Ganged in New York: 3-Book Bundle: Outnumbered Lady-Cop, Ganged by Yakuza, & Burgled! Read online

  Ganged in New York: 3-Book Bundle

  Copyright © 2017 Malicia Paine

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of erotic fiction. It's intended for adults, so don't read it if you know you shouldn't! :p

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  Table of Contents

  Book Description

  Burgled!

  Ganged By Yakuza

  Outnumbered Lady-Cop

  About the Author

  Bonus Book

  Book Description

  Maggie is a bored housewife, trapped in a loveless marriage.

  Suzy is a doctor's wife who'll do anything to protect for her man.

  Trixie is a scorned policewoman, out to arrest her bad-boy ex.

  What do these three women have in common? They're all about to be taken by groups of hot studs! It's been a long time coming, too. Though each woman doesn't realize it yet, they're all desperate for it!

  As they say: when it rains, it pours. And in these three exciting gang-up fantasies, it's going to be raining man-fluids all over these women!

  This collection contains 3 stories:

  Burgled! (An MfM Home-Intrusion Scenario)

  Ganged by Yakuza (An MMMf Home-Invasion Scenario)

  Outnumbered Lady-Cop (An MMMMf Bikers-on-Policewoman Scenario)

  Genre: Contemporary BDSM Urban Group Erotica

  Length: 21,000 Words (3 Sexy Shorts) + a 12,000-word bonus story!

  Features: Female POV, BDSM, Bondage, M/f, MM/f, MMM/f, Consensual/Dubcon, Gangbang, Hotwife, Interracial (White, Black & Asian), Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Bareback Sex, Bare-Bottom Spanking, Golden Shower, HFN Endings

  Burgled!

  I'd already been having a bad enough day. Then my home was invaded by two dangerous-looking men in black balaclavas! My day was about to get a lot worse. Or depending on how things went, maybe a whole lot better…

  I should preface this story by saying I love my husband, Jim. I do. Even now, when I think back to the way things were ten years ago, when we first met, sometimes it puts tears to my eyes. He was kind. He was sweet. He made me feel special.

  But these days—ten years later—he's close to a hundred pounds heavier, and TV commercial breaks last longer than his erections do. And that seems to be the only time I can ever get his attention.

  Lately, he's become quite the couch potato. He gets home from his I.T. job with the government, and then plops his portly body down in the La-Z-Boy chair, (aptly named, because he sure is a lazy boy), and then channel surfs while I get his supper ready.

  Then he eats. I ask him about his day, and he's vague about what he's been up to. He finishes eating, burps, leaves his plate, and goes back to his La-Z-Boy chair until he falls asleep in it—kind of a food-induced coma.

  And I see him there, just sitting there like a lump, drooling on himself, and then I look in the mirror.

  I'm still only 32, and I'm at the height of my sexual prime. I need to be treated like a sultry slut every bit as much as I deserve to be treated like a lady. And I want both, but I'm treated like neither. He seems to think I'm basically just a robot that cooks him food and gives him head every so often.

  Okay, basically every night.

  Yes, I still give him head, and yes, that often. Usually in that very chair he sits in. I'll come downstairs in a negligee, or a lacy bra and panties and then try to seduce him. It rarely works out the way I hope.

  He'll just sit there with a stupid grin on his face. Half the time, he won't even look at me. He'll just keep his eyes on the screen. I'll open his fly and suck his cock—which is nice. I'm not complaining about that part. I love sucking my man's cock. I especially love it when I get my husband hard, and then he puts a loving hand on my head and helps guide me at whatever pace he's in the mood for. But lately, it's the only way he stays hard. So usually, it doesn't result in sex. Because if he gets up, he loses his erection. And at his weight, he doesn't get erections easily, so I really have to work at it. And usually all I get for my efforts is a mouthful of cum. And even then, that's only if I'm lucky!

  Last night, for instance, I came downstairs in a new outfit I'd bought just to please him. It was a jailbird lingerie set—a black and white striped bra and panties set with a pair of police handcuffs. I handcuffed my hands in front, came downstairs, stood before his La-Z-Boy and gave him a sultry look.

  "Honey, can you move please? I'm trying to watch the game."

  I gave him this look as if to say, 'seriously?' I clinked the handcuffs in front of me, to show him I was a slave for him tonight.

  "Not now, honey," he said.

  I didn't relent. I bit my lip and got to my knees, and unzipped his pants.

  He didn't object, so I took to playing with his soft cock while he we watched the game, burped, and occasionally farted—which I tried to really hard to ignore.

  Gradually, I got him hard, and then I took to licking it. Then sucking it, while stroking with my cuffed hands.

  I was a good girl, and sucked his cock quietly while I waited for his game to end. But it went into overtime. Whatever. I didn't care. Like I said before, I like sucking cock. Especially for my husband. It makes me fell fulfilled, such as it might.

  I wasn't expecting much this time, but I've developed a routine. I'll dress up for him, suck his cock, and make him come if I can. Then I'll go back upstairs to bed and use a vibrator on myself.

  I'm okay with this. This is the life I chose. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

  I was getting a little impatient, and actually more than a little wet this time, so I thought I'd ask.

  "I'm getting really wet, sir," I whispered. "Would you like to take this hot little slut upstairs?"

  "Not now, Maggie. Just let me watch the game. You know I'll lose my erection if I get up anyway."

  "Yeah, but I'll help you get it back. I'll suck your cock all night if I have to. You know I don't mind."

  "Yeah, but can't you just do that here?"

  I was horrified by that statement for a moment. It was as if it was all sinking in for the first time.

  Jim really takes me for granted. It's like he just expects me to suck his cock. It's like that's what I'm for—cooking meals and sucking cock. He doesn't even know what I do with the rest of my time—he doesn't know I have to masturbate alone all the time just to feel normal. He doesn't seem to care that often I still don't feel normal, and cry myself to sleep sometimes.

  I didn't want to argue, so I just kept sucking his cock, as sensually as I could, all the while looking up at him, trying to get him to look back at me. He didn't.

  Whatever, I thought to myself. I'll suck him until he comes, and then I'll go upstairs and masturbate to memories of a much younger Jim buying me flowers, telling me I'm beautiful and making love to me in the moonlight.

  I sucked his cock for another few commercial breaks, until—frustratingly—his cock went soft, and eventually wouldn't get hard at all.

  "You can stop that now, honey," he said.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "Nothing," he said. "Why do you have to do this song and dance every night? Maybe I just don't feel like it anymore, all right? Does it have to be every night?"

  I blinked up at him in disbelief. I just couldn't believe it.

  "What's wrong with you?" I said softly,
shaking my head.

  "There's nothing wrong with me!" he snapped. "Maybe there's something wrong with you!"

  "Something wrong with…" I started, but then thought better of it.

  I don't want to fight right now. I will not fight right now.

  But look at that fat, unattractive, ungrateful lump sitting there, having eaten food I prepared for him, having spent half the night getting a blowjob—farting all the while too, by the way, which I politely ignore—and then having the nerve to say there's something wrong with me when all I want is a little love! I deserve better! You know what? Fuck it.

  "I'm not the one who's gained a hundred god damn pounds in the last ten years, Jim! It's not a mystery why you can't get an erection to last more than two fucking minutes! I work hard to stay thin, to stay healthy, and look hot for you! I spend so much time thinking about new ways to seduce you, and please you. And all you do is just come home and sit there like a useless fat potato that farts a lot!"

  I knew it was the wrong thing to say. It's sad how often you realize this the moment after you say it. So, while his reaction was understandable, it took me by surprise.

  Jim slapped me.

  He actually slapped me! Hard! Right across my left cheek.

  I stood up, and drew a hand—both hands, actually, thanks to the handcuffs—up to my face to feel the heat on my sore cheek. He'd slapped me so hard I felt almost dizzy. He'd never struck me like that before. Well…not in the face. Not out of anger. He's spanked me before when I told him I wanted him to, but this was obviously a lot different.

  "Maggie…" he said, looking a little embarrassed, "I'm sorry."

  Jim had never hit me like that before. It was a real wake-up call. I suddenly realized I had become that wife. The wife who let things gradually get worse and worse, until she gave everything of herself, and got nothing back but derision and abuse.

  "I don't even know who you are anymore," I sobbed.

  I ran upstairs.

  "Maggie!" he said, struggling to get his fat body out of his chair.

  "Please, Jim. Don't bother getting up, just…just stay there. I'm sorry I called you fat. I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

  I wasn't sorry, though. He and I both knew that was the reason I couldn't keep him hard. Because we still have mirrors, and I cycle every day and work hard to maintain the body I had at twenty. I'm still hot. I know I am. Maybe I'm not worth loving. That, I'm not so sure about, but a man should at least want to fuck me!

  No, I apologized because now I was actually afraid of him. Because now I clearly couldn't even talk to him. At least I wanted to get these handcuffs off first.

  I was too depressed to masturbate anymore, so I simply took to crying myself to sleep.

  I awoke in the middle of the night—or the early morning rather, to the loud snoring of my mountain of a husband next to me.

  By that point, I was too restless to sleep. Too depressed to think about the prospect of a divorce. I'd put so much effort into our relationship.

  So I just got my tablet, curled up on the couch downstairs and read erotica and masturbated until I heard Jim finally get up. When he did, I cooked him breakfast, like I always did. Except this time, I couldn't bring myself to face him, and whatever empty apology he's mutter while wolfing down his food. So while I heard him finishing his morning bowel movements and shower, I put on a sports bra and shorts, and went out for a run. I stayed out until I happened past the house and the car was gone.

  ****

  I was home alone, minus the sports bra and shorts when it happened. I was employing my vibrator in bed, so when they broke in through the back door, I didn't quite hear the sound of breaking glass. I heard something, but I dismissed it, and turned my vibrator back on.

  I heard something again.

  I shut it off. There was definitely movement downstairs.

  Is Jim home already?

  That wasn't a good sign.

  I threw on a housecoat and headed downstairs to see what was going on.

  I stopped halfway down the stairs when I realized I heard voices. Multiple male voices. And I froze in place.

  "Just keep watch, all right. I'm faster at—"

  "Shh! Someone's coming! Put your mask back on!"

  Shit, home intruders!

  I stood there hopelessly the stairs. I knew if I tried to move too fast, they'd hear me, so I just waited, holding my breath. Feeling my heart pound in my chest.

  This was not something I'd been expecting today—well of course that's stupid. No one ever expects them. But I'd never expected something like this to happen ever. So now that it was happening, I didn't know what to do. What's the protocol for this?

  I supposed I should phone the police, but…my phone was still upstairs, so…

  I tried to sneak back upstairs, but it was too late.

  "Stop," said a booming voice.

  I turned to see two men at the base of the stairs. One black, one white, both in dark turtlenecks and balaclavas.

  The black guy pulled a gun on me.

  "Don't you move, bitch! You move you're dead."

  Panic filled my body. My heart raced.

  I threw my hands up.

  "I won't move," I said. "Oh…god…please don't kill me."

  The white guy rolled his eyes.

  "God, Terry, put that down."

  The black guy's—Terry's—eyes went wide.

  "You just used my name, man! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  "Shit," said the white guy. He turned to me. "His name's not really Terry. It's a codename. Short for 'Terrifying'."

  Terry slapped his forehead with his free hand.

  "Shit," added the white guy. "Look. No one's shooting anybody. We just came to burgle the place. You weren't supposed to be home."

  "I…"

  I wasn't supposed to be home? I thought. I'm always home! I'm a housewife for god's sake!

  "Damn it, Terry. I thought you said there'd be no one here!"

  "Stop using my name, Frank! Oh…fuck. Now look what you made me do."

  "Well what do we do about her?"

  "You could tie me up," I said, trying to be helpful.

  What are you doing, Maggie? I thought to myself. What if these guys decide to hurt you. You should run…

  But there was nowhere to run.

  "Right," said Frank. "That's a good idea."

  "Well don't look at me," said Terry. "I didn't bring any damn rope. This ain't a hostage type plan, man."

  "Well it is now," said Frank. He turned to me. "I'm really sorry about this."

  It was odd. This guy seemed genuinely baffled by my presence, and obviously had no real intention of hurting me. Maybe that's why I felt secure enough in suggesting he tie me up.

  Or maybe it was a ploy. But through the mask, I could see he had kind eyes.

  Really nice blue ones…No, Maggie, you idiot. These men broke into your house! What are you thinking?

  "It's all right," I said. "I don't mind, really."

  "You don't mind?" said Terry. "Bitch, we about rob you. You ain't got no problem widdat?"

  "It's fine," I said. "My husband makes more than enough money for the both of us and our insurance will cover most of it. Just…please don't take my tablet. It, um…it has all my porn on it."

  The two men looked at me, baffled.

  What? Maggie, what the hell is wrong with you?

  "Um…sure. Fine," said Frank. "We're not here for your tablet anyway."

  "Um…there's rope upstairs. Lots of it. And um…I have handcuffs too if that's faster."

  The two men exchanged a look.

  Am I making a mistake by being so helpful? Because what if these guys…I don't know…decide they want to rape me?

  The thought made my pussy a little wet, and I realized, not wearing panties, that it'd probably just dribble down my leg. So I tried to get that thought out of my mind, but it was hard. Because I realized I hadn't been fucking in such a long time. So maybe, if these guys wanted to hav
e their way with me, I was okay with that.

  "Terry, keep watch."

  "Man, why do I gotta keep watch?"

  "Because you're the one with a gun."

  "And what if that bitch try something?"

  Frank looked up at me. "She's like a hundred pounds. I can bench twice that. She won't try anything. And even if she does, I'm not worried. You won't try anything, will you, sweetheart?"

  I liked being called 'sweetheart'. How long had it been since Jim had sweet talked me?

  "No," I said, shaking my head.

  Terry just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  "Okay dude, whatever."

  Frank followed me upstairs to the bedroom.

  "Okay, so…handcuffs are probably easier, right?" he said.

  "Yeah. Here, they're in the drawer."

  "Hold it," he said, putting a hand to my chest to stop me.

  For a moment I thought he was going to grope my breast, but then he pulled his hand away.

  "Sorry," he said. "Just making sure you don't pull a gun on me or something."

  "We don't own a gun," I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  "But Terry said—you know what? Never mind."

  Frank dug around and pulled out my pair of metal police handcuffs. They don't have a safety release—something I was worried would be a hazard now. When I bought them, I liked the idea of being totally helpless and unable to escape. But now, that was really dangerous. So why the hell was I getting so aroused?

  Frank looked at me.

  "All right sweetheart, I guess, uh…will you be more comfortable on the chair or the bed?"

  I looked at both. I imagined I could be assaulted on either one. But the bed would be more comfortable for sure.

  "The bed," I said.

  "Okay," he said, and gestured for me to lie down.

  I lay down on the bed, and put my hands above me, through the headboard.

  "I'm sorry about this," he said.

  "It's okay, really."

  Frank handcuffed my hands above me.

  "Are you comfortable enough?" he asked.