Beast Me: He Does Exist (Bigfoot Erotica)

I was alone, completely alone. There was a full moon but it didn’t cast much light on the dense dark forest as I wandered through the undergrowth, helplessly lost. I had given up calling out for Brad or Chad or Scott or the other one. All that accomplished was to give me a sore throat as my strained, desperate cries for help died into silence.

Still clutching my camera, I stopped and leant on a tree. I was too cold and tired to cry and it made no sense to go wandering on through the dark.

Then I heard it. A low, rumbling noise, like the approach of a tractor or a steam roller, a grumbling that seemed to shake the ground. But this was no vehicle. It had an animal quality to it, a growling, menacing edge. I held my breath, frozen in fear. The rumbling growl started again, this time accompanied by shuffling and snuffling sounds and the crack of branches giving way. Desperately, I looked around me, trying to see where it was coming from. Then I saw it. A little way off, the implacable darkness of the trees was shifting, the shadows resolving into new shapes. In the half-light of the moon, I caught a glimpse of something truly, truly terrifying.

I was too frightened to scream. So I ran. Still clutching my camera, scampering headlong through the trees and bushes in the pitch black, I ran.

*  *  *  *

My name is Fae. I’m a documentary film maker from Seattle. Make that a struggling documentary film maker from Seattle. When I first decided to be a film maker, I imagined I’d end up dispatching pulse-racing bulletins from dangerous war zones, but getting to war zones takes either money or contacts and I had neither. I didn’t have any relevant qualifications either – blame a bad choice of college courses and a fondness for parties – and so I had ended up living over a Chinese restaurant, trying to find ways to make rent while gathering a healthy collection of rejection emails.

Yes, it’s fair to say that the independent documentary film business is not exactly lucrative, but then you could say that about most creative jobs. So when I happened to hit on a theme that earned me money, well I had no choice but to exploit it.

Decoding Roswell was a rushed ninety minute piece about a group of UFO truthers – the result of me spending a week in Albuquerque interviewing a collection of lunatics, misfits and morons. It was supposed to be for a conspiracy channel called American Truth but it turned out better than I thought, so I tried pitching it to a major online news company and they loved it. They liked the psychological angle, they liked the shaky camera footage, and most importantly, they paid me.

So having found my niche, I started scouting round for other truthers, and didn’t have to look far. After a few days chatting to people on various forums, I got in touch with a collection of weirdoes who had dedicated their lives to solving another great American mystery that didn’t need solving, and after some mind-bendingly tedious online conversations, I managed to arrange a day of filming in Wenatchee National Forest, or Big Foot Central, as one of them described it.

*  *  *  *

After a long and tedious drive into the Washington forests, involving several wrong-runs, a flat tire and numerous outbursts of violent swearing, I steered my beat-up old car along a rutted track and pulled up outside a feeble collection of tents.

I’m a city girl, and, as a rule, I don’t do the countryside. Naturally, being a documentary film maker sometimes involves leaving civilization, but I absolutely refuse to get into all of that country clothing nonsense. I dress in the country as I dress in the city, which on this particular day meant purple leggings – to match my purple hair – and a battered, faded denim jacket over a faded Sonics tee.

I don’t know what aspect of my appearance was most alarming for the Big Footers. It might have been my hair, my nose piercing, or the fact that I hadn’t bothered to wear a bra, but whatever it was, they looked as though I had landed from another planet. All four of them stood, open-mouthed and rooted to the spot as I got out of my car. I remember thinking that if the arrival of a punky girl from Seattle caused them such terror, then they might not be entirely cut out for an encounter with Big Foot.

After some prompting, they introduced themselves. There was Brad, Chad, Scott and someone else whose name I don’t recall. Three of them were sporting bushy beards. Three of them were overweight and three of them were wearing plaid lumberjack shirts and baseball caps. There was some overlap in these categories.

First impressions were not encouraging. I tried to set up a set-piece opener around the camp fire, but Brad, Chad, Scott and the other one were not big on talking, and their discomfort at being around a girl was embarrassingly palpable. It was as though I had travelled back in time to High School and was once again trying to make friends with terrified nerd boys, although these specimens were a few IQ points short of nerd status.

The afternoon was drawing on and the prospect of spending a night and another day with this group didn’t really appeal, so I suggested that we could strike out into the woods, with the plan of filming them all individually. They didn’t seem to think this was a good idea, but were handicapped by their inability to speak to me in complete sentences, and so after a little bullying and a little journalistic insistence, we were soon setting out into the gloomy, sombre-looking woodland.

After some time of crunching through the woods in silence, during which I tried but failed to provoke them into interesting conversation, Chad – or it may have been Brad – decided that it would be a good idea to split into two groups. By this time I was thoroughly tired and bored as I trudged off behind Brad – or possibly Chad – and the other one. With one last burst of journalistic enthusiasm, I pointed my camera at each of them in turn as we walked, hoping to provoke them into saying something – anything – of interest. But all I managed to elicit was mumbling and long silent interludes, and after half an hour of this, I was thoroughly dispirited. I sat down on a tree stump, to check my camera and when I looked up I noticed two things. Firstly, that it was getting really dark, and secondly, that there was no-one in sight.

*  *  *  *

I was running blind, staggering into the darkness, whimpering as I ran, but no matter how quickly or desperately I ran, I couldn’t outrun the bellowing and grunting behind me. Gasping for breath, my lungs raw from the effort, I made the mistake of looking behind me and as I turned back, I lost my footing, skidding on a leaf litter and then felt my toes thud into a stubborn root and I tumbled headlong, landing on my hands and knees.

As I scrambled to my feet, I felt a dark shadow looming over me, blocking out the moonlight and I turned in time to see the vast bulk of something horrible and enormous bearing down on me. I screamed, involuntarily and began to scrabble desperately along the ground, feeling my leggings catch on a stray branch and tear and my jacket fall away from my shoulders as I tried to wriggle away.

I had begun to get some momentum in my desperate fight for freedom, when suddenly, a great weight was pressed down on my calves and I sank, face down into the earth. I screamed again, but the soil muffled the sound. I tried to shake my legs desperately, jerking as hard as I could, but something had me in its grip, and then, the ground shifted and moved beneath me and with horror, I realized that instead of pulling free, I was being dragged in the opposite direction!

As I was pulled across the rough earth, I tried to grab anything I could: tree branches, roots, shrubs, but nothing worked. I shouted and cried and screamed but there was no-one to hear me as I was dragged along the forest floor, until eventually I stopped trying to resist and, sobbing, surrendered to my fate, my ankles lifted in the air, my body scraping among the leaves and stones and soil.

After a few minutes of being dragged through the forest, I came to a halt. I opened my eyes and screamed out again, because close to me, close enough that I could feel its breath on my skin, was the face of a hideous, deformed creature, covered in matted hair, with gleaming sharp canine teeth and a vast, bulbous nose. I felt rough hair against my legs, my side, my neck and suddenly the ground began to shift again and I felt the dizzying, disorienting effect I’d previously only encountered in roller coasters as I was lifted into the air. I felt heavy weight clamping down on either side of me, and the creature’s foul-smelling hair was smothering my face as we once more began to move through the forest, though this time my body rose and fell as it walked.

Once again, I tried desperately to free myself, but once again my efforts were wasted. I was held fast under its arm. Looking down at the ground only made me dizzy so I tried to look at the creature. It was tall, maybe eight or nine foot, and walked on its hind legs, like a human, but was covered all over in thick dark hair that was illuminated occasionally when the moonlight broke through the trees.

I was feeling sick and dizzy and exhausted and so I closed my eyes, telling myself first that this was a horrible dream and then, when I’d failed to convince myself of that, that I would gather my strength, bide my time and break free when I could.

A rush of cold air and a splash of moonlight on my face caused me to open my eyes and I realized we had left the tree-line and were now climbing up a pebbly incline towards nearby cliffs. Summoning my strength, I shouted for help with all my might, begging, screaming for someone, anyone to help me. But there was no answer, the creature appeared unconcerned by my screams, and before long we passed into a dark cave at the base of the cliffs.

The cave was damp and cold but not very deep. The creature dropped me onto the ground near the rear of the cave and I scrambled away into the shadows, sitting against a rock, my arms hugged around my legs.

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Experimentally Overflowing

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I sit on the floor of my tiny studio apartment in Twin Falls, Minnesota, the city that I can’t seem to escape or even make a living in.

I had plans to go to New York after graduation. I stayed in-state to go to school so that I wouldn’t come out saddled with debt and the need to ride a stripped pole until it got paid off, like Marcie Hamlin had to do. (Is still doing? I don’t know, she actually moved to New York a couple years ago). But now here I am, sitting on this fake-wooden floor surrounded by portraits of myself that together comprise all of me, even though I’m unrecognizable in some of them.

Faces have always fascinated me, the way they twist and contort and can be soft as velvet or hard as granite in a moment’s notice. My ex-boyfriend had the sharpest planes of a face that I’ve ever seen, and his jet-black hair really contributed to this dark, sharp aesthetic he had. We broke up shortly before graduation and he moved to Florida to be a bartender for a fancy five-star hotel. I don’t really know what I ever saw in him really, except we were together for three years so there must have been something about him initially.

My problem is I’ve always been passive. A passive child, doing what my parents told me to do. A passive adolescent, listening to the screaming of my parents from my bedroom (do they think the walls are sound proof?). When it became too much, I painted faced. Their faces, mine in the mirror, watching my face react even as I sat still and stoic in the wake of their torrential outpouring of hate for one another.

It’s hard learning that you were the only thing that brought two people together.

Mom gave up first, kissing me on the cheek one morning before school like nothing was wrong, and then suddenly her car was gone and the house felt like a graveyard of both her marriage and hopes and dreams.

Dad gave up when I was in my second year at school. We’d never particularly gotten along; he made it clear I was an obligation to him before anything else and spent most of his time on the reclining cushion seat in front of ESPN, regardless of whether I was around or not. I found his stash of porn magazines when I was fifteen and took to wearing slouchy, oversize clothes around him and anything else with a penis for a long time after that, but word spreads fast when you’re a solid C cup with a tiny waist and bubble butt, and it’s not like I couldn’t not change for gym class around a bunch of other girls. Their jealousy fed the flames of the boys’ desire that I evaded nimbly all throughout high school.

Getting to college was like stepping off a jam-packed bus for the first time in several hours. Yes, lots of people knew who I was by name, but there were a lot who didn’t as well, and for once I was able to control who could and couldn’t approach me. I started wearing all black and I got a sharp undercut that offset my own heart-shaped face and soft green eyes; the boys really didn’t know what to make of me most of the time, and the girls thought I was a fashion freak and left me alone and gave me my space.

When I came back from break and realized that Dad was gone-gone this time, not just off with a friend from work motel-hopping, I slunk in and out for as long as possible before the eviction notice came, and then I just stopped going back. I packed up two large backpacks’ worth of stuff I thought was worth salvaging, and seriously considered setting the place on fire just before I left. I compromised by selling his vintage record-collection so that I could buy new art supplies and move into an apartment downtown.

That was three months ago. Fast forward and the money’s run out and my last canvas is drying in the corner, next to a picture of my parents on their wedding day. I’ve swapped their faces and given them both my eyes and the effect is chilling and symbolic and everything I could have hoped for.

The phone rings and I dive for it, hoping that I’m being called into work, but no luck. It’s just my landlord reminding me that rent is due in a week. I sigh and sit back, legs folded neatly under me, and peruse the weekend paper that I stole from my neighbor’s doorstep. I always check the Classified section in the hope that somebody needs an artist or someone to paint or draw something, but there’s even less of a market for artists than there is for part-time workers. Pro tip: they advertise like crazy but don’t actually need you, which is how I ended up working “part-time” for Pizza Hut and Subway within a week of arriving and am still only totaling about 20 hours a week.

It’s really not enough to get by.

I sigh and push my hair back out of my face and into a low ponytail. My undercut is growing out and the soft chestnut hair has a slight wave to it. My own face, small and with soft edges and curves that swell with swear words I can’t say to nasty customers, my boss, and my landlord, and that spill like a gin-and-tonic knocked to the ground by a careless elbow in bars and clubs.

Suddenly, my eyes light on the bottom-right hand corner of the paper.



The simplicity and “I don’t give a fuck” vibe of the ad is utterly intriguing, and before I fully realize what I’m doing I’m picking up the shitty black plastic phone again that’s connected to the apartment complex’s shitty landline and dialing the sketchy number. The 69 isn’t lost on me and I’m on guard as the phone rings neutrally in my ear.


The voice is deep and masculine and I get the impression if I could see him I’d be attracted to him.

“Hi, I’m calling about an ad for a new hormone drug that I saw in the paper?”

“Oh hey, you’re our first callback!”

“Well, that might be because the ad was really creepy and I need the money.”

“You mean you don’t have a personal investment in whether or not this new drug works? You could be helping loads of women!”

“Nah, not particularly.”

The silence drops as it always does when I deadpan and I wait for the inevitable nervous laugh or some sort of blustery response. I’m surprised.

“Nice to have some honesty for a change,” the tone is easygoing and unaffected; he really doesn’t seem to be put off that I’m doing this purely for the money and have no interest in helping other people.

“So you’ll have me for the study?”

“Sure, could you come in tomorrow at 9AM? Westfield and Chestnut Avenue, right on the corner. It’s a big office building and you’ll want to go up to the fourth floor and door 412.”

“Yeah, no problem. So, what exactly is the compensation?”

“$2,000 and whatever side effects the drugs cause.”

“Very funny.”

“See you tomorrow.” His tone is amused, and I can hear him begin to speak as he puts the phone down on his end, but I can’t make out the words.

I return to my most recent painting for the rest of the afternoon, playing with the shading and the lighting but maintaining the semi-panicked expressions that they wore on their faces even on the happiest day of their lives.

What a fucking joke.

For dinner, I slouch down to a corner store and buy a microwave pizza and a dark beer, which gives the cashier pause when he’s ringing me up and trying to decide whether or not to hit on me—most frozen-dinner-gals pair themselves with a box of Franzia or a StrawberRita.

He decides to let me be.

I eat my dinner and drink my beer on the stairs, where I can sort of hear the television from the landlord’s room downstairs. He’s watching Wheel of Fortune and, as usual, all of the contestants are idiots.

I finish my dinner, go back into my room, and get ready for bed, quietly changing into my soft cotton boy-shorts and a soft gray tank top. My skin is porcelain white against the gray, which hardly any marks—not even a freckle. I used to hate my skin because I thought it was essentially transparent but over time I’ve come to appreciate it; it makes me look fragile and uncertain and forces me to exercise facial expressions I might not otherwise. Like disgust, anger, blankness, and irritation. I curl up on the ugly blue duvet I bought from Goodwill for four dollars and go to sleep almost instantly—I’ve never been the insomnia type of artist.

The next morning I realize I have no idea what to wear. I’m standing in front of my tiny closet in a matching bra and panty set (my only matching set, for the record) and I’ve got goosebumps along my arm and still no idea what to wear. A dress? Jeans and a T-shirt?

In the end I opt for yoga pants and a slim-fitting, sky-blue tank top that brings out my eyes and shows off the curve of my breasts, which swell over the top of the shirt with more playfulness than I could ever exhibit myself. Right before I leave, I line my eyes in brown eyeliner to naturally make them look fuller and larger. I don’t really know what to expect, but I want to be prepared.

I ignore the stares and ogles on the bus, as usual, as it creaks and snakes its way around the city. Occasionally I lose patience and swipe a glare over a man who’s about to miss his bus stop, or a husband who thinks his wife isn’t looking. She is, and so am I, and I don’t appreciate feeling desired and detested at the same time. I get off two blocks early just because I’m sick of feeling like it’s my fault I’m beautiful and haughty.

The office building is easy to locate and the room easy to find as well. No one stops me or interferes as I make my way up; it seems like a normal amount of people working a normal 9-5. When I enter room 412 though, I get the distinct impression that I’ve left the office building and entered another, more strange place. I don’t feel unsafe, exactly, but right when I walk in I see two massive fish tanks lining the walkway in. Tropical fish in a hue of rainbow colors swim and sway in the water as I pass, and there is a receptionist now, a young, lanky man in a blue button-up shirt that’s only a few shades darker than my tank top.

“You must be Kelly.” He smiles easily, flashing a small dimple.

“Yeah. You must be the receptionist.”

He raises an eyebrow, taking in my attire and the set of my jaw. “I’m guessing you came here on public transport.”

I raise my eyebrows in response. Who are these people?

Another man comes out of the room behind the receptionist and greets me, shaking my hand firmly. I immediately recognize this one as the one I spoke to on the phone, the way his eyes linger over my body the way mine linger over his tells me that he made an assumption about me based on my voice as well.

“If you’ll just come on back here, we’ll get the paperwork sorted and get down to business.” His eyes don’t leave mine on that last part of the sentence, which I appreciate.

I follow him, Jake, I think is who he introduced himself as, into the back room, and accept the clipboard and pen he offers me. The paper has more information about the drug I’ll be taking; apparently it’s for women who aren’t producing enough milk for their babies. The idea behind the study is to take women who aren’t currently lactating and see what degree, if any, the hormone supplement has on them so that more accurate dosages can be prescribed for lactating mothers according to their norms pre-baby. Makes sense, I suppose.

I fill out the required information and accept the drug when it’s brought in, and oral tablet that’s a violent shade of violet.

“Should take about fifteen minutes to kick in, so I’ll be back soon. If you don’t mind lying down, that will allow us to see the effects immediately once we come back in.”

“Sure.” I stretch out on the doctor’s table, breathing slowly and calmly. My chest is too big to see over without raising my head, but I feel certain that Jake cast another look at me as he exited.

After a few minutes I feel a strange sensation around my lower abdomen, like a warming in my belly after eating ramen. I take a breath and watch my chest rise and fall; everything is normal. My mouth is starting to taste a little odd; not bad at all, almost sweet. Of my own volition, I sit up, and immediately the door opens a crack.

“Kelly? Remember we need you lying down.”

I hadn’t realized the men were just standing outside and that the window must be one of those special examination windows they use for experiments. Obediently, I lie back down.

The next thing I feel is a tingling across my chest, that spreads and then settles like a soft vibrating sheet over my breasts. I swear I can feel them swelling, growing warm and hot at the same time, and just then the door opens and three men come in—Jake, the receptionist, and another man I’ve never met but I’m assuming is on the drug trial team. I give them a jaunty smile even as I internally gasp at the sight of my chest literally expanding before my eyes. The receptionist begins jotting notes frantically on his clipboard, but Jake just surveys me quietly.

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He Follows: A Hotwife Novelette

Martin woke, saw the sun streaming through the curtains and then groaned, softly, as he always did in the mornings. He felt Karen shift next to him and the warmth of her body in close proximity stirred his pulse. How wonderful it would be if they could just lie together and make love all morning and forget about everything, he thought. He shifted in bed until he was lying closer to her, the curve of her body pressing against him, and he could feel his cock stiffening, the desire rising deep inside him. If only she would wake up, push back on him, whisper something sexy to him, ask him to fuck her slowly like they used to, when they first met.

Karen shifted, gave a brief snort, and rolled away, putting cold bed space between her and her husband and resuming her light snoring.

Martin sighed. It wasn’t going to happen. It was never going to happen. Time for porridge.

As he sat in their cold kitchen, spooning unappetizing oaty slop into his mouth, he looked around the room. It was neat, spotlessly clean and immaculately tidy. He felt two pangs of guilt. The first was the old one: that he was a man who went out to work and left his wife to look after the house. It wasn’t his choice. She had wanted it that way. He knew that the women in the office, that Karen’s friends, that his own family all regarded him as some kind of 1950s tyrant, keeping her locked up in the house while he went out and enjoyed himself, but it wasn’t like that. Now, more than ever, he wished that his wife had a job. But she didn’t. She said, whenever the subject came up, that she had always wanted to be a housewife and it made her happy.

The second pang of guilt was much, much sharper. He felt it every weekday morning. In fact he felt it regularly, several times a day, but weekday mornings – working days – were when the guilt hit him particularly hard.

Martin sighed and pushed his bowl of porridge away. He looked at his watch. Upstairs he could hear the bed creaking. Sometimes he imagined that the creaking sound he heard in the mornings was Karen, touching herself, running her slender hands over her ample breasts, slipping tentative fingers between her legs, moaning softly into the pillow.

That seemed unlikely, he reflected, as he stood and picked up his car keys. Karen didn’t like sex, didn’t like to be touched. Her creaking signaled that she would soon be up and she had mentioned previously how warm and happy it made her to find he was not there when she got up, that her husband was out there early every day, working hard for them.

He crept through the house without making a sound, locked the door behind him, and set off to catch the Express Bus. As they had agreed when he took the job, seven years ago, since the city was well-served with bus links, it made no sense to sit in a car every day, waiting in traffic and wasting money on petrol and parking and so on. Money. It all came down to money in the end.

Martin walked along Alexander Grove to the corner of Napoleon Crescent. He took a short cut through Theodore Roosevelt Drive and crossed at the lights on Macarthur Terrace, before joining the queue for the bus outside the Chinese deli. For once the bus was on time and he took a seat at the back, watching the shops, the car dealerships, the offices and business parks drift by as he headed towards the centre of the city, towards the Hercules Bank, where he had a job as an assistant counter supervisor.

At the last stop before his, a young woman got onto the bus. She was in her early twenties, looked like a model, with perfectly arranged blonde hair, possibly too much make-up and an expensive outfit, including a tiny, tiny skirt. She took the seat next to Martin and her mostly bare right thigh pressed against him as she set about rummaging through her handbag. Martin closed his eyes. He could feel his cock stirring and his sex-starved imagination beginning to turn over. His mind was conjuring images of the woman next to him slipping her hand across his leg, stroking his groin, leaning over to whisper in his ear that she felt hot, and he realized that he had no way to cover the strengthening bulge in his trousers.

He opened his eyes. The woman had moved. She was sitting two rows away next to an elderly lady who was reading a large print romance novel. Martin sighed and shifted in his seat, waiting for his erection to fade.

As he did every morning, he got off outside the bookshop, headed past the furniture store and the stationery store and the pet store, strolled through the mini-mall and crossed Caesar Street, taking the direct route to the Hercules Bank building. He stopped on the other side of the street and watched. The staff had already started arriving, the counters would be manned and Janice would probably be singing a Sinatra song while Doug complained about the coffee and Jason and Shanice flirted in the kitchen. Martin smiled. Then he turned away and walked on, past the Hercules Bank and the laundromat and the computer store, towards the park cafe.

Three weeks, two days and around twenty-three hours ago, Martin had been fired from the Hercules Bank. On that fateful morning, Sheila had called him into her office, asked him how Karen was, made general chit-chat, sighed, and then explained that Head Office had made it clear that the bank had to lose one of its lower-to-middle-ranking staff. He had been there the longest, and therefore his departure would save them the most money. She thanked him for his work, apologized again and told him to be out within the hour.

Martin ordered a pumpkin spice latte and a low-fat chocolate chip muffin and carried the plate and carton to his favorite seat outside the café, with a lovely, clear view of the park. It was a crisp, autumn morning, and the pathways through the park were thronged with grey and black suited workers heading to the office. For a moment, he felt the familiar thrill. He had always wondered what it would be like not to have to head to the office every day, to be a free person, to be able to sit back and enjoy the day.

That feeling didn’t last long – it never did, as the guilt rushed in and his brain threw up the usual chain of thoughts. He would have to tell Karen. He couldn’t possibly tell Karen – it had been too long. She would divorce him. He would be homeless. He had to tell Karen. He couldn’t possibly tell Karen – it had been too long. If he were stronger, more decisive, he would walk into another bank, tell them he wanted to speak to the HR manager, sell himself, get a job, walk home, make love to his wife and, a few days later, he’d probably casually drop it into conversation that he had a new job, and that it paid more money.

A stronger, dominant, more determined Martin would have a network of influential banking friends, on whom he could call in times like this. Hell, a Martin like that would probably already have ditched the Hercules and be working as some kind of investment banking type, sitting at a flashy computer terminal, yelling buy and sell instructions into a phone, drinking champagne at lunch and heading for an early retirement to a massive estate in Maine or Connecticut.

Martin sighed. To distract himself, he took a deep glug of pumpkin spice latte and looked around the café. Focusing mindfully on your surroundings was a good way to avoid stress, he had learned at the Hercules Bank Mindfulness for Effective Workplace Action Away Day.

Two tables away he noticed a man sitting reading the Wall Street Journal. He seemed strangely out of place, this man. For one thing, he was immaculately dressed. His suit looked as though it was straight out of some designer store. His hair was perfect, he clearly worked out and his chiseled jaw and rugged face was complemented by an expensive pair of sunglasses.

Martin fought back pangs of jealousy. If he’d been born as that guy, his life would be so much easier. He would still have married Karen, of course, he loved Karen, but they’d be living a luxurious life, a life of leisure. He wouldn’t be a former assistant counter supervisor, he’d be a law firm partner or a director or a property tycoon, and his morning coffee would be a prelude to a day spent wheeling and dealing, strutting about the city as though he owned it. Hell, maybe this guy did own the city. He looked like a film star.

The other man finished reading his paper, folded it neatly, looked at his watch and then stood. Martin watched, fascinated, as he adjusted his cufflinks, straightened his tie, picked up his briefcase, casually dropped a few coins onto the table and headed off across the park.

Where would he go, a man like that? Maybe if he could see where a man like that went, how he spent his day, Martin might learn something. They say that one of the most effective ways to change your life was to hang around with people you wanted to emulate, at least, that’s what he had read in Karen’s copy of How To Be The Person You Want To Be.

A strange instinct took hold of Martin. What if he just followed along? Competing thoughts jostled for attention in Martin’s head. On the one hand, it was silly and foolish to go traipsing along after a strange man like some deranged stalker. On the other hand, at least it was something to do, something to break up the long day of wandering around the city feeling like a homeless person, wallowing in wave after wave of guilt.

Martin stood, his chair scraping across the concrete of the café floor. He left a note on the table, wiped his mouth with a napkin and hurried out of the café, into the park, following the path of the mysterious man. As he followed at a distance, he decided he ought to name the man. What kind of a name would he have? Nothing like Martin, it would be something dynamic, bold; Chad or Brad or Storm or something along those lines. No, thought Martin, it would be something less obvious; a classic name, like Joe or Tony or Jack. Yes, Jack, that was about right.

The first thing to say about Jack was that he walked quickly. In fact, he was more of a strider than a walker, and he set a good pace through the park, scything through the ranks of commuters, joggers and strollers, heading for the far side. In order to keep up, Martin had to increase his stride beyond what he was used to, and by the time Jack and he reached the other end of the park, Martin was breathing heavily and in danger of regurgitating his pumpkin spice latte and half muffin. Jack momentarily slowed his pace as he left the park, enabling Martin to catch up, but the respite was only temporary. Turning sharply to the right, he headed along Leonidas Way, past the flower sellers and the newspaper vendors and then stopped abruptly at a bus stop.

Martin was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Jack to stop there; a man like that catching a bus? Surely he would have a BMW to climb into or a chauffeur to bring his limousine round? Slowing his pace, Martin paused at the flower seller’s stall, pretending to peruse a selection of peonies. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bus approaching and Jack holding up his arm in a bold, commanding way. Martin waited until the bus was almost at the stop, then he moved swiftly, or at least, as swiftly as he was able. Two women were hurrying to catch the same bus and he allowed them to go in front of him. He hopped on behind them, showed his all-day bus travel pass and took a seat near the front of the bus. He couldn’t watch Jack from his new seat, but he was near enough to the front to jump off when the time came.

He had settled into his seat and was allowing the gentle progression of the bus ride to lull him into sleepiness when he noticed Jack striding to the front of the bus.

Martin stirred himself and tensed ready to jump out of his seat. He waited until the bus had stopped and Jack was half way through the door before propelling himself forward. As soon as he set foot on the sidewalk, he dropped to tie his laces, looking up surreptitiously to see which way Jack had gone, before resuming his trailing activity.

They were in a residential part of the city, full of three and four story apartments and Jack was marching in quick time along the sidewalk, looking up at a row of red-brick buildings as though trying to find the right one. Martin was struggling to keep up, increasing his stride beyond what was comfortable, and then, suddenly, he was obliged to come to a direct halt. Jack hopped quickly up a flight of steps to one of the buildings, buzzed the intercom and disappeared inside.

Before he had time to think, Martin had wheezed up the same stairs and squeezed through the slowly-closing door into the hallway.

The door shut behind him with an accusatory click. Martin was breathing heavily, from the exertion required to catch up to Jack and from the guilt and fear currently overloading his brain. What on earth was he doing? This wasn’t his apartment building. He shouldn’t be here.

He heard a door opening further along the hallway. Driven by curiosity, he tiptoed down the hallway just as the door closed lightly shut. He paused outside, looking left and right. There was no-one around. He pressed his ear close to the wood and could hear voices, male and female. As he leant on the door he realized that he was accidentally opening it with his shoulder.

Through the opening, he could see a man in a suit holding hands with a woman. As they walked away into another room, he saw her black nightdress slip over her curves and caught a glimpse of her naked butt. He leant a little further on the door, and it opened wide enough for him to go through, if he had the guts.

At that moment, Martin heard the door to the building opening. Panicking, he stepped quickly into the apartment and quietly closed the door behind him.

Crouching by the door, he tried not to make a sound.

From elsewhere in the apartment, he heard giggling and low conversation. He looked around. The place was beautifully decorated and on the wall were three portraits: two of a gorgeous blonde woman and one of a man. Martin frowned. He recognized that man. It was Pete, Pete, his co-worker at the Hercules. This must be his fiancee’s apartment. Rhea was her name, she came to one of the bank parties, he remembered she had been the subject of office innuendo for several days. So this mysterious man was having an affair with Rhea?

Feeling a little bolder, Martin ventured into the apartment a little further and along a corridor towards where the voices were coming from. Kneeling down, he crept towards an open door. Holding his breath, he risked a look. It was a bedroom. At the end of the bed sat Jack, his eyes closed, legs spread. He was naked to the waist and between his legs knelt Rhea. She was entirely naked and her blond ponytail bobbed up and down with a hypnotic rhythm as she worked on Jack’s cock. Martin gazed open mouthed at her perfect body, her slender waist, her smooth butt, and the dark inviting shadow between the curves of her thighs. He could feel his own cock stirring. Suddenly Jack began to groan and move on the bed, opening his eyes. Martin ducked back behind the door, holding his breath, expecting to be caught at any moment. He waited, but the door was not thrown open and he heard a new sound, a moaning and a sighing. Taking a deep breath, he risked another peek.

This time Rhea was facing the door, but her eyes were also closed. She was straddling Jack, and as she rose and fell, impaled on his cock, she was making deep guttural noises and high pitched squeals. Her breasts, full and pert, were rising and heaving as they fucked, and were glistening in the light through the window. Martin’s cock was hardening and he couldn’t resist reaching down and touching the bulge through his trousers.

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Casting Julia – A Two Book Series

This is an excerpt from book one of Casting Julia

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known that I was going to be an actress. In nearly all of the pictures my mother has framed of me in our little ranch house, I’m in the middle of delivering my lines. Looking at the pictures, I don’t really remember myself as a child; I remember the characters I played and think about what I would do differently if I were to be cast as them now.

There’s me as the Good Witch of the South in sixth grade when we did The Wizard of Oz, standing on a platform that had shuddered and shook every time I’d stepped onto it. Me as the Fairy Godmother in third grade when we put on Cinderella. My first lead, as Snow White freshman year, when I beat out all the upperclassmen. That was a weird one; there had been problems with the legalities of putting on the play and instead they’d modernized the storyline and changed the plot. I got to throw an apple at my arch nemesis every day for weeks during rehearsal, so I was really okay with it.


My mother walks into the room and takes in the scene, me hanging upside down off the edge of our faded green couch, long legs hooked over the top, short denim summer skirt riding up around my waist, hair glowing fiery red in the sunlight filtering through the front window.


She eyes my wanton position on the couch for a moment before speaking. I roll my eyes at her.

“I’m just running to the store for a few things, do you need anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” I say, sitting up and feeling the blood rush from my face.

“What are you going to do today?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I sigh, sinking back onto the couch in a pile of long, pale limbs. “There’s an audition in the city for a new crime T.V. series, I was thinking of maybe checking that out.”

“Do you want me to take you?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll get it,” I say, carefully avoiding her eye. “And it’s just a small part, so I can go when you get back.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

The front door opens and closes and then I’m alone in the house. Well, mostly. Our fluffy gray cat, Minnie, jumps up on my lap and rubs her face against my hand. I stroke her soft fur absentmindedly, watching Mom drive away in the minivan leftover from her marriage and dreams of a big family.

I get up from the couch and place Minnie on the warm impression left by my firm, little butt. She curls up happily and doesn’t think twice as I pad upstairs and begin to get my bag together for this audition that I’ve lied about so carefully to my mother.

First of all, I’ve already auditioned, and they’ve chosen me. Second, it’s not a small part. I’ll be playing the romantic interest to the boss of a big-time crime organization. The only caveat is the role itself—I’ve played shy girls before, and identify as an introvert, so that’s not a problem. The problem is that my romantic interest is into BDSM and I’m his “sub.” There’s no reason to feel guilty, I tell myself sternly as I go upstairs. You’re eighteen, and this is what comes with adult roles. Time to do your research. In my room, painted a soft lavender and covered with proof that I did indeed have a happy childhood despite also having a dad who ran out on me, I gather up the materials that I’ve been told I’ll need to become familiar with. A whip, harsh metal handcuffs. Fluffy pink handcuffs. Fluffy navy-blue handcuffs. A rather frightening-looking chain. A fake-wooden plastic stick. Black lingerie. All of this goes into my backpack and is carefully covered by a sweatshirt and script from another audition, in case Mom sees the inside of the bag for any reason. I’m dressed unassumingly in simple jean shorts and a black T-shirt, both of which emphasize the pearly paleness of my skin and blaze of red that is my hair. My disproportionately-large tits strain against the soft fabric of my T-shirt, brushing together softly as I pace impatiently, waiting for Mom to get back.

I check the address I’m looking for one more time on my phone. The message is from someone named Jacqueline who is a practicing female-dom. I found her on Craigslist, offering classes in exchange for a fee and the promise of mentioning her to other aspiring doms. I told her I need someone to teach me to be a “Sub” and she laughed, her rough voice crackling over the phone.

“Good, that seems like it will be naturally easier for you.”

I’m still not sure if I should feel offended.

The front door opens, and I take a deep breath, gathering up my backpack carefully before heading downstairs.

“Heading out?” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek as I nod. “All right, drive safe.”

In the car, I put my hair back into a simple ponytail and put on my black sunglasses. It’s a beautiful summer day and feels really strange to be following an unknown route to an unknown house, and as I get closer I get more and more nervous.

The house doesn’t look anything like I was expecting; it looks normal. Blue with white trim. Trees in the yard, lawn recently mown. I park and walk up to the door, knock hesitantly. A completely-normal looking woman answers the door. She’s in her thirties, with long, dirty-blonde hair, and sharp green eyes that appraise me casually as she invites me in.

“Nice to meet you, Heather.”

We sit in her living room, she in a simple red summer dress and me in my girl’s summer uniform. She pours me tea and hands me a cup before settling back herself.

“So, what do you want to know?”

“Ex-excuse me?” Nothing about this is beginning the way I expected. I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected, but it wasn’t drinking tea in a random woman’s home with a backpack full of miscellaneous sex items sitting quietly at my feet. Jacqueline smiles patiently.

“Darling, I knew right when you walked in that you’re the type of girl who needs a lot of lead up to the main event. You’re an actress, right? Probably takes you absolutely forever to memorize lines, but man, when you’ve got them, you’ve got them?”

My mouth falls open. How did she know, just from meeting me two minutes ago, that that’s exactly the type of actress I am? I’ve been told over and over that it will be the making or breaking of me, but never have I had anyone assess that side of me so quickly and so casually.

She smiles at my response. “First lesson: part of being a good partner in BDSM, whether it’s as a dom or a sub, is being able to read your partner, and quickly. For the record,” she added, casting her eyes over my body, “I think this director was right to cast you. You have all the equipment to be a great sub. Crime show, big bad boss side story, right?”

I nod, and finally find my voice. “I’ve played roles alongside men before, I just don’t know, exactly…” I break off and rummage in my backpack abruptly, pulling out the real script from the bottom and handing it to her so she can see a section I’ve highlighted. “How do I act this out, the right way?”

She scans the lines, brow furrowed. “You’ve had sex, right?”


She looks up at me, sharply. “But not much?”

I drop my gaze, unable to meet her tawny eyes.

“Ooookay. Well.” She rises and go to a bookshelf, but instead of books, I now see there’s tons and tons of DVDs. She withdraws six or seven and turns back to me.

“Homework for tonight.”

“We haven’t even had a lesson today!” The words spring out of my mouth before I can stop them, and she laughs outright.

“Careful dear, that’s a dom attitude right there.”

She rearranges herself back on the chair with her tea and sips contentedly.

“Before you’ll understand anything I have to teach you, you need to understand the different angles of sex. Or at least be exposed to them. Come back here tomorrow night, at eleven. Your first day shooting isn’t until Monday, right?”


“Perfect. See you later, then.”

Somehow, she’s dismissed me without moving an inch. I rise uncertainly, pull out my wallet. She waves it away. “I’m more interested in you as a project at the moment. Don’t worry about that for now.”

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Want even more?  Grab book two HERE

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.


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

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

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

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

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

“I need to inspect your hand luggage.”

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

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

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

“A body search?” The idea terrified me.

“Yes, it is routine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you please just step into that room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ethereal Emma: Blackmailed By My Husband’s Brother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks babe, see you later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t even try to speak.”

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

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

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

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

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