, maybe it was all just part of the industry, and I should be grateful for the exposure.

Well, turned out that was wrong too. Stu loved it, but Jack Wildermann, the CEO of Metal Road and the sister magazine Shred Work, hated it. He thought it was exactly the wrong kind of message about a band that was taking off with key demographics. So he chewed Stu’s ear off and when I came in the next day, Stu banished me from reviews.

I was back on coffee duty. Still, I kind of felt it was poetic justice, and for a few days, I was glad to sink into the obscurity of office flunky once again. As the online abuse began to dry up, I thought maybe I could put this behind me and have a re-do.

So a week later, when Stu called me into his office to discuss a news piece, it felt like redemption. I was going to get a chance to relaunch my writing career.

“Katy, my favorite reviled hack, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“I don’t really care, I was just being polite. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve got you an assignment. Actually Jack suggested it.”

“Great,” I said, “What is it?”

“It’s a band interview.”

“Cool. Who is it?”

Stu smiled.

“Guess,” he said, grinning.

*  *  *  *

Sugar Bean were leaving on tour that afternoon and Stu said I had to meet them on their tour bus. My heart sank as he handed me the details. He also told me not to screw it up.

How could I interview them after what I’d written? All the way there in the taxi, I tried to come up with ways of apologizing but everything I rehearsed either sounded like I didn’t mean it or like I was trying too hard. As the taxi pulled into the street where their pink, black and silver tour bus was parked up, I tried to reassure myself. After all, this was a business, it was just part of the game. They were professionals, they would understand, right?

Wrong. All three of them were frosty with me from the start. Chloe, who smoked the whole time despite the fact that I coughed more than once, barely bothered looking at me. Misha glared directly at me, answering questions in a hostile monotone, and AJ was slumped in a chair to one side, making an incessant drumming noise with her sticks on the armrest.

It was hard going. I’d decided to go with pen and paper not to record the conversation, as I was sure they were going to shout at me, and I didn’t want to have to replay my humiliation at some point in the future. After a few painful, awkward minutes, my notepad had begun fill up, and while the quotes I was getting were boring and generic, there was at least something to work with. I began to think that maybe I would get out of there unscathed. So I thought I’d risk something relatively controversial. Big mistake.

“So, what would you say to those who suggest that maybe your whole kind of image is like degrading to women or whatever?”

Misha frowned.

“What do you mean our image?”

“Well, I mean the whole kind of slutty clothes and the…”

I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Before I could react, AJ had leapt from her chair and grabbed me by the throat.

Continue Reading…

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Full Body Search (forced lesbian submission)

Feeding The Cult Leader (lactation)

Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother (dubious consent)

Beast Me: He Does Exist (monster)

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Tormented Series (3 Book Box Set)

They say that you should always be wary of getting what you want. Sometimes, when your innermost desires are realized, you find that your life is changed completely. That certainly happened to me. But I don’t regret it. Not for a second.

My name is Amy. At least, it is as far as you’re concerned. I can’t tell you my real name because I’m kind of a celebrity. I’m a news anchor for AYTV, broadcasting to twenty million Americans every day. I’m kind of on the fourth rung of celebrity, but soon I will be moving up. Thanks to a recent change of circumstances, and the help of a new patron who has a lot of influence, I will be starting work for one of the national networks in a few weeks time.

Don’t get me wrong, I deserve this shot. I’m good at what I do. I’m perky and cheerful in the mornings, but I can do solemn, and I’ve even been told I have good comic timing when I introduce the lighter items, like footage of a skateboarding duck or a politician falling over. I was even voted the second hottest female anchor in the region in a kind of creepy internet poll.

I love the thrill of the news industry. I adore the drama, the hustle, the excitement, and the buzz I get when the cameras go on, particularly if a big story is breaking. I didn’t grow up as a typical exhibitionist; I’ve always been kind of quiet, and I’d never thought of myself as a performer, until I got a part in a production of Grease in tenth grade. As soon as I stepped onto the stage, I felt calm, happy and alive. It’s been that way ever since. The bigger the audience, the better. It’s like there’s a whole other side to my personality. But that’s not the only other side to my personality

I guess I look like the girl next door. I’m often described as wholesome. I don’t know what that means, exactly. It makes me sound like a high fibre snack. It also makes me feel guilty; always has. All my life, people have been telling me I was a good girl, even when I wasn’t particularly well-behaved. There’s even a meme about me circulating on social media, in which my face is superimposed onto a nun’s body, and I’ve had emails asking me to dress up like that for Halloween. I guess I just look like a good girl. If only they knew! All those guys out there fantasizing about corrupting me, when it reality, it would be the other way round.

I do get a lot of fan mail, but my agent gets them first. I’m very careful of my privacy and I have to be extremely careful of anything I do in public. These days, one wrong move can be the end of your career. That’s one of the reasons why dating was hard. I had dated occasionally, but not with any success. All my dates fell into two categories: older industry execs who turn out to be creeps, and younger, fit, sports guys are usually boring and vacuous.

Caution wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t date much. The fact is that, up until a few weeks ago, I had got used to the idea that no man was going to be able to satisfy me. You see, about that other side of my personality, well the truth is, I am kind of, well, filthy. Behind closed doors, my favorite hobby is reading hard core erotica; the really extreme stuff.

Most nights, I ran home, tore off my clothes, took a long shower, retreated to my bed, opened up a book and then opened up my legs. I can tell you’re shocked!

The overriding theme of these books was submission. Most of the stories were about girls being tricked or forced into bondage and then forced to endure one sexual torment after another until finally they surrender to a life of wanton sex and servitude. Oh I know it was wrong and I had tried to stop, really I had. Ditching that bad habit would have made a lot of sense. But I couldn’t help it. And I always thought that, as long as it was my little secret, what harm could it do? Turns out, it could do a lot of harm. Guilty little secrets can be life changing.

It started a few weeks ago. I’d got home from the office on a Friday evening. I was pretty tired and just wanted to slip into my casual clothes and chill for a few hours. I’d just climbed up to my bedroom and taken off my blouse when my phone pinged. It was a text. Casually, I picked it up.

‘I’ve been watching you.”

Immediately I felt a chill running through me. What should I do? I threw the phone on the bed and hoped that whoever it was would go away. That didn’t work. Every minute, there was a new text. Eventually, angrily, I picked up the phone and replied, telling them to get lost.

‘Don’t think you can speak to me like that. I know where you live.’

‘No u are lying,’ I replied

‘227 Westchester Street.’ I froze. This person did know where I lived. My heart was thudding now. What should I do? Taking a deep breath, I texted back to say that I was going to call the police.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know what you do in your spare time. I know about your dirty books.’

My face flushed. I looked at myself in the mirror. Guilt was written all over my face. How could they possibly know?  I replied that I didn’t know what they were talking about.

‘Look behind the light fitting in your bedroom. You will find a camera.’

For the second time I felt a creeping cold feeling down my spine. Quickly, I climbed up onto the bed and looked. There it was! A tiny camera, attached to the light fitting, aiming directly at my bed, where I lay, where I read my books, where I touched myself! I ripped the camera off and threw it onto the ground.

‘You bastard!” I texted furiously. ‘I am going to the police.’

‘No you won’t. Unless you want your videos all over the internet.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘Try me’.

I hesitated. Could I take the chance? If a video of me masturbating made it onto the internet, I don’t know what I would do. It could be the end for my career.

‘What do you want? Money?’

‘No. Tomorrow you will get a package. Open it. Follow the instructions’.

That was it. Nothing else. I tried to find out what was going to be in the package; who they were, what they wanted with me. But they had stopped replying. Eventually I dropped the phone on the bed, and when I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I saw that my nipples were hard, poking through the silky black material of my bra.

*  *  *  *

The package arrived early the next day. My hands were shaking when I opened it, sitting on my bed. What was inside came as a shock. There were two clear plastic bags. In the first was an in impossibly sheer black lacy body, along with a thong and stockings. In the other, a collection of outrageous bondage gear. I recognized some of the items from my stories: a bright pink ball gag, ankle cuffs, a collar and lead, wrist cuffs and a paddle.

There was a note too. It was typed. It simply instructed me to put on the clothes, the cuffs and the lead, to leave my apartment door open and to be kneeling in my bedroom at 11 that night.

I told myself that there was no way I would be doing that. But as the day went by, I found my mind drifting continually to the bondage gear. I could feel a little tingle inside me, and I couldn’t explain it. The number that had texted me was not responding and as the day drew on and darkness fell, I felt increasingly trapped. I couldn’t go to the police; I couldn’t risk it.

At 1030 that night, I walked into my bedroom, slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the lacy body, the thong and then the stockings. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked hot, I had to concede. My blonde hair framed my face perfectly. I was slim, toned and my breasts were heavy and full. I would never have bought this outfit for myself, but I couldn’t help admiring how it looked on me as I turned this way and that in front of the mirror.

Next came the cuffs and the collar. It took me a while to adjust them, but they felt natural, comfortable. I am usually sensitive to anything constricting my neck, but the fur-lined collar, though it was tight, felt somehow right. Finally, I padded across my apartment to the door. With my heart thudding, I unlocked the door and returned to my bedroom, kneeling and facing the door.

I waited. It seemed like an eternity. Several times I heard footsteps in the distance and paused my breathing, only for the footsteps to fade. My heart was thudding in my chest so hard it felt like it was shaking the whole room. What was I doing? This was madness.

Just when I was thinking about dashing back out to close and lock the door, I heard more footsteps. These steps stopped. I heard the sound of my door opening. Whoever it was had entered my apartment. There was no turning back!

I heard heavy footfall across my apartment and then the door of my bedroom opened and I saw him. My tormentor. My stalker. My nemesis.

CONTINUE READING…

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Forced Lesbian Submissions II: 7 Books Of Girl On Girl Action

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Beast Me: Incubi

Bella is my best friend, really, I don’t know where I would be without her. She’s kind of flaky, but then I like that about her. She adds something to my personality, cause I’m a pretty strait-laced girl. I don’t take risks. Well, not usually. In my defense, I think you’ll have to admit, that when I do take a risk, it’s usually a pretty damn big one. Like the one I took last winter.

It started after another bad date, my third in a month. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t usually go on a lot of dates. In fact, I’ve probably been on ten since I left college two years ago. First there was Brad, an old school friend of Bella’s. She set me up with him but it turned out that although Brad had left school, school had not left Brad. Next there was Brad’s cousin, who had to turn up to take Brad home because Brad got drunk in the bar before our meal. The cousin was smart, a college graduate, but also a raging narcissist. He talked about himself the entire time and then expected me to pay for our meal. And finally there was the cousin’s friend. He turned up late to the movie, then broke down in tears halfway through the film. It turned out that he had just gone through a messy divorce and was particularly fragile. I spent two hours consoling him before seeing him off in a taxi.

I was relating this sorry tale to Bella, in between gulps of vodka, as we sat around my apartment one Friday night.

“You know, it’s got to the point where I just want to have sex, you know,” I said.

Bella giggled.

“I mean, physical intimacy. Is that too much to ask for?”

“No, not at all. I’m just not used to you talking like this.”

“It’s the vodka.”

“No, sweetie, it’s your inner voice. But look, if you want sex, just put on that little tiny black dress you wore at Halloween and go to a bar. There’s usually some hot guys at that place in town, by the movie theater.”

“No, I can’t do that. I don’t want to just throw myself at a guy. I’m not that kind of person.”

Bella nodded and fell silent. She began to smile, or rather, to smirk.

“What?”

”There is an alternative.”

“What kind of alternative?”

“It’s a huge secret. You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Come on Bell, you can trust me.”

“I’m serious. Not a soul. I’m not supposed to pass the secret on unless the person is really desperate and can be sworn not to tell anyone.”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Well, there’s a book.”

“A book?”

“Yes. It tells you how to perform this ceremony and after you’ve done it, according to the book, you will be able to experience like intense sex but without responsibility and without having to go on any dates or go to any bars.”

“How?”

“It’s from the sixties. This old hippy wrote it. She says that if you perform the ceremony, you will get visited by incubi.”

“Incubi?”

“Ghosts. Sort of. Well, sex ghosts. They will visit you and give you all the pleasure you need. It will be like having your own personal sex slaves. Except they’re in charge.”

I looked at her to see if she was being serious. She was, but after a while, she began to smile and then admitted that she hadn’t actually tried it herself. I poured myself vodka and we both began to giggle.

“Sex ghosts? Seriously?”

We got pretty drunk that night and I’d completely forgotten about the book and the incubi until a week later, a parcel arrived for me after work. It was the book. Old and musty, and not particularly impressive, it had a note on it from Bella, which read, ‘Have fun!”.

I shook my head. Bella was crazy. I put the book down. I didn’t need it anyway. I had a date that night and I had to get ready.

Steve was a friend of Anna, my work colleague. He was tall, strong, kind and entirely unattached. As I slipped into my slinky tiny black dress and zipped it up, I admired myself in the mirror. I looked good. I’d always been sensitive about my big breasts, but I knew that men loved them, and as I turned this way and that, I could see why. Oh, and then there was my cute butt and my gorgeous, kissable lips, as Bella had once described them.

At that moment, the phone rang. I danced across my apartment to answer it. It was Steve. He was really sorry, but something had come up. He was going to have to cancel.

After I hung up, I wandered back to my bedroom and fell on the bed. I sighed and stared at the ceiling and told myself that it was time to face facts. No-one wanted me. I was going to die alone. More importantly, I was never going to have sex again.

As I turned my head I saw the little red book. I didn’t remember putting it on my bedside table, but there it was. Sighing, I reached out and began to flick through it. The writing style was old fashioned and the pages were littered with warnings in capital letters about what not to do, and how powerful the magic was. It was pretty silly.

Skipping through it, I found the ceremony part. According to the old hippy, all you had to do to access a world of carnal abandon was to perform this ceremony solemnly. It required a candle, a bottle of wine and a piece of paper.

I found the candle in my kitchen, at the back of a drawer and I still had half a bottle of Merlot in the fridge. So, feeling rather foolish, I knelt in the middle of my bedroom, lit the candle and then, according to the instructions, wrote on a piece of paper what I wanted:

‘I want to be fucked over and over by a crowd of horny men and not feel any guilt or risk.’

I took a swig of wine from the bottle, and then I held the paper over the candle until it began to flame and disintegrate into charred fragments. And then I waited.

I knelt there for about ten minutes. All I could here was traffic and my neighbors moving about in their homes. Nothing happened. After twenty minutes of that, my knees were aching and I felt foolish. I sniffed out the candle, slipped out of my clothes, apart from the thong, pulled on my little black silk slip and went to bed.

*  *  *  *

I couldn’t sleep. I felt restless, as though there was something I should have done but hadn’t. My body was tingling too, like my skin was itching. It was the strangest feeling. Eventually I began to drift off to sleep, only to be awakened by a cold breeze. My blanket had been pulled off me. Irritated, I pulled it over me again and tried to sleep. Again, I started to drift into slumber but was woken by the cold. Once again my blanket was gone. This time there wasn’t just a cold breeze; I also felt clamminess at my neck. It felt like…like someone or something was breathing on my skin.

I sat upright in bed, eyes wide open. I looked around the room. I couldn’t see anything or anyone in the darkness. As I listened to my breathing and my heartbeat began to settle I suddenly felt the clamminess at my neck again, and then, a slow build up of pressure on my chest. Something heavy was pressing on my breasts, as though a weight was being pushed against me and there was another feeling too, a ticklish sensation, as though invisible fingers were probing through the silk material, poking into my breasts, prodding my stiffening nipples.

“Who’s there!” I whispered, then repeated it, louder. There was no answer. But an instant later I felt a cold clammy sensation on my legs and a feeling like hands slipping over my knees, up my thighs, under the hem of my slip.

I screamed. At least, I tried to scream. I opened my mouth and let my terror summon up from the depths of being a desperate scream. But it made no sound. I couldn’t make a sound. My mouth felt clammy too, and there was a whispering, crawling, damp sensation passing over my neck and my bare shoulders. With horror, I felt the strap of my slip being pulled, eased off my shoulders. I grabbed at it to stop it, but almost immediately felt the other strap being pulled. The feeling of hands under my slip had reached my waist and a horrible, tickling sensation was passing over the tops of my thighs, underneath me, following by probing, poking and prodding, between my ass cheeks and through my thong.

I tried to scream again without success, but in my desperation I was able to scramble off the bed and run across the bedroom to the window. I turned to look at the bed. There was nothing there, but as I stared, I thought I could see shapes, the vague outline of shapes, no more than shadows flickering across the gloom. What was happening?

And then I remembered. The book. The ceremony. The incubi. It was all true. It was true!…

Want more?  Grab a copy on Amazon 

Beast Me: Incubi will be available on Amazon for $0.99 from Dec. 16th to Dec 18th.  

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

Her Pleasure Slave: Forced Lesbian Submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?” I asked.

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

“Your costume,” she said brightly.

“I’ve already got a costume,” I said.

She frowned.

“What costume?”

“I’m going as vampire Abraham Lincoln.”

Amy shook her head.

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

“Oh Amy, you know I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Initiation: A Dubious Foursome

“Kayleigh! Time for breakfast!”

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

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

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

Good morning 😊 How are you?

This is one of those latter times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I roll my eyes with no restrain.

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

“He’s boring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Definitely lost,” Shane drawls. I bristle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Full Body Search (Forced Lesbian Submission)

Ally has everything a girl could want: money, beauty and a fabulous modeling career. But something is missing.

Her life as a model leaves her unfulfilled and desperate until one day she makes a reckless, fateful decision that will threaten her freedom and put her at the mercy of a beautiful Greek customs official called Adriana.

Excerpt from Full Body Search:

My name is Ally, and I’m a model. It really isn’t as glamorous as you might think. Sure there are the ten to twelve foreign trips a year, the fabulous clothes, and the occasional thrill of seeing yourself on the front cover of a magazine or in a perfume advert or on a bill board posing in a pair of sunglasses. I mean, that can be fun, if you like that sort of thing.

But it has its downside. For a start, you have to meet some of the world’s most awful people. I mean, seriously unpleasant individuals, from the leering, groping photographer who always wants you to show more flesh, to the utterly amoral publicists, bookers and promoters who treat you like a princess one moment, and then trash you the next.

To be honest, very few people I’ve met in the modeling business are the sort of people you would want to introduce to your family.

Speaking of my family, they think I’m living the high life. They’re happy for me, of course, but they’re jealous too, particularly my sister-in-law, who is always making snarky remarks about my privileged life. Yes, sure, I’m always tanned, toned and immaculately dressed, but that’s my job. They don’t see the nights when I can’t sleep for hunger, the times I throw up from having done too many crunches, and they don’t understand the anxiety of constantly worrying about your appearance, knowing that any decline, any sign of aging or weakness could be the beginning of the end of your livelihood.   

My mother is thrilled that I’m a model. It’s the culmination of her life’s work. She always told me I was pretty, which was great for my self-esteem. In fact, all through school I suffered with what you could politely call an excess of self-esteem. I was a brat, if you will, or a bitch, if you like. The most beautiful girl in school? Maybe. The most hated girl in school? Definitely. My mother would tell me that the other kids were just jealous. Maybe they were, but that didn’t make me feel better, and it didn’t make up for not having real friends. I hung around with a lot of beautiful people, went to a lot of parties, but none of them were friends.

What I really wanted to do was paint. I loved painting. I loved the way the oil paint felt as I eased it onto the canvas. When I was painting, no matter what I was painting, I would feel truly free. Hours would go by with just me and my paints and a canvas. Nothing fulfilled me more than painting. I would spend my summers and all my holidays painting, that was at least when I wasn’t being packed off to pageant practice or cheerleader camp. My first holiday back after leaving home, I found that not only had my mother redecorated my room, she’d thrown out all of my paintings. She seemed genuinely puzzled when I complained.

“But sweetie, you’re a model now,” she said. Yes, I was a model. I was also miserable and lonely. I’d started smoking. I was rude to most people I met. And I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Modeling is boring. It’s hard, repetitive and boring. That’s why I suppose I was open to suggestion, to distraction, to being tempted into doing something really, really stupid.

We’ve all done stupid things. Come on, I’m sure you have. My stupid thing, my really, really stupid thing, happened in Greece. I had flown out there for a modeling shoot, which was cancelled when the magazine that was paying for it went bust. So there I was, sitting in my hotel, working out whether I had enough money to get back home. My agent had made himself unavailable, as he always did when I needed real help. I was sitting in the hotel bar, planning on getting blind drunk as an alternative to coming up with a proper plan, when one of the staff at the hotel took the seat next to me.

I was pretty sure at the time that she was a lesbian. She was pretty, no doubt, with long dark straight air, a gorgeous complexion and a tight, slender, almost frail physique. She had been flirting with me a little, at breakfast, and whenever I went to the reception desk. She was wasting her time. I thought I had a very firm idea about that kind of thing. In fact, a girl once tried to kiss me at a party, and I spent the next week telling everyone in school that she was a lesbian. I was sure that lesbians were disgusting. I mean, who would want to be touched by another girl. Touched there. It was just, well, wrong.

But on this particular night, the girl in the hotel didn’t want to flirt with me. She had a proposition. She was willing to offer me ten thousand dollars to take a package through customs. Of course, that was never the sort of thing you should do. Obviously you say no, right? Sensible Ally, painter Ally would not have said yes. But bitchy, unhappy, lonely Ally, assisted by two and a half shots of vodka, said yes. That same night, the package, and half the money was waiting for me on my hotel bed when I crawled back to my room.

The next day, I couldn’t find the girl anywhere in the hotel. I thought about just leaving the package and the money there, but then I needed the money. I had to buy a ticket home. So, hungover, wilting in the heat, and just desperate to get back to New York, I put the package in my suitcase, stuffed the money into my purse and headed for the airport.

Soon I was standing in the long, winding queue for the check-in desk. I’d bought myself a new sun hat with some of the money and a lovely beaded bangle, but the thrill of shopping had quickly burnt away in the Greek sun and now I was tired, hot and having serious second thoughts about the decision I’d made.

The queue in front of me was moving slowly. There were bored looking couples lining up to return to normality, harassed single parents struggling to cope with their screaming children, and a smattering of locals and businessmen. It was warm, really warm, and the air conditioners were losing the battler to keep the hall temperature at a tolerable level.

I was grateful that I had decided not to wear the little jacket I’d bought at the boutique that morning. I wore a peach-toned crop top and a floral, wrap-around skirt in a cool, light material, and my decision not to wear a bra was also a good one. I was slightly concerned that the outline of my nipples was visible through the thin material of the top, but I had bigger things to worry about: specifically, the package in my suitcase. Several times I had considered ducking out of the line, going back to the hotel or outside and throwing it into the nearest bin. But there were several things wrong with this plan. The people who gave me the package would presumably not be happy if I ditched it. I’d also spent some of their money and wouldn’t immediately be able to pay it back, which I assumed would also not go down well.

The line inched forward and I was torn between impatience to get onto the flight and away, and a desire for the line never to reach the check-in desk. That moment came, soon enough, by which point my panic was clearly visible in my face and my wavering voice.

The man at the check-in looked me over slowly. I was used to that. Men had been doing that to me for as long as I could remember. Usually I would scowl or make a sharp remark. This time I tried to assemble my face into a smile. He took my passport, studied it, showed it to his co-worker, shrugged and then handed it back to me, indicating with a nod of his head and a kind of grunt, that I should put my luggage on the check-in ramp. My hand shaking, I lifted up the designer handbag with the regal pattern and the polished handles. The conveyor belt began to trundle and the bag slid into the dark interior.

Well, it was too late now. I wandered away from the check-in, clutching my boarding pass and passport, feeling sick. I sat a little way off, looking at the flight arrivals and departures board, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. But where would I run to? What would I do next? I ran through several increasingly elaborate scenarios in which I could get rid of the package, give back the money and safely return to New York, and was in the middle of one involving the American embassy and the United Nations when I was interrupted.

“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”

I looked up. A customs officer in a crisp white uniform was standing over me.

“Yes?”

“There has been a problem. Come with me, please.”

Panic struck me. I looked wildly around. There were the exits. Maybe I could run for it. Then I remembered the four inch designer sandals I was wearing. Neither I nor the sandals were built for running. I could sashay to the exits, I could walk elegantly to the exits, but run to the exits? I would probably fall flat on my face, like I did that one time on the catwalk in Budapest.

So I followed him meekly, through the departure lounge, through a cordoned off area, through a white door and along a white corridor. He stopped to knock on a door, and hearing a muffled reply, opened it, and beckoned me to enter.

Inside the room was a table, at which sat a man and a woman, both in the white uniform of the airport. Off to one side, I noticed my suitcase. I could feel my heart racing. How could I have been so stupid? Just one moment’s drunken weakness, a stupid decision, and now I was about to be arrested in Greece. What would happen to me? What would my agent say? What would my mother say?

The woman officer beckoned to the man beside her to leave the room, which he did. She beckoned me forwards and then spoke in perfect English, but with a strong accent:

“I need to inspect your hand luggage.”

With shaking hands I placed my Christian Dior travel bag onto the table. I watched as she unzipped it and began to search. Her name, according to her airport badge, was Adriana. Despite my rising terror, I couldn’t help noticing that she was extremely attractive. It was instinctive. Most of my life I’d been comparing myself to other girls, other women, scrutinizing the opposition. I couldn’t help it. Adriana was stunning. She had a sporty physique, and her deep blue eyes were framed by high cheek bones and shoulder-length cascades of dark, wavy hair. Her lips were impossibly full, but entirely natural, as was her deep, rich tan.

My bag was pulled wide open. I watched her search through my things, examining them. She fingered my purse, checked my driver’s ID, counted the notes and change. She lingered on the perfume, the deodorant and the compact. I started to blush as I remembered what else was in there. She lifted up a delicate, lacy black thong, twirling it a little on her gloved finger before replacing it. Then she smiled a little as she slid a slim, purple vibrator from the bag. I flushed. I had packed in a hurry, and had only found that when I had already zipped up the suitcase, so had stuffed it into my travel bag along with the…I flushed again as I remembered what else I’d stuffed in there. The anal beads I’d ordered online! She held them up and smiled at me again. I felt a little anger rising in me. What was this? So I wanted to experiment a little? It’s not a crime! But I didn’t say anything, and soon she had finished with the bag search.

“Now, Miss Johnson, I am afraid that this is really boring, but we need to do a full body search. It is necessary, and won’t take long.”

“A body search?” The idea terrified me.

“Yes, it is routine.”

Routine? Could it be that this was just a routine inspection? A practice? I glanced over at my suitcase. Surely they would have found the package? Maybe not though. I thought I’d chance my luck and try to bluff my way out of it.

“I really don’t see why I should have to submit to a body search. I haven’t done anything wrong.” This didn’t seem to have any effect on Adriana. “I’m an American citizen,” I said, as though that was important.

“It really will not take long,” she assured me. I sighed. Perhaps I would get some credit for co-operating.

”Fine,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Let’s get it over with.”

She twisted her lips into what seemed to me to be more of a smirk than a smile.

“Can you please just step into that room?”

She indicated a door at the back of the room. I click-clacked across the polished floor to the door and opened it. Inside was a high, padded leather bench. There were various notices and signs in Greek on the wall and a desk to the right. To the left there was what appeared to be a toilet cubicle and a shower. It looked like a cross between a doctor’s consulting room and a prison cell.

“Please wait here,” said Adriana, closing the door behind her. I sat on the bench, looking around me glumly. I could hear voices outside, then the voices stopped, a door closed and I could hear what sounded like a key turning in a lock.

Adriana came back into the room. She walked over to one side, unfastened her jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall. She turned to me and smiled and I couldn’t help noticing how the round of her breasts bulged against the turquoise material of her shirt. They must have been 38D at least. If they were her own, they were mightily impressive.

“Stand up please,” she said, coming close to me.

I slipped off the bench and stood there. In that instant, it reminded me of being in the nurse’s office at school, preparing for yet another examination.

She stood so close that I could smell her perfume, a fusion of lilac and lilies and something more exotic, something that was redolent of citrus fruits and berries. I closed my eyes as she patted me down. She was a lot gentler than I expected, certainly a lot gentler than that TSA guard who did the same thing at JFK six months earlier. In fact, as she bent down to pat my legs, it seemed to me that Adriana was almost lingering on my thighs.

“Turn around,” she said, and I did. I felt her feeling my calves, my knees, my thighs, and the round of my butt. I felt her hands on my back, and then, around my stomach and up, over my breasts. I closed my eyes as I realized she would find I was bra-less. Her latex-covered palm brushed lightly over my right nipple and I shivered a little, involuntarily.

“Thank you, Miss Johnson, you may turn around now.”

“Is that it?”

“Not quite. You will now please take off your clothes.” Her voice had a hard edge to it this time, and her smile had gone.

“No way,” I said, raising my voice instinctively. “No freaking way am I getting naked for you. What do you think this is? I want to speak to an attorney. I want to speak to the Embassy. You have no right to do this. I am an American.”

Yes, one thing that I was good at, aside from looking nonchalant in lingerie, was throwing a tantrum. I had been doing it since I was a toddler, and twenty years of practice meant I had gotten really good at it. My tantrums almost always led to me getting my way.

Unfortunately, it did not seem to have that effect on Adriana. She stepped forward, close to me and grabbed my face with her gloved hand, squeezing my cheeks. I was so shocked I couldn’t breath. Her face was close to mine and I could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Listen, American whore, there is no attorney for you. Do as you are told.”

“You can’t tell me what to do” I said, my voice all wavery and weak.

“Oh no? Really? And what about the kilo of cocaine we found in your luggage. Do you think that gives me the right to tell you what to do?”

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