The curious line of work suited his talent, and his reputation spread quietly through a select group of people. They appreciated the time Tombstone took to speak with them, to garner a full understanding of the loved one they lost… and the woman responsible for their death. Tombstone had amassed a fortune that was larger than some of his patrons’, even after he poured a significant amount into equipment and the building housing his displays. A fraction of his wealth was used for purchasing granite and marble for the headstones.
His current client, Donald Strickland, wore the tired lines of sleepless nights on his grief stricken face. Tombstone had a personal connection to this situation. Donald held the mortgage for the private cemetery land and had arranged the custom alterations to the caretaker’s house. In return, Strickland had received a vested interest in Tombstone’s club and was permitted full membership to the displays, even though Donald did not own a mannequin. At least, not until now.
Tombstone watched Donald grip the widow’s arm, holding Claudine close to his side and forcing her to acknowledge the result of her folly. Donnie had been his only son, pampered through life and never developing the strong qualities necessary to take over the business. Donald was okay with that. His brothers and nephews inherited the shrewdness to safely ensconce the family legacy. He was not ‘okay’ with Claudine.
“Shit,” Claudine hissed. She reached to loosen the steel grip on her arm. What the fuck does he think I’m going to do? Throw myself on Donnie’s coffin… or bolt from the cemetery? “Ease up a little, Donald.”
The preacher had ranted for half an hour, and now various friends and relatives were droning on. After a two-hour presentation at the funeral home, she assumed the service at the graveside would be quick. Her feet were throbbing and her legs were beginning to feel the strain of the constant attempt to balance and shift while her spiked heels sank into the soft dirt. Fuck the reception afterwards. She was anxious to sink into the Jacuzzi as soon as they returned to Strickland’s estate. Hell, the damn funeral is lasting longer than our marriage.
As far as Claudine was concerned, Donnie had conned her. Any affection she ever felt towards her husband had disappeared quickly after their vows. Donald had cut his son out of the family fortune when he discovered Claudine had been married twice before. She had made her former husbands miserable enough that they had settled large onetime lump sums to release them from their commitments. Claudine refused to accept smaller monthly payments that would cease when she remarried, because she wanted to be free to move on to her next victim.
Donnie never mentioned his father’s decision when she dragged him to Las Vegas to elope. Claudine had played her part too well, and the stupid fool had assumed that she was as in love as he was.
Donald decided to bring his son home after he was certain Donnie was over his infatuation and had learned his lesson. In the meantime, Claudine was stuck picking up the tab for their expenses. Donald liked twisting the knife and bleeding her funds. Within weeks, Claudine began staying out all night and having affairs, preparing her next mark. Donnie realized that his father’s warnings were validated, but after the scene he had caused to marry Claudine, he was too embarrassed to tell him what his new wife was doing.
Claudine was infuriated when she was told that because she was supporting Donnie, she might actually have to pay him if she filed for divorce. She was already stuck paying all of the bills, and she watched her hard earned savings dwindle. The sap continued to profess his love for her, and he tried to convince her they did not need his father’s money.
Claudine was frustrated and angry at a situation she was unable to resolve, and Donnie was subjected to her caustic, shrewish remarks during her infrequent evenings at home. In drunken despair, Donnie had wrapped his sport car around a pole when he was searching for her one night.
Narrowing her brown eyes on the casket, amber sparks of excitement shot through their depths. It was hard to believe that Donnie did not have some kind of trust or funds set aside in his name. As his widow, she might be in for a healthy reward for her wasted time. Claudine had no misconceptions that her ass of a father-in-law was going to let her remain in the mansion. Donald had only let her move in for the funeral, and he would surely throw her out now that his son was planted.
Finally, the last of the long list of speakers was through. Claudine silently seethed, held in place by her father-in-law’s grip. People passed by her without saying a word, to grasp Donald’s hand or embrace him while they offered him their sympathies. She did notice a few of the men seemed to be giving her appraising looks.
Claudine had a voracious sexual appetite, especially when she was grifting a new mark. She was used to the effect her raw sensuality had on men, and their heated looks fed her vanity. Donald’s friends were different, and rather than the pleasing rush of potential conquest dampening her panties, the look in these mourners’ eyes chilled her. What a bunch of arrogant fools, she decided.
Anxious to kick off the pinching high heels, Claudine turned towards the waiting limousine. Donald continued to grip her arm and hold her in place, while he stared at his son’s coffin. “Don’t we need to get going to the reception?” she asked irritably. She could almost feel the warmth of the tub jets caressing her.
Donald turned her, and then, without saying a word, he guided her towards a man standing several rows away next to a small backhoe. He was tall and powerfully built, and dressed in rugged work clothes with his face half-hidden by his cap. It had not occurred to Claudine that they used machinery to cover the coffins. Somehow, it seemed like cheating, and less traditional than picturing a man laboring for the rest of the afternoon with a shovel.
“Donald,” she protested, and she tried to pull away. Claudine had put up with about as much of this farce as she could stand. His grip became bruising as he tugged her along. “Shit,” she muttered, and her free hand dug in her black purse for a cigarette. Her angry shaking fingers snapped twice at the lighter before it ignited.
Tombstone pushed up from the backhoe, and took two steps towards Strickland. The grief in the older man’s eyes was visible, but not as intense as the seething fury in his stare. Donald glanced at the headstone lying inside the rusted bucket. “That it?”
“Yes, Mr. Strickland.” Tombstone walked the grieving man over to the granite plaque while the widow stood to the side and sucked her cigarette, puffing out angry bursts of smoke. Strickland trailed his fingers along the etched trench. “That’s the widow?” Tombstone confirmed in a low voice.
“Yes, that’s Claudine. You’re positive there will not be a problem?”
“I guarantee my work, Mr. Strickland.”
Claudine twisted the toe of her shoe over the cigarette butt. It reminded her how tight the shoes had become after standing for so long. She watched Donald hand the laborer an envelope, presumably to pay for his services. They were talking in hushed tones, but she was sick of all the depressing drama and began walking towards the parking lot.
Strickland asked, “How long before…”
“Two months, Mr. Strickland. Delivery will be November 5th,” Tombstone replied.
Donald Strickland stared at the bitch while she walked away without bothering to look at the headstone. She had killed his son, and he intended to make her pay for the rest of her life. “I expect what I’ve paid you for.”
“I told you, Mr. Strickland. I guarantee my work,” Tombstone repeated.
Donald yelled, “Get your ass back over here and look at your husband’s memorial.”
Claudine froze when his voice rang out. Admittedly, the man’s dislike of her was obvious, but Donald had never spoken to her that way. The limousine they had arrived in was only car left in the parking lot, so she decided she had better follow his order. She pasted on a smile and walked back to them. “I’m sorry, Donald. I thought you wanted a private moment.” She pushed past the gravedigger. “Excuse me.” He crowded close behind her and she scowled into his shadowed features. The man ignored her, s
o she glanced down at the piece of rock in the machine, planning an ambiguous compliment to get it over with.
Claudine’s mouth dropped open and she gasped. Her trembling fingers reached towards the granite while she shook her head in shocked confusion. She stared at the etched epitaph. It had Donny’s name and dates, with some nonsense about being a loving husband and son. This, she barely noticed. The words circled by the entwined hearts and vines beside his name were what had caught her attention. ‘Claudine E. Strickland, July 1, 1977 - August 5, 2000’. It was the same date that Donnie had died.
The man behind her leaned down, and Claudine felt his warm breath on her neck. “Tragic, really.” His words were barely a deep whisper. “They were such a young couple, with so much happiness ahead of them.”
Claudine was stunned, and her fingers left the stone while she turned to look up at Donald. His contemptuous smile froze any words she might have uttered, and she backed away from him into the gravedigger’s chest. Claudine gasped, still too shocked to try to begin to understand what could possibly be happening. She felt a sting and she looked down to see a needle being withdrawn from her arm. The laborer capped it and dropped it into his shirt pocket while Claudine slid down his body to the ground.
Donald knelt in front of her and gripped her chin, staring at her with eyes burning such deep hatred that it caused a queasy cold slam to hit her stomach. He dropped her head and rose to walk towards his car without looking back at her. The last that Claudine saw before losing consciousness was the icy blue eyes of the gravedigger.
Claudine came to her senses in slow bursts of awareness. When her eyes opened, she found herself staring into an oppressive pitch black. There was a silky padded feeling under her hands and feet, which were folded behind her and wedged under her bottom. As her head cleared, she realized that she had been handcuffed in the uncomfortable position. There was foam in her mouth that muffled her screams, and she lifted her head until she encountered more of the slick padding. Her eyes widened and she remembered the gravedigger. Claudine shrieked in terror. My god, I’m in a coffin.
She heard two rapid thumps on the lid, followed by a heavy bump and staccato bursts. He’s burying me. Claudine sobbed into the gag, and she began shaking so hard she was afraid she would vomit into the foam in her mouth. Oh, my god, he’s burying me alive. Claudine heard the shoveled dirt hit the top of her tomb, and she screamed around the foam when two more clumps hit the top of the coffin. The sounds of the shoveled dirt faded and Claudine was left in the terrifying silent darkness.
She had cried and screamed behind the gag until her voice was raspy and her throat was sore. Useless pulling at the metal cuffs proved she was securely bound and that there was no way for her to escape. She pictured herself buried next to her husband, while Donald Sr. was holding court at his son’s wake. The look of hate in his eyes haunted her. No one would be asking about her, and with his money and power, no one would question her disappearance… or her presence in the cemetery.
Claudine heard scratching on the sides of the coffin and she shrieked, at first picturing rats trying to claw their way to her, and then her dead husband, his skeletal fingers reaching through the dirt, ripping at the sides of her tomb. She lay frozen, eyes wide and staring into the nothingness, praying for unconsciousness to claim her and take away her petrifying fear.
When the lid began to open, she sucked noisy panting gasps in through her runny nose. The gravedigger from the cemetery stood over her, smiling with frightening intensity shining in his unnaturally pale blue eyes. This first lesson was more a part of Tombstone’s macabre sense of humor. It would serve as a terrifying reminder for the young woman of what could happen if she chose to be uncooperative. There were certain aspects of his erotic sculpting and training that would require her cooperation.
Tombstone had been finishing dinner when he heard the first muted sounds from inside the ornate box across the room. His client had chosen it specifically for the woman, and it rested on two sawhorses. When he had finished eating, he walked over to the casket and began a series of banging thuds on the lid. He thumped one hand then the other, and waited for the scream.
It never ceased to amaze him that all of the women had the same reaction to imagined shovelfuls of dirt hitting the top. He knew that she had seen the damn backhoe, but they never seemed to remember. Once more, his hands banged down, and he waited for her shriek before returning to the table to study the model that Strickland had chosen. It was one of the more expensive mannequins, with moveable parts that would allow it to be fixed in many interesting positions.
He let her wait in the darkness, panicked and completely helpless, for another fifteen minutes. To her, it would seem like hours, and he was certain that the haughty bitch would be in shock. Shock was okay. They were more pliable and easier to prepare.
The tall man stood over the casket, stroking the polished wood and occasionally letting his nails scrape the surface. Finally, he reached for the latches, unhooked them, and slowly lifted the lid. He looked down onto her terrified face. Her makeup had streaked and she was blinking furiously to adjust her eyes. When they widened in recognition, Tombstone smiled. He felt his balls tighten, filling with her fear.
For a large man, Tombstone spoke in a surprisingly quiet, measured, calm voice. He stroked his fingers through the muddy mascara leaking down the sides of her eyes and into her hair while she quivered. “You know this can be real, anytime Strickland gives me the word. If you don’t do exactly as I order, you’ll find yourself resting beside your husband… though probably not so much ‘at peace’.”
He watched the beautiful expanse of her breasts rising and falling rapidly with her panting breaths. They were a little too large for his personal tastes, but they would certainly be easy to work with. His thumb and forefinger pinched a nipple through her tight knit dress and silk bra.
Claudine shrieked behind the gag. Let me go. Please, just let me go. She felt his fingertips trailing lower. He let his hand follow the path across her stomach and she flinched, shaking her head and crying when he touched her pussy. The short hem of her skirt had hiked up, and through the thin material of her black thong panties, he stroked her groomed curls.
Oh…oh, stop. His fingers curled under the elastic, and Claudine shuddered and tried to force her thighs together. With her ankles bound beneath her, the effort was minimal. She was frustrated and angry, and she wondered if Donald was teaching her a lesson. There was no possible way that this was real… that she had been effectively erased and given to this man. When his smooth finger spread her folds, she closed her eyes, wailing and fighting the cuffs to shift her hips.
“Lie still, slut,” the calm deep voice warned.
Slut? Did Donald tell him that she was a slut? If he would just take out the gag, Claudine could explain. She had money. No matter what Donald had paid him, she could offer more. She could get it back when he released her and she ran to the authorities. Maybe she would wait. Maybe she would see how much Donald would give her in return for her silence.
The man’s finger stroked gently along her path, coaxing her to slicken. Claudine moaned, humiliated that her body was so ready to respond to him. An errant thought ran through her mind that she was surprised his fingers were not calloused and rough. He’s only a laborer working in a damn graveyard, for god’s sakes. She thought she remembered seeing leather gloves on him. Claudine tried to think about many inane things, anything other than his fingers on her pussy.
Oh, god. Up and down… his finger sweeping through the cream leaking from inside of her. She felt his other hand spread her labia, and Claudine looked up, shaking her head while she whimpered. Up and down, and then in and out of her channel, flicking her clit on each passing. Her bottom began to squeeze, and she cried and tried to fight the building sensation towards climax. She began to sway her head, and the man watched her stomach trembling and tightening.
“I told you to fucking be still,” his frightening, steady voice demanded. Tombst
one was rewarded with a muffled sob, igniting his arousal while he tormented her.
Claudine closed her eyes, unable to watch the man abuse her. The way her body was reacting would make him believe she truly was a slut. She tried to focus on escape, and how she would make this man and her father-in-law pay. The bastard. The rich, arrogant bastard, she sobbed. Eventually, even the thought of stripping Donald of his money could not keep her body from calling her back to the need to orgasm. Her hips began pushing into the hand that was stroking her… up and down, in and out, flicking and wiggling her engorged clit. Her nipples were tightening in response to the movement of the fingers. Stop. Oh, my god. Please, stop. Please don’t make me do this.
The man felt her pussy begin to squeeze tighter, sucking his fingers in. As soon as the flush began to cover her face and chest, he said, “Don’t you dare fucking come, slut.” As if his words were a signal, he listened to an aroused moan. She jerked up into his hand, gushing cream and coating his fingers. Narrowing his eyes, he gave her a disgusted look. “Fucking whore slut.” Claudine screamed when he closed the lid.
No. Please let me out. Her wails were pitifully smothered by the gag. Her pussy kept squeezing and throbbing in the aftermath of her climax. In every sexual interlude, Claudine controlled the situation. Manipulating and arousing a man’s body was the key to her wealth. Naturally, she achieved her own satisfaction, but always when she decided. This man took from her, and it left her confused and added to the frightening terror of the darkness. Now, she would even be afraid when the lid opened again.
Tombstone turned off the light to the studio, shucked his clothing, and climbed onto the cot. He spent the first nights close to the women, because he could not risk letting them get so petrified that their minds snapped. This one was strong… a definite Room One. He could see it in the bitch’s eyes.
While he drifted to sleep his dream began, twisting his mind and taking him back, spiraling through the years to experience the same confusing visions he had every night. The ending was a perplexing nightmare, and when he woke up it always took him several minutes to get his bearings and remember where he was. The beginning of the dream made it worth it. He got to spend time with his mother again. No, that’s wrong. She was Jerald’s mother, he thought, as he slipped into a deep sleep.
Tombstone Page 3
