dubious consent

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?”

Want More?  Grab a Copy on Amazon

Advertisements

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?”

Want More?  Grab a Copy on Amazon

Teaching Her A Lesson

“Zachary, Joshua. That’s enough.”

Two brown-haired heads reluctantly turned towards me.

“Sorry, Miss Gates,” the blue-eyed one, Zach, said. He flashed the deep dimples that had the senior girls practically mauling each other to say hello to him when he walked the halls between classes. Josh, his willing sidekick at just an inch or two shorter and only one dimple in his right cheek, gave me a quiet smile-apology. I was so used to the routine of correcting them that their fresh-faced handsomeness almost didn’t affect me anymore. Almost.

As I turned away, I unconsciously smoothed my black pencil skirt, making sure that the sky-blue blouse was tucked neatly into it. I heard my own heels click away, and knew the silence was because they were watching me now, if not listening.  I became a teacher because I didn’t really know what to do with myself after graduation. I went to a decent state school, did the sorority thing, had my sisters, had my flings, and graduated without a ring only because the Delt I was dating cheated on me with my Big and I found out about it when I walked into her room drunk-crying because the asshole hadn’t texted me back, only to discover him in her bed. So it goes.

After graduation, I jumped into a graduate program for education, took the first job I could find teaching English Lit, and shouldered my way into the social hierarchy of high school teaching. It’s my sixth year now and I’m finally working with the oldest students; there’s something cathartic about being able to pick out which ones will be which types of college kids—the future PhD who does groundbreaking research and gets invited onto talk shows, the gay fraternity brother who will be the first to marry, the quiet girl who hasn’t discovered that alcohol can make you beautiful and popular if you drink enough. And so forth.

“So, as I was saying. Does anyone have any idea why someone from the time period Jane Auston wrote in might prefer Bingley to Darcy, even though Darcy has more money?” Zach put up a lazy hand.

“Because Darcy is boring and doesn’t do anything except bitch about things. He’s lame.”

“Zach…”

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, he doesn’t do anything except complain.”

“So what you’re saying,” I press him, “is that money and influence can only take a man so far in life?”

“Well yeah, I guess. It’s not like Bingley is poor, though.” Interesting.

“That’s true. So, what about Bingley makes him the more engaging of the two?” Blank stares from everyone, including Zach.

“What I mean,” I pause, thinking. “What I mean to ask is, how is Bingley more interesting than Darcy?” The class was quiet, and I nervously fingered the light blue beads that rested on my neck, just above the swell of my pale breasts. I always get hyper-aware of my body when a class is being unresponsive, and my body never fails to respond to this attention by warming to an uncomfortably hot temperature. I pace the room slowly, feeling my dangling earrings brush, cool and plastic, against the skin on my neck. Come on, guys. It’s not that hard of a question.

Finally, one of the girls in the back raises her hand. “Well, Bingley actually likes to go out and do things. He dances and he knows how to talk to girls without being awkward.”

“Very good,” I say, gratefully. I feel the boys’ eyes on me and wonder if it’s just me or if they’re far more attentive right now than usual. I check my skirt again casually to make sure it hasn’t ridden up. Nope, all good. But still, their eyes are watching everything I do, and I can see Zach’s ex-girlfriend running a cost-benefit analysis of fighting me right here, right now. She’ll go to a big state school and be a DG or a Tri Delt. I ignore her.

“One of the points Austen makes about domestic society with both men is that there are differences even within the same types of people. Both Bingley and Darcy occupy the same social sphere, but there’s something about Bingley that draws people towards him, just as there’s something about Elizabeth that draws Darcy to her, despite the differences in their personalities.” I let my gaze rest on Zach and Josh and feel a satisfied flare in my belly when they can’t meet my eye. I’m ten years older than them and have had things done to me and done things to men who are very different from me more than they likely ever will; in my experience, women are the more adventurous ones. I give myself a mental shake as I turn away though. Rein it in, I tell myself sternly. Stop tormenting the poor kids.

The rest of the class passes slowly, but steadily, with participation floundering and lots of silences for me to fill with babble about Pride and Prejudice. When I was younger I always swore I would never be one of those teachers that repeated the same syllabus over and over, year after year, but I’ve made an exception for this book because I love it so much; the irony and satire speaks to me in a way that a shrink would probably tell me is unhealthy, but I’d argue that it’s healthier to repeat one book every year than accept advances from my male students, which has happened a lot. Every year, it gets harder and harder to resist, and as class winds down into the final minutes, I find myself once again slipping into a naughty fantasy about Zach and Josh. How easy it would be to close the door and just remind them to be quiet while I made them watch what I can do to myself, and then to each of them, with just my imagination as a guiding force.

There’s a weird feeling in the air as the bell rings and signals the end of class. I know the others feel it too because the girls hurry out with pursed lips, notebooks pressed to their chests, and all of the guys except Zach and Josh bustle out looking bemused and a little dazed. I pretend not to notice that Zach and Josh are dawdling in their corner, packing up their bags slowly as if trying to telepathically agree on something before leaving.

In the hall, the dull thundering of hundreds of students making a break for lunch acts as a white noise for my mind, but it seems nothing can calm the warmth in my belly. Suddenly, I hear the door click shut and the lock flick, and I look up, genuinely surprised and jolted out of my reverie.

Zach and Josh are advancing toward me slowly but purposefully, a strange-but-familiar hunger in their eyes. Looking into either of their faces is like looking at the foaming sea or the sky at high noon, and I realize I don’t know where to look or what to do. I take an uncertain step backward and bump into my desk, causing the little flower vase to rattle like a warning that I ignore the same way I ignored angry ex-girlfriends. They reach me together and Josh leans in to whisper in my ear.

“Not a sound, Miss Gates.” I feel my blue eyes flash even as I open my mouth to respond hotly—if they think they’re going to enact some little fantasy of theirs on me, they have another—suddenly, Zach grabs me and turns me roughly around, pushing me so that I’m bent over on my desk like some lazy porn star in a second-rate video.

“Hey!” I protest. Josh claps his hand over my mouth and leans in while Zach arranges himself behind me, slowly, leisurely. I feel his hands stroke along my sides, pressing the silky blouse into my skin and making me shiver despite the roiling waves in my mind. This is so wrong, this isn’t actually supposed to happen! The rational part of my mind is yelling, but it’s fading into white noise like the footsteps outside, which have subsided in the past couple minutes.

Zach cups both my asscheeks in his hand and gives an appreciative squeeze, I give a small gasp—my ass is huge but his hands are splayed comfortably across the spread in my black skirt. Lazily, he trails a hand down and brushes the sensitive skin just below the end of my skirt while Josh whispers in my ear.

“We’ve been watching you, and we know this is something you want.”

The words send the strangest mix of sexy thrill and genuine fear through me, something feels wrong but Zach is working my body into a furnace with his stroking and teasing, and I’ve never felt so conflicted.

“This…this is wrong,” I whisper, and my voice comes out in a rasp like I haven’t just been using it in teacher mode for the past fifty minutes.

“No…well, maybe a little. But I –we—think you’ve been a bad girl before.”

Suddenly Josh yanks me by my long brown hair, up from the desk, while Zach takes a step back so Josh can shoulder his way in front. Now I’m standing between them, looking up at Josh while I hear an almost-sinister unzipping behind me. My skirt? Zach’s jeans? I feel the fabric fall away from my hips and have my answer. Zach makes a noise of appreciation as he takes in my beautiful, round, high ass, and I know that the white lace is doing what it’s designed to do as well. Josh leans in and whispers in my ear as Zach begins to play with the fabric of my panties, snapping it playfully, and suddenly I feel something like teeth graze the edge. Oh my god….

Want more? Grab a copy on Amazon