Thursday, April 3, 2014

Monday, March 31, 2014

A Tale of Two Breannes

In 2004 I wrote a short story entitled "The Museum of Inquisition," a cute little tale describing a certain lush, college aged red-head with a penchant for BDSM. She was an unwilling actor in the story, and I never intended to bring her back as a character, until a month or two later when a reader contacted me.  Full of praise for the story, the young lady who wrote me waxed philosophic on sex, making it clear that had she been the girl in my story, she would have volunteered, rather than been forced into the situation.  She loved the artistry of the story.  She loved the sex.  She loved how it made her feel, and most importantly, she loved that she had the same name as the main character.

And that was how I met Breanne Erickson.  Admittedly, she was an unwholesome influence on me, as anyone reading my "Angie" stories can attest, since the relationship between Angie and Kat are practically replications of Breanne's relationship with Kari.  Completely with Breanne's permission and knowledge, I used some of her "tales" as fodder for my writing.

But it wasn't enough.  Angie was sufficiently different from the real Breanne that I felt as if something was missing.  And it was.  And so I penned "The Silver Locke," a true Breanne story that encapsulated the real thing into a two dimensional, fictional character and set the facsimile on a different path.  The real Breanne remained in Katy, Texas, working her parent's farm, all while my fantasy began working at an imaginary, high-cost, BDSM themed whorehouse on some unnamed Indian Reservation.  The real Breanne thought my fantasy fantastic, and actually told me she was jealous.

It was about this time that Breanne started showing me her own work, such as "The Computer," a piece she wrote ages ago.  It wasn't bad and as our online relationship matured, I invited her to post to my blog, hoping - somewhat selfishly - that her daily "toys" and assignments would be a draw for readers.

I was right too.  Breanne's daily assignment postings became this massive thing and her writing improved in leaps and bounds.  Two or three paragraph postings became pages, then "parts" and finally  "chapters."  The lure?  Her amazing narratives, which brought not only a sense of realism to the sex, but a touch of humor and self-depreciation.  Breanne presented sex from not only an arousing perspective, but from a human one as well. 

I fell in love with her just as any one else might, and like a writer of fan-fiction, I took my pen in hand and expanded the role of my fantasy version of the real thing.  Except now the character added dimensions of the real girl.  As I came to know Breanne Erickson, nympho humiliation pain slut, my fantasy fictional Breanne evolved to more closely resemble the flesh and bones girl.  I wrote Breanne's Three - Chicago BDSM as well as the short story "Heart of Ice" (included in "The Silver Locke").  Can you tell I was fixated?

As the real Breanne's popularity surged I swore to stop writing Breanne stories, to go back to my "Angie" character, or perhaps work on Tami from Corporal Punishment, or maybe even finish writing my other Sigma Epsilon Chi tale, bringing Samantha Mayfield back to readers.  But as much as I love Tami's light brown hair swinging wildly as her cute little teenage bottom wriggles under the strap, or Samantha Mayfield's brunette locks bobbing as she struggles to sit quietly on the punishment phallus, there was something missing.  Something red.

I'm just as much in love with my fantasy Breanne as I am with the real girl, just as many of you are.  And I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I miss her.  I miss the tweets.  I miss the silly commentary.  I miss the eye-widening, hilarity of her prose.  I miss her colloquialisms.  I miss visiting the blog, brightening my day to see a new post from her.  And while I'm still in touch with Breanne, and we're working on editing "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Vol. 8," it still isn't the same.

I miss you, Breanne.   - MA

http://www.michaelalexanderstories.com/subpages/breannebio.html

 

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

A Little Bit of Candi - Michael Alexander



 A Little Bit of Candi - By Michael Alexander


The clang of the locker door echoed through the cheerleader’s dressing room and Candi Cook sighed audibly.  It had been an invigorating workout, the team captain pushing them through their routine several times as they all struggled to jump, flip, bounce, and tumble, encouraging an imaginary crowd to cheer for an imaginary football team.  Candi hadn’t minded the effort though.  She was an energetic girl, with bright blue eyes that could melt hearts and make even the most reticent student jump up enthusiastically, screaming his head off, shouting “GO TEAM!” 
Admittedly, Candi’s personality was only half the reason.  Everyone seemed to love her and her popularity was through the roof.  Most of that was because she was willing to talk to anyone, and never seemed to get mad.  Even the nerds adored her, savoring the moments she would actually sit down at their table and eat lunch with them.  Candi actually seemed to care, and that was something a little unheard of in a high school environment.
The other reason she was adored was because she was gorgeous, with long blond hair matching her sapphire eyes.  Her face was round rather than narrow, and if you’d taken a poll she’d have scored pretty damn high on the “cute” scale and off the chart on the “pretty” one.   It was one of the things that made her adorable.  Of course there was one aspect of her physique that had the boys in the school crazy about her, and even some of the more liberally minded girls.  Candace Cook was stacked.
It wasn’t something she liked to talk about, and on a personal level it was just something she lived with, but her breasts were unusually large for a girl her age.  She was only sixteen years old and already a very firm and impressive size C.  It was clear she tried to downplay her curves, which her petite and lightweight body held so well.  No one ever saw her in low cut blouses or tight tops.  But on the days where she wore her cheerleading uniform, it was impossible to hide, much less ignore, those amazing breasts.
As Candi peeled off her workout clothes and began dressing in something a little more appropriate for the walk home, one of the other cheerleaders, wrapped only in a towel, stepped up to her, holding a manila envelope.  It was unusually thick.
“Hey Candi, one of your admirers dropped this off,” Becky said with a grin.  “Cute guy with blond hair.”  Candi glanced up.  Becky was smiling in good nature, more amused than jealous, especially since it was well known that Candi hadn’t gone on any dates.  She’d been polite to all the various requests, even friendly, turning them all down.  It wasn’t that she lacked interest, but she had responsibilities, and dating wasn’t compatible with them.
Candi chuckled and took the envelope from Becky. “Thanks. If it’s a live one do you want me to suggest you instead?”
Becky’s eyebrows went up wickedly. “I answered the door in nothing but a towel, which accidently fell.  I think he got the message.  Cute guy though.  Never seen him before.  I don’t even think he goes to school here.”
That made Candi cock her head to the side. “He was a stranger?”
Becky shrugged. “Yep. And older too, like in his twenties maybe.  He was a hunk.”  Then Becky wandered away, leaving Candi to stare down at the heavy envelope.  Finally she tore it open and upended it.  To her surprise a smart phone fell out.  She caught it deftly before it crashed to the floor.  She held it for half a minute, shocked, when suddenly it vibrated in her hand.  The screen flashed once and she saw that a text message had arrived.  Blinking curiously, she lifted the phone up to read the screen.
“Candace, we need to discuss your brother’s situation.  He might be in danger.  Get somewhere private and respond “ready” to this text. Leave your phone there. I advise keeping the nature of this text secret.  You don’t know who to trust.”
Candi gasped. She looked around.  Half the locker room was already empty, most of the other cheerleaders either in the shower or already dressed and out the door.  She bit her lip, trying to decide what to do.  What did it mean?  Was her brother in danger?  What the hell was going on?  She put the phone down and hurriedly changed into her school clothes.  Once dressed in the soft white blouse, the collar buttoned up almost to her neck, along with the neat, navy blue skirt that came down past her knees, she slipped on her flats, and snatched the phone up off the bench.  She left her purse and smart phone in her locker.  She didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone, concern for her little brother overwhelming her.
Almost the moment she got outside she activated the touchscreen of the phone and quickly replied to the text message.  She didn’t know what to expect, but a moment later another message arrived, this one with a picture.
“Jonathan!” Candi gasped out loud.  She easily recognized her little brother as she struggled with a wave of varied emotion.  The picture showed him tied and bound to a chair, a cloth gag in his mouth.  He looked uncomfortable – and scared.
Almost immediately another text arrived. “We haven’t hurt him, but to keep him that way, you’ll need to follow some very specific directions.  To start off with, don’t call or go to the police.  Do that and not only will I guarantee you won’t see your brother again, but I’ll record how it ends and send it to you.  I can assure you that it will be painful.”
Candi almost dropped the phone as the horror of it struck her.  Was it a joke?  Who could be so vicious?  Why her?  What did they want?  She fell backward against the brick wall of the school, barely able to remain upright.  Another text arrived and she read it through brimming tears.
“You will start off by proceeding to the field house out by the stadium.  You will find a box next to the trash can.  Get the box. Open it.  Follow the instructions inside.”
Candi shook, trying to master her emotions.  She looked around, as if searching for help, but the warning not to get the police involved prevented her from calling out.  She almost hoped a teacher would step up and ask her what was wrong, but none seemed to be around.  She bit her lip, trying to think of options when the phone buzzed again.
“Time is important.  Take too long and I’ll hurt him.”
Candi ran.
For the second time that day the blond cheerleader ran out to the football field, this time alone.  Her sneakers had been replaced with the flats she had worn to school, which only slowed her down marginally.  The field was deserted and she quickly moved around to the far side of the bleachers, toward the field house.  She looked left and right, wondering if she was alone, but didn’t see anyone.  The football team itself practiced on a different field on the other side of the school, so it wasn’t that unusual for the multi-million dollar stadium to be left empty on a weekday afternoon. 
She spotted the box almost immediately.  It was medium sized and plain.  Cautiously Candi approached it, still looking out for an ambush.  Finally assured that she was alone, she grabbed the box and moved back out into the middle of the field.  She wanted lots of space around her.  She tore the box open, hurrying for Jonathan’s sake.  Inside she found several folded pieces of cloth, but before she could draw them out, the phone in her hand vibrated.
“Put them on,” was all the message said.
Confused, Candi drew the material out of the box.  To her shock it was an outfit, both pieces an ivory cream color.  The material was stretchy, like elastic, and Candi realized that she couldn’t tell the difference between the top and bottom.  They seemed interchangeable, both form fitting and tight.  She clutched the box to her chest and looked around.  The phone buzzed again and she glanced at the screen.
“Right there. Take off your clothes and put on the skirt and top.  And Candi – no bra or panties.”
Candi, as good natured as she was, suddenly couldn’t take it.  She dumped the box and the clothing on the ground and furiously began typing into the phone.
“Who the hell are you and why are you doing this?” she demanded, her fingers flying furiously over the virtual keyboard on the screen.  She hit the send button quickly, her face flushed with anger, fear, and humiliation.  It only took twenty or so seconds for the phone to vibrate again.  She slid her fingers across the screen and saw that a video file had been sent.  The opening image was again of her younger brother, still bound to the chair.  She hit the play button and the camera angle changed.  Whoever was holding it approached Jonathon.  She saw a hand appear holding some sort of black, metal object in the other hand.   He pressed it against Jon’s shoulder and there was a crackling sound.  Candi gasped as her brother jerked wildly, his face contorted in agony.  But then it was over and he slumped, crying loudly.
Candi burst into tears as the video ended, a flood of emotions overwhelming her.  The questions she had demanded of their tormentor were no less valid despite having received no answer, and she quickly picked up the box of clothing again.  The phone vibrated once more and another text message was received.
“Do I need to hurt him again?” it asked.
She glanced around.  There was still no one she could see, but her eyes flashed up to the press box, where the tinted windows blocked her view.  Or the snack shack, were someone could have been watching her from behind the closed order window, standing in the semi-darkness.  Was Jonathan close by?
She moved fast, clutching at one of the white pieces of elastic material.  She shucked out of the blue navy skirt, stripping it from her ample hips and sending it to the ground.  She wore a pair of yellow, bikini cut panties underneath.  She stepped into the white sheath and pulled it upward until it came up to her waist.  She moaned in frustration.  If she pulled the skirt up to the proper point, it wasn’t long enough to cover her bottom and sex.  She went back to the box and grabbed the other piece of material, holding it up.  Maybe she had gotten them confused and the other piece was the skirt.  She peeled the white sheath off her rump, her panties almost getting stuck to it as it came down.  She tried the other piece and discovered the exact same problem – it didn’t fit.
Tears stinging her eyes, she picked the phone off the grass and again sent a text message.
“It doesn’t fit!” she sent, a single tear splashing on the phone face.  She wiped it off and waited.
“It’s not supposed to.  Do your best.  And take off those goddamn yellow panties.”
Candi blinked.  The confirmation scared her more than the demand.  She whirled around, eyes flashing.  He was there.  Watching her.  Somewhere.  Her mind raced furiously.  She had a phone.  Why not call the police?  They’d be able to surround the place, find Jonathan, and get her brother back.  But would she have time?  She had to play along.  She pulled the phone close, facing the field house, hoping she was hiding her movements.  Carefully she hit the speakerphone, then dialed nine one one.  She put the phone down as the ringing sound hit her ears and she almost held her breath as hope flooded through her heart.
“Nine one one, what is your emergency?” a bored voice asked.  He was obviously male.
“Please!” Candi said.  “You’ve got to help my brother!  There’s this man who is hurting him and he’s making me do things!  We’re here!  At the school stadium!”
“Wait a moment.  You say that this man is hurting your brother?” the dispatcher asked, his voice suspicious.
“Yes!  Please!  Send the police! I know he’s here because he can see me!” she said.
“Your brother can see you?”
Candi grimaced in frustration. “No! The MAN can!  He’s here!  With my brother!”
There was a long pause, followed by laughter.  Candi blinked in shock.
“What makes you think your brother is there, Candi?” the man asked.
                Candi’s mouth opened and she shook her head. “No… no.  No! You’re the police!” she stammered.
                “Dumb bitch.  It’s my phone.  Now, someone is going to have to be punished for you disobeying your orders.  So I’ll let you choose.  Do you want the punishment, or should I give it to your little brother?”  There was a long pause. “I’m going to hold that taser to his dick by the way.”
                Candi burst into tears.  “No,” she sobbed. “Me.  It’s my fault.  Punish me!” she gasped. 
                “I’ll think about it.  Now you’ve got ten seconds to get those fucking yellow panties off, followed by that stupid blouse and whatever fucking scaffolding you’ve got holding up those magnificent tits.  And Candi, make sure you turn around nice and neat while you’re dressing.  Once you’re done we’ll discuss your fucking punishment.”  Then the phone line clicked off.
                Her fingers went up under the white skirt, bunching it up around her waist as she yanked down her panties.  It was humiliating, totally degrading standing there on the football field, her ass and sex in full view.  White creamy skin appeared with only a small patch of trimmed down, just above her shaved slit.  The moment she stepped out of her underclothes she tugged the skirt down.  She had to make a decision about what to cover and the waistband of the skirt slid down under her hips, almost baring the tiny triangle of hair she maintained.  She could feel the air on her bottom, the white material cupping her ass, but only barely.  She took a tentative step as she turned once, realizing that she’d even need to take tiny steps in order to keep her sex from being exposed.
                She began unbuttoning her shirt next, tears pouring down her cheeks.  Trembling, it took her twice as long as normal to get the front of her blouse undone.  Finally she opened the material, exposing the magnificent bosom she naturally sported.  She shrugged out of the shirt, clasping her arms across her breasts as she plucked the second white sheath from the box and tugged it over her head.  She had it around her neck before she reached between her breasts and unclipped the front of the bra.  The “C” sized cups falling away.  Her nipples were the size of nectarines, with the same shade of pink upon the flesh.  They hardened, not from cold or from arousal, but from embarrassment as the bra dropped to the ground.  In seconds she had covered up again, yanking the stretchy material of the white shift down and over her breasts.
                It clung to her like paint, providing the same amount of support her bra had given her, though the material seemed almost translucent.  Candi whimpered.  She could actually see her nipples through the thin cloth, both hard points obvious and exposed.  Worse, the top was tight, mashing her breasts together and since it wasn’t any longer than her skirt, and she’d created a massive, eye catching cleavage.  The bottom hemline of the top barely curved under her breasts, leaving her entire midriff bare.  She didn’t know where to put her arms first!
                The phone vibrated from where she’d dropped it on the field.  She bent down to pick it up, only to discover that as she did, the top stretched and both of her breasts literally slid out of the material at the top.  She snatched up the phone and stuffed her chest back in, shaking in humiliation.  She looked at the phone through her tears and saw she’d received another text message.
                “Very nice.  Put your clothes in the box, except leave your panties there. I like the idea of the football team finding it.  Maybe I’ll access your profile online and make sure the entire football team knows you wear yellow panties.”
                Candi obediently put her clothes in the box, but left her panties lying there on the ten yard line.  It was hard and her tears still came freely.  Finally she closed the box and lifted the phone.
                “I’m done,” she typed.
                “I know,” came the response.  “Now start walking.  You need to get to the corner of Main, where the bus pickup is.  You’ve got about fifteen minutes.”
                Candi blinked. “I can’t!” she typed back.  “I can’t be seen dressed like this!”
                “I’m not sure what you typed there, but I read ‘please hold that tazer to my brother’s balls.’  Did I read that right?”
                Candi gasped, her fingers flying. “No! Please! I’ll do it!”
                “Damn right you will.  And smile too.  If anyone comments, thank them, regardless of what they say.  Now get that cute little ass and those amazing tits of yours to the fucking bus stop. I expect you to make good time in those stupid looking flats you always wear.”

Sunday, March 9, 2014

The Latest In Horse Technology

It's a little tough to read here, but visit http://ridingthewoodenhorse.tumblr.com/ and scroll down till you find it and tumblr makes it just a tad bit bigger.  This... this is fricking amazing. I'm trying to find out who put this together.  Anyone know?



Monday, March 3, 2014

Goings On

As usual, everything is a whirlwind.  So here's a bit of an update on where we all stand:

1.  Still no word from Breanne other than she's at home resting and recovering from her illness.  I'm only marginally in touch with her.

2.  We are working on a rebuild of the Breannapedia, except this time hosted on our own website so we don't violate an user agreements.  It's in the process of being built and once it's up we can give everyone a chance to peruse it.

3.  I do have Breanne's latest manuscript in hand and am in the process of editing it.  It's slow going though.  The bloody thing is over three hundred pages long, in 12pt, in MS Word.  That's a lot of sex to read.  Eventually it will go to Breanne and my beta reader/editor and then we'll get it out.  I don't have an expected release date on this yet, but rest assured it is coming.  I'm hoping to get it out by late spring, early summer.  And yes - there are unpublished tales in it.

4.  My own most recent novella, "Deep Waters" is also being proofread right now.   I'll keep everyone informed on release dates as soon as I have them. 

5.  I'm still running Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, and the Review Blog (though I haven't reviewed anything lately.  Been busy and no one's ASKED me to review anything.)  But if you haven't visited my three tumblr blogs you really should.  The first is Michael Alexander Stories Tumblr, which merely presents a variety of picture posts that I find stimulating and constructive.  The second is The Cream of Venus, which handles one very specific kind of picture, and then of course, the wildly popular and quite vivacious "Riding the Wooden Horse." I think the last one is self-explanatory. 

6. I'm working on a number of other projects now, including Sam Mayfield's continuing adventures in The Intern: Sigma Epsilon Chi, as well as another Breanne story, amongst other smaller story projects.  Now that Breanne isn't posting regularly I figure I'll need to fill in the gaps and keep everyone entertained.  So we'll see what happens.

Until then feel free to go through the free story archive, the skeleton closet (where we keep the really disgusting stories), and of course if you don't already own our complete collection of books, you can pick them up here.

Yours Faithfully,

Michael Alexander

Saturday, February 22, 2014

The Foot Ranch

Hell if I know what the heck I'm doing. Or why the hell I'm writing this shit.  But it sort of just takes me by the heart and wrings me out.  So here we go again.  Another tale from the A&E Meat universe.  Brace yourself Bridget - this one is pretty intense.  Odd isn't it? I'm not even INTO this weird stuff.  But if you read "Bethany's Shipping by A&E" then this was mentioned.  - MA

The Foot Ranch - Michael Alexander
MF/f, extreme, BDSM, toys, feet, implied gynophagia

Esme Carpenter’s high heels clicked loudly on the parquet floor that lead toward the administrative offices of the Foot Ranch.  She was excited, her bright eyes and beaming smile not just a show for the camera.  It was her first solo assignment as a reporter and after years of training she was finally going to be able to realize her dream.  Bradley, her cameraman, a quiet bloke of thirty years, was a master at setting up shots and knowing where the good lighting was.  He had real talent, skills that Esme knew would serve her well, a fact that was important since she was working without her producer calling the shots.  She glanced behind her, seeing Bradley trailing along, the large video cam on his shoulder, getting a shot of her well-proportioned ass as she marched down the hall.  Esme gave the camera a winsome smile and then a wink, twitching her posterior, knowing that the viewers would love the sight, all the more so since she was wearing a shimmering skirt of gauze that did little to hide the delectable curves beneath. 

Want to read more?

Friday, February 21, 2014

Where's Breanne

I've received some emails from fans as to where Breanne Erickson has gone.  Is she "tied up?"  Away on an extended slave session?  Obviously she hasn't been tweeting, nor has she been posting.  She hasn't been answering email either.  Three days ago I was finally able to get in touch with her by phone.

First of all, she is alive.  So that's a relief.  However she has been ill - requiring a lengthy stay in a Houston hospital.  She is now home, recovering.  I don't have the details of her illness. I didn't press.

Breanne has expressed an interest in taking a break from writing.  Afterall, she has produced ten novel length works in four years, which is more than most authors manage - including myself.  In addition I've already received the manuscript for the next volume of Tales, some of the content having never been seen by the public.  I'm in the middle of editing that right now.

While all of us will miss Breanne's weekly, and in some cases daily, sexual escapades, we look forward to the day when she comes back to us, following NHPS Rule #1, enabling us to ask our favorite question:

What's up, Bre?

Hopefully the response will be thick, vibrating, and quite entertaining.

Yours Faithfully,

Michael Alexander


Thursday, January 16, 2014

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Someone's Getting Shipped


Yes, there is a story behind this picture.  Yes, you're going to get it.  Eventually.  Soon. Probably.  But here's a teaser:



Robert Sterling stepped into the shipping store with a brisk step but a skeptical attitude as he looked up at the giant posters on the wall.  Dozens of beautiful smiles looked down at him, glossy and posed, but none of the photos actually showed the shipping containers in use. A&E was well known for their processing facility, but wasn’t exactly known for livestock shipping, and the first and brand new branch office was so pristine it looked like it had been set up the day before.  Several rows of white, plastic containers the size of a common trunk, sat on racks at either side of the room, while a massive counter stood in the middle of the floor, two computers with dark screens waiting.  A larger, double door at the far end, labeled “Packaging,” beckoned and Sterling resisted the urge to march over to it and peek in.
Behind him marched his second oldest daughter, Bethany, a darling girl with blond hair curling around her face and falling to her shoulders.  Together they were a matched set, father and daughter, his thinning brown hair but thoughtful eyes, along with khaki trousers and a blue button up oxford shirt were offset by her more relaxed attire.  Blue denim shorts that showed off her coltish but long legs, and a tight halter top that displayed her young bosom, were what young girls were wearing these days, her delicate feet were slipped into a set of simple but attractive flip-flops that left her painted toenails bare.
                “Is this where they do the packaging, Dad?” Beth asked brightly, her dark brown eyes looking around the store.  She glanced up at the posters, giving the images a curious stare.  “Those girls are just posing aren’t they?” She asked almost rhetorically. Suddenly her stomach grumbled loudly.  She put her hand over her belly.  “Sorry, dad.  I’m just hungry.
                Robert Sterling nodded.  “I know.  Sorry about that, but it’s the rules.  No food for twenty-four hours.”  He looked around again then called out loudly.  “Hello?  Anyone here?” The response was almost immediate.
                “I hear a familiar voice!” The large set of double doors swung open and a thin man wearing a tailored suit emerged from the back room.  His dark blue tie seemed to sparkle and looked very expensive and a set of silver cuff links kept his almost hidden sleeves tightly bound to his wrists.  He grinned heavily and marched forward, extending his hand.
                “Robert Sterling!” the man said warmly.  “It’s good to see you again!”
                Sterling smiled and shook the man’s hand.  “Mr. Stone.”
                The man waved his free hand. “Please, call me John.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate your willingness to help us out on this.”  John Stone turned and looked at Bethany.  “And you must be little Beth.  You look a lot like your sister, Cindy.”
                Beth’s head bobbed up and down with a big grin.  “Daddy told me about your special dinner.  I wish I could have been there.”
                Stone smiled and patted her shoulder.  “Eventually it will be you at one of those dinners.  But I have to ask; are you ready for summer camp?”
                Beth nodded eagerly.  “Though I hope that getting something to eat is one of the first things we get to do,” she commented wryly when her stomach gave another growl.
                Stone laughed, his eyes flashing merrily.  “Well yes.  It is on the agenda.  We pride ourselves on our meat cuts.”  He looked back up at Sterling.  “But I just want to say thank you again for being willing to put yourself at our disposal for this shoot. I know you’re getting the summer camp fee waved, but still – you’re allowing a valuable asset to be shipped by an untried carrier.”
                Sterling waved a hand dismissively. “A&E seems to do so much, so well.  When you called and said you’d broken into shipping as well as processing, I had no doubts it would be a successful venture for you.”
                Stone shrugged, his face just a little wooden. “Perhaps.  We have a lot of good competition out there.  How does one compete with the sybian trucks?  Right?”  He shook his head knowingly.  “The image of two dozen girls, bound with their hands above their heads, all getting vibrated until they’re screaming?  It’s tough to compete!”  He turned away and gestured at the posters.  “But we think we’ve got a system that will allow for longer and safer transport.  And that’s what we’ll be testing here.”  He grinned at Bethany again.

Update: Okay, it's up now. You can read the whole thing HERE.