"AKILAH" - first of a new series!

Akilah was woken early that morning - well before the muezzin’s first call to prayer - by the rusty clicking of the lock as her husband unlocked the door to the tiny room where she slept – more of a cell, really, than a bedroom.  She had a sudden flash of anger at being gotten up early.  And at her husband, Farouq - a  slovenly, smelly, heavy-bellied middle-aged man who had taken her from her family - bought her, really - to be his wife.  To serve him all through the long days with shopping, cooking, cleaning, and giving him his food.  And to serve his other needs, of course.  She was actually his slave, but it was so normal that Akilah didn’t think of it that way.  It was just a woman’s lot.

He did not usually visit at this hour, preferring to do his business with her in the darkness.  But the girl knew what was expected, and turned sulkily onto her back, naked under the thin sheet, her breasts pushing it up in small mounds, mocking him with their childless fullness.

Risking a quick glance, she saw him standing next to the bed, staring at her, not naked as was his custom when visiting her in the night.  Her hands bunched into little fists, nails biting into her palms.  Squeezing her eyes tight, Akilah tried to relax, but her legs clenched together in nervous anticipation as he pulled the sheet off. 

He did not at once lie on her, however, and she nervously rearranged her hands, turning them palm up in the approved manner to indicate her complete submission to him.  For a minute he did nothing, and the silent girl could feel the sweat forming on her bare skin, itching and making her want to move, to wipe at it, but she held herself as motionless as she could, the model of a submissive wife, despite her trembling.  Let him examine her body.  Take stock of his property.  The round globes of flesh on her chest swayed heavily with her movements, and there was a different kind of itching at their tips.

She felt his weight on the bed, and then his hands on her thighs, squeezing them hard, his thumbs digging forcefully into the soft flesh of the insides.  She bit her lip, doing her best not to cry out or try to push his hands away, though her arms tensed.  

After some moments, as if he were merely testing her will, his hands slid slowly down her legs, past her knees, down her calves to her ankles.  There his hands tightened again, suddenly thrusting her legs apart.  Wide apart, her feet out past the edges of the bed.  Her eyes flew open, and she yelped, once, before getting control of herself, though she was breathing quickly and shakily. Still, he did not lie on her, though his hands held her legs spread obscenely spread.

“Keep your eyes shut, girl.”  His voice was even, but cold.  “Or do you want me to blindfold you again?”  

Once, when they were first married, her eyes had popped open in terror as he rutted her, and he had bound a scarf around and around her head, over her eyes, tighter and tighter until she felt her eyes were being squashed back into her head, the pain making her sob as her tears pooled in the fabric.  After he finished his business and was leaving the room, he had finally said, “You may remove it now.  But in the future, you will keep your eyes closed.  Do you understand?”  And she had.  Yet another of the growing number of things she must do in order to prove her subservience to him as a female.

Read more for FREE here!    http://smashwords.com/books/view/482435

My weekend

Just back from a nice weekend in the country with my Partner. To do some work, drink some wine, get closer ...

Not exactly. 

It was unreasonably hot, so I decided to stop and rest. My Partner gave me one of those looks and suggested that I take off my clothes and lie in the grass. Sounded good to me. Off with the tee and shorts (that’s all there was).

A minute later, though, there She was with a hatchet and some rope. Banging some pieces of wood into the ground, She proceeded to stretch me out and tie me spread eagled. When I complained, she took my kerchief and stuffed it in my mouth, then tied Hers over my face. To protect me from the sun, She said. MMMMMF! The rest of me, unprotected, began to sweat and burn. And my back itched from the damn grass. 

Seeing me writhing and grunting there. she came and tied a rope around my waste and into my - well, you know. As if that weren't enough, She took our big block and tackle - the one we use for lifting heavy equipment - hooked it through the ropes and began hauling. Pretty soon She had me arched up in the air with just my hands and feet touching the ground.  VERY uncomfortable! She let me hang there, squirming and pleading for a while. 

Now, the property has all these kind of bushy things with long, thin, whippy branches, and I could hear Her breaking some off. Didn't sound like it was easy to do, either. Then She started in, using them on my conveniently-located thighs and belly, not hard enough to raise serious welts, but not just a tickle, either. And I REALLY began writhing and squealing. After a bit of that, She began working on my teats, and I can tell you I was screaming and heaving for all I was worth. It would have been a LOT easier to do the damn work. 

After giving me three hard strokes - one on each thigh and one across my titties - I started blubbering.  After a while, she lowered me back down and untied the rope between my legs, but left me staked out and blindfolded.  

There was silence for a while, as if She had gone away, and as the sun began to set it got cooler. I got scared that She was going to leave me out there all night. But then I heard voices coming nearer, and realized She had rounded up a few of our neighbors.  And me helplessly naked.  Swoon!  

She bent over close to my head and whispered, "I'm gonna give you a nice rubbing, Tina, so you can let everyone see what a little slut you are."

I REALLY wanted to cum, but not with other people WATCHING, for God sake. Didn't matter what I wanted, though, and She started in on me.  I was so sensitive already that I could have let go right then, but embarrassment held me back.  For a while.  It's SO embarrassing to think what I must have looked like, writhing around on the grass.  At least my usual potty mouth was somewhat gagged.

Can’t wait for next weekend!

"The Sitter"

Enjoy!  Read more for free at www.smashwords.com/books/view/453756!

As I remember it, I was working on a new story that day.

It’s my eighteenth day - I think – it’s hard to tell time in here.

They take me out of my cell in the morning, and my heart is pounding fit to kill me.  Will I be the observer today?  Or the subject?  The only good thing about these little ‘trips’ is that they take off the belt around my waist – the one they always buckle so tight I can scarcely breath, and to which my wrists are shackled.  In back, of course, so I can’t hurt anybody when they come for me in the night.  Like I, a slip of a girl – and worn out with little sleep and lousy food - could fend off  three or four husky soldiers bent on having me. And with my ankles handcuffed to the sides of the “bed” to boot.   Well, I don’t want to think about that.  Maybe I have worse things to worry about.

When they bring me into the room – I resist calling it an interrogation room, or a torture cell -  the stench knots my stomach as usual.  You’d think I would be used to it by now, but I’m not.  It’s a vile mixture of vomit, shit, more or less dried blood and burnt flesh.  Don’t know how they stand it, either.  At least we’re equals in that.

As usual, there are two of those heavy metal chairs sitting facing each other.  I’m always first, so I can’t tell what the plan is.  Again as usual, I fight like crazy as they force me down into one of the chairs.  With my legs unchained I try and kick.  Sometimes I get lucky, and hurt someone.  Mostly I hurt my own toes.  They’re bare, of course, like the rest of me.

And let me say right here that, yes, they do take advantage of us.  Not the least compunction about pushing us up against a wall so they can do a “manual inspection”.  Or making us bend over one of the little pipe railings they have here and there, the four eyebolts in the floor with the old straps just waiting to restrain our ankles and wrists - so passing soldiers can unzip and use our raw holes.  I haven’t gotten used to that, either, but I try to have a kind of out of body experience when it’s happening.  The first time, I actually slapped the guy – just like I was back in high school!  But being lashed down to your bed spread out on your back while guys do whatever the fuck they want to your pussy and breasts with cigarettes and straps and shock batons made it not seem worth it somehow.

Oh, oh, today . . .

Right about there, the phone rang.  My partner answered it, gave me one of those “it’s for me” waves and disappearing into the other room so as not to bother me.  For a sadist, she’s really considerate sometimes.

“Asha Released” is out!

“Asha Released”

Copyright 2014 Tina B

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/436919

My wounds are healing slowly.

A while ago, I was asked to document what had happened to Asha (not her real name), a beautiful Indian woman who was tortured in a foreign land when she was only nineteen.  After some weeks of interviews, I wrote and sent a draft to Asha for review.  Hearing nothing back after several weeks, I drove to her house.  Only to find her gone.  Fearing that my draft had somehow been responsible, I nevertheless published it as “Asha has been Taken” – partly in the hope that someone would let me know that she was alright.

Subsequently, I received an email from a man who claimed to know where she was.  After some negotiation, I went to a foreign city to meet him.  He may well have known where she was, but I didn’t find her.  Because it turned out that he was one Asha’s torturers.  And he did to me some of the same things he did to her.  So that, as he said, I would truly know her story.  And how well I do, I think with a shudder.

When I walk, there is a tightness across my soles where they were seared with the thin wire whip.  And there is still a faint scar across my breasts where the same whip did its work, feeling like someone had cut me open with a dull knife.  My pussy . . . well.  

Bad as those were, they are healing.

The worst part, the hardest to get over, has been the rape.  I no longer really trust anyone, and feel a kind of hardness in me that wasn’t there before.  And I’m angry, deep down, tremendously angry, at the man who did it.  My publisher only says, “I told you not to go.”  As does my partner, to whom I am now cold, yet whom I very much cared about “before”.  I roam the house at loose ends, going over the whole nightmare again and again in my mind, trying to find a way, something I could have done, to make it come out differently.  To no avail.

I got the story, preserved on my recorder, thankfully, because I was in no condition to take notes.  So for a while I buried myself in writing that story, which was published as “Asha was Used.”  Perhaps you’ve read it.

And then the man I think of as my torturer emailed me again.  The bland message was innocuous enough: “When you’re ready, I will take you to her.”

My partner found me at the computer, nauseous and shivering, unable to move or even turn it off.  It was like being raped all over again.  

Several restless days later, there was another email.  “You can save her.”

Save her from what?  Was she in trouble?  If so, it seemed unlikely that I could help, other than to call an embassy.  Still, there was the anger.  I wanted someone to pay for what had happened to me. So I emailed back.  Negotiated terms, and set off again.  Without consulting my publisher.

This time I wasn’t tortured.  Oh no.  Not me.  It was worse.

A new story - "Rented"!

The sexy full-bodied black girl lay on her bed exhausted, tired in every muscle and hole, her throat raw from being forced to swallow their cocks, the soft meat of her thighs and ass and breasts flushed and burning from their spanking hands, her sex slit gaping and drooling, her asshole painfully stretched.

This was a hard way to pay your rent.  A very hard way.  And her landlord made sure of it, forcing Cherri to perform like a whore every month.  On the first of the month – or whenever he felt like it.

At first, it had just been him, surreptitiously slipping into her apartment when his wife was out of town, making her strip down to some hooker clothing he had gotten, show herself off, then taking her bent over a chair or splayed out on the bed, leaving her crying and sweaty when he was done.  It was terrible, but she’d had to put up with stuff like that from her stepfather when she was a girl.  She felt despoiled and filthy, but was otherwise unhurt.

But lately, things had been getting worse.  He was inviting some of his white cracker friends over to share her holes, and, aside from having to service more guys, some of them were getting rough  with her – holding her bent over the sofa so they could spank her big, soft ass and flailing thighs while she cried pitifully, or one of them holding her up with her arms twisted behind her, legs dangling, while another used her as a punching bag, his heavy fists beating into her soft belly and flattening her big breasts against her ribs until she sagged and choked and thrashed and screamed.

Today there must have been at least ten of them, and the “first round” had taken several hours - hours of humiliation and pain for the sweaty girl.  Hours of being forced to kneel and work her way around the circle of laughing men, their cocks hanging voraciously, always ready for more.  Her neck ached from having to throat their knobs vigorously or face yet another spanking on her already burning thighs.  

And there was more coming.

Get it at www.smashwords.com/books/view/452172

New short story "SELFIE"!

A big blond isn’t getting the sex she wants from men, so she takes matters into her own hands.  Or does she?

“SELFIE” - Read some for FREE at www.smashwords.com/books/view/443066

The first of a new series, “Tied Together Tales” - each with a twist!

The whole pitiless Asha trilogy is now available, with all its bondage and suffering women:

“Asha has been Taken” - www.smashwords.com/books/view/420206

“Asha was Used” - www.smashwords.com/books/view/431183

and now, “Asha Released” -  www.smashwords.com/books/view/436919

Hope you enjoy it!  As always, comments appreciated!

Kisses,

Slut Tina

I have trouble opening my eyes, still nauseous from being knocked out.  Can’t move arms - under me somewhere.  Head up, on pillow?  Something in mouth, filling it, wrenching my jaw open.  Too open.  Hurts.  

Flickers of light.  A room.  Sounds of men laughing.  In front of my eyes two beige mounds.  Past them two legs, wide spread, then, in the distant darkness, men.

More awake.  Struggle to move.  Can’t.  Arms bound.  Something tight around my forearms.  Ankles, too.  Can’t pull legs together.  

Scared.  Where am I?  My cry for help a thin moaning noise that attracts attention.  Between my bare breasts, I see down over my belly to my crotch.  All naked. Squirming.  

I heave and jerk, plunging up and down on the bed against the pitiless ropes holding me, helpless to stop them, those men gathering at the foot of the bed, talking about my body as if it were meat, something for them to grope and spank and rape and whip.  Something I can’t prevent.  But which, with my head up on this pillow, I have to watch.

A meaty hand surrounding a beer bottle comes closer as I watch.  The bottle’s neck poking painfully at my breasts before sliding down over my belly.  I try to jerk away, to ask them not to, to scream, to plead, to beg, to cry out, to squeal helplessly as the hard glass is shoved into my cunt, further and further, until the wide part hammers my clit.

I scream, keep on screaming, writhing and shaking until I faint.

"Asha was Used" is now out!

My new story, “Asha was Used” is now out!  It continues the story begun in “Asha has been Taken”.  Instructed to meet a strange man - who claimed to know more of the story - in a foreign city, I went.  Only to discover, too late, that he was one of those who had tortured Asha.  

Read some free here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/431183

Or “Asha has been Taken” here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/420206

To the girl hanging by her wrists, naked, denched in sweat, her mouth filled with and clenched on his old socks.

Not so fast, my pet, not so fast.  Let them take their time with your sweet tits, watching your suffering between strokes, laying the blazing pain across a slightly different area each time, until every piece of you chest meat is howling, and you're way past not being able to take it any more. And they do eventually rape you, their hard hands crushing you screaming breasts until you can't breath with the pain.  Then they go back to whipping you.

A hand gathers the wires and tugs.  OOOOOW!

Someone is kissing my ear.  Don’t do that.  Don’t make nice. Just TAKE THOSE THINGS OFF!  A voice whispers again - definitely a woman’s voice - “Do you like having your nippies shocked, Tina?”   NO NO NO NO NO!  “I know.  You don’t.  You hate it, don’t you.  Too bad.  Juan left you with us until tomorrow night.”

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO I try to say, my tongue cramping from pushing on the gag.

There are hands on my face, pulling it back against the chair.  Finding my nose, pinching it shut.   

AIR!  AIR!!  I make desperate mewing sounds through the gag, thrashing against the restraints.  Something wet tickles my ear.  She’s tonguing my ear, and I’m suffocating.  My lungs are burning, my belly spasming as I try to breath.  Immured inside myself, I hear the chair creaking and shuddering on the floor with my contortions.

The fingers let go, and I suck in great gusts of air, my chest rising and falling crazily, which makes those clamps hurt. I’d forgotten about them.  I hear giggles.  “Oooh, yeah.  Let’s do that some more,”  someone says.

Hands with fingers are messing around with my cunt.  More than one hand, because they’re pulling my lips apart, baring my little nub.  

DON’T HIT ME THERE!  PLEEEEEEEEASE!  

The fingers dig into my hole for some juice, then start rubbing.  Gently.  Rhythmically.  The way I like it.  Why do guys never seem to get this right?  It’s so easy.  I’m relaxing, the feeling starting to build.  My breathing getting faster.  The fingers getting faster.  Higher.  Almost, almost, just a little bit more . . .

OOOOOOOOOOW!!  That hurt!  The shock burned my tits like someone put a candle flame to them.  And the nice fingers stopped rubbing.  My legs squeeze against the straps, trying to get some friction, but no luck.  The fingers stretching my lips pull harder, though.  Hey.  HEY.  HEEEEEEYYY!!  THAT HURTS!

Something hard is pushing against my excited little nub, and I heave forward desperately, trying to frog myself on it, forgetting that hard things aren’t usually good.  My whole cunt explodes as the violet wand goes on.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!   STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT PLEEEEEEEEEASE OOOOOOOOOOOW.  My whole being is just that fiery pain between my legs, my body contorting and leaping against the restraints.  Somewhere I hear screams.

If you like this, check out my new book, “Asha has been Taken” and read some for FREE!

www.smashwords.com/books/view/420206

I’m dreaming.   It’s dark, or I’m blindfolded.  I’ve just had an intense session with Juan, where he whipped my breasts for an hour or more with that awful thin plastic whip.  Never too hard, but all over.  My tits are on fire, and my whole slag hole area is sore from cumming.

I’m not dreaming.  Someone has taped over my eyes, and there’s a lot of something wrenching my jaw too far open, tape holding it in.  I’m still tied to the bottomless “chair” where Juan put me.  Arms stretched tight and roped behind, legs folded up over the sides of the chair and strapped in place so my bare feet wiggle behind the chair.  I hear nothing.  Where is he, god dammit?  I start to panic.  “JUAAAAAAAN” I try to scream, but it just comes out as mush. 

Maybe he left me a way out, and he’s watching to see how I do?  My hands grasp and twist furiously, but find no loose ends, no loops, no knots.  My legs heave against the straps, but the leather just digs into my skin viciously.  I’m stuck on this chair.  And the side rails are digging really painfully into my thighs.  This isn’t sexy.  I scream some more.  Silence.

After what seems like a long time, I hear the door open.  The murmur of voices.  More than one.  Uh oh.  What is he up to?  It’s always just been him and me.  That’s the deal.  No sharing my helpless body with his twenty buddies.  (It’s a nice fantasy, but doesn’t work for me in real life.)

I can hear breathing, feel they’re near.  Hands start touching me - and not just in the usual places.  How many of them are there, anyway? They take their time exploring me everywhere but where I want - on my breasts and cunt.  What’s going on?

Suddenly something is tickling my ear, and a voice whispers, “Hold still, fuckhole.”

Hands start massaging my breasts.  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.  Mouths, too.  Licking.  Sucking.  Getting them nice and wet. I like this.  They know what they’re doing.  My big, dark nubbins begin to throb pleasantly.

A hand squeezes my boob tight, too tight, and I complain through the gag.  Something hard is touching my nipple, settling around it, pushing hard into my softness. Biting down viciously on my swollen skin.

no no.  NO.  NOOOO!!   Take it off.  TAKE IT OFF!

When a second clamp goes on my other nipple, my body goes into survival mode, heaving against the ropes, my legs straining.  I shake my chest what little I can, but it just hurts more. 

Something is brushing my belly.  Something thin and flexible.  

Wires.

(to be continued)

If you like this, check out my new book, “Asha has been Taken” and read some for FREE!

www.smashwords.com/books/view/420206

It has been said the the brain is the most important sex organ.  Here is what I know.

I just came.  Again.

There is that small moment just beforehand, when you know you’ve crossed the divide, that it will happen whether you’re ready or not, and in that moment I’m so thankful, so glad I can trust in it.  And then all is obliterated by the shuddering carnage between my legs, all sense of self reduced to that thundering pulse, nothing left.  Distant restraints hold my feet and hands, but the rest of me plunges and leaps wildly, every muscle straining like a thing possessed.  Cries in an ancient, unknown tongue escape my mouth.

When it eventually recedes, I lie there wasted, muscles limp.  Sweat pours everywhere, over me, between parts of me. The afterglow makes my sex hole spasm and clench, sending shivers of delight through the hard little buttons on my chest.  They let me lie there for a while, sucking air through my nose.  Shuddering.

Eventually the soreness at wrist and ankle, the ache in my jaw and the pressure over my eyes remind me once again that I am completely helpless, and a shimmer of delight ripples over my unseen but oh so naked flesh.  They must be aware of it, because hands begin touching me again, smoothing, raking, gripping, twisting and slapping all my soft parts.  All of them.

NO, NO!  I can’t!  No no no no no no no no no, I try to say.  It’s not possible. I have nothing left for you.

But my little nubbin has already begun to heat and  throb, betraying me once again.

I’m in hell.  I’m in heaven.

People sometimes ask how I can possibly condone the terrible things I write about.  And of course the answer is that I absolutely DON’T - in real life.  But this is fiction.  

Ah, you say, but people believe it really happened - at least in “Asha has been Taken”.  To which I say “Thanks!”  I take it as a tribute to my (admittedly not large) writerly skills.

To my mind the question is whether any “real people” were harmed in the making of this book - to which the answer is obviously “no”.  A trickier question is whether people reading it will take it as an excuse to do the same things in real life.  And there is something to that: politicians do TRULY terrible things to large numbers of people, based on their reading of some documents.  Ditto religious organizations throughout history.

My own sense is that, if someone is disposed to do harm to others, my writing probably isn’t telling them something they haven’t thought of already.  (Though hopefully I do it in an engaging, sexy way!)

What do YOU think?

I’m just now getting going on ImageFap and it looks like a lot of fun.  Looking forward to seeing what YOUR fantasies look like.  You’ll see mine soon enough!

Now, what to use for an avitar?!

Ever hear of Faye Kane? If you like the stuff I write about, check out her book at Smashwords!

IMHO it's an outstanding frigging book (in all senses of the word). Faye takes us past our own mental compartmentalization of "sex" and "nice" and gets comfortable with the animal within. Avoiding the worn out cliches of "he had a twelve pack" and "she had tits out to here", it hews to real life and hits like a truck because of it. With an extra frisson for it apparently having actually happened. Faye is a very brave women, and you should give her book a read. Or several. 

Here's a picture (not of her) to give you an idea of what happened.  Enjoy!

My new book “Asha has been Taken” is now out on Smashwords!  (And should be out on many commercial venues this week).  Take a look and read the first part of it for FREE here!  And if you like it, you can have it for only $2.79 - then tell all your friends.

Here’s the blurb:
In a deserted middle eastern city, late at night, a bound and brutally tortured woman was taken out of a limousine and dropped on the road.  And I had to be the one to pick her up.  To care for her.  To hide her all these years from the men who want her dead.  And bear witness to the terrible things they did to her. 

I’m excited about it!  And busy working on a full length novel, “Plain Sheelah” that will come out later this year. 

Plus I plan to use this forum to do two things:

1) elicit your deepest, darkest ideas for new stories

2) discuss why the heck people feel some of the things they do

 More later!

My earliest sexy memory is of discovering one of my father’s paperbacks that opened with a scene of a woman being tied to her bed by a detective – recreating the woman’s rape so he could photograph it “for evidence”.  It made me SO wet – and I wasn’t really even sure how sex worked yet.

Later on, I would tie myself up when my parents weren’t home, rubbing my crotch on the bed until I came.  It wasn’t until after college that I got up the courage to look for a bondage partner for real.  And discovered that in most cases the real thing is a pale imitation of what I imagine.  So I took up writing about my sexual fantasies.  Wrote extensively for a now defunct website, StoryBondage.com.  And now, here, for you.