Home Page    Log in / register    Newsletter    Authors

Search by Title, Author or words


Shopping Cart

No Cart Open


Books showing a sign means books can be sent direct to your Kindle from our download pages or Member Library -
if your Kindle has the Personal Document Service feature! Other eReader formats (epub, etc) are also available.



TROUBLE IN TRIPLET (Sylvester Horne)

TROUBLE IN TRIPLET by Sylvester Horne

Click here for larger cover


Add To Cart

More By This Author

    • Not yet rated. Buy this book and be the first to rate it!

Jarrod Bellucci alights from the semi-trailer in the South Australian town of Panuka, intending to hitch another lift to Laxbury, where his friend lives, they intending to go backpacking around Australia together.

Striding out in the heat of the day, he is surprised that no traffic passes him. But then, much to his delight, a blonde-haired girl in a red Holden Ute stops and offers him a lift.

She suggests that he might like a bed for the night. His libido gets the better of him and he eagerly agrees – it a decision he will regret for the rest of his miserable life as it turns out she is one of three sadistic, cruel, slave-owning, identical triplets.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 6 / 2017

No. words: 34149

Style: Fem Dom - F/M, Young Adult Bondage/BDSM

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter 1

At his request the truckie, who had been driving his semi-trailer from Melbourne to Adelaide, had dropped him at the crossroads in the centre of Panuka, South Australia, a place that merely consisted of eight houses, a general store and a Country Fire Service station housing one appliance.
Hoping to hitch another lift, he was now walking along the forty kilometre stretch of the minor road that linked Panuka to the more substantial town of Laxbury, where his mate from university lived.
It was hot, very hot – he guessed over 40°. Taking another swig from his litre water-bottle, he kept striding along, brain cogitating. Hopefully he had enough water, he already a good way down this bottle which he returned to the webbing holder affixed to the rear of his waist belt. Luckily, he had two more such bottles hanging from separate D-rings located at the rear of his heavy ex-army rucksack. Not that the rucksack itself was necessarily heavy, it was his rolled swag that was secured to the bottom that added the weight. In normal circumstances the swag was probably too heavy for someone on foot, but he was fit and strong and had always anticipated being able to hitch a lift.
After walking for some two hours, he was increasingly concerned, not a single vehicle had passed him going in either direction. He could not be far from civilisation, he reckoned, for beyond the strips of scrub that bordered the bitumen were vast fields of ripening grain – wheat, he guessed, he not a country boy. Surely, there must be the odd farmstead somewhere close to the road? So, if needs be, he should be able to camp at one of them for the night and refill his water supply?
Having descended a slight incline to the bottom of a dip in the road, he did not hear the vehicle approaching from behind until it was almost level with him, giving him no time to raise his thumb. A newish, hot-red-colour, Holden Ute Redline with a throaty V-8 engine shot past him, clearly breaking the speed limit. The brakes were slammed on, rubber burnt, as the Ute screeched to a stop some one hundred metres or so further along the road.
This was a stroke of luck. Picking up his pace, he jogged up to the vehicle, the tinted glass of the passenger side window gliding down as he approached. Pulling his sunglasses off, he leaned forward to look into the vehicle.
“Are yer some sort of dipshit galah? What the bloody hell are yer doing out here in the middle of nowhere in this fucking heat?” the honey-tanned female occupant demanded, her glinting blue eyes looking over the tops of the metal rims of her heart-shaped, red-glassed shades.
Feasting his gaze on the striking Saxon-blonde girl, instantly filling with a jolt of lust, he nevertheless managed to reply, “I’m heading for Laxbury. Thought I’d pick up a ride but you’re the first vehicle I’ve seen in two hours.”
“Can’t yer read plain English? Didn’t yer see the sign?”
Having no idea what she was talking about, he said, “Pardon. What sign? And yes, of course I can read English, I went to uni.”
“There’s a ruddy great sign back in Panuka saying that the road is closed. All that heavy rain, a week back, caused a flash flood which took out the bridge over Trickle Creek. So no bloody vehicles can get through. They have to go around via Noonandatta.”
Unaware there had been rain, he merely said, “Oh. I hadn’t heard. And no, clearly I didn’t see the sign otherwise I wouldn’t be out here in the bloody Outback, sweating like a pig, would I? So I suppose I’d best head back to Panuka and hitch the long way round.”
“You daft galah, this isn’t the Outback!” she retorted, snidely, before mirthfully chortling.
“Anywhere outside a metropolitan area is the bloody Outback as far as I’m concerned,” he replied, becoming slightly peeved at being ridiculed.
“A city drongo, are yer?” she responded, semi-derisorily, clearly mildly rebuking him. “But yer don’t have to go back. I can take yer the ten kilometres or so to the bridge, if yer want. You’ll probably be able to get across on foot but you’ll still have twenty Ks to go to get to Laxbury. But, yer never know, yer might manage to pick up another lift. It’s up to you?”
Despite her abrasive manner, the idea appealed. The chance of hitching a ride with this particular babe had its attractions. His penis was already stirring, his brain cogitating on the prospects of his chances of flirting with her. And, as he did not like the idea of staying in the sun, he gratefully said, “That would be good. Thanks. I’ll happily take my chances on the other side of this creek place.”
“Put your stuff in the back. The lids unlocked. There’ll be space near the tailgate,” she informed, in something of a bossy manner – she was clearly used to giving out orders.
By the time he stowed his pack and returned to the passenger door, the window had been raised. Slipping his sunglasses into his breast pocket, pulling his floppy hat from his head, he opened the door and clambered into the bucket seat. Silently, he prayed that he did not embarrass himself by developing a raging stiffy although it might be too late as his penis was expanding.
“Hi, I’m Brandi. Brandi Schlange from Trickle Creek farmstead,” she said, parting her scarlet-painted lips in a smile, proffering her right hand on which every digit sported a broad, heavy, embossed-silver ring.
Her palm was wonderfully soft, and warm, he taking careful hold of it. “Good to meet you. I’m Jarrod Baluchi, from Melbourne.”
All this time the six-litre engine had been ticking over. Turning back to face the road, she slipped the gearstick into first and floored the accelerator. They shot into motion, she changing gear rapidly, until they were in sixth, and doing over one hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. At least twenty Ks over the speed limit, he reckoned.
“If you normally travel at this speed there can’t be many cops around here,” he commented, increasingly concerned at the speed they were travelling on what was merely a country road. Partially swivelling in his seat, he smiled at her, hoping she did not resent what he had just said and simply chuck him out of the Ute.
“No there isn’t! But who gives a shit about fucking blue-arse pigs anyway!” she replied, seemingly indifferent, and certainly not afraid to swear in front of a stranger.
Brandi Schlange looked to be about twenty years old. However, hopeless at estimating girls’ ages, she could actually be anywhere between sixteen and twenty-six, Jarrod supposed. Attractive rather than super-model stunning, she had an earthy-sexual appeal. Sturdily built, he guessed she was around one-metre-sixty-five tall, and was obviously physically fit, and was certainly shapely.
A raffia cowboy-style hat, side brims curving upwards, was on top of her long wavy blonde hair that hung down her back, nearly reaching her lumber region. Each lobe sported an earring consisting of a blue rhinestone, with three clear ones forming a drop beneath. There was a similar arrangement gracing the navel of her six-pack stomach, except that the blue stone was about twice the size of the others.
It was her clothing however and other adornments that had virtually taken his breath away. She was wearing: brown-leather cowboy boots with snakeskin embellishments; the most skimpy, cropped, denim booty-shorts he had ever seen, that looked to possess only five centimetres of material at her hips; and a matching denim bra, with tiny pockets over the nipples, that just about covered her bulging grapefruit-sized breasts, the single front button straining against its threads to keep the garment together. Her strong-looking left arm sported a tattoo. It was of a brilliantly-detailed red, yellow, green and black snake, the little finger of her left hand forming the tip of its tail, the nail lacquered in gold, and it coiled around her arm, going under her armpit, over her shoulder blade, the head inked just where the top of her left breast joined her upper torso, its mouth wide, fangs tipped red, eyes a gleaming blue, forked tongue in black.
All of her other fingernails were lacquered in scarlet, matching her lipstick. From fleeting glimpses, he presumed there was a tramp-stamp tattoo on her lower back. Did that mean she was a tramp, he wondered? Was she the sort of liberated girl he had always dreamt of meeting on a road-trip?
“So, what’s a hunky Italian stallion like yer doing out here?” she asked, flashing him a mischievous grin.
That was a pleasing boost to his ego. However, she obviously must have seen his now-bulging hard-on, he presumed. That was embarrassing, for he had tried to cover up his increasing libidinous desire by placing his hat in his lap. “I don’t know about being any sort of stallion but I am a third generation Italian-Australian. And, I’m heading to Laxbury to see my mate from uni, George Mancini. We graduated together. His family have a fruit farm and I’m calling in before the two of us go on a backpacking trip around Oz together.”
“That’ll be nice for yer,” she responded, sarcastically. “What did yer study?”
“That’d be fucking handy out here where there’s hardly any bloody mobile or internet connections,” she said, in sneering fashion. Then, more as a statement than a question, she added, “So, yer must be about twenty-two.”
“Yes, that’s right,” he answered. Whilst wondering what else to say, he saw a sign at an entrance to a property on his left which looked to say, “Trickle Creek Farm”.
Brakes screeched, for two hundred metres ahead was clearly the bridge Brandi had referred to. The right-hand side had all too obviously collapsed, whilst the rest of it did not look all that safe either.
“This is where I drop yer ’cos I live over there,” she advised, wagging her left index finger in the basic direction.
“Thanks. Thanks for the ... erh ... stimulating ride,” he said, with deliberate innuendo. Unbuckling his seatbelt, pushing open the door, he got out.
Just as he was about to slam the door closed, Brandi said, “I’ve just had a thought. If yer do manage to get across the bridge without it collapsing under yer, you still might not get to hitch a lift. You certainly aren’t gonna be able to walk to Laxbury today before it gets too dark to see where you’re going. So, you’re gonna have to camp. Well, yer might as well bed down at our place for the night.”
That sounded sensible. Or, was it that his luck was in? After all, he fancied her, and she seemed to be attracted to him. Was he reading the signals correctly, he wondered? For it was only too obvious that the crotch of her skimpy shorts was now showing signs of being wet. Clearly, she was turned on? What were his chances of getting up close and personal with her? However, he did not want her to believe that he was being presumptuous, in case she thought he was only interested in getting into her panties – which he was. As for her actually wearing any underwear, due to the skimpiness of her tattered shorts, he thought it most unlikely. “Well, I could walk across the creek bed.”
“Wouldn’t recommend that,” she advised. “There are loads of uneven rocks, deep pools of stagnant water and thick mud. If yer slipped or got stuck yer might not get out. And anyway, if yer camped at our place tonight I could take yer in a four-by-four tomorrow. There’s a ford on our property that’s safe to cross, so we can get around the problem that’s here.”
Patently, she was keen for him to stay, or so he reckoned. Even though his half-hopes were dashed, she clearly living with her parents, he eased himself back into the seat, saying, “Thanks. That might be for the best so I’ll take you up on your offer.”
“Okay. Don’t bother with your seatbelt just yet. Then yer can jump out and check the mailbox when we pass,” she instructed, beaming him a wide, catlike, smile.

Author Information

Over fifty years or so I have daydreamed my life away making up stories as I went about the chores of daily life. They were sexually oriented fantasies. I try to be realistic - write how the world is or was - not hide behind the veneer of political correctness.

I hope readers get some enjoyment from my efforts.


Publisher Information

Publishers of non-adult and adult fiction. Authors, experienced and new are welcome. We have a number of different sites for various genres, including specialist sites for Romance (www.a1romancestories.com, our non-adult and erotica site at www.fiction4all.com and a number of adult sites based around our main site at www.a1adultebooks.com

 Contact Us    Terms and Conditions    Protection Policy    Privacy Policy    Refund Policy   

This Site Owned By Fiction4All - Copyright Ó 2013