girl on girl

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…


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…

Lustica: The Complete Box Set (3 Books)

Hi, I’m Jasmine and I’m an accountant. That’s how I tend to introduce myself at parties. It’s one of the reasons why I haven’t been to many parties in the last five years since leaving college. No-one wants to hear about the trials and tribulations of balance sheets and revenue and cost analysis. My lack of interesting conversation topics, combined with my chronic shyness and my tendency to hide in the corner drinking red wine until it’s time to go home, means that parties were not really my natural environment.

But the last party, at Anastasia’s, changed all that. In fact, it changed everything.

Anastasia is a writer, quite a successful one. She writes fantasy and science fiction stuff. She’s won awards and there’s even talk of one of her books being made into a film, which is pretty cool. She’s promised to take me with her when she moves to LA!

I’ve known her since the first week of college. She was in the room across the hall, and she just wandered in one morning, sat on the end of my bed and introduced herself, just like that, flashing her trademark enormous, warm smile that you can’t help but feel relaxed by.

She’s pretty easy to get along with. I’m definitely not. I have issues. I’m quite fussy about what food I eat, what I wear, where we go for lunch, and I analyze everything to death. She’s the complete opposite. I’m slim and blonde and pale and she’s curvy and tanned, with flaming red hair and wicked green eyes. She’s a natural people person, as well as having a fabulous imagination. I really don’t know why she is my friend. She said that I had a fairy spirit in me, which I thought was nonsense, at least, I did until the night of that party.

Ana threw a lot of parties. This one was to celebrate finishing the second draft of her latest novel. Usually I found an excuse not to go, but this time she insisted, and the guilt was pretty intense. Worse still, it was a fancy dress party.

So I compromised. I spent three hours getting ready – which is quite quick for me – and didn’t leave my apartment until my hair was silky and immaculate, my make-up was perfect and I had tried on every dress in my wardrobe. I eventually settled on a short black outfit, one of the few I had that was in any way revealing. To balance the fact that the dress clung to my thighs and emphasized my pert butt, I wore flats and opaque tights. My plan was to pretend that I had forgotten it was fancy dress. It was not a good plan.

“No, no, no, no,” said Ana, frowning, when she answered the door. Before I could object, she took me by the hand and marched me upstairs to her bedroom. She made me sit down on the bed, amid the mess of abandoned clothes, paper, books, coffee cups and strange antique objects that filled the room, while she rifled through her wardrobe.

”There,” she said, triumphantly, holding up a sparkly green fairy costume.

“No. Way.” I said.

“This is a fancy dress party, girl, and you are not going to be the only one here who isn’t joining in with the theme.”

“But, it’s so, so, short!” I said.

She pouted a little.

“Come on, you’ve got great legs, a smoking body. What’s wrong with showing it off a little?”

“I’m not a slut!” I replied.

She sighed.

“No-one will think you’re a slut. It’s a fancy dress party, Jas, everyone is dressed up fancy. Please. For me?”

It was my turn to sigh.

“Fine,” I said and snatched the dress.

I was wrong about it being short. It was very short. Very very short. A tiny little frilly pale green skirt, a skimpy little yellow bodice that barely contained my breasts, a pair of silly little wings that fastened to the back and golden heels with long silky ribbons that looped round my legs in a criss-cross pattern. I looked, well, I looked quite good actually. I admired myself in Ana’s mirror. Not bad at all. But still, was I really going to go out there like this? Showing my bare legs, pretty much all the way to the top of my thighs?

Well, I didn’t really have a choice.

Her house was full of people. Fortunately no-one saw me slipping down the stairs and I worked my way through the throng in Ana’s hallway, grabbed a glass of red on my way and reached the relative shelter of the corner of her dining room. My plan was to stay there for the rest of the evening. That didn’t really work out. I’d only been there about five minutes when I found myself standing next to a cute guy. Our eyes met and we both smiled a little. But he didn’t speak. Desperate to break the awkward silence, I blurted out the first thing in my head.

“Hi, I’m Jasmine, I’m an accountant,” I said.

He looked at me, nodded.

“That’s…great,” he replied. “Would you excuse me?” And then he left.

I closed my eyes. This was why I don’t go to parties, I thought.

I decided that I couldn’t stay there, with all those people. I pushed my way back through the throng and into the corridor. Fumbling at the nearest door, I found myself in Ana’s study. Alone. I closed the door behind me and breathed a sigh of relief.

I looked around the room. It was full of Ana’s trademark clutter. There were papers everywhere, books, and empty pizza boxes, along with all kinds of artifacts. As I instinctively began tidying, gathering papers together, I saw a curious looking wooden carved necklace. I picked it up. It seemed to depict fairies or pixies dancing around a tree trunk, but when I looked closer and, blushing, I realized that the thing they were cavorting about was not a tree. It was an enormous, swollen, monstrous cock.

At that moment, I heard voices outside the door and the handle started to turn. Panicking, I looked around. Despite the clutter there was nothing to hide behind. My only option was the French windows. I ran over and opened them, stepping outside into the darkness and closing the windows behind me. As I did so, I heard a click. I fumbled at the handle. The doors were locked, and I was trapped, in my fairy costume, outside in the dark.

My legs were already feeling cold and I didn’t want to stay out there but the thought of going to the front door and knocking on it and having strangers gawp and stare at me and having to introduce myself all over again was too much. And then I saw her. Ana, wearing a long medieval princess gown, was hurrying across the garden, heading to the apple orchard.

I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. Looking around to see if anyone was about, I walked quickly after her. As I entered the darkness of the orchard, I felt a throbbing in my hand. I realized I was still holding the wooden necklace and for some reason it was vibrating. I put it round my neck because it was one of Ana’s things and I didn’t want to drop it and lose it in the dark.

I couldn’t see Ana, but I thought I saw movement in a row of shrubs that marked the end of the orchard. I ran through the trees to the shrubs. There was no sign of Ana, but beyond, I could hear what sounded like voices. I called her name again, but there was no response. Taking a deep breath, and closing my eyes in case they got poked by twigs or thorns, I pushed through the bushes.

I opened my eyes to find myself standing at the top of a gentle slope. The sun was out, and there was a soft gentle breeze passing over my legs and bare shoulders. Ahead of me, a little way off, was a dense, dark forest, which spread in all directions, and beyond it were snow capped mountains, gleaming in the sun.

I turned. The bushes were gone, and so was the orchard. All I could see was a high brick wall, taller than three, maybe four women. It didn’t make any sense.

“Hello little lost fairy,” said a voice nearby. I jumped with alarm and span around. I couldn’t see anyone at first, and then I looked down. A small creature, wearing a rustic tunic stood gazing up at me. He had a ruddy, almost red complexion and was beaming up at me with a sinister smile. Peaking out from the top of his mass of curly hair were the tips of what looked like horns. As I stared, open-mouthed, I watched the creature reach under his tunic, lift up the material and reveal an enormous, swollen, deep-red cock.

Continue Reading…


Showing Her Who’s Boss: Forced Lesbian Submission

*This book has been ADULT listed by Amazon.  It will only be found through my links and Author’s page.

My name is Tina Strong. I’m the CEO of GlobeCorp. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s one of the world’s fastest-growing corporations. I oversee operations that employ half a million people. I’ve been featured in Time and profiled in every business magazine in the world. My contacts book includes world leaders, billionaires, religious leaders, Hollywood producers, UN officials; I’m one of the most well-connected women in international business.

As you can imagine, I’m used to getting my own way. It’s always been like that. I guess I was quite a spoilt girl. My daddy was an oil executive and he used to give me everything I wanted. The other kids were jealous. They would call me Lady Strong. But it didn’t bother me. Yes I had advantages, but I worked damn hard, at school, at college and in business and I’ve reached the top faster than all of my peers. Want to know how I did it?

I have high expectations of myself and I apply those standards to others. I can’t stand inefficiency, incompetence or idleness. If you want to work for Tina Strong, you’ve got to be the best. I learned early on in business that you’ve got to be tough; you’ve got to dominate every meeting, every conversation. And that’s what I do. I know people call me a bitch behind my back. I don’t care. I know that I’m in charge and I am dominant in every situation, with everyone I meet.

Well, almost everyone. As with any rule there is always an exception. Let me tell you about mine.

It started about a year ago when I broke in a new personal assistant. I go through a lot of PAs. What can I say? I have high standards. A new PA doesn’t shape up, I cut them loose very quickly, and I make no apologies for that. GlobeCorp can’t afford to carry passengers. Of course, the downside of the high PA turnover is that I’ve built up a reputation among the agencies and none of them will take my calls. Fortunately, a business friend of mine, Tom, was able to recommend a PA, Maria, who had worked for him before. When I asked him on the phone what she was like, he hesitated, and then he said just one word. “Ruthless.”

I didn’t understand what Tom meant. Ruthlessness isn’t a quality that you need in a PA. He had also suggested that Maria was attractive. This didn’t bother me. I’m not jealous when it comes to other women, in fact having a stunning PA can be an asset. Most of the people I had to deal with were men, and men are always knocked off balance by hot women.

Two hours later, Maria was standing in my office. Tom had not done her justice. She was more than attractive, she was gorgeous. Shorter than me, with long, dark, silky hair, a perfect petite body, pouting lips, high cheekbones and she was wearing the shortest skirt I’ve seen in an office environment. There was also something strange about her. Every PA I’ve interviewed has been nervous in my presence, but Maria wasn’t at all nervous. She smiled throughout. In fact, it was more of a smirk than a smile. But I was busy, so I overlooked it.

It turned out that Maria’s effectiveness as a PA was in inverse proportion to her looks. I could see through my office window that there was a steady stream of men finding pretexts to come up to my floor and gawp at her. I didn’t particularly appreciate that, because rather than putting them in their place, she seemed actively to encourage it. I heard her giggling and flirting more than once but I let it go for the first day or two. That wasn’t the only thing I let go.

Maria’s phone manner was awful. The emails she sent on my behalf were poorly written and rudely addressed. She didn’t seem to know where any of the files were, and often I would have to buzz her three times before she bothered to reply. When she double-booked me for a meeting on her third day, and didn’t even apologize when I pointed out her error, I decided I would have to let her go. That evening, after I’d taken my last appointment, I buzzed her to come through into my office. There was no reply. I buzzed again, twice more. Still nothing.

Irritated, I marched through into her office, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called through to Lisa, one of the other secretaries to find out what had happened to Maria. Lisa told me that my new PA was drinking coffee with Michael, one of the sales directors. By this time I was fuming, so I marched into Michael’s office. To say he was surprised to see me was an understatement. He was sitting at his desk, but seemed slightly disheveled and had also turned a bright shade of pink.

“Oh, hi Miss Strong, I…er…can I help you?”

“Have you seen Maria?”


“My PA.”


“That’s not really true is it,” said a voice from underneath his desk. Moments later, Maria emerged, refastening the top button of her blouse and straightening her hair. Mortified, Michael began fumbling with his pants as Maria calmly walked around the desk to stand in front of me.

“My office! Now!”

“Yes boss,” said Maria, smirking and doing a little bow.

*  *  *  *

“What the hell was that?”

Maria stood at my desk. I had made her stand in front of me instead of sitting but neither that nor my tone had managed to wipe the smirk off her face.

“What was what?”

“Do you think that is acceptable behavior for a PA?”

She shrugged.

“It was fun.”

I shook my head. What the hell had Tom been thinking? Actually, as soon as I thought about it, it was obvious that Tom hadn’t been thinking at all, at least not with his brain.

”I’m going to fire you, Maria, but before I do that, I’m going to set you straight on a few things.”

“No you’re not,” she said, and tilted her head, smiling at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not going to fire me.”

“Who do you think you are girl?”

She smirked again.

“Someone who knows. About George.”

“George? I don’t know any George?”

“George Markham.”

George Markham. My God! How did she know about George Markham. I don’t have many regrets in my life, but that was one.

I should explain. George is, was, one of my father’s business associates, a very wealthy man, who made his money from shrewd investments and buyouts. I was in college and struggling. My father always said that when it came to college, I had to learn how to budget and survive on my own. It was an essential component to being successful in business. Of course, I didn’t take it seriously. I spent all my money on parties, on maintaining my pre-college lifestyle and when I went back to him for a loan, he refused to help.

That’s where George came in. I guess it was a sort of business relationship, though I didn’t like to think of it like that. He would pick me up outside the college, we’d go to a hotel or sometimes to one of his apartments and he would fuck me. He was a kind man, but he had a few kinks, a few fetishes. He liked me to dress up as a schoolgirl or a maid. Sometimes he tied me up and spanked me with a paddle. Fortunately our sessions never lasted long, because he could never hold himself back. I guess I can see that. The hot eighteen year old daughter he had been lusting after for months was suddenly lying on his bed dressed as a slutty schoolgirl.

It only lasted for the first year in college. I cut him off after that, sorted myself out and never looked back. I had assumed I would never hear that name again, particularly after he passed away through a heart attack at the age of 72. But now he was back. How the hell did she know?

“Let’s not waste any time,” she said. “Check your email.”


“You are going to want to check it, believe me.”

Irritated, I flicked up my email on my phone. There was a new message, from Maria. It had a video attachment. With a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach, I opened the video. The footage was grainy at first, then the light improved and I gasped. It was me. I was lying, naked on the bed, then George, also naked, came into shot. He climbed up on the bed and began to kiss me. I snapped my phone shut.

“How the hell did you get that?”

Maria smiled, stepped closer and perched on the edge of the desk.

“Never mind how I got it. I’ve got photos too.”

“What do you want?”

Maria leaned across the desk. Her glistening lips were close to mine and her perfume was a mixture of expensive flowers and a musty lingering scent that I took to be Michael. I thought for one moment that she was going to kiss me. Instead she smiled again.

“You will come to my apartment tonight at ten.”

“No I won’t.”

Maria shook her head and slipped off my desk.

“Oh yes you will,” she said and wandered out of my office. I watched her slink away, her hips swaying, temporarily paralyzed with fear and anger. What was this sensation? For the first time in my life, I was not in control. And it was terrifying.

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Coach Kennedy: Forced Lesbian Submission

My name is Marcia Deacon. Remember that name, because you’ll be hearing from me very soon. This season I’m playing for one of the biggest teams in NCAA basketball and after that I’m going to be tearing up the WNBA. I’m going to be huge.

I sound really arrogant, don’t I? Good. That’s because I am. My arrogance is the best kind though, the kind that’s based on talent. Oh yeah, a lot of the girls in the game hate me. Well you know what they say about haters, don’t you. I tell people I’m good, because I’m good. Really good. I doubt if you’ve seen a player like me in the women’s game in your whole life.

I didn’t always talk this way. In fact, not so long ago I was pretty different. I guess I’ve come a long way in just a few months. And I have one woman to thank.

*  *  *  *

I was always naturally gifted. I started playing on my driveway. At the age of seven I was the best player in my street. By the age of ten, I was the best in my school and by the age of sixteen, I was the best in the state. The sport has always come naturally to me. I’m 5’8” and kind of gangly and uncoordinated and clumsy too. I’m like one of those creatures that only comes alive in one environment. Put me on a date or working in a restaurant or tidying my room and I’m hopeless. I break things, I fall over, I tread on people’s toes. But get me on a court and I come alive. Dribbling, passing, shooting; I had it all, and I could hold my own in the paint too.

I held the school and state scoring records every year right up to eleventh grade. My form fell off a bit that year, and at the time I didn’t really know why. I was still the best player on the varsity team, but I was missing a few shots and didn’t feel quite right out there. Still, no-one thought it would last and when my senior year rolled round, I was ready to go again.

Senior year. New challenges, new opportunities and a new coach. Coach Kennedy. She was a last minute deal, a replacement for old Coach Connor, who’d retired the previous spring. We’d heard rumors; that she was tough, that she used to beat up her students, that she was totally lesbian, but no-one really took it seriously, that is, until our first session.

We were all gathered in the hall, ready for practice when the door slammed open and Coach Kennedy walked in. Strode in, would be a more accurate assessment. She was tall, tanned with bright blonde hair tied back in a fiercely tight ponytail. Tight was probably the best word to describe her. Tight hair, tight body, tight little shorts, tight tee.

“Right then ladies, let me tell you something about yourselves. I gather you think you’re good. Well let me explain exactly why everything you have achieved so far is worthless.”

And that’s what she did. She stood on the spot, like a cross between a super model and a Marines drill sergeant and told us all how useless we were, how fat, how slow, how lazy, how weak and how pathetic we were. Then she told us that the only way she believed in was total obedience. We were to do exactly what she said, when she said it and anyone who disagreed would be off the team. When she’d finished, she looked at us all and shook her head.

Things didn’t get any better. Training was horrible. Endless, punishing physical endurance work, push-ups and forfeits if we missed a shot and a constant stream of shouting and abuse and more shouting. By the time of the first game, we were on the brink of breaking down.

We lost our first game 85-60. We lost our next two, by increasing margins. By the time we were 0-5 and staring at the worst season in the school’s history, the girls decided that someone had to confront her and they decided that it had to be me.

“No way!” I said.

“But you’re the best player on the team,” said Hannah.

“You have to do it,” said CC. “If you don’t this season is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s already a disaster,” I said. “Confronting her won’t make any difference.”

I looked up. All the other girls were looking at me. I could see the desperation in their eyes. I wasn’t the only one with ambitions, and even those girls who wouldn’t go far in college ball still wanted to end their senior year on a winning team. They would only get one shot at this, after all.

I sighed.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

The truth was, I was terrified, and I didn’t feel any less terrified when, half an hour later, I stood in Coach Kennedy’s office, waiting for her to finish on her computer.

“Right. Deacon. What do you want?”

“I…that is…”

“Get on with it, girl, I’m busy.”

“I…me and the girls, the team, we…well we don’t think it’s working and we…”

My voice trailed off as she glared, icily at me. There was a silence, which lasted about thirty seconds. Then she stood up, suddenly and I flinched.

“I’ve finished here today,” she said. “Are you ready to go.”

“I…er yes.”

“Good. I will give you a lift to my house. We can talk more about your concerns there.”


It didn’t really feel right but I kind of felt obliged to go with her. I mean I had started the conversation and anyway she had the tone of voice that you don’t argue with.

She didn’t talk at all as we drove to her house, which was in the wealthy Green Acres suburb. In fact, her house was more of a mansion. She showed me into a huge reception area, and then through the biggest living room your’ve ever seen, through a big kitchen and then opened another door. As I stepped through the door, there was the sound of lights going on and I found myself standing on the edge of a court.

“You have a court in your house?”

“Of course.”

I looked around in wonder. It wasn’t as big as the school court, but it was cleaner and professional looking and even had benches along the side.

“I have a reputation for finding young talent and team owners pay me well for it. I work hard, and if you work hard, you get the rewards.”

Back in the living room, still thinking about the court, I sat on one of her leather sofas and tried to compose the speech I was going to make. I was still thinking about it when she thrust a drink into my hand.

“Drink this,” she said, “It’s an energy drink. Replenishes what’s important.”

I looked at the fizzing green juice which didn’t seem particularly wholesome but she was standing over me so I drank it in three gulps.

“Good girl,” she said, smiling.

I didn’t like her smile, mainly because I had never seen it before and it was kind of sinister. I didn’t have long to think about it though because not long after I felt the juice slide down my throat, the room began to spin, and the light faded. My eyelids began to feel incredibly heavy and I wanted nothing more at that moment to lie down, put my head on her cool leather sofa and sleep.

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Full Body Search (Forced Lesbian Submission)

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

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

Excerpt from Full Body Search:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”

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


“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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Trailer Park Girl (Forced Lesbian Submission) Excerpt

People often say, when they’ve done something dramatic or reckless that they didn’t know they had it in them. Sometimes it happens that way. You think you’re one kind of person then you end up in a situation that you didn’t expect and you shock yourself.

That’s what happened to me. I’ve changed. Boy how I’ve changed! The woman I am today is not the woman I used to be. And it was all down to one person, one time, one place. Her name was Billie. The time was about a year ago. The place? A small town just outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

I’m Karen, and I was born, raised and destined to forever remain in Omaha, Nebraska. My Dad owns the second or third biggest chain of carpet wholesalers in the mid-West, so when I got my business degree it was kind of inevitable I would go into the family business. I’d sit in on meetings, I’d make snotty phone calls on my Dad’s behalf, and sometimes I’d travel across the country to sign things.

I will be honest. I was unbearable. I was rude, I never apologized, I treated all of Dad’s employees like dirt, and I pretty much got everything I wanted. I was also bored, utterly bored. I lived at home and I rarely went out. My parents had been picky about the friends I made at school, and by the time I was at college, I’d become the kind of person you wouldn’t want to spend time with anyway: judgmental, rude, demanding, selfish and completely oblivious to other people’s feelings.

Oh and then there was Brian. My fiancée. The Methodist minister who thought that the no-sex before marriage rule extended up to and including touching. We kissed, occasionally, but most of the time he talked about the church. He talked, I listened and I tried to appear attentive. My parents loved him, the whole neighborhood loved him; he was the darling of Omaha. I was going to marry Brian, and spend all day every day baking, looking after our children and doing dutiful church things.

So yes, looking back, although I was undoubtedly a stuck-up, uptight, prissy little thing, I was, deep down, bored. Some days I was so bored I wanted to scream, usually while I was sitting in our dining room listening to Brian talking about the church.

Like I said, one of my jobs, probably to give me something to do, was to travel to other parts of the country, sign things or sit in on meetings. It was dull, but it got me out of Omaha, and whenever I could, I would drive at least part of the way. I loved to drive, loved the feeling of complete freedom that came with hitting the freeway and letting rip.

Last summer, my Dad was doing business with a company in Mississippi. It was something to do with imported carpet materials or vinyl squares, I really don’t remember. But it meant I had to go to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, listen to a presentation, make notes and shake hands. The company wanted our business, so it was up to them to impress me, not the other way round. I guess if diplomacy was called for, he wouldn’t have sent me!

I took a flight to Jackson and picked up the hire car, a Mercedes. Having complained about the color of the interior and argued my way to a discount that I didn’t need, I headed out on the road to Hattiesburg. It was an easy drive all the way down, that is, it would have been if I hadn’t turned off too early and ended up on a country road. It took me a mile or two until I realized I had gone the wrong way, but the Sat Nav was still pointing me down this road so I carried on. The road got narrower and dustier and there was nothing but parched looking trees in all directions, so eventually, I pulled over and restarted the Sat Nav.

“Perform a 180 degree turn and rejoin 49.”

I screamed in frustration and started up the engine. There was only a scraping sound.  tried it three times but with no joy, and then, because it was always my instinct in such circumstances, I banged my fists on the steering wheel repeatedly. That didn’t help.

So I called the hire car company. They asked me to tell them where I’d broken down but I couldn’t, not exactly, and I recognized the woman I was speaking to as the receptionist I had been rude too earlier. She was laughing as she hung up. I was just about to scream again in frustration when I saw an elderly couple walking along the track towards me. I sighed and got out of the car as they approached.

“Morning dear,” said the woman.

“I broke down,” I said, ignoring her greeting. “I need help to get to Hattiesburg.”

“We’re just on our way to church, young lady,” she said.

“Great. I need to get to Hattiesburg.”

“Oh well Hattiesburg’s that way,” said the man, grinning.

“I know that,” I said through gritted teeth, “How am I going to get there?”

“Well if you broke down, you need Billie.”

“Who is Billie?”

“Billie fixes all the cars round here.”

I sighed.

“Fine. What’s Billie’s number.”

“I’ll call for you,” said the man, fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone. When he finally extracted it, it was the oldest phone you can ever imagine, like seriously, from 1994 or something. He dialed and then had some kind of bizarre conversation that I couldn’t follow properly because of his accent, while his wife looked on grinning.

“Billie’s coming,” he announced, triumphantly.

“How long?” I asked.

“Be about twenny minutes,” he said.

“But I have to get to Hattiesburg in the next half an hour. I have a meeting.”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin, “I reckon you’re gunna be late.”

I closed my eyes in frustration.

“Goodbye now,” said the elderly woman, still smiling, and they shuffled on into the dust. I slumped back against the car and sighed again.

Turned out I didn’t have to wait that long for Billie. About ten minutes later a red pick up trundled down the track. The door opened and out stepped Billie. Billie was wearing a red cap, a red lumberjack shirt, jean shorts, and had long, tanned, smooth gleaming legs. As Billie walked closer, I could make out the tail of a tattoo snaking a little way down her thigh.

“How are you Miss,” said Billie.

I looked at her. She was a little taller than me, she had the tanned skin you get from a life spent outdoors and shoulder length dark curls, bleached at the ends, tumbled from under her cap. It was just my luck to get the woman mechanic. In Nebraska, we generally learn that there are some things a woman can do and some things a man can do and I didn’t have time to indulge in political correctness.

“Can you fix my car?”

Billie looked me up and down. Then she smiled.

“Sure. Ah can fix pretty much anything.”

I shrugged.

She brushed past me and I caught a sent of roses and oil that was pungent but sweet and lingered around my nostrils. Billie tried to start the car. Then she cranked the hood and sauntered round to have a look at it. After a couple of minutes during which time I gazed forlornly at the dust, she waved me over.

“See that there?” she said. She was bent over and her tight shorts were bulging with the round of her ass. I tried not to look at it.


“Your oil tank’s empty. Jammed up completely. Must’a sprung a leak somewhere.”

“That’s impossible,” I replied, “I only hired it this morning.”

“Well, they borrowed you a wrong ‘un,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands on her jeans. The taught blue denim was smeared with black oil prints. I think I may have shuddered at the sight.

“How long will it take you to fix it?”

She shrugged.

“I guess three or four hours.”

“I need to be in Hattiesburg in twenty minutes!”

She slammed the hood down and the sound made me start.

“Well that ain’t happening.”

She stood in the dust, altogether too close to me for my liking. I was conscious how weak and weedy I looked, in my pastel cardigan, my prissy blouse, my pale violet skirt and heels that were already picking up dust.

“But don’t worry. Ahll be done quick as I can. Hop into the car an ahll tow yer.”

I think I may have pouted a little as I stood there, but Billie was already walking back to the tow truck. So I sat in the front seat of my hire car, sulking. After a few minutes of fiddling with ropes and cables, she gave me a thumbs up and I sneered back at her as I watched her preposterous ass in those ridiculous little shorts wiggle back to her cab.

We set off down the dusty track, then we turned a corner onto an even dustier, bumpier track. The car was jolting along and at every lurch I swore under my breath, because, well I wasn’t the sort of girl to swear out loud. After several long minutes of this we pulled up outside the most ramshackle garage you’ve ever seen. The courtyard merged with the road, and there were weeds everywhere. Five cars in various states of repair were parked in a chaotic arrangement next to a rickety looking building. Off on one side was a garage, the doors of which were wide open, showing an interior that was a mess of parts and junk. Billie was already unhooking the car.

“You can wait in the office if you like,” she said, without looking at me.

I didn’t have much choice. I stepped out of the car into the midday heat and walked with some trepidation to the office. As soon as I entered I was met with an unholy stench of oil and coffee and sweat. There appeared to be three rooms in the place: a tiny cramped office with a rickety chair and table, a slightly bigger room with three threadbare, filthy armchairs and an unspeakably vile toilet.  I was still standing, aghast, when Billie came in.

“You wanna take a seat, Miss,” she said, smiling at me.

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t sit on those!”

“What’s wrong with em?”

“They’re filthy! Seriously, don’t you have anywhere for customers to wait that isn’t like something out of a hillbilly horror movie. I mean, really. Customer service anyone!”

Billie looked at me while I gave my little speech. This sort of thing usually worked in most places, from hotels to gyms, but it didn’t seem to work with Billie. She stood without saying anything, arms folded, but when I’d finished talking, she smiled.

“Yeah sure. I got a better place,” she said brightly.

“Well that’s more like it, I thought. Elitism never failed.

“Just follow me,” she said.

She walked to the back of the office and opened a wooden door onto what appeared to be an overgrown back yard. I followed her along a dirt track through grass that was strewn with rusted car parts and debris. My heels were wobbling with every step and I swore I could already feel insects biting at my bare ankles. Eventually we rounded a corner in the edge of the forest and stood in front of a ramshackle wooden cabin.

“Is this it?” I asked.

“Sure is. Why don’t you judge it from the inside?”

I shook my head and followed her inside. It was at least clean. Off to the left was a kind of living room with a couple of wooden chairs and a table.

“You can wait here if you like.”

“Fine,” I sighed, “but I expect a discount. And I want a glass of water.”

“Sure, missy. I’ll get that for you.”

I looked around the place, forlornly. Was I really going to have to wait here for three hours. It was like a nightmare.

“There you go,” she said. I turned round to see Billie pointing a gun at me.

My blood ran cold. I suddenly realized what was happening. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere. I was driving a Mercedes. Of course she was going to rob me.

“What do you want? I don’t have any money on me.”

Billie smiled.

“Oh I don’t want nothing like that honey,” she said. “Now put this on.”

She handed me something. It had a black strap with a pink rubber ball attached.

“What is this?”

“It’s a gag. You put it round your head and fasten it at the back. Now put it on.”

“You want me to put this on? Why?”

“Because even though this is the middle of nowhere and ain’t nobody gun hear you if you start screaming, if I have to hear your goddam whiny Mid West voice any more I swear I’m gonna go batshit crazy.”

Whiny? I didn’t even have an accent!

The gun was lifted straight at me. I could clearly see the rim of the barrel.

“Put. It. On.”

My hands were shaking a little as I fumbled with the gag, but I managed to fasten the buckle behind my head. The ball felt enormous in my mouth and the strap was squeezing my head because Id fastened it too tight. My mind was leaping ahead as the situation caught up with me. She could just shoot me. My handbag was in the car. She could take the Mercedes. The situation was catching up with me.

Still, Billie didn’t seem to be in a hurry. She walked around behind me. Then, out of nowhere, I felt her fingers in my hair.

“You’re pretty. You’re an uptight pain in the ass, but you got a pretty face. And a cute body. I like you.”

That was weird, I thought.

It got weirder. I felt her breathing close to my ear, and then, suddenly, I felt her hand on my ass, squeezing, stroking. She took her hand away, then a second later, I felt a stinging slap on my right ass cheek. I yelped through my gag. I was more terrified than when I thought she was going to shoot me.

“Please,” I tried to say, repeatedly. “I’m not a lesbian. I’m not a lesbian. I’m engaged.”

Of course, all of this wasted and turned into random noise by the gag. Billie was still standing behind me. I felt her ample breasts pushing into my back and I looked down with horror to see her hands stroking and squeezing my thighs through my skirt, sliding up slow.

I was horrified. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I tried to pull away.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “You ain’t going nowhere.” She held me tight with her left hand and in her right hand appeared a length of rope. I realized that she must have put the gun down but I was too slow to react and anyway she was much stronger and taller than me. She wound the thin rope around my wrists with expertise and tied it tight, so the rough material dug into my skin.


She wandered round in front of me and stood there for a while, tilting her head to one side like she was admiring a sculpture she’d just made. The heat and the fear were getting to me and with my hands tied in front of me it was harder to balance in my heels, so I swayed a little as I stood. Then, she pulled off her red cap. Her hair was released, and for a second I completely forgot my situation, because her hair was so beautiful wavy and rich and dark, like curls of chocolate dipped in ginger.

“Now what could we do with you? I bet you got a rich daddy, ain’t you. Maybe ah could get rich off a girl like you.”

She walked over towards me again and I tensed up. Her face was close to mine now. I could feel her hot, sweet breath close to me, see her sun-burnt, freckled skin, her clear blue eyes, her perfect nose and lush lips.

I felt her fingers brush across my blouse, and beneath I could feel my nipples stir. Oh God no! I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to apologize for the blasphemy. Her fingers didn’t stop, then I felt an increase of tension in my chest before a sudden release. I opened my eyes in alarm to see that she was unfastening my blouse.

“No! Please! No!” I urged but I couldn’t make myself heard through the gag.

My blouse was wide open now, all but the last two buttons. With both hands, she began to squeeze my breasts. At the first squeeze, I yelped and tried to wriggle free but it was hopeless. She squeezed and kneaded me hard through my flimsy white lace bra. I could feel my nipples hardening, but I told myself that was just involuntary, that it meant nothing.

Her face was close to mine now and as her lips drew closer, I closed my eyes. I thought somehow, if my eyes were closed, this wouldn’t be happening…..

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