Darkroom Saga Omnibus 2

by Poppet

  OMNIBUS 2

  Books 4-5-6

  by

  Poppet

  Copyright © 2017 Author Poppet

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  CONTENTS

  Book 4: Wrapture

  Book 5: Bratva

  Book 6: Sinnergog

  Reading order of the Darkroom Series

  #1 : Darkroom

  #2 : Satanarium

  #3 : Over Exposure

  #4 : Wrapture

  #5 : Bratva

  #6 : Sinnergog

  Note: The version of Wrapture in this omnibus does not contain the chapter images. To see the original artwork and layout we suggest you purchase Wrapture separately.

  by

  Poppet

  A Darkroom Novel

  #4

  For Kelli and Monique

  About Wrapture

  Rapture is defined as:

  1. The state of mind resulting from feelings of high emotion; joyous ecstasy.

  2. The act of transporting a person from one sphere of existence to another.

  Wrapture will deliver both (the good and the bad). Wrapture is a word I've coined for this series, combining rapture with the act of restraining a lover socially, mentally, and physically.

  Every novel is inspired by something. The concept for this novel came about when I ran across a new trend in Christianity; that trend is commonly referred to as Spanking for Jesus.

  Officially its title is Christian Domestic Discipline (or CDD) – a.k.a Sex in Christ.

  This novel is pure fiction, in no way representing this special religious sect of kinky domestic abuse (oh, er that should say discipline), but most certainly inspired by the idea that anyone should think they are entitled to deliver any violence (physical or psychological) against their partner in the name of (and worship of) 'the god of love'.

  Love does not strike, dominate, humiliate, punish, or control: it nurtures. But then these folks think this is nurturing.

  Wrapture takes this doctrine as far as it can go, using scripture to warp and twist the dynamic between a couple to the breaking point. You may wonder how it is that humans fall prey to cults, (have you noticed that they are only cults when people die, otherwise it's a temple for the devout), well Wrapture will take you on that journey, deep into the heart of a church with an erotic and criminal agenda.

  This novel will seduce you into believing that copulation, discipline, punishment and gratification, are all forms of pious worship. The need to control, the desire to own, these are our human pitfalls, whether you do it in the name of religion or ambition. Erotica horror is a genre I chose to explore; exposing the ludicrous so that every reader can have a taste of carnal worship. Some authors take inspiration from the world around us, bringing it into your home. You could be sitting next to this man on your commute to work, you may know him from the PTA, and you may think he and his ilk are good Christian folk.

  I in no way endorse the contents of this novel, it is fiction and must be treated as such, and it is because humans have a nasty habit of corrupting scripture to further their agenda that I employ this technique within these pages.

  The quoting of scripture starts now… Did you bring to Me sacrifices and cereal offerings during those forty years in the wilderness, O house of Israel? No, but instead of bringing Me the appointed sacrifices you carried about the tent of your king Sakkuth and Kaiwan, your images of your star-god which you made for yourselves [and you will do so again].

  Amos 5:24 / Acts 7:42

  You are warned that the content of Wrapture is misogynistic, sadistic, perverted and blasphemous erotica horror. The horror aspect is for those of us who rebuke the idea of having no control over our bodies, born to be subjugated and exploited, but the content is informative and exposes that even giving head is in the bible, that the bible says women are redeemed by men and that it is our duty to accept male authority… where this goes is a dark path of duplicity. The bible justifies every fetish, there is a scriptural sentence for every perversion, and in the wrong hands the world could easily be seduced by a cult like the Sons of Cain. (The Sons of Cain are fictional and in this novel.) Let the wrapture begin.

  ~ Chapter 1 ~

  But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and the head of the woman is the man

  ~1 Corinthians 11:3

  Operation Storm In A Teacup:

  Jeans as worn and rustic as bluegrass strummed in a barn come stalking my way, the legs filling them playing peekaboo through a torn window on a thigh and below the opposite knee. In complete contrast to the weathered denim is black on black, and I know it's rude to stare but I've always had a fatal weakness for black studded shoulders in rebel leather worn over a tight black t-shirt.

  I could blame James Dean but I wasn't born when he died, and I could blame TV for influencing my tastes, but truthfully it's beyond logic, it's deeper than that, it's the chasm in a woman's brain where logic free-falls and basic instinct grabs the wheel to drive you straight off humiliation ridge.

  Why is he staring at me like that?

  Checking over my shoulder I expect to see some hot leggy annoying cow whom he's striding to kiss hello, but there's no one there. Just me, and the mirror covering the wall mocking me.

  I'm trapped between a peat-smoked whisky and a man who looks like he has cherry tobacco imbedded inside the pores of both hands and a guitar plectrum stuck in his money pocket.

  Shit, he's really coming my way, and he has that purpose etched into his expression, warning me I either parked him in or I stuck gum on his Fat Boy seat.

  Pausing one foot from my table, he mutters into the phone stuck to his ear, “Got it. Meet you later…. yup, I'll bring the teacup too… it's what I said isn't it?” He nods, looking at me, his head tilted to flop his bangs to shield hazel eyes from onlookers, shrouding the sizzling evil dancing across irises when he peruses me, chewing on his cheek, listening while someone makes his ear canal bleed he's getting such a reaming. “Ayup. Got it. Fine bone china acquired.”

  He purses his lips when he disconnects, as if the conversation has left such a bitter taste in his mouth that he has the need to spit. Instead he covers the final foot between us, helping himself to my single malt, chucking it back as if it's the holy water used to sanctify his inner devil, vanquishing temptation.

  Slamming the tumbler down in the gesture of a silent bet, bartering in mute tongues for something I can't afford, he smirks, looking into me the way a psychic can, the way a priest does when they know your guilty secrets after confession. “Hello.”

  Swallowing apprehension, wishing the pathetic shag-gene would calm the fuck down because my ears are buzzing from blood thump, I look away, feeling accused for some reason, “Hi.”

  I'm watching the bar, unaware of his movements, just trying to get my head in the game, cursing Jan for hiking off to the ladies at such an inopportune moment, abandoning me when clearly I
can't be trusted alone in public without a chaperone (with a fully loaded pepper-spray gun for reining in stupid roommates when they want to jump a stranger just because he smells like leather and Tabac.)

  Coh, Tabac is just one of those scents that should be declared illegal, never to be sold in any state, consigned to the black market because female nervous systems can't smell that and think simultaneously. It flatlines logic with one whiff. I'm thinking it's probably laced with potent carnal pheromones because it cuts the circuit in my brain. Thus, at a blatant disadvantage, I'm floored when instead of making small talk he steps in, harnesses my face with one hand, and sucks every ounce of chapstick off my lips, sampling the rest of my alcohol numbed taste-buds before breaking contact.

  Blinking, I can't breathe, or think, or …

  Fuck! Hello indeed.

  •

  Kenan:

  Looking at the camera hidden in the black dome rooted to the ceiling, I wink at surveillance central.

  Candace Caine is a regular, forced to show her ID to gain admittance, giving us her age, birthdate, address (conveniently stashed in the back), social security number, and ID number. It took our techno-whizz Jude all of twenty seconds to ascertain she is single with no siblings, ex husbands, children, or living relatives. In a word; perfect. We don't recruit women with baggage. When you disappear we don't need infidels asking questions and involving a nationwide search. No ma'am. When we spread your legs for the underground we don't need your uncle Jack phoning the fuzz.

  Smiling at operation Storm in a Teacup, my very own china doll, I thumb her plump bottom lip, grinning because this chick was made for celluloid.

  Laughing under my breath, I lean in, snaring her waist in my hold, murmuring, “I have to get to a party. Wanna be my date?”

  She blinks nervously, sticking thick black mascara threads together, dropping flecks of the cheap shit on the skin under her eyes, giving them a bruised look.

  It's a total turn on.

  “Um, I came with Jan, she's just in the girl's room–”

  “I don't give a damn about Jan.” Glancing up at the camera I give them the 'take care of it' glare.

  Within seconds Taylor has the problem by the neck, shunting her from the passage leading to the toilets, saying just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Take your cocaine and get the fuck out!”

  Candace bolts into a stand and I step between her and the problem lady friend, hissing, “Don't get involved. If he calls the cops you do not need to be charged. Guilt by association is older than money, honey.”

  “But she's my roomie!” shrieks my convert.

  Stooping, I shut her up with a plunging kiss, shoving my tongue over hers, amazed at how women stop fighting when they're being kissed. They submit whenever its employed. I know my trade and I know my product. Women are so easy to manipulate. She struggles but I hold her fast until she stops.

  The coast is clear when I come up for air, muttering confidentially, “I had to silence you, for your own good. It's even worse if you live with her, then it'll be assumed you're in on her action. Do you really need a rap sheet or should we duck before they come looking for you?” She looks about, alarmed, her buzz blown to sobered shrapnel. Nodding, dewy slate eyes look up at me, all too compliant to have someone rescue her from chaos.

  It's this easy.

  Set the stage and snare the stooge with the snatch. The head of the woman is man. They submit subconsciously to our authority (they're made that way). And I have a head endowed with blessings aching to molest my china doll. Natural born sinners need saving. Her soul knows it because she lets me lead her through the throng of bodies populating the dim club Sodom. It's ours, we own it and run it, it's the pussy parade where we do our recruiting. It's where we shop for new blood, where I watched, waiting for the perfect moment to entice my acolyte into the arms of the brotherhood. The Bratva. The name on my birth certificate says I am Gleb Vusjic. In my homeland the brotherhood are bratva. We are family. But god adopted me, making me his own son in his hand picked bratva.

  Now I am Kenan, a hebrew word meaning possession. God spelled it for the modern world when he gave me my new papers, but truthfully it is in the bible, legitimizing that I am one of his own. My name in his holy records is Kainan, the biblical patriarch.

  Heathens do not seem to comprehend that there is no letter C in Hebrew. It is a K. Attention to detail, we pay it, we adhere to it. The philistine with her little hand holding so tightly to mine is ignorant, and because she is ignorant of holy ways she will never understand her jeopardy until it's too late. I chose her because her name fits with mine. We are destined. I am her salvation.

  The car valet, one of my brothers, is already waiting for me, the car idling, the door wide open. He opens her door, smiling menace, “Ma'am.”

  She dives into the Land Rover, gripping her knees when the door slams closed on her. Taking my time I 'tip' David. The spinitria confirms I have possession of the requested acquisition and am taking her to the rendezvous. There'll be a bonus for me this month because of it. Leaning back, pulling away from the busy entrance and potential witnesses, I run my hand up her thigh, leaving it there when I glance to the road, “It's okay china doll, I've got your back baby.”

  Leaning across her I pop the lid on the glove compartment. Spiked cocktails wait ready in their glass miniatures. “Have a drink, and grab me a bourbon while you're at it.”

  “You shouldn't drink and drive,” she chastises.

  Smiling at the buxom blonde, I say, “You shouldn't go home with strangers.”

  “I'm not going home with you, I'm going to a party.”

  Same thing sweetie. Where is my home? One block from the party, locked inside the same walls. Ignorance, is it really bliss?

  Turning on the charm, I give her thigh a squeeze, “And after that? Say yes … say you'll come home with me because it's just too damn hot in your pad. You have police heat on your back baby, don't be stupid now.”

  She stares at me, her face faintly lit by streetlights penetrating tinted windows. My little boy expression is working because she smiles, finally relaxing in her seat, holding her G&T and passing me the only unspiked bottle in the stash, (and the only bottle of bourbon), saying, “We'll see.”

  I've been in this industry long enough to know when I woman says we'll see, I'm in. And I plan on going in all the way, every day, for the rest of her life. My pleasure is his profit.

  Smiling at another easy score, I turn the music on, letting it fill the void between strangers.

  ~ Chapter 2 ~

  And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.

  ~Romans 12:2

  Candace:

  I just don't understand. How could Jan be doing coke right under my nose (no pun intended), and me not notice? I've been living with her for two years and not once have I seen her use, or mention it, or act weird, or be any more bizarre than is her own special brand of maladjusted personality.

  Yes she's a bit strange, but then that's why I like her.

  She's a freak who thrives on conspiracy theories, stalking Illuminati propaganda and forever warning me about the New World Order and how we're ruled by Leviathan. He wasn't cast into the sea, he's a shapeshifter who coaxed Eve into eating a rotten apple and poisoning mankind, how he heads the church which is why the platform housing the pope's chair every Easter and Christmas service is surrounded by four coiled pillars, and how today Levi's spawn are killing us and the land with GMO's and pollution. We're public enemy number one, as in the public are his enemy, and he won't go away until we're all dead or corrupt. The basilisk is his muse and the forked tongue controls billions of worshippers while accumulating money in basilicas and ignoring world hunger. The dragon likes to sit on his gold, and he has his own country and papal army so he doesn't have to pay tax. You will tithe to him, he doesn't tithe to any man. He's above us. He's the original giant
nephilim who sits on his mountain in Roma, (amor reversed. Ergo love backwards). Proof you see. Just ask Jan.

  She should write books because she's crazy about the freedmen, (the free masons), and how they started a brotherhood after they built Solomon's secret holy of holies (see, freed masons, is pretty self explanatory after she explains it to you). They know what's inside the holy of holies and that's why women aren't allowed to join the higher ranks, because according to Jan, what they discovered would tip the scales of 'inequality', and women would be instated as supreme; anarchy would ensue. They have hidden the truth inside vaults and the vatican to keep us subservient and towing the party line. She can quote the bible passage at will, me - I don't touch the black book because it's contagious and ruins spontaneous fun. I don't need a yoke of guilt for being human, I just need to be left alone and let my afterlife be my own damn business. (No pun intended).

  Plus she refuses to date anyone named Mason because she takes this shit so seriously. Could cocaine be fueling her paranoia? Is that why she gets so neurotic and keeps checking the apartment for espionage bugs, dismantling her cell phone when she gets home and threatening to drop mine in the toilet if I don't do the same?

  “Baby doll, what's keeping you so quiet over there?”

  A low husky baritone bombards my fretting and I look to him, now made aware that we're off the road and climbing up a steep and very long moonlit driveway.

  “Um…” Rolling my lips in, I blurt, “Is she a cokehead? How could I not know?”