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You are unfamiliar with the L.A. streets and somewhere south and east of the airport, you find yourself lost in the dark in a very questionable neighborhood, run down, full of signs in lanquages you can’t read. Suddenly, an old van with a big wooden bumper rear-ends your rented Toyota, driving it up over a curb. When you recover from the shock of the collision, you reach for the door handle, to get out and look at the damage.

As soon as you get out, someone grabs you from behind. A coarse sack, burlap or jute, is pulled down over your head, and your arm is twisted behind you, by someone you can’t see. “Don’t make a noise, Anglo bitch, or you are dead right now.” says a voice which sounds as if the teeth are clenched. In seconds, you are dragged into the van and pushed to the floor. You can feel it back up, stop with a lurch, and then move forward, making several turns, probably turning at every intersection.

Strong hands roll you on your back. Counting hands, there must be at least three men. You feel the hard steel floor of the van against your back; it is a cargo van, no seats in back. Probably no windows, either, you realize. Unless there were witnesses to the ramming and abduction, no one could know where you are.

You feel cold steel against your throat, under the bag which covers your eyes. “Listen, Sweetie, you are going to do everything you are told to do, and you are not going to scream or struggle or talk back; otherwise, you die right now. Understand?” The point of the knife presses painfully into your skin.

“Yes,” you croak, your throat dry with terror. You feel them pulling your arms above your head, and apart. Your wrists are tied to something, maybe the front seats of the van. They are using wire; it bites into your skin. They take your Reboks and tie your ankles, using wire again, pulling your legs straight and apart. You are spread-eagled, entirely helpless and vulnerable. Your breathing is rapid. You are hyperventilating and might become light headed, blowing off too much carbon-dioxide, except that the sack over your head restricts the air flow, compensating for your panicky panting.

You are wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The knife point slides down your neck, until the blade encounters the first button of your shirt. There is a little tug, and the button flies off. You actually hear it strike the metal wall of the van. Men laugh. You smell marijuana.

You can feel another tug at your shirt. The second button is cut off. Then the third. And the fourth, and the fifth, which is down by your navel. Someone pulls the tail of your shirt out of your jeans and cuts the last buttons. They didn’t have to cut them off. You know you can never wear that shirt again. Will you die naked? The flannel is pulled back, baring the front of your body.

The sharp blade, double edged, slides along the midline of your tummy. You wonder, is it drawing blood? How can you be so detached, so clinical? Does it have something to do with being blindfolded by the sack? You cannot see who is assaulting you, so you must concentrate on what you feel. You feel the blade pause, between your breasts, and lift, and suddenly your bra springs away from your breasts, leaving them exposed. Almost instantly, strong, masculine hands grasp your breasts. They are big hands, able to engulf your B-cup breasts, and they are rough, calloused hands. They squeeze and knead your breasts. These men have no respect for your body. Read the rest of this entry »

Tammy and I were very happy in the first few months of our marriage. Hers was the love I had always looked for. Tammy was such a sweet young girl, a virgin of 20 when we married. She was flat out gorgeous, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her in the street. She hid her shapely body and legs in loose, long cut dresses, and kept her thick black hair pinned back. She was a lady, a beautiful angel. She was a minister’s daughter, raised in a deeply Christian household, and her strong religious convictions made her very conscious to not dress provocatively. I’d come to know over the few months what a spectacular body she had. I felt privileged to have seen it all, and to have been the first man to feel the inside of her lovely young pussy.

In contrast to her, I was much more adventurous sexually. Certainly no virgin, by the time I was her age I had had many women. Sex was the most important thing in my life. You might even consider me a sex addict; I spent many hours in strip clubs and adult bookstores, enjoying pornography and the pleasures of feeling up strippers. In fact, I continued to do this even after we were married, because while Tammy was the love of my life, there were feelings and urges that she didn’t satisfy. There was no way I could tell her about this, she wouldn’t understand, so it remained a secret I kept from her. Read the rest of this entry »

My wife and I had been married for over 15 years before we began to discuss eachothers fantasies. I am 42 and Andrea is 38, although, she looks more like she is in her late twenties. She is not a movie star in the looks department, and then neither am I! Andrea is 5′4″, Auburn hair, 34c breasts, with extra thick and long nipples that are super sensative. I often had the thought, that if a guy could get as far as her nipples, he would get all the way!

Another fine feature is her legs. She has a gorgeous formed pair. I see other guys turn their heads and look as we walk by when she is dressed in a skirt and heels. Three children left their toll in the form of stretch marks, but all in all she is one sexy woman. Read the rest of this entry »

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