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Introduction:

This story is an explicit erotic thriller. It contains strong lead female characters, BDSM, semi-non-consensual sex between adults, murder, and a storyline that makes you wonder "Where the heck has E. G. Saunders been all my life?"
E.G. Saunders here. By now you know there's actually a deep story wrapped around the sex - and, yes, there is more sex coming. Pleasures come to those with patience - Subs know what I mean. I'm going to tease your mind, grip it tightly. I wasn' t joking when i wrote that this is a suspense thriller. Enjoy yourselves.

Don't be afraid to send me a note - if you want the whole story. Yes, yours free for staying with me this far. At 55 chapters, this is a full novel. Find me elsewhere on the web. Search my name, then email me. Mention you come from here and I'll hook you up.

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Chapter 7


I don’t know just how long I stood staring at that damn thing, but my legs started aching, so I figured it must have been a considerable length.

I couldn’t process my thoughts well. And, yes, I wanted a drink.

There was one thing about me, though; I could fast between drinks for days—even weeks—if needed. I had that much capacity, courage, and conviction. The toughest part was rallying my persistence against the onslaught of the need.

I had to use that ability now. The dark stiletto lying on the floor told me that I had to buck up onto the wagon or get run under it by a hot woman who probably wouldn’t break a sweat or shed a tear from my demise.

And if you don’t die between now and then…

Her last sentence held firm in the thick fog of my indecision.

I went over everything I had told her, all the people she had pulled from me.

I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed. I was still nude, but at least I wasn’t holding my dick in my hand. Thoughts of taking a little swig of rum—only one, just a little sip—went through me as often as I breathed. But I held firm. I knew I would be going through that for a while. I knew the symptoms. The ache.

I’ve been at this struggle many times. It was something I faced daily—more so on long gigs, which is why I tried not to take them: I won’t work drunk. Period. I wasn’t that bad, though. I would kill myself if it got to that point.

I had an uncle who carried a curved flask in his sock daily. Lifted his pant leg and took a little pop every time he got majorly stressed on the set. No, he didn’t do it in front of everyone, only me. Yes, he was the reason I got into the business. But he wasn’t the one who got me started on the drink. My parents were drunks. I mean “socialites.” They had money and connections. I think Mother is dead now, but I’m not really sure. They left for France and then greater Europe when I was still in my teens. I haven’t seen them since.

My uncle, Tim, took care of me. As I said, he didn’t start me on the drink, but he did nurture me into the alcoholic I am today. Helped me craft my particular habit in a way that didn’t disrupt my work.

All in all, he was the best parent I could’ve had. He actually cared what happened to me. In turn, I cared for him. I ended up putting him to bed more than any man should, but it was our way. He took me under his wing, gave me the skills with cameras and lighting, pointed me out to the right people. I helped get him to bed so he wouldn’t end up on the front end of someone’s bumper staggering home at night.

It was our deal.

He was the only one I didn’t mention to Candy.

I would protect him until the day I died. I owed him that.

He was dead, too, but I knew about his death. Cared that it happened. I was at the funeral. Gave a good eulogy, from what I recall. Yes, I drank a bit before and after, but he truly would’ve wanted it that way. I didn’t disappoint.

Candy wasn’t going to know about him.

But then I got to thinking, standing there nude staring at the stiletto, did he know about Candy? I don’t mean in that way—she would have been…probably twelve by the time he died.

What I meant was, were there other Candys around?

I got to thinking about a ton of other things, too, but that one stuck in my head almost as long as her implied threat. Or warning.

Fuck, I didn’t know which one it was.

I’ve seen some crazy shit in my time. Everything you might think is fucked up and weird in life gets multiplied by fifty when you add stupid amounts of money to the mix. And the film industry has plenty stupid amounts of money.

My skin was starting to crawl; my lips and mouth were dry.

Yeah, you go ahead and fuck yourself, demon. I got your tail. You can have mine when I’m dead.

I would be repeating that thought often over the next…lifetime. But, as I said, I was stubborn. I could tell myself and my demon to fuck off as many times as needed.

I think the only thing that made me even the slightest bit successful with the demon was that he and I both knew I would be returning to the bottle eventually. I had accepted that fact. Embraced it, you might say.

Yeah, I was fucked up. I accepted that, too.

But as it turns out, I didn’t know what fucked up truly was. Candy…she was about to fuck me raw.

And not in the good way.





CHAPTER 8

What the fuck was I going to do?

I got dressed, after sticking a bandaid on my chest from where she had poked me. She had drawn blood, but not much. It stung, but it would sting a hell of a lot more after I pulled the bandaid out of my chest hair. I thought about that part too late.

I fended off a phone call from Thad, my agent. He had work for me, but I didn’t want to work.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t leave that.

I stared at the stiletto resting on the carpet as if it was waiting for something.

A part of me thought that Candy had planted it in my apartment for the very simple reason that it was a plant—evidence from some crime she had committed. She was passing blame to me.

Evidence.

I knew it had been used before, too. There was no doubt about that. Certainly not now.

It was filthy. Sin filthy.

Coming from me that was rich. But then again, if there was anyone who knew anything about sin…

I would have to watch my wound, no telling who she had stabbed before me. Or where she had stabbed them.

I rubbed the bandaid through my shirt.

Rum. It was alcohol. It would kill germs.

Fuck you, demon.

The last thing I needed now was having a bottle of that shit in my hands.

My cell phone buzzed. Thad wasn’t going to leave me alone. If he had work for me, it was because he was in debt to someone. And that meant that he was going to try and call in debts from me.

I didn’t owe him a goddamn thing. I didn’t owe anyone a goddamned thing. And that’s how I lived my life.

I looked at the stiletto. It looked back at me, daring me to touch it. Daring me to put it somewhere and add more of my DNA to its surface.

I had to wash it, clean off all traces of…well, anything that might be on it.

And that was when my paranoia started in on me. I looked at the door to my place, slowly. Carefully. I was listening, too. For footsteps—and not the soft kind with the spike heels dripping with sex.

I was listening for the heavy boots of my paranoia. Police. SWAT. All dressed in heavy gear with shields and stun grenades and barricade busters…

Shit.

I was going to drive myself insane.

My heart was beating faster, and I was sweating.

I exhaled slowly when all I wanted to do was scream and curse…fucking curse everything!

I did this to myself.

I did it to myself, and I would have to get myself out of it.

I went to my nightstand and pulled open the deep bottom drawer. I stopped for a second to breathe again, to slow everything down. No one was coming.

No one.

Slowly, don’t fuck this part up.

At the bottom of the drawer was a box of latex gloves. Well, nitrile gloves. When you’re shoving your hand up a woman’s ass you just met, you don’t want to chance an allergic reaction to latex.

And they weren’t even mine. Sistine. That was her name. Well, the name she gave me. She liked to dress up as a nun, and everything I did to her had to be clinically sanitary—which even didn’t make sense in the long run, as she swallowed everything I gave her. I just had to shoot it from a distance is all, no skin on skin.

I reached in to pull out a glove, only to stop myself before touching the purple thing.

I had to be careful. I couldn’t touch anything but the base of the gloves. No oils, sweat, or fingerprints could contaminate its surface. Funny how clinical sex with a nun-fanatic prepared you for something like this.

I pinched the slightly ribbed end between my index finger and thumb and pulled one away from the others. I angled my other hand into it with a bit of ease. Powdered. And lots of practice. My fingers found their right places and…and it felt good. There was something about having your fingers protected from all the bad in the world, from anything that could harm you. It also felt like I could do anything with impunity, never leave a mark…it was anonymity of the best kind. Why, you could spank a nun’s ass black and blue with it and not leave evidence you had even been there.

I plucked out another one and worked my other hand into it.

I was safe. As long as I didn’t touch my face with it.

I went over to the sharp thought that was Candy's farewell gift to me. My Berber carpet had enough of a pattern in it to disguise many kinds of dirt. But there was no way to disguise the stiletto.

I then went over every possible location where that thing had been, what it could have touched. And then I got angry at myself for how stupid I was. While I was in the shower, Candy could’ve rubbed that thing all over the place. Hell, she could have planted tons of shit all over to implicate me in…something.

Calm down.

Breathe.

One thing at a time.

I would have to sterilize the damn carpet, that was for sure. It was the one reason I got berber—it could take a scrubbing with harsh chemicals. Between my occasional spilling of booze and body fluids from my guests, I had practice in that department.

I walked over to the stiletto, giving myself enough room so that I wouldn't step on any place else it might have been. I was shooting in the dark in that regard, hoping Candy hadn’t smeared it across everything. If I gave in to my fears, I’d have to burn down the whole place.

So, I pretended. Candy had only dropped it on the carpet as a message, that was all. She probably just played with that wonderful pussy of hers while I was in the shower. Thinking of me the whole time.

That’s what she did. Yep.

That’s all.

See? Drunks are good at creating stories to hide from the truth.

I reached out and picked it up by the thumb and finger again, finally adding all my fingers—I didn't trust myself not dropping it. In the background, my cell phone rang again and again. Thad was persistent.

I stopped what I was doing. Anyone walking in at that point would have seen a somewhat paranoid, thin man holding a stiletto looking like he was waiting for the world to come to an end.

What if it wasn't Thad this time?

I looked over at the bed where the phone flared to life and hummed incessantly. I had a sour ball in my stomach that wasn't entirely from not drinking—or from drinking too much.

My paranoia said it was the police. My brain said my paranoia was stupid, the police wouldn't call first. It was Thad. Poor little desperate Thad...

I walked over to the bed, the stiletto pointed away from my body and away from the chance of it possibly touching anything else.

It wasn't Thad.

I didn't recognize the number. Candy hadn't given me hers. I had given her mine. We met for drinks before coming back here, there had been no need to call.

All I could see in my head was Candy smiling at me as she put her hair up so beautifully. I knew that if I touched my phone now, I would get my DNA on the glove. I would just have to get another glove is all.

I picked up the phone and pressed the button to answer. I put it to my ear and listened.

At first, there was nothing. Then I heard a smack that might've been someone chewing gum or a tsk of frustration.

I kept silent.

They kept silent.

Then, "Don't do anything stupid, Gail."

It was Candy.

I gripped the stiletto tightly, my body tense. I was caught. At what, I don't fucking know, but that didn't help get rid of the feeling that she could see me and knew what I was going to do.

I couldn't say anything. Up until this point, I actually believed deep down that I wouldn't ever hear from her or see her again.

"Leave it where I put it, Gail," Candy said. She was calm, clear, in control. "I'll come back for it. It better be in that same fucking spot or you’re on my bad side. Understand?”

I nodded my head and felt really stupid for that. “Yes. Wait, what-“

“You’re going to meet me at J’s at midnight. Don’t be late.”

“Hold it a fucking minute!” I said, but she had already closed the line.

I looked at the phone, angry at it as if it were Candy.

“Fuck you!” I said, and threw the phone against the wall.

I calmed down enough to realize I could just call her back, bitch her out for…well, for everything. Tell her I wasn’t going to do a damn thing she said, and that I was going to melt her fucking stiletto down into a dildo and fuck her with it until she screamed for me to stop. And then I’d do it for another hour after that.

I looked at the nice dimple in the wall where the phone had ricochetted before landing on the bed.

Goddamn it.

If I couldn’t control myself, then she would.

I looked at the stiletto in my hand. I looked at the phone.

I stepped over to the place where I had picked up the stiletto and then put it down in the same spot as best I could remember it being.

Fuck it all.

Fuck me.

I peeled off the damn gloves, knowing I was damned either way to Sunday.

Fine. I would meet her tonight. And then I would get her to talk.

Yeah.

I would get her to talk.

I stopped talking like I had any control. It was masturbation in its purest form, and my dick was too sore as it was.
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