Having suffered a spate of rustling from their farm in the midwest, Tia and her housemates were especially vigilant. They put up clear notices "Trespassers Will Be Shot" to warn off would be thieves. But even that was not always enough to deter people from straying onto their land.

Tia had heard voices and had come out of the house and hidden in the bushes. Sure enough, two men were snooping around and observing the stock. Tia watched them for a couple of minutes and then made herself known.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" she asked, her shotgun pointing directly at them.

"We was just looking at your birds," replied one of the men.

"Fine specimens," said the other.

"Didn't you see the signs?" Tia asked. "Can't you cretins read?"

The men laughed, amused that she had used an abusive tone towards them. Tia removed the safety catch of her gun and they stopped laughing.

I was on holiday in Ibiza with my mates. It was the normal sort of lads vacation - mainly drinking and fucking! We were having a real laugh and really enjoying ourselves with all the fit chicks. As usual we had a competition on the go to see who could get the most out of the birds. We had points for snogging, hand jobs, blow jobs and, of course, the full monty scoring a full ten marks. I'd done pretty well in the first few days and had got my end away with three girls, plus various sucks and fumbles to make me up a few more points.
One afternoon we went into this little bar and knocked back a few pints and a few shorts.
This blonde bird called Julie behind the bar was well fit and me and all the others were trying our best to chat her up. In the end she told me that she quite fancied me. I was well chuffed, especially when she said she wanted to come over to our apartment that afternoon for a bit of fun.
After a lot of ribbing, the other guys went out and left me and her to get down to it. Then, just as things were going wicked, she asked me about the chart on the kitchen wall.
"It's nothing," I told her.
She asked, "What's all this? Johno forty seven points? What does it mean?"
BJ? Is that blow job?" she asked. "It is isn't it? SH is shag isn't it? You've been giving yourself points haven't you? Well how many points were you going to give me?"

She looked carefully at the chart and the other guys' scores. Then she looked at the abbreviations, "SN", "BJ", "HJ", "SH", and stared to guess what they meant.

I told her not to be so touchy, but she kept on and on until I fessed up to what we were doing. I told her that it was just a laugh, a bit of harmless fun for the lads. I thought she was going to go crazy but she didn't. She gave me a snog and grabbed my cock.

"That's just for starters," she said. "You come into my bar after closing time and let's see how many marks you can chalk up."

`Not guilty.' There were several audible gasps around the court as the foreman of the jury read out the verdict — but few quite as unmistakably outraged as that uttered by the arresting officer in the case, Detective Constable Maggie Fordham.
Maggie had been far more than just the arresting officer, though. She had built the case up from scratch over the course of six months; interviewing witnesses; painstakingly gathering evidence; working endless unpaid overtime to bring this scumbag to justice — only to watch the case crumble before her very eyes.
`Ronald Anthony Vernon,' announced Judge Hargreaves, 'You have been found not guilty of the charges brought against you.' There was clear reluctance in his voice as he added, 'Therefore, you are free to go.' Maggie Fordham literally shook with fury as Vernon looked in her direction, a smug grin on his face, and blew her a kiss. She glared back at him with such burning hatred that if looks truly could kill she herself would have been up before the judge charged with murder.
Instead, Vernon's slimy barrister, Maurice Matthews, put an arm around his client's shoulders and led him out of the courtroom. 'I'll get you yet, you son of a bitch,' muttered Maggie under her breath to Vernon's back as he disappeared from view.
As she walked across the courtroom heading for the exit, the prosecuting counsel, whose incompetence Maggie blamed very much for Vernon being acquitted, gave her a lame smile and a weary shrug. Maggie just glowered back at him. He turned bright red and suddenly found something terribly interesting in the contents of his briefcase.
Maggie, her voluptuous figure and long, shapely legs accentuated by the tight fitting light grey business suit, strode along the corridor outside court number two and down the steps to the entrance hall; the four inch heels of her stylish black patent leather court shoes clacking noisily on the wooden floor.

Mistress Valkyrie is a beautiful and sexy dominatrix from the Czech Republic. We interviewed her and she had many interesting and sadistic tales to tell!

She says. I was brought up in the countryside and have a love of all the usual country pursuits: hiking, fishing, shooting, hunting and horse riding. In a strange way I find all of these pastimes something of a turn-on and quite often strange and exciting things happen to me. For instance, fishing. I went out one sunny morning and set up my tackle on the bank of a small river. It was shallow water and I wasn't really sure what kind of fishes I might catch.

After not too long I got a bite and pulled out a dear little tiddler. Naturally I was very disappointed to land such a small and insignificant fish, and so I decided that its only purpose would be to use as bait to hook a larger fish. It squirmed and wriggled on the bank next to me. Holding it firmly in my fingers I used my knife to slice it open, so that it would be fresh with blood and more appetizing to my intended prey.

The poor little creature struggled and gasped. I stuck my hook through its silver belly and cast out my line. I could see the little tiddler sploshing about in the water, wriggling to get free. But I had hooked him properly and there was no chance of escape. The thrashing about had the desired effect and soon a larger fish was nibbling at it. I struck and hauled in a very nice perch.

Do you believe in ghosts? If you had asked me this same question a few hours ago I would have laughingly told you, no way — unless you were one of the gullible mugs I've been fleecing for the last twelve months, of course. But now... I'm not so sure.
It was on the first stroke of midnight that she appeared. Well, perhaps "appeared" isn't quite the right word. Let's just say that that was when I first set eyes on Catherine. Or Josephine. Or Charlotte. Or Mary. Or whatever her name is. Or was.
Maybe I didn't set eyes on her at all. Maybe I just imagined her; a vivid, feverish dream. I pray to God that's the case. But the welts, bruises and scratches covering my body, not to mention the terrible pain I'm in, tell a different story. Let me tell you my story...

`I want a slave, mummy,' stated Penelope in so calm and matter-of-fact a way that it left her mother, Barbara, completely nonplussed. What could she say? After all, she had asked her daughter what she wanted for her twentieth birthday. And besides, what do you give to the girl who has everything?
This wasn't all that much of an exaggeration. How many other nineteen year old girls owned a top of the range Porsche and an Aston Martin Vanquish? Or had so many clothes that two entire rooms had had to be converted into walk-in wardrobes for her?
Lady Barbara Cartwright (the title acquired by default when her late husband, Sir Donald, was given his knighthood for services to industry — or, if one were feeling cynical, for the size of his donations to Conservative party funds, when they were last in power) stood before her wilful offspring wondering how she should answer her daughter's bizarre request.
Penny was a spoiled brat. Barbara should know — she was the one who spoiled her. She always had and probably always would. It wasn't just out of maternal devotion. Or because, as a woman with over fifty million pounds in the bank, she could easily afford to. If she was honest, it was also because she feared Penny's terrifying temper tantrums if she didn't get exactly what she wanted.

Cold. Aloof. Unapproachable.Ice maiden.
These and other such terms are sometimes used warily and in hushed tones behind her back to describe Mistress Melana. Nobody would ever dare say them to her face.
Mistress Melana is a very private person. She craves solitude.
She enjoys her own company. And, like Greta Garbo, she wants to be alone. But being left alone is not an easy thing when you're a beautiful woman. There are always stupid male animals buzzing around you like bees round a honey pot.
The ugly ones are the worst, she thought sullenly as she sat on the riverbank wearily watching Dennis Bryant disturbing her peace for the third and most definitely final time. For one aspect of the American judicial system (as well as the death penalty, of course) that Mistress Melana truly admires is the notion of "Three strikes and you're out."
Why couldn't the moron take a hint? Read her blatant body language? Why, she wondered for about the millionth time in her life, were men so dumb?

Sophie yawned and stretched. She could feel the heat of the sun on her skin and see it through her closed eyelids. It wasn't too hot just yet so it must be fairly early in the morning, she figured. She tentatively opened one eye... and instantly shut it again as the shaft of sunlight seemed to shoot right through her retina and into the back of her skull.
Shading her eyes from the worst of the solar rays with an elegantly manicured hand, she opened them only as far as narrow slits. She gradually opened them fully and was momentarily confused. This wasn't her bedroom. There wasn't a Madonna poster in sight. Her bottle strewn dressing table was nowhere to be seen either. Where the hell was she?
As she gave a distinctly unladylike belch and tasted the aftermath of too many Bacardi's and way too much vodka, everything fell into place. The party at Sarah's house the night before! Of course, that's where she was.
The sofa creaked beneath her as she propped herself up on one elbow and glanced around Sarah's living room. Well, Sarah's parents living room to be precise. What a mess! There were half empty glasses and upended wine bottles strewn across the no doubt very expensive carpet. And the ornate dining table was awash with plates and screwed up paper napkins. A solitary smoked salmon sandwich, its edges beginning to curl, looked to be the sole survivor of the rather excellent buffet.
And there was Sarah herself, curled up fast asleep in an armchair, her fiancé, Steven, on the floor beside her, dead to the world. Sophie craned her neck to see Selina, Roger, Emma, Jessica and a handful of others in an equal state of unconsciousness.
She could vaguely remember enjoying herself. It had been Sarah and Steven's engagement party and even though she lived less than a mile away, Sophie had been in no fit state to make the journey down quiet, unlit country lanes - let alone face her disapproving parents.
Sophie's 360 degree look around the room finished at the bottom end of the sofa she was lying on. She gasped as she saw who she was sharing the sofa with. It was that ignorant, annoying pig, Kevin. He was sitting upright, his head back and his mouth open, snoring loudly.
Sophie's eyes widened in disgust and anger as she saw that her bare feet were in his lap. She quickly snatched them away and tucked her knees up to her chest. She had had the sofa all to herself when she settled down to get some sleep - she was sure of it. Kevin must have lifted her feet while she slept, slipped in under them and laid them down in his lap.
She shuddered with revulsion at the thought of that pervert fondling her feet. Or, worse still, rubbing the seemingly permanent bulge in his jeans against them. The notion made her feel sick ........

`Cheeky bugger!' exclaimed Sarah indignantly. 'Here, budge up. Let me have a look,' said Suzy excitedly, throwing herself down beside Sarah on the bed and snatching the binoculars from her hand.
`Mind your manners,' admonished Sarah with mock severity, giving her girlfriend a playful swat on her shapely rump. Suzy responded with a brief yelp that turned into a saucy chuckle. 'I can't believe his audacity,' said Suzy incredulously as she followed the intruder's movements with the powerful Zeiss binoculars.
Sarah rolled over onto her side and looked Suzy up and down as she lay splayed face down on the bed that they had manoeuvred over to the window so they could keep tabs on their uninvited guest. Sarah licked her lips at the sight of her lover's gorgeous body clad only in a black satin brassiere and matching panties.
She felt a familiar stirring in her loins. Good God, thought Sarah with a smile, I'm turning into a nymphomaniac. It was barely an hour since they had shared a particularly torrid shower together and already she was horny again. Luckily, Suzy shared her insatiable enthusiasm for sex.
Sarah's smile broadened as she recalled the delicious feeling as their entwined lather covered bodies had slipped and slithered over one another beneath the hissing spray in the shower cubicle.
`He's got a bloody nerve!' said Suzy crossly as she peered through the rubber eyepieces, interrupting Sarah's thoughts. Sarah licked her lips again, undid the belt around her waist and slid off the towelling bathrobe she was wearing. She knelt upright on the bed and straddled Suzy's back, sitting down on her friend's bottom.
Suzy gave an involuntary `Oof!' as Sarah brought her full weight down on the girl but carried on looking through the binoculars.

Jim had replied to the advert in the local newspaper.
It read simply: "handyman wanted." He had spoken to Miss Sharp on the phone and she had outlined the work which needed doing on her house,
adding quite forcefully, "I do expect a very high standard of work. And I expect my workers to be punctual, courteous and respectful."
The way she had said "my workers" annoyed Jim. Also her references to "punctual, courteous and respectful" made him smile. "Silly cow!" he muttered under his breath.
Miss Sharp was reclining on a sofa when she heard the knock at the door.
Ivan, her attendant, ran to answer it.
She heard a brief, muttered conversation take place in the hallway. The door of the drawing room silently opened and Ivan slumped to his knees.
The middle-aged man shuffled quickly across the highly-polished floorboards and stopped at her feet. He slumped his head and waited for his Mistress to look at him before addressing her.