Big Book of Smut

by Gia Blue

  Even now, writing in this diary, I cannot begin to describe the events that took place there. My father’s hand was wrapped securely in Serena’s hair as he pulled her out of the room to the stairs. His other hand held me firmly as he dragged me along in a tangle of clothes and shoes. Throwing us down to the floor in front of the steps his screams of obscenities seemed a never-ending litany. Shouts for the housekeeper were useless, as she had left the house for her day off.

  We climbed the stairs to our rooms shaking in shock and fear, not knowing what would become of us. Rushing into my room, we slammed the door shut behind us and Serena and I began to dress. In the silence, we heard the scratching of the key in the lock and knew that we weren’t going anywhere.

  August 30 – Days have passed and although we’ve heard pounding and construction below, we have seen no one. We awake to find the chamber pot empty and a pitcher of water and a few slices of bread on a plate. Our cries for the housekeeper go unanswered.

  August 31 – We awake to find ourselves in complete darkness. I scramble about in the gloom and manage to find a stub of a candle and match on a small crate that even now is serving as my writing table. There appears to be no door to the room we are confined. Bits of sawdust, a crate and a cot are the only things in this small space besides Serena and me, along with my journal and pen. Our pounding on the walls of our confinement go unanswered and as the flame gutters out the last bit of wax in the candle, I know this is my last entry. It appears that father has chosen for us, we die alone, thirsty and hungry with only our sins of the flesh to keep us company. We will never have to worry about being married off to our father’s suitors. It appears that we will never have to marry at all.”

  Chapter 9

  I sat on my bed, having finished the journal, and recalled the chain of events that had lead me here, to this place in time, and knew what I had to do.

  Chapter 10

  The last shovels of dirt are falling onto the grave as the priest continues with his litany of prayers. The blessing of the ground and the bones that the grave contained was completed earlier. Arranging with the authorities and the priest proved more time consuming that I ever expected, but the work was finally over.

  Standing under the grey mist that fell from the sky that day made me realize how fortunate I had been to get through this experience unscathed. The two young women, who died so tragically, had finally been put to rest. The young apprentice, who must have been tortured to death by the father of the young women, was laid to rest with them. His bones were removed from the crate that had served as the writing desk for Samantha.

  Walking away from the gravesite and cemetery, I headed home, once again revisiting the scenario I had managed to piece together from the information received from the two female ghosts, the diary, and the male ghost who appeared to me that last day.

  Further research found that the father had sold his business and financial assets and moved away from the area. No trace was ever found concerning the apprentice and when I had finished reading the journal, I knew that the apprentice had never left. When I eventually did return to the house with the authorities, it was then that we found the bones hidden in the crate.

  I could only surmise that the father confronted the young apprentice and he broke down. He probably admitted to being in love with the girls and who knows what else. That combined with his obvious grief that day, upon seeing them with the men, had surely sealed his fate.

  As I sat down in my car, I turned for one last look at the gravesite, which was now off in the distance. I knew that the misty figures waving goodbye weren’t my imagination, but as I headed my car to the gates of the cemetery, I knew that that was the last that I would see of them.

  Opening the door to my new house, I inhaled the smell of fresh paint and newly laid carpet. There was still a lot of work to do, but the restored camel back sofa and fireplace drew me like a magnet. I sat down to rest, secure in the knowledge that the former inhabitants living and dead were gone for good. As I pulled the new journal towards me, I felt the crisp clean pages crinkle under my fingers, where to begin I thought, as I put pen to paper.

  About the Author

  I was born in Hull, England. I’ve been writing for some years now mainly for the pleasure of it all but with the advent of self-publishing I’ve entered a completely new world. I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoyed writing them. If so, I’d love to read a review from you just to show me that you did at least enjoy the story.

  Discover other titles by Carl East at Smashwords.com:

  Title 1 – Hell’s Gate

  Title 2 – My Other Daddy

  Title 3 – My Stepfather 1 to 3

  The Predator – Marie Shore

  The Predator had been stalking his prey for several months. He knew where she lived, where she worked and where she shopped. Covert surveillance of her home had given him a detailed pattern of her comings and goings. A discreet check of her trashcan had given him a bounty of personal information. With full name, address and date of birth, he'd been able to visit the courthouse and search through the list of registered voters to obtain her social security number. The rest was easy.

  It was hot inside the battered Dodge van. The Predator took a long drink of his soda and wiped sweat from his brow with a shop towel, glancing toward the mobile home a few hundred yards distant and occasionally raising his binoculars for a closer look. He knew from past observation that his prey seldom rose before three PM, so he waited patiently, enduring the sweltering heat. A greasy blue notebook lay open on the seat beside him, crammed with notes, a copy of his prey's divorcee decree; irreconcilable differences, her birth certificate; high school and college transcript, an honor student, a complete medical history and detailed credit report. He suspected he now knew more about her than she knew about herself. The idea of taking her made his cock swell inside his mechanic's coveralls. It wouldn't be long now.

  The interior of her small trailer had surprised him. It had been easy to gain access through one window while she was at work. He'd spent several hours there going through her belongings, inspecting her closets, her video collection of mostly horror flicks, her rock and roll CDs and whatever else caught his eye, looking for insights into her personality. Her furniture was unremarkable, her taste Early Yard Sale...probably all she could afford since the divorce he assumed. Most of the place was stringently clean. Her bedroom was the surprise-filled with books. Hundreds of books, hardcopy and paperback, on shelves and stacked on her dresser, the end tables, even the floor. Stephen King, Fred Saberhagen, Dean Koontz, and what looked to be the complete Anne Rice collection, The Vampire Chronicles, The Mayfair Witches, and an autographed framed 8x10 photo of Anne Rice on one wall. There were movie posters, too, "Blade" and "Queen of The Dammed." Did she believe in vampires? Apparently she did, if the movie collection was any indication. Oh, this was going to be such fun! To take her darkest fear (or was it a fantasy?) and bring it to life! He'd know soon enough either way. At 3:26 he heard the back door slam and the engine of his prey's decrepit pickup grind to life. A few seconds later the old truck came jolting down the rutted driveway, windows down, blaring rock and roll. He lifted the binoculars and saw that today she wore a loose black skirt and a brilliant orange, hot pink and yellow tie dyed t-shirt with sunglasses. A leftover hippy? Maybe.

  She was six years his senior. The orange clashed with her long auburn hair, carelessly scrunched into a ponytail. "You'll look better when I dress you,” he said to himself. He started the van and pulled in behind her. It was busy at the feed store, few places to park. The Predator waited until his prey was inside before he pulled his van alongside her rattletrap pickup. No one noticed as he took a matchstick and carefully let most of the air out of her passenger side rear tire and stole the tire tool from the plastic milk crate stowed in back. If she followed her usual route home, the already threadbare tire would be flat in the middle of nowhere...exactly what he wanted. Five minutes later his prey returned, shoulderin
g a 50 pound bag of fertilizer. He watched as she dumped it in back and then climbed into the cab, not noticing the low tire. She fiddled with the dial on the radio, found a station and drove away, so intent on the music she failed to notice the van as it followed. The tire lasted exactly eight miles. It gave out on a stretch of deserted road between houses and the Predator was elated; he couldn't have chosen a more perfect spot for an abduction.

  The prey eased her truck on to the side of the road and got out, shaking her head in disgust. She was fumbling with the jack when the van eased off onto the shoulder behind her, looking hot, tired, and ready to be pissed off. This was the tricky part. The Predator readied the hypodermic syringe as he left the van, pretending to be concerned. "Are you having trouble, ma'am?" he asked. Soft southern baritone, polite. He was careful to give her plenty of space, not wanting her to bolt. Most women were a little intimidated by a man his size, but she was five foot ten herself. "Just a flat tire, “she responded a touch defensively. "Nothing I can't handle." "Bitch, "he thought."You'll sing a different song when my cock is up your ass." He held back, watched passively as she carried the jack to the rear of the truck and pushed it beneath the frame. Best to seem like a good 'ole boy. Just a chewing Bubba native to this neck of the woods. She rummaged through the milk crate, searching for the tire tool. "Damn!" she exclaimed a moment later. "What's wrong?" the Predator asked. He made no move to approach her, not wanting her to feel threatened. The closest house was a few hundred yards back but in the humid stillness, he knew sound would carry; best not to let her scream. "I've lost a lug wrench,” she replied. "I think I have one somewhere,” he offered.

  He walked to the van and opened the driver's door, rummaged beneath the seat, pretending to search. His prey approached the van, a little heartened by this seeming show of good will. She stood back as he opened the passenger side door and looked beneath that seat as well. Her wariness eased a little as he opened the sliding door and she spied the tire tool, leaning against a tool box pushed to the far side of the van wall. She stepped forward to reach for it and an instant later was knocked flat onto the van's carpeted floor as the Predator made his move, one huge hand around her throat, the other jamming the needle into her hip. He threw the syringe aside and punched her in the face hard enough to stun, then flipped her onto her back and secured her wrists behind her with handcuffs. Shackles bound her legs and he gagged her with one shop towel and blindfolded her with another. Another thirty seconds and she was bundled into the van, the door slammed shut and he made his way between the seats to check her, being certain she could breathe easily. A quick check of her pulse showed it to be strong and steady. She'd be unconscious in a few minutes and would stay that way for about six to eight hours. That was plenty of time to reach his lair. Ignoring the pickup, the Predator climbed into the driver's seat, thumbed the ignition and pulled the van back onto the road. Three miles later he turned onto the freeway ramp and headed West, onto the interstate.

  The Predator reached his lair at slightly before eight p.m. He clicked the remote button to activate the sliding garage door he'd recently installed in place of a barn door and drove the van into the barn, killed the motor and turned off the headlights. All was still except for the sound of crickets and the tick of the slowly cooling engine. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, looking over his shoulder at the woman he'd captured a few hours ago. She was still unconscious but he could see the rise and fall of her breathing. One good thing about living so far out in the country was the privacy. No nosey neighbors to hear screaming and call the police. Not that they'd find anything incriminating even if they showed up at his house with search warrants...his lair was beneath the barn, a storm cellar he'd converted into a cool, dark, completely soundproof dungeon.

  He'd worked on it for some time, adding concrete floors, reinforcing the original fieldstone walls with a layer of concrete block. The ceiling was massive oak beams with a layer of R-30 insulation and a second layer of rough cut oak to further deaden sound. A nice 22x35 room in which to indulge himself. Not exactly what Grandpa had in mind when he built it, the Predator mused, but it worked out well. He got out of the van and stretched, turned on the lights and closed the sliding door. Sighing, he stripped off his mechanic's coveralls, his shirt, his jeans and his work boots. The day had been one hot, miserable bitch and he was ready for a shower before getting down to business. The steps were cool beneath his bare feet as he descended to his lair, unlocked the steel door and stepped inside. He was immediately enveloped in a blast of cold air from the 18, 000 BTU air conditioner he'd left on. The sweat jelled on his body before he took three steps. He liked the cold. The thermostat read fifty-eight degrees. Perfect, it was the same temperature as a cave.

  After his shower he dried himself, had a cool drink and selected a few items he thought he might need for immediate use, then stuffed them into a bag and carried them back upstairs. As he opened the van's side door he saw that his captive had awakened, had rolled onto her side and was rubbing her face against the floor of the van, trying to dislodge her blindfold. Reaching down, he slapped her sharply across the ass and commanded "Stop that!" In the close confines of the van's interior, the sound of that slap was like the crack of a .22 rifle discharging. The struggling ceased. He roughly flipped his prey back onto her belly and dragged her toward him by the hips until her legs hung down over the running board, not quite touching the ground. One huge hand encircled the back of her neck, holding her face flush to the carpet while the other gripped the waistband of her skirt and ripped it down and off, tossing it aside. The panties followed and he marveled at how white her ass was, marred only by a single red handprint. Another vicious jerk and her T-shirt split down the back, held only by the handcuffs. He took the scissors from the bag beside him and snipped through the ruined fabric, then hurled the scraps away. Minus a bra, she was naked except for shoes.

  It was time to drop his first bomb. "I'm going to burn your clothes now… Judy,” he told her. "You won't need any from now on." He paused to let his words sink in a saw her tremble. She was smart enough to realize the implications, to know at once whoever he was, he used her name and must have been stalking her for some time. He released her neck and lightly stroked her bare ass, then spoke again. "You're to lie here in this position until I've finished. I'm not going far, won't be long. If you move, I'll punish you. Nod if you understand. A nod gave him his answer. The shoes and torn clothes went into a 55 gallon burn barrel just outside the barn. The Predator doused them in kerosene and lit them, knowing she could smell the smoke. When they were burning briskly he returned to the van, pleased to see that his prey hadn't moved. He turned her over, pulled her into a sitting position and fondled one breast, pinching the nipple until she flinched. His other hand gathered the mass of sweaty hair and pulled it away from her neck. He took a leather collar from the bag and buckled it around her neck, securing it with a padlock. A leash snapped into one of the rings in front and he tugged on it to let her feel the tension.

  "Stand up,” he commanded. The woman stood, stiff from the long ride. She tried to take a full step and the chain of her shackles jerked taunt; she staggered and almost fell. The Predator steadied her and she jerked back from contact with his body; she hadn't known he was naked. He led her to one of the stalls and clipped the end of her leash to a metal ring in a wooden beam, returning with a garden hose. She gasped in shock as the cold water poured over her, followed by a squirt of dish detergent. She was lathered and then rinsed off, making sounds of protest that turned to a muffled yelp as he pushed the hose between her legs and squirted cold water inside her. Finished, he turned off the hose and retrieved his kit bag, carrying it to where his captive stood dripping. He unlocked the shackles and quickly replaced them with a second pair that had leather anklets affixed to a ten inch chain. Her stride would be just as restricted, and the leather wouldn't bite into her skin. Shackles secured, he moved behind her, leaned his body into hers and reached around to cup bo
th her breasts, his cock hard against her hip. He nuzzled her throat and felt her tremble, felt the pulse jumping beneath his lips. One hand moved to her pussy. He lightly pinched her clit and bit hard into the side of her neck. She cried out into the gag and her neck arched backwards, her hips began to move, grinding her pussy into his fingers. He slipped one inside her, a little surprised at how quickly she'd grown wet. He continued to suck on her neck and pushed a second finger inside her, feeling the muscles contract hungrily. When he felt she was about to come he stopped, withdrew his fingers and faced her. "You don't deserve an orgasm yet,” he informed her. "First you have to please me."

  The Predator unclipped the leash and led his prey down the steps to his lair. When she was inside he shut the door and locked it, then led her to the center of the room where a futon waited. She shivered in the cold and her nipples stood erect. When she reached the edge of the futon he placed on hand on her shoulder and pushed down, commanding "Kneel." The woman dropped to her knees and he moved behind her, positioning her to his satisfaction. "Put your head down”, he ordered. "Knees wide apart, ass in the air." She tried to comply but the hobbles were too short; he was forced to unshackle one ankle. He at once slid a loop of black nylon webbing up the back of her right leg, fastened it with Velcro just behind the knee and brought the loop around her neck. The other end encircled her left leg and fastened by Velcro at the left knee. He tugged sharply to tighten the harness before he fastened the last Velcro strip. Drawn tight, any motion of her legs would immediately tighten the strap around her neck, cutting off her breath. "If you struggle, you'll strangle yourself." the Predator warned. He poured baby oil down the crack of her ass and worked one finger into her asshole, feeling the muscle contract against the intrusion but otherwise helpless to stop it.