short stories

Holiday Deals On Erotica! 4 New Bundles!

ALL BUNDLES WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR $2.99 ON AMAZON UNTIL CHRISTMAS.  THAT’S HALF THE PRICE YOU WOULD PAY REGULARLY.

Happy Holidays!  I’ve got 4 NEW BUNDLES that are sure to get you HOT & BOTHERED during the holiday season…

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

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Looking for HOT GIRL ON GIRL ACTION with shades of grey?

This 7 book 200 plus page bundle contains:  Scared Unstraight, Trailer Park Girl, Full Body Search, Coach Kennedy, The Queen’s Concubine, Her Pleasure Slave & Showing Her Who’s Boss

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Milked: 19 Books Of Cream

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More than a mouthful… 

19 books and over 330 pages that is sure to quench your thirst.

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Big & Black: 11 Books Of Interracial Black Men White Women Erotica

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Sometimes a white housewife needs something a bit BIGGER & BLACKER…

11 books and over 250 pages of white wives being ravished  by black studs.

Stories included: Big Black Cop, Big Black Bachelorette Party, Big Black Boss, Big Black Massage, Big Black Boxer, Big Black Christmas Present, The Plantation Owner’s Wife, Underground Submission, Home Invasion 1 & 2, & Blackmaled.

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Monster Erotica Unlimited: 14 Books Of Beasts, Ogres, Spirits, Demons & More

MonsterEroticaUnlim

Bigfoot, Ogres, Minotaurs, Demons & more..

This 14 book 325 page bundle will make scream with terror as well as pleasure.

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Beast Me: Forceful Phantom (Monster Erotica)

Let’s be clear. I hate Halloween.

Oh I know what you’re thinking. How can you not like Halloween? When I tell people, they look at me like I’m stupid, like I’m a freak, or a heretic.

“Isn’t that, like, sacrilegious or something?” said Kitty when I told her back in my freshman year. Yes, I know, Kitty isn’t the brightest, but she’s a good friend, one of my closest, and one of the few sane people at this stuck-up, stuffy college.

But she’s wrong about Halloween. I hate it. I hate the dressing up, I hate the whole paraphernalia of the costumes and the parties and the invites and the build-up. I hate that whole thing about being forced to go through the same rituals as everyone else and pretending that you’re having a good time while you’re standing in a corner dressed as Catwoman being inexpertly groped by a vampire Abraham Lincoln. Okay, maybe that’s a very specific complaint, but it was just one of my many depressing Halloween experiences.

All of which probably explains why fate decreed that I should go through the most intense, most incredible, most intense Halloween ordeal that anyone has ever experienced ever. Maybe I exaggerate, but not much. It’s like one of those cheesy Christmas movies, where the grouchy Christmas hater is forced by a series of emotionally charged but unlikely events to embrace the true meaning of the holiday. Well I don’t know if I learned the true meaning of Halloween but hell did I learn a few things!

It started the day before Halloween last year.

Well technically, it started fifty years before that, when the St James Hospital for the Elderly was finally closed to the public following the murder of one of its patients, George Avalon.

Where am I going with this? Well Allie could fill you in, if you met her. Allie is my other closest friend and she’s majoring in History. Allie is super smart, but she has two flaws. The first is that she flirts with anyone and doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Seriously, the girl has a problem. And the second is that when she learns something she has to tell us all about it.

So that’s how we all learned about the death of George Avalon. He was an elderly man who was supposedly killed by a nurse at the hospital. According to Allie, there was one newspaper report that said the two were having what the reporter described as ‘intimate relations’ when she killed him. There was even a rumor that Mr Avalon still had an erection when the police found his body. Allie had been banging on about the Avalon case and the hospital for months. She even said she was going to write a paper on it.

“Seriously, Soph, it has everything: sex, murder, detective work, history and the paranormal.”

The paranormal? Oh yes, because George Avalon was doubly unlucky. Not only was he killed by a homicidal nurse, he also had the misfortune to pass away on Halloween, thus ensuring his death would forever more be dragged up as topic of conversation at this time of year by locals, history buffs and weird college girls who really had to get out more. And, inevitably, there are people, people like Allie, who keenly relate the tale that George Avalon’s ghost haunts the corridors of the abandoned hospital on October 31st every year.

Since the death of Mr Avalon, the hospital had been decaying quietly on the edge of town for about fifty years. I’d passed it occasionally, when going back home at holidays, and admittedly, it always looked creepy: a greyish green ruin in the middle of wasteland, with gaps in its boarded up windows and a general air of rot.

Anyway, two days before last Halloween, we were debating where to go while sitting in Allie’s cramped room. I, as usual, didn’t want to go anywhere. They both wanted to go to various boring campus parties. So, in a spirit of friendship, I offered to compromise. I said I would go anywhere, but not to a normal Halloween party. As soon as I’d said it, I regretted it.

“Oh, I know, let’s spend the night in the hospital!” said Allie, with obvious delight. Kitty, who loves ghost stories, practically squealed with delight and I knew right then that I’d lost the battle. Kitty is so sweet that neither of us would ever want to disappoint her and anyway, I’d offered to accept a compromise and this was it.

So it was that on the night of Halloween, a sexy vampire, a sexy devil girl with a tiny little red dress and Catwoman caught a taxi to the edge of town and walked along the abandoned, leaf-strewn track that led to the fence around the abandoned St James Hospital.

“It looks creepy,” I said as we stood at the fence. The abundance of signs saying things like ‘Stay Out’ and ‘Enter At Your Own Risk’ were not exactly encouraging either.

“Don’t be such a baby,” said Allie.

“It will be fun,” said Kitty.

I sighed and followed as the two of them clambered up the fence and then helped me up, hauling me to the top before we all dropped to the other side. The whole site was full of rubble and leaves and refuse and we trod carefully as we walked – well as carefully as possible for a trio of girls who’ve already shared two bottles of Merlot between them.

“This is so fucking creepy,” I said, as we drew near to the entrance. This time, Kitty said nothing and hung back as Allie took a closer look at the door.

“It’s okay,” she said, “I think I can open it.”

She was right. With a little force, the double doors of St James Hospital, one of which was hanging sickeningly from its hinges, gave way enough to let people enter.

“Come on!” said Allie, slipping through. We saw the light of her flashlight blink on as she went inside. I looked at Kitty who looked back at me. I shrugged.

“She does have the only flashlight,” she said.

Kitty squeezed through next and I followed. Inside, Allie was already flitting around, shining the flashlight into every nook and cranny, squealing with the delight of the historian as she discovered a genuine 1960s filing cabinet and an authentic 1960s floor tile. Meanwhile Kitty and I hung back a little, looking around us. Kitty’s red dress looked particularly flimsy and there was an unpleasant and frankly eerie draft in the place.

“Come on you guys, don’t just stand there. We’ve got to go and look around.”

”Do we have to?” said Kitty.

“Yes,” said Allie. “Don’t you want to find the room?”

“What room?” I asked.

“The room where George Avalon was killed, of course. The place where the nurse strangled him with her own pantyhose.”

“She did not!” said Kitty

Allie shrugged.

“That was one of the rumors.”

“I don’t know, Allie, it’s a bit too scary and dark here.”

“Oh come on you guys, we haven’t come this far just to turn back.”

“I guess,” said Kitty.

“Besides, I’ve got the flashlight. We’ll be fine,” said Allie, leading the way. Kitty and I followed her reluctantly as she headed towards a door at the back of the abandoned reception area. The door led into a corridor that was even more eerie and spooky than the room we’d left. Allie’s flashlight helped bring a little illumination but it also cast strange, unusual shadows on the wall as we walked, which didn’t help us to feel any calmer.

“I wonder which room it was,” said Kitty, absently.

”Oh I know that. It was room twenty-seven. I remember it clearly,” said Allie. Then she gave a little shriek that made Kitty start and grab my arm.

“Don’t do that!” I said to Allie.

“This is room twenty-four. We must be close.”

“Great,” I said, Kitty was hanging onto my arm tightly but I didn’t mind, in fact, I felt like hugging her tightly and not letting go until the morning. But to Allie’s disappointment, it turned out that there were no more rooms in that corridor, just an empty storage closet. Eventually the corridor made a sharp left turn and there were yet more rooms.

“Hey, come and look at this,” said Allie.

“I don’t care,” I said, “Can we go now?”

Kitty slid her arm out of mine and I could sense, though I could not see, that she was doing one of her pouty expressions that were the closest she came to appearing cross.

“You can be a real downer sometimes, Soph,” she said, “Allie’s just very enthusiastic.”

“Whatever,” I said. Kitty walked over to Allie who was standing at the next door along, around two feet to my left, studying some faded sign on the wall. I let them get on with it and leant with my back against a locked door. My eyes were adjusting a little to the lack of light and I was sure that on the door opposite I could make out a number twenty-six. I turned to tell the others but they weren’t there. Allie and Kitty had gone. They had completely disappeared.

“Kitty?” I said, in a whisper. “Allie?” There was no reply. “Oh come on, stop messing around!”

My voice echoed through the dark corridor and bounced back at me from the rotting walls. I recoiled a little at how loud it was. Where were they? They couldn’t have just disappeared, so they must be hiding, but if it was a joke, it was not funny.

As I stood there, against the locked door, trying to calm my rising panic and tell myself that there was nothing to worry about, I heard a distant noise. It sounded far off, a kind of shuffling, maybe a rat, or maybe a college girl hiding and trying to stay quiet.

“Kitty?”

The shuffling stopped.

“Kitty, is that you? If you’re there guys, this isn’t funny.”

I listened as my voice died away in the corridor. There was nothing, no reply, no sound, apart from a distant murmuring. The murmuring grew steadily louder as I listened and began to change subtly into a moaning and groaning sound, a mess of noises, some of which were animal, some human, and some unearthly. The sounds began to get stronger and closer and there was a strange scrabbling, scraping that seemed to be coming along the corridor towards me. I pressed myself against the door, too terrified to move, trying to quiet my breath as the scuffling and moaning grew closer and closer. Something snapped in my mind. I had to escape. Squealing pathetically I tried frantically to open the door I was leaning against, rattling at the handle and bashing my shoulder against it over and over to make it open.

Eventually, with one final crash, the door caved in and I fell inside, stumbling and scrabbling across the floor in the dirt and leaves and dust. There was nothing to hide behind, just a tatty old iron bed-frame in the other corner of the room, so wailing a little, I scrambled into the corner of the room and pressed myself against the wall. I hunched my legs up to my chest, feeling so exposed and silly in my clingy Catwoman costume.

The moaning and sighing and scraping grew louder and there was an eerie whistling sound. I was so terrified I could hardly speak. As the noise grew to a deafening volume, a bright white light shone in the corridor outside the room. Kitty and Allie! I breathed heavily with relief.

“Guys, thank God. I was so scared, I…”

The door to the room was flung open, light flooded in and, eyes wide in terror, I screamed. What I saw was like nothing I had ever seen before…

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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.”

“Oh…well….I…”

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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Underground Submission: A Historical Interracial Menage

It was one of those storms that made the floorboards creak in sympathy for the roof and the windows, straining to hold the framework of the house upright against the gales of wind and torrents of rain that pummeled it mercilessly.

“Annemarie?”

I look up from where I’m trying to patch a hole in my husband’s breeches by the flickering candlelight of a tired flame, and see the culprit himself, young, clean shaven, and handsome, come into the room. He drapes one of the many blankets I’ve crocheted over my shoulders, planting a kiss on my head as he does so.

“Are you all right in here all by yourself? You should come to bed soon.”

I feel the usual flicker of annoyance that he gives me whenever he tries to be concerned and attentive; I am the oldest of five, all girls, and am accustomed to giving the orders and recommendations more than taking them. My mother warned me that this could make my marriage hazardous and unpleasant if I didn’t learn to curb my impulses, but indeed, that’s why I’ve come out here in the first place—to get away from my handsome, wealthy husband who annoys me so frequently with his idle chatter and unsatisfying attempts to care for me. If you really want to help, I want to tell him, you could offer to help me with the household chores once in a while, or take an interest in the house accounts. But these feel like impulsive things to say, the way they rise up inside me and press against the inside of my lips, so instead I say nothing at all. Of course, I know there’s another reason he wants me to come to bed early.

The wedding was a beautiful spectacle, as we rural Ohioans are wont to have. My family, ecstatic that not only was their oldest daughter marrying but marrying well, drank deeply, while George’s family sipped from fluted glasses and looked at my figure, swaying tipsily beneath the layers of white, to reassure themselves that if their son hadn’t married the richest he could, he had, at the very least, married the most beautifully.

My mother did my hair, long and startlingly black, herself, painstakingly organizing the wild curls and swooping it up and around my head like a nest of interconnected crowns. My eyes blazed an eerie blue against my pale, creamy skin, and the effect truly was mesmerizing on our guests; I thought George was going to fall over when I entered the little church and turned at the top of the aisle to begin my walk toward him. Only his little brother seemed unimpressed, already married to an elegant blonde woman whose bright brown eyes followed me curiously long after I’d passed their pew on my walk to the altar. They live just down the street from us now, Mary and Johnathon. The brothers run a successful general store in the middle of our small town, Mt. Vernon, and Mary and I are still settling into co-managing the store when our husbands aren’t there—I’m not used to deferring to another woman (besides my own mother).

The fire crackles on our hearth as I lose myself in these moody thoughts, wrapping the light-blue blanket around my thin figure. I am tired, and I do want to get out of this uncomfortable dress with all its petticoats and heavy layers. I flick my slippers off and play with the material absentmindedly as George sits own in the rocking chair opposite me with a barely audible sigh. I repress my own; maybe if he was half as proactive in bed as he was about trying to get me in it, I would be more eager to go. I upheld the expectation on my end—I was, technically, a virgin on our wedding night. But like any other arrangement, the success of our marriage lies in the technicalities, and my mother has also told me to let him take the lead between the sheets.

“Yes, he chose you, but you also chose him,” she told me sternly the first afternoon we took our afternoon tea together both as married women. “Now you need to either make do with who you have or find another outlet.”

I’d raised my eyebrows at her, shocked. “Mother…”

She’d waved her hand, her still-beautiful face open and warm with honesty for me, her favorite daughter. “Sweetheart, times may change, but some things never do. The world will tell you that there are expectations and boundaries that you must conform to, but really all anyone expects is appearances. Never forget that.” She’d paused and I’d interjected, sarcastically, “So you’re advising me to keep an underground railroad of husbands, per say?” Her eyes flashed green-blue the way they do when she gets passionate about something. “I’m advising you to always remember that women have always relied on an underground community of support to get through a life dictated by men.”

“AnnMARIE.”

I jerk out of my reverie; I have no idea how long George has been trying to get my attention.

“Sorry, dear, what is it?”

“I’m going to bed.” His tone is sulky and irritated, and I rise with him as he goes to leave the room, which takes him by surprise.

“Would you mind helping me out of my dress?” I drop my voice into a low, sexy purr while keeping my eyes cast down demurely. I feel him go rigid beside me with excitement, and allow him to tow me eagerly towards our bedroom with the enormous master bed, and fret and worry at the knots that keep my dress tightly fastened to me until I finally pretend that I can’t wait to have him, I must have him now, and I allow him to take me up my voluminous skirt, lying back on the bed in my clothes like our passion is enough to burn the clothes right off my body. Idly, I wonder what it feels like for him as he’s thrusting in and out of me with an unchanging speed and intensity. He finishes in a predictable burst that makes my breath catch, and then it’s over, and I call our maid to help release me from the dress my husband has made a prison with his fumbling fingers.

Her own dark fingers are deft and clever, loosening the knots within moments, which allows me to take large, expansive breaths of air for the first time since she laced me into the dress this morning. She pats me on the back as she gathers up the dress to take away for cleaning, and I turn to go back to my bed, where George has already fallen asleep. Although it’s still raining, I suddenly think I can make out a strange tapping on the front door. I turn back to the door and instantly know I’m right, something is making a noise amidst the natural thrumming of the rain, because the maid’s face is frozen in a strange of fear and feigned nonchalance.

“Never you mind, Missus,” she murmurs, nodding to the bed. “Aye’ll check thu door n’ lit you knaw if there’s anythun you gotta concern yerself wit.”

But her eyes, dark and luminescent in the lamplight of the bedroom, glow with a barely-contained excitement, and I know there’s something she wants to hide from me, badly. I eye her for a full minute before acquiescing to her wishes, going and laying down on the bed with my husband and pretending to roll over and fall asleep quickly. I hear the door close, imagine her footsteps padding slowly away, and then I sit up and slide back out of bed, my green cotton nightshift whispering along my ankles as I peek through the keyhole in the door to make sure that she’s not waiting to see if I’m still up. I exit the room quickly and close the door softly, so softly, behind me, and creep around the side of the bannister so I have the most direct view of the front door. Even though I’m anticipating something out of the ordinary, I have to quell a gasp of fear when the front door is opened and two young black men are ushered inside. One is clearly a relative; the maid flings her arms around him and covers him with the types of kisses that make teenage boys of all colors squirm and protest. This young man stoically waits, however, and when his mother has finished greeting him, presents his friend, who takes the maid’s hand and murmurs a couple words to her that make her whip around in fear, checking to make sure they are, really, alone. No one sees me crouched in the shadows upstairs, so they relax as she guides them through the room and out, away from the staircase and toward a different part of the house.

Safe in the shadows, I have no illusions about what’s happening; I just wonder for how long it has been operating here under my husband’s nose. Our maid is a relative of one of the many at my brother-in-law’s house…

I know I should go to bed, let this happen and think about it or talk about it with someone later. I have no issues with it; like many Northerners, I believe slavery is wrong. However, it’s not something I’ve ever discussed with my husband, and something warns me that his feelings are much more conservative on this point than I would care to deal with.

I slip downstairs silently, walking by memory in the shadows of the early hours of the night, listening to the footsteps of the little group up ahead and grateful that the rain has slackened to mere background noise by this point. The thick carpeting is damp beneath my feet and I know I’m on the right track; how long have they been in the rain, I wonder. Suddenly, I bump into someone and there’s a shriek that’s quickly cut off. Someone grabs me and roughly pins my arms behind my back, hissing, “It’s a woman!” There’s a pause, a flash of flame, and a candle is held up to my face by the maid. “Missus,” she says slowly. “Please.”

Standing with the little group, I see that the man beside the woman is the one she embraced so lovingly; he must be her son. The one behind me, then, must be the friend. I don’t strain against his grip, and I only look at her. “It’s okay,” I say, quietly, though my heart is hammering and I feel a sharp jolt of disloyalty, to what I don’t know. I know what I believe, I have my convictions, yet the darkness and lateness and threatening grip of the man behind me make me feel uncertain and something else I can’t quite place. When he releases me and moves beside his friend though, I see their eyes rake over me, sharply, and suddenly I’m very aware of the thinness of my cotton shift and the hardness of my rounded, full tits at this most insolent scrutiny from two runaway slaves. I draw myself up to my full height, which barely clears either of their shoulders, and glare at them. The maid cuffs her son and snarls a warning to him that’s universal—yes, she’s beautiful, no, you can’t have her, focus on the problem at hand. And yet, I’m enjoying myself. I grasp her hand briefly as she leads the men away and murmur for her to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, and I feel the men’s surprise even as they walk away from me.

I return to my cool side of the bed, heart aflutter and a strange tightness in my belly, my husband snoring softly beside me. All night, I lie in my bed, looking out the window as the sky lightens through the shades of the morning, filtering in pink and orange with little dust particles swirling in the air. I dress slowly, so that I don’t have to spend much time with George before he’s headed off to the store for the day. I don’t have to be there until lunchtime. I’m determined to meet the men who came into the house so quietly last night, properly. I want to know their stories and where they come from and feel like I’m a part of something bigger than a small town where I’ve already accomplished all I ever will. But the maid is nowhere to be found. She must know I’m looking for her, and though I’m irritated, I can’t help but sympathize with her. Those men were clearly at a loss without the discipline of a mother or woman figure, a tingling sensation goes through me as I remember the way they looked at me so shamelessly through the darkness. I go down into the cellar to begin my search for the men, but as soon as I open the door I realize they’re already down there. Their deep voices cut off as soon as the door opens but I can’t help but bark a laugh at their insolence and stupidity—we seem to be joined in our motives, and I try to push away my mother’s cautionary voice in my head as I descend the stairs, warning me that this goes beyond even what she would condone.

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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.

“Julia?”

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.

“Yeah?”

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?”

“Yeah…”

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?”

“Yeah.”

“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