Books

The Pleasure of New Friends; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: Celtic Fantasy, Love Can Be Blind, Progressive Party, VIP Room. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

Bonding with the Babysitter; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: Mothering, Sleeping Beauty, The Swing, Three is Not a Crowd. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

Slippery When Oiled; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: Oceans of Air, Six Before Nine, The Lucky Dick Club, Three Wishes. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

Maintenance Request; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: A Virgin No More, Alchemical Ink, Blue, Cactus Ass. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

Tease for a Night; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: Diver’s Moon, Foster Investigations, Spanish Dancing, The Death and Life of Frank Gold. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

Flirt; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: Oh, Doctor, Savior, The Blood Virgin, The Whore Gene. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

Locker Room Fantasy; a short story by Madam Jamei. This eBook also includes FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories that can only be found bundled with this eBook. These Exclusive Erotic Stories are NOT for Sale by themselves. Excerpts of the Bonus Erotic Stories can be found at www.discountsextoys4her.com. This eBook includes the following FOUR Exclusive Erotic Bonus Stories: A Love Story in Three Parts, A Special Guy, For Sale, Oasis. FIVE Erotic Stories in ALL!

My mother’s best friend Pippa is a very attractive lady. She has long wavy brown hair, blue eyes, a nice tan, and an exceptionally fit body for a 44 year old woman. Even though she dresses in a very classy and sophisticated manner for her career in real estate, she also likes showing off her sex appeal, wearing tight fitting clothes, as well as skirts and dresses which show off her legs. She has a vibrant and outgoing personality, which has helped a lot in her career and has made her popular in many different social circles.

She had been through a terrible divorce and it wasn’t long before my mother asked her to move in while she recovered and tried to make sense of her life. That was some time ago. In the recent years that we’ve been living together, I couldn’t understand why she was never in a serious relationship, despite men practically throwing themselves at her. However, all of that was about to change…

“Tell me how it all started.”

Linda took a deep breath, “Well, it started several months ago. I had begun to notice that he would try taking little peaks at me. On a few occasions, I noticed that he would open my door slightly so that he could spy on me.”

“And how did that make you feel?” the counselor asked.

“I felt a lot of things. Betrayed would be one of them that he would do such a thing to me while I’m completely undressed. He doesn’t have a right to see me like that. It’s a woman’s choice as to who gets to see her body.”

 She stepped into the dark hotel room with trepidation. The door clicked shut behind her. She could hear her own breathing and feel her heart thundering in her chest.

“Are you here?” she asked in a whisper, voice wavering, revealing her nervousness.

“I’ve been waiting,” came the reply, the older woman’s voice husky.

“Can I put the light on?” Amy wiped sweaty palms on her black skirt.

“No!” The reply was stern and immediate.

From the concealing darkness came the sound of movement. Bare feet padded on a thick carpet, coming closer.

Silence returned.

Amy couldn’t see anything. There was no light from even the faintest source. She swallowed hard.

The touch of fingertips on her right thigh made her jump. She gasped in surprise and tried to make out the woman she knew was before her, but she was hidden in the darkness.

“So what do you think about my new boyfriend now that you’ve got to know him a little better?” Karen asked her stunning business partner as they lounged on the beach in their bikinis.

“Any man who’s willing to fly me out to an expensive resort is okay in my book,” Melissa joked.

Karen smiled, “Very funny, but really, he’s a great guy and we’re becoming a lot more serious in our relationship.”

“And I bet he’s great in bed too with that huge cock of his. No wonder you’re always so giddy around him,” Melissa replied with her eyebrows raised.

 She enters, deliberately, gravely, without affectation, circumspect in her motions (as she’s been taught), not stamping too loud, nor dragging her legs after her, but advancing sedately, discreetly, glancing briefly at the empty rumpled bed, the cast-off nightclothes. She hesitates. No. Again. She enters. Deliberately and gravely, without affectation, not stamping too loud, nor dragging her legs after her, not marching as if leading a dance, nor keeping time with her head and hands, nor staring or turning her head either one way or the other, but advancing sedately and discreetly through the door, across the polished floor, past the empty rumpled bed and cast-off nightclothes (not glancing, that’s better), to the tall curtains along the far wall. As she’s been taught. Now, with a humble yet authoritative gesture, she draws the curtains open: Ah! the morning sunlight comes flooding in over the gleaming tiles as though (she thinks) flung from a bucket. She opens wide the glass doors behind the curtains (there is such a song of birds all about!) and gazes for a moment into the garden, quite prepared to let the sweet breath of morning blow in and excite her to the most generous and efficient accomplishments, but her mind is still locked on that image, at first pleasing, now troubling, of the light as it spilled into the room: as from a bucket . . . 

 I’d been celibate for five years. I didn’t think I was a bad-looking man – women had found me appealing in the past – but between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-seven, I hadn’t touched a woman and a woman hadn’t touched me. I’d created my own isolation, going from one dumb job to another, spending my time alone in a studio apartment, writing. My first novel was published in an irregular paperback format by a small press operated by an enthusiastic fellow, reminiscent of those old City Lights Pocketbooks. It fitted easily in my back pocket and not too many people read it, despite all the good reviews. The whole matter was a solitary experience with no one to share it with.

One day, I received a letter from an English professor at the local university, Barry McGinnis. He wrote that he’d gotten my address from the publisher of my book, and how the book was an unknown work of genius, and that he’d like to meet me.

 Rose swore under her breath as she realized her keys were still laying on the hall table where she had dropped them the night before. She caught the door before it closed and retrieved her keys. Steve would make an issue of it if I did that again, Rose thought to herself as she let herself out of the house again, making sure she had her purse with her. She’d left that behind a time or two lately.

She walked down to the corner, grateful the weather was decent and not rainy, because she wasn’t sure how long a wait she had until the next bus came. Thankfully, there was no one else waiting yet, so she sat down on the bench.

As she settled herself on the seat she reached into her handbag and pulled out the crumpled piece of newspaper she had read and reread for the last two days.

 The door was easy to force. Luckily the fancy inlaid glass didn’t break. Although this building appeared deserted, I did not want to chance being overheard by some cleaning lady. One firm shove – the door jamb cracked – and I was in.

I felt along the wall for the light switch. I flicked it – but nothing! Some joker had taken all the light bulbs.

Big deal, I thought: I see like a bat in the dark. But lights were not the only things missing from this office. The place was stripped clean: no chairs, desks, or filing cabinets. They had even taken the water cooler.

Across the room, before a half open window, I saw a tipped-over wastepaper basket. Garbage can be a case’s Rosetta stone, every detective knows that. Before checking it out, I peered through the blinds. Only a few cars were in the parking lot, two stories below. Some looked abandoned; this was typical for the meat-packing district.

 Allison scooped up some baba ghanoush onto a piece of pita, then looked her friend Daniel in the eye. “Are you sure this is a good idea – introducing me to this belly dancer?”

“Don’t say it in that tone, sweetie. She’s not a stripper. She’s a dancer, just as much as any of us.”

Danny’s boyfriend Raoul, his mouth full of stuffed grape leaf, nodded in agreement.

Allison flushed at being included in the us. She tried to cover her consternation by continuing the argument. “It’s not that. I know Silvia’s a good friend of yours and I’m sure you wouldn’t introduce me to anyone trashy. It’s just that belly dancing sounds so . . .”

“Happy birthday to you!”

The familiar refrain rang out from a small group gathered around a table directly across from me. The restaurant was nearly empty; Thursdays were usually slow and I had commandeered a corner booth with my newspaper and tea.

Lowering the editorial section, I watched as my head waitress Gina carefully sat a cake down in front of an auburn haired woman seated at the table. It wasn’t unusual for customers to include a request for a birthday cake in their reservations. I estimated that nearly eighty percent of the time the cakes were topped with an equally frightening and embarrassing amount of candles. This one however had a single candle flickering in the middle of the whitecaps of frosting.

The woman’s face was slightly flushed, whether from laughter or nerves I didn’t know. She looked around her circle of companions, spoke a handful of soft words that I couldn’t hear, and in one quick breath extinguished the flame. Her friends applauded their approval and smiling, she glanced up in my direction and caught me staring. Startled at the unexpected eye contact, I could only shrug my shoulders, grin like an idiot and mouth happy birthday. 

 The Devil is a lot of things to me and my four housemates: he’s our boyfriend, our employer, and our master. For the rest of the world, he’s a fashion photographer known as Scratch – a middle-aged man with deformed eyes and a few unusual physical abnormalities, which may or may not be the product of plastic surgery. His signature appears on the upper right-hand corner of each of his photos, in lurid red. It’s blood, according to Scratch. He develops only thirteen prints of every picture and, supposedly, burns the negatives in an occult ritual involving goats.

We’ve never seen a goat around here, though there was a Doberman chained up in the basement – with Gregory – for three or four days last February. Gregory never complains about anything, but the dog whined and barked incessantly. Scratch gave it away to one of the production assistants.

 The bar was so elegant I could have been in Manhattan or Paris. Only the monitors showing arrivals and departures revealed the truth.

Heads turned when I walked in. The Versace skirt – split to the thigh – was one reason. The shiny, black, stiletto-heels were another. I’d had my hair stubble cut and bleached platinum blonde, it was ultra-short with the design of a Celtic knot razored into the back above the nape. I looked dangerous and I knew it. I sat at a table, letting the skirt slide away from my hip, revealing my burgundy hold-up stockings. I smiled at a couple of men who clearly thought their airport wet dreams had come true, and something in my smile made them look away nervously.

 Mora and I had been in East Hampton for two days waiting for the sun to come out when we ran into Charles and Vee. It was July, the Bicentennial Summer, and we were on our first vacation as man and wife. We’d accepted a friend’s invitation to spend a few days at his beach house, but the afternoon we arrived the rains came, and lasted through the following day. We were grumpy stuck inside. We wanted to lie naked in the sun.

The next morning, the sun made its appearance, and it was windy when we walked to the beach. We had the ocean to ourselves, but it was too rough to go in. Empty blue sky, empty white beach, empty green ocean. The freckled, lively children further down the beach who were our only neighbors had to be content with building sandcastles. Mora read a novel and wrote in her journal, frowning and chewing her lip. It was her way of arguing with me without saying anything, and also of arguing with herself instead of with me. I shrugged at her silence and went for a long run on the wet hard sand, where high rolling breakers left thick clumps of seaweed, but I couldn’t outrace my frustration.

“So did you come all the way from Transylvania to join this totally awesome band, Chris?”

“Er,” said Christian. “I’m from Birmingham.”

The lights in the studio hurt Christian’s eyes, and their interviewer was blowing a pink, bobbing balloon of bubblegum while she interviewed them. Every time she blew up the bubble a vein in her neck jumped under her makeup.

She’d introduced herself as Tracy. Christian didn’t like to think such filthy things about a girl he’d just met, but he couldn’t help suspecting she spelled it with an “i.”

“So tell me, boys,” said Traci, swallowing the bubble, which collapsed and folded neatly into her mouth. “Any of you found that special girl yet?”

 Afterwards, Nicholas wondered how he could have ever thought the little blonde with the tattoo on her tit could have been worth the risk she posed to his marriage, his self-respect, and – as it turned out – so much more. Yet still, there was that moment of insanity when he actually debated the point, before admitting that nothing could have been worth what the encounter cost him. It was that second’s hesitation, though, that gave an indication of how much Nicholas Berringer valued sex – or at least what sex represented to him. Fucking, to him, had always meant freedom and conquest and masculine power. Even when consensual, the act was at heart, forced entry and violent gratification, the plundering of empty space by protuberant member. It was also safety and solace and the warm dark heart of his mother’s womb, the sacred place where there was no Nicholas, where nothing was named and there was only One.

It happened that in olden times, in a land far, far away, an ancient people looked up lazily toward the approaching evening.

These were such ancient times that the stars were not yet born and the full-bellied moon was the sole celestial body in the nighttime sky. But on this evening, as twilight crept slowly toward the west, the startled people watched in awe as the sun began to rise again. Along the far horizon of the sea, it sprang up boldly and hid behind the full-bellied moon and all the land fell into sudden night.

The Earth was remarkably still, then, for this was a sacred darkness. 

Andre was more than a little miffed. I’d been quite specific in letting him know that the matronly outfit he’d designed for me was about as sexy as a burlap sack.

“I want to show boobs, dear,” I snapped, dumping the custom-made ’50s-style housedress on the neck of the naked, headless mannequin. “Mother’s naughty ‘little boys’ and girls’ need to be squirming in anticipation of a nice, comforting nipple to suck on, even before I turn them over across my knees.”

“As Madame wishes,” Andre sniffed, his beautiful green eyes flashing with righteous indignation as he tossed his short blond curls. In a flash of dramatic pique that only a former runway model could master, he turned and swept up the yards of atrocious yellow floral print. He froze in mid-pirouette when my hand snaked out and gripped his slender, denim-covered butt cheek. Hard. I wasn’t sure what Andre’s problem was today. His costumes were usually exquisite. But I was in no mood for an artistic temper tantrum when I had clients scheduled for that scene in less than a week.

The air is cool against my damp skin as I rise from the lake, beads of water trickling down my body and glistening like little pearls under the light of the silver crescent moon peeking from the veil of the clouds.

I shiver a little but do not hasten to cover myself, instead relishing the refreshing feeling. I have not, after all, had a bath in days. Taking a bath in the light of day is not exactly a wise thing to do for a woman trying to disguise herself as a man.

For the past three months, I have been wearing the guise of a samurai. Surprisingly, it was easier than I had expected, especially since I am not particularly beautiful, nor are my breasts too large. Once, I detested these traits, blaming them for the fact that I have not held any man’s attention but now, I am grateful for them.

 Aha! Kay Reid sat up straighter in her chair as she heard the floorboards on the stairway creaking. Someone was obviously sneaking downstairs. Experience told her they’d be making their surreptitious way towards the kitchen, a kitchen which was out of bounds to everyone except the chef. For days now he’d been complaining that food was going missing. She’d been right to stay awake and on guard.

Leisurely, Kay stretched out her tennis-toned arms then tiptoed towards her bedroom door, the mirror showing her five-foot-eight frame in her favorite khaki shirt and matching army surplus trousers. Heart starting to beat harder, she flexed her firm, right spanking palm. As owner of Trim Camp, she’d found that keeping discipline sometimes involved more than an inspirational lecture. A sly slap to the back of some eighteen-year-old’s thighs was usually enough to take the overeater’s mind away from pasta. A shaming spank to a jean-clad rump usually shocked a young woman into more sensible snacking, the option being going to college in the Fall still looking fat.

 There are disadvantages to living with a writer. You get woken up at four o’clock in the morning as they hunt down That Brilliant Idea That Won’t Go Away.

You peer over their shoulder, and see the unexpected line: “Lilian’s bosom was barely covered by the thin shift that was all he allowed her . . .”

You try to reason with them gently. “Now, Edith, there are times to write erotica, and then there’s four o’clock in the morning, a time which exists solely to remind us of our own mortality.”

Edith blinked at me slowly, eyes unfocused and hair sticking up all spiky from the pillow. “Not solely.” And managed an unexpectedly coordinated grope.

“I s’pose one of the advantages of being a lesbian is that the other party can find the clitoris when she hasn’t got her glasses on and isn’t really awake,” I said.

Now that he has built his creature, Vincent has to start teaching her how to be a lady. Meanwhile, his rival, feeling guilty over the death of their mutual love, begins to investigate what's going on down at the lab.

Carnival sideshows! Burlesque dancers! Speakeasies! It's time for the monster's first trip into a public space, and Vincent has chosen a locale where Gail can hide amongst other freaks and denizens of the underworld. Just be careful what happens when another woman gets between the doctor and his creation.

Archer Coe is a performing hypnotist with the stage name “The Mind’s Arrow.” When his nightly shows are over, he moonlights as a special consultant for the rich and powerful. His latest client is a woman who claims to know him but whom he swears he’s never met. Things take a strange turn for the worse when her husband ends up dead, and police suspect Archer of not just killing him, but also of being a sinister killer nicknamed “The Zipper.” Archer has no memory of any of this, but it’s making him doubt whether or not he’s got blood on his hands. Could the master of other people’s minds be losing his own?

It’s time for prom, and Cynthia really wants to be prom queen. The only hitch is, she wants to win the crown legitimately, meaning all the students she terrorized with wickedness and magic over the school year hold her fate in their hands. Meanwhile, an ancient evil with an even bigger grudge against all three Spell Checkers finally sees its opportunity for revenge. Expect all kinds of insults and injuries in an epic dancefloor showdown!

Travis and Charley have just met. It’s Charley’s last night in town, and Travis can’t let her leave without getting her to go on a date. In a future where real people are rapidly being supplanted by lifelike androids, sometimes one shot is all you get. Intelligence may be artificial, but the emotion is real in a futuristic romance from the writer of 12 Reasons Why I Love Her and the cartoonist behind Between Gears.

There are two new kids at school. Twin brothers—one straight-laced and buttoned-up, the other a rebel in a leather jacket—and they’ve transferred in with trouble for the Spell Checkers. Jesse finds romance, but for Cynthia, it’s rivalry. She and the good brother compete for student body president, while Kimmie tries to find out who murdered the last one. Dark magic is afoot, as well as dark humor, in the second mystical volume of Oni’s latest hit series.

Three teenaged witches use their power for popularity, good grades, and the good life. When nasty graffiti starts showing up about them at their school, they first suspect one another. But when they start losing their powers, and their magical fetishes disappear, they realize this is an attack from outside their circle, and they must join hands (and wits) to defeat the usurper and her demon companion!

Works Cited Bundles, A’Lelia Perry. On Her Own Ground: The Life and Times of Madam C.J. Walker. New York: Washington Square, 2001. 135-36. Print “Separate but not equal.” Smithsonian National Museum of American History. Web. 9 Oct. 2012. history/1-segregated/detail/jim-crow-laws.html. United States. Plessy v. Ferguson. Washington, D.C.:1896. Print Wilson, August. The Piano Lesson. New York: Plume.1990.

BLAZE

Red-hot reads from Temptation!

She has a secret life that must remain secret

Amalie Dove: A shy librarian causes a sensation writing very sexy stories under the name Madame X. When the media turns on the spotlight, it's her glamorous friend Lacey who plays the role of famous author of the Black Velvet books.

Thomas Jericho: A cynical journalist uncovers the true identity of Madame X. But he isn't ready to expose her. Not until he first exposes those passions that obviously burn beneath little Amalie Dove's demure exterior….

But it's Jericho's walls that come tumbling down.

Veintiséis breves e irreverentes retratos de grandes escritores que se han convertido en la más divertida, melancólica y fascinante invitación a leer.

Con motivo del 50 aniversario de Alfaguara, este título ha sido elegido como uno de los 50 imprescindibles de la historia de la editorial.

Faulkner a caballo, Conrad en tierra, Isak Dinesen en la vejez, Joyce en sus gestos, Stevenson entre criminales, Conan Doyle ante las mujeres, Wilde tras la cárcel, Turgueniev, Mann, Lampedusa, Rilke, Nabokov, Madame du Deffand, Rimbaud, Henry James, el gran Laurence Sterne...

Hasta un total de veinte genios de la literatura resucitan en estas breves e insólitas biografías, que se leen como cuentos gracias a la precisión, amenidad y elegancia de la prosa de Javier Marías. Todos son extranjeros, todos están muertos y todos han sido tratados como personajes de ficción, con un afecto y una ironía no exentos de profundidad.

El volumen se completa con seis retratos de «Mujeres fugitivas», que vivieron y murieron por encima de sus posibilidades, con tanta intensidad como humor. Y lo corona «Artistas perfectos», el contrapunto de las anteriores semblanzas: sus imágenes detenidas prescinden de anécdotas y caracteres para subrayar, en frases como relámpagos, la expresividad de los rostros, ademanes y gestos, espontáneos o artificiales, de los artistas que sólo en la posteridad alcanzan la perfección. Los textos van acompañados de extraordinarios retratos, pertenecientes en su mayoría a la colección del autor.

Reseñas:
«Cuesta contenerse ante el encanto de estos breves retratos... Exquisitos y astutamente irónicos. Un libro encantador.» Michael Dirda, The Washington Post

«Al leerlas, se cae de un modo insólito e inesperado en una sensación de éxtasis.» The Washington Times

«Una maravilla que exige lecturas y relecturas.» Antón Castro, El Periódico

«Marías es un escritor demasiado diestro como para acometer algo como una tediosa teoría de la biografía. [...] Para Marías los grandes escritores no son enigmas por resolver, pero sí paradojas para saborear. De hecho, muchas de estas “vidas escritas” comienzan con una paradoja.» Christopher Benfey, The New York Times Book Review

«Una lectura curiosa y gratificante. La voz segura e irónica de Marías junto con su perspicacia hacen que merezca la pena su lectura.» Jamie Berger, San Francisco Chronicle

«Vidas escritas prueba lo cautivador, inteligente y original que es Marías como escritor... El éxito del libro se basa en el estilo y el tono, y Marías, cuyo sello es la precisión socarrona, cumple las expectativas con rigor y garbo.» Sarah Emily Miano, The Observer

«Tengo la corazonada de que Vidas escritas, de Javier Marías, será considerado un texto de referencia en la historia de la biografía.» Carl Rollyson, The New York Sun

«Marías humaniza a estos autores imprescindibles y entra en su leyenda para contar de ellas cotidianidades e iluminar lados dudosos, mas no banalidades. El resultado es una mejor comprensión de aquellas vidas vistas aquí con "afecto y guasa", y no exentas de ironía.» Winston Manrique, Babelia

«Vidas escritas es una autobiografía acerca de otros, un viaje alrededor del cuarto de Javier Marías: en las fotos enmarcadas de las paredes, el autor aparece disfrazado unas veces de William Faulkner y otras de Henry James.» Benjamín Prado, Diario 16

Morgan Menzie takes readers through a harrowing but ultimately hopeful and inspiring account of her eating disorder. Her amazing story is told through the journals she kept during her daily struggle with this addiction and disease. Her triumphs and tragedies all unfold together in this beautiful story of God's grace.

Features include: daily eating schedule, journal entries, prayers to God, poems, and what she wished she knew at the time. It's the true story of victory over a disease that is killing America's youth.

Brandon was never able to make the football team in high
school, and it seemed like even in college no one would let him forget it.  Even when he gave up his free time to help
the team and the cheerleaders, a few of them still treated him like crap.  Well, Brandon was a lot smarter than they
were, and he soon had the five worst offenders under his hypnotic control in
the change room after practice one evening. 
He may be entering that change room a virgin, but he wouldn't be leaving
one.  Revenge is sweet.

WARNING:

This story contains very explicit sex scenes and complete
hypnotic enslavement of a group of young cheerleaders.

Excerpt:

Amy had now pulled her skirt on overtop her panties and was standing
quietly to the side, awaiting further instructions.  Eva stood up and he saw she was also wearing matching
panties to her bra.  He continued to watch
as she put her cheerleading outfit on and then admired the two girls.  They were both smoking hot, and he had
fantasized about them since he'd first laid eyes on them.

"Give me a little cheer," he said on a whim. 

"Of course, Master," they both said in unison.  The girls moved to the center of the room and
started to do one of their quick routines. 
He watched intently as their red and white skirts flipped as they
bounced, exposing their panties briefly with each twirl.  He knew that during actual games, each of the
girls wore matching red underwear that covered them more modestly, but for
practice they usually wore their regular underwear.  That was one of the reasons some of the girls
didn't want just anyone standing around and watching their rehearsals.

When the girls finished they remained in the center of the room,
looking at Brandon again as they awaited further instruction.  He decided he wanted to up the game a bit and
fulfill one of the tamer fantasies he had always had in his head.  "Do the routine again," he said,
"but this time without your panties."