dubious consent



Captured: Book One Of Vixen Of The Norse

These are dangerous times for English folk living on the Northumbrian coast, as tales of violent men from across the seas spread throughout the country.

Aedra is a high-spirited youth who enjoys the chance to escape the protection of her parents, but the young girl is soon to learn a harsh lesson at the hands of vile strangers.

Will she survive or will she succumb to the cruelty of the Norsemen?


The Cage: Book One Of Groupie

Katy is desperate to make her mark as a music journalist, and when she gets her chance, she lets rip in an album review.

Little does she know that her next assignment will be to interview the band, and that in the music industry, what goes around comes around.


Abducted: Book One Of The Mating Games

Luna never wanted to go into space. But life can play tricks on you sometimes.

Struggling for a living, working two jobs and living in a run-down apartment in a rough part of the city, her life is stuck in a rut.

Then, one night, something strange happens to Luna, an unexpected encounter that will set in motion an extraordinary adventure and change her life for ever.


Experimentally Overflowing

Kelly is a struggling, beautiful young artist trapped in the deadbeat town of Twin Falls, Minnesota.

When an opportunity to swipe some fast cash comes along in the form of testing a new hormone drug, she doesn’t stop twice to think about the implications of a hormone-induced rack will mean in the experiment room. 


He Follows + A Hotwife Valentine

Martin and Karen are a typical suburban couple, living a comfortable if passionless marriage, life, troubled only by the fact that Martin has a big secret that is weighing him down with guilt, but a chance encounter with a mysterious man is about to change all that. In the course of one extraordinary day, Martin follows the mysterious man as he visits the houses of several married women throughout town.

But what happens when Martin follows the mysterious man to his own house?

Martin is about to learn a great deal about himself, his marriage, and what it takes to be a man.


Blacked Wives: Big Black Christmas Present

Sarah loves her husband, Mike, but as the heat fades from their marriage, she turns to her innermost fantasies, exploring her enduring lust for an interracial encounter.

One day, Mike surprises her with a proposition, a proposition that will make her dreams come true. Will she remain the faithful, frustrated wife, or will she take the plunge and face her desires?


My Swinging Confession

Helen and Jack have an idyllic marriage. They live in a beautiful house in a pleasant part of town and everything between them is perfect. Well, almost perfect.

There is one secret, one dark fantasy that Helen thought would never come true, until they meet a couple who push their boundaries and turn desire into reality.


Bimbo Amnesia

Simon is a middle-aged nobody, stuck in the same boring job for fifteen years. So when Helena, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, asks him on a date, he thinks he is the luckiest guy in the world.

But Simon’s life is about to get a lot more complicated when Helena brings her daughter Hannah to live with them.

How lucky can one guy get? Simon is about to find out.


3 New Bundles – Primal Submission, Girl On Girl & Bimbofied


Primal Submission: 30 Books Of Dubious Consent

30 books, 695 pages, & over 90,000 words of ALPHA MALES TAKING WHAT THEY WANT, WHENEVER THEY WANT!

This 30 book bundle includes:

Teaching Her A Lesson: Taken By My Students

Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother

The Hitman’s Sex Doll

Taken By The Tribe

Initiation: A Dubious Foursome

Tormented: I’ve Been Watching You

Tormented: The Woodland Ordeal

Tormented: The Box

His Debt My Innocence: Daddy’s Debt

His Debt My Innocence: Ganged By The Guests

His Debt My Innocence: Mr. Benutti’s Pet

Vixen Of The Norse: Captured

Vixen Of The Norse: Taking The Entire Horde

Vixen Of The Norse: Becoming She-Wolf

Naked Symphony: An Artist’s Forced Submission

Tormented Into Consent

Won’t Take No For An Answer: Rest Stop Submission

Trailer Park Submission: Submitting To Rednecks

My Body Betrays Me: Taken By My Son’s Friends

Reluctant Mormon: Blackmailed Into Sin

Forceful Neighbor

Punish The MILF

The Shoplifter

Rocked: Owned By Rockstars

Deep Woods: Owned By Woodsmen

Dirty Hostage

Home Invasion I: Submitting To Convicts

Home Invasion II: Submitting To Convicts

Humiliation Games I

Humiliation Games II



Girl On Girl: 22 Books Of Forced Lesbian Submissions

22 books, 527 pages, & over 65,000 words of HOT DUBIOUS GIRL ON GIRL ACTION!

This 22 book bundle includes:

Lesbots: Experiment Gone Wrong

Lesbots: Dominating Mika

Lesbots: Breaking Mika

Groupie: The Cage

Groupie: Kitty Kat

Groupie: The Exhibitionist

Roller Derby Ravishment

Showing Her Who’s Boss

Her Pleasure Slave

The Queen’s Concubine

Coach Kennedy

Full Body Search

Trailer Park Girl

Scared Unstraight

Punished By Mommy


Train Her

Lesbian Mafia

Special Delivery For Ms. Bell

The Art Model

The Nympho Nun

The Hypnotist



Bimbofied: An Eight Book Bimbo Bundle

What if you had the power to transform any woman you desire into a insatiable bimbo eager to please?

What if you could become the alpha male that women go crazy for?

This 8 book bundle includes:

The Bimbo Wormhole

Bimbofying The Brat

Bimbo Amnesia

The Bimbo Mantra: Yoga Girls

The Bimbo Mantra: Lap Dance

The Bimbo Mantra: High School Reunion

Bimbo To Bookworm

Nagging Wife To Bimbo

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

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

Forced To Come: A Dubious Consent 10 Book Bundle


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

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

This bundles contains:

Tormented: I’ve Been Watching You

Tormented: The Woodland Ordeal

Tormented: The Box

His Debt My Innocence: Daddy’s Debt

His Debt My Innocence: Ganged By The Guests

His Debt My Innocence: Mr. Benutti’s Pet

Vixen Of The Norse: Captured

Vixen Of The Norse: Taking The Entire Horde

Vixen Of The Norse: Becoming She-Wolf

Naked Symphony: An Artist’s Forced Submission

Read This Bundle!


Reluctant Lesbians: 7 Books Of Forced Lesbian Submissions


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

Thought you were straight?

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

This bundle contains:

Groupie: The Cage

Groupie: Kitty Kat

Groupie: The Exhibtionist

Lesbots: Experiment Gone Wrong

Lesbots: Dominating Mika

Lesbots: Breaking Mika

Roller Derby Ravishment

Read This Bundle!


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


Ready to get weird?

Check out this 7 book bundle of HOT MONSTER ACTION!

This bundle contains:

Lustica: Ganged By Trolls

Lustica: The Mating Ritual

Lustica: The Swamp Creatures

The Mating Games: Abducted

The Mating Games: The Cell

The Mating Games: Probed

Where The Wild Things Ravish

Read This Bundle!

Naked Symphony: An Artist’s Forced Submission

an excerpt from Naked Symphony:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss de Shade, I presume,” he said.

“Yeah, What the fuck do you want?”

Continue Reading…

Where The Wild Things Ravish

Excerpt from Where The Wild Things Ravish:

Hi, I’m Lucinda, and I’m kind of slutty. Oh don’t look so shocked, you know you were thinking it. I mean, just look at the way I’m dressed. What kind of a girl goes out for a coffee dressed in a tiny tiny black mini-skirt, a white t-shirt that is three sizes too small, no bra and the world’s most obvious thong? I think you know, don’t you.

I wasn’t always kind of slutty. In fact, for most of my teens I was kind of bratty. I was the classic spoilt little rich girl. Daddy does something to do with stocks or bonds or something dull like that and he makes so much money that Mommy can’t even spend it quick enough so it piles up in the bank and just grows. We have a big house, although I can’t really say ‘we’ anymore since they kicked me out after the Halloween party, but I still spend a lot of time there, when I’m not being hosted by one of Daddy’s rich friends.

High school kind of sucked, if I’m honest. I’m not that much of a genius and I have too much money so I wasn’t very popular and after a few times of being treated like a brat before people got to know me, I decided that I should just behave that way anyway, since that was what the other kids were expecting. So I did. I was a complete mean girl. I played cruel tricks on people, I made fun of the ugly kids, and I flirted. Oh boy did I flirt!

There wasn’t anyone I wouldn’t flirt with it. It was like I was using a magical power. It only dawned on me gradually that I was hot. I didn’t really care about how I looked until one day one of the girls told me I was pretty. I got home and looked at myself and tried on a few clothes and I realized that yes, I was kind of pretty.

From that day on, I flirted. I flirted with teachers, I flirted with students, I flirted with the coach driver, with shop assistants, even with my Dad’s business friends. I got really really good at it too. I learned how to give at least ten different kinds of flirty looks from the ‘I Am Really Into You’ to the ‘Wanna Come To Bed?’ I could drop my pencil or my eraser and bend at just the right angle that the guy would see almost all of my thigh and just a hint of thong, but no more, and my favorite move was to stand just a little too close and lightly tough a guy’s arm.

Just to be clear, flirting was all I wanted to do. The idea of a guy getting his hands on me just didn’t appeal to me. Sure I had a few boyfriends, but nothing serious and when they tried to get physical, I was focused more on waiting till it was over than anything else.

No, flirting was my thing. I loved the power it gave me. I loved watching guys blush and shift their stance and try to pretend that their erections were not really erections. I loved the fact that if I wore a certain skirt and walked into one of the local stores at the busiest time of day, everyone, even the women, would stop and stare at me.

I guess flirting was my hobby. It would have been my job too, if I could have figured out a way to get paid for it. I didn’t have a job after dropping out of college. It wasn’t a great college anyway, I never went to any of the classes. That’s the trouble with having a millionaire Daddy: there’s no incentive to learn anything. I mean why flog myself to death learning how to be a lawyer or an accountant or a dentist when my Daddy just gives me money every month. Oh sure, you say you’d want to work anyway, that it’s a pride thing, but I doubt it.

Anyway, flirting was my thing. That, and sleeping and clothes shopping. My favorite time though was when Daddy arranged parties for business associates, work contacts and so on. He would fill up our house with all these men and women who I only saw every few weeks and they got so used to me flirting that I think I was the main attraction. Every party there seemed to be more middle-aged men and fewer middle-aged women, which suited me.

In fact, I started to think of them as my audience, as my crowd, my fans. And if you have fans, you have to give them what they want. In fact, you have to try to keep upping the ante and finding new ways to keep them hooked. So at each party, my outfits got more and more outrageous, as did my flirting, and every time, on the morning after, Mommy and Daddy would sit me down and give me the Good Girl speech and I would play along and pretend and tell them I had just been experimenting, and they would eat it up.

Well last Halloween, I finally went too far. Literally, as it turned out! My parents had given me warnings in the weeks leading up to the party about what I wasn’t supposed to wear. No hot-pants, no lingerie, no mini-skirts, no mini-dresses, no maid costumes, no nurse’s outfits, no slutty Santa dresses and definitely no leather. Getting around their restrictions and yet still finding a hot outfit was a challenge. But I’m a cute young girl with a lot of time on her hands and a platinum credit card, so I managed it.

The party was well underway by the time I’d finished dressing. I’d told my parents that I didn’t really feel like attending and that I would be staying in my room, and they seemed to be extremely content with this. Little did they know what I was planning.

As I zipped up my black PVC catwoman costume, I smiled at myself in the full-length mirror. I had done it again. The costume was incredibly tight. Skin-tight didn’t really describe it. It clung to my breasts, made my pert little butt look even more amazing than usual and wrapped my long smooth legs so tightly it looked like a second skin. Yeah, I looked good.

The moment when you make a big entrance is always special. I love that sensation when conversations die down and all the people there look at you, even the ones who are pretending that they aren’t looking at you; usually married guys. I like those guys especially.

I slinked down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear, did a little twirl, then started to mingle. I wandered here and there, joining in whichever conversation I wanted to, helping myself to snacks and taking a sip out of this or that champagne flute before handing it back to some stunned-looking middle-aged businessman. I flirted like I’d never flirted before, standing a little too close, giving people all of my smoldering looks, and even inventing a new one that I was thinking of calling, Spank Me I’ve Been Bad.

But this time, surprisingly, I went too far. I was getting so carried away that I forgot my one rule; not to do the bending over trick. Why wasn’t I allowing myself to do that and grant everyone an eye-opening view of my peachy ass? Because my costume was crotchless.

In my defense, I didn’t know that when I bought it, and it was far too sexy to return. Besides, I told myself, as long as I didn’t bend down, no-one would really notice.

As I reached the floor to pick up the invisible earring I was pretending to pick up, I suddenly remembered. I felt a little breeze against my pussy. And then I heard someone saying my name in a tone that sent shivers of dread through me.


Continue Reading…

Lesbots: A Forced Lesbian Submission Series

Excerpt from Experiment Gone Wrong: Book One of Lesbots Series

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alab Querry wants to meet you.”

What did he say?

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


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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

“Yes, that’s right, I remember.”

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

“Are you ready to begin?”

“Begin? Begin what?”

“The experiment.”

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

He nodded.

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

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

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


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


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


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

I can guess.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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


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

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

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

“Hi…” I said.

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

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

“I’m Mika,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continue Reading…

His Debt My Innocence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So where’s the money, Frank?”

“I don’t have it.”

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

“Look I will get it, I swear.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t talk about her.”

“Why not Frank? I have a proposition.”

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

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

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

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

“Go to hell!”

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

“What the hell!”

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

“You’re out of your mind!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure about that?”

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you?”

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

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

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

“Mr Benutti will see you,” he said.

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

“Who the fuck are you?”

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

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

“And who are you?”

“I’m Carly Cartwright,” I stuttered.

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

Continue Reading…

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…

6 FREE Erotic Shorts For Valentine’s Day + 2 FREE Guides On Writing Erotica

Spice up this Valentine’s Day with 6 FREE absolutely filthy erotica shorts

From February 14th – February 18th I will be making 6 of my books available for FREE on Amazon.  Choose one or indulge in all six.  There’s a little something for everyone from dubious consent to monster erotica.

Hotwife Valentine (cuckold)

The Plantation Owner’s Wife (white woman black man)

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)

Want more stories? Go to my AMAZON AUTHOR’S PAGE


I will also be making my two erotica writing how to guides available:  Confessions Of An Erotica Author: How To Write Smut That Sells & Confessions Of An Erotic Author: How To Build A Smut Publishing Empire.

*These two guides will only be available for FREE Valentine’s Day.

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.