Message-ID: <25275asstr$963565804@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: Steven Bockman X-Original-Message-ID: <8kkrbb$lfu$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Thu Jul 13 16:39:09 2000 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Satan's Sex Slave Ch. 3 {2/6} (mast, MMf, anal, yng, nc, inc, ff) Date: Fri, 14 Jul 2000 05:10:04 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: newsman, gill-bates, dennyw WARNING: Explicit sexual material below; do not read if it's illegal for you to view adult content where you live. The following is a work of fiction; any similarities between actual persons and/or events is entirely coincidental. And finally, the author does not condone the acts portrayed in this story. As a work of fantasy, it may be interesting to read, but if he were to find it in a newspaper he would be sickened and appalled. ** Author's Note: Full permission is granted for this story to be distributed, as long as the text is unmodified, the above warning remains, and my e-mail address (S_Bockman@Hotmail.com) appears somewhere in the document. ** visit my site at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/The_Lazy_Cup/www for more stories! ** Satan's Sex Slave the third tale from the lazy cup by S. Bockman Chapter Three: Daddy's Dick (Part 2/6) (masturbation, MMf, ff, anal, incest, non-consensual) It was two o' clock before Franklin was standing in front of Steve's door. It'd taken him awhile to track the guy down, just as he'd thought it would. About a year ago his whole family had died in a strange series of events-his father had apparently murdered his mother, his sister had killed the father, then that same sister had taken her own life. Franklin had known Karen Feebs pretty well. They weren't close outside of school, but in his freshman year they had shared an English class. He liked her, a lot in fact, but not in a romantic way. There had always been something about her that made him nervous, so he'd kept a distance. When she killed herself, he grieved even more than most of her close friends, except Wendy, because he blamed himself partly for her death. He didn't know Steve that well, except that he'd been "in" with the Goth crowd for a while before becoming more mainstream. They'd shared a P.E. class together when Franklin was a sophomore and Steve was a senior-the guy had kicked his ass several times on the wrestling mat. The fact they got along at all was due to the fact that Franklin never held grudges, and Steve had admired that. He knocked on the apartment door marked J11, and waited. There was a rustling sound from within, then silence. Franklin stood patiently. He glanced down the hall to his left and right, marveling at the absolute dire condition it was in-stained carpeting where there was any, cracked walls, dripping ceiling. This place should be condemned, he thought. The door opened. A man about two inches taller than Franklin but incredibly lank of frame stood there. He looked like a walking skeleton. His skin was shrunken back like he hadn't eaten well in months, and his hair was long and frayed. Franklin's eyes went wide involuntarily at the image. It was Steve, all right, but not the Steve he remembered. "Yeah?" Steve asked shortly. There was alcohol on his breath. Franklin swallowed slowly, trying to think of something to say. "Steve... do you remember me?" It's all he could think of. The skeletal looking man squinted his eyes and looked the stranger up and down. He shrugged slightly. "Franklin... I'm Franklin Rodsberry, from Churchill. We had a gym class together..." Steve stared blankly for a moment, then the corners of his lips curled up and he snorted. He took another, more casual look, then chuckled out loud. "Yeah, yeah man," he said, sniffing. "I remember you. I used to kick your ass in wrestling." Franklin smiled slightly. "That's right. Can I talk to you for a moment?" Steve didn't respond, but turned back into his apartment. Franklin took that as an invitation, so he followed him in. The place was a shit-hole, Franklin thought. Only one piece of furnishing, a ratty black couch, decorated the main room. Against the opposite wall sat a small twelve-inch TV with a surprisingly nice VCR set up next to it. The floor was littered with dirty clothes, old newspapers and magazines, and all other kinds of trash. There was a stench in the air that made Franklin's stomach do a somersault. "So whatta ya want?" Steve asked, plopping down on the couch. Steve tried to find a clean place to stand without looking obvious about it. When he couldn't, he replied, "I wanted to talk to you about Joe and Craig." "They burned up," Steve answered quietly. After a short pause he smiled. "This place is a real shit- hole, isn't it?" "It could definitely use some cleaning," Franklin responded. Steve clapped his hands together and whooped. "That's what I remember about you! Your gift for understating the obvious. Good shit, good shit! Aw... so man, you got a smoke?" Without batting an eyelash Franklin tossed him an unopened pack. "Take 'em," he said. Steve stared at them, then glowered at Franklin. "I don't need charity," he spat. "It's not charity. I'm buying something." Steve raised a withered eyebrow. "Yeah? What're you buying?" Franklin paused, taking a moment to light a smoke of his own and gather his thoughts. "I need to know about them. Stuff I don't know already." Steve nodded, slowly, then began packing the new pack of Marlboro's. "Okay man, yeah. Alright. I used to hang with them back in my Goth days, but only for a while. They weren't as hard-core back then as they were before they died, you know? But they talked shit, that's for sure." "What do you mean they talked shit?" He ignored Franklin as he rummaged through his sofa for a lighter. Finding one he lit up a smoke, leaned back, and rubbed his forehead. "That's good... fucking A. Been too long since I had one of these." Franklin let him enjoy his smoke for a minute. Finally he continued. "Yeah man, especially Joe. I mean, both of them were fuck ups and all, but Joe really stole the show. Craig was more of his lackey than anything else." Franklin waited patiently while Steve remembered. "Yeah, Joe. I remember one time he got into all this Satanic Bible shit, you know? The rituals and spells and all that. Hell, I read 'em too, but I knew they were bullshit! That's partly why I stopped being like them, right?" Franklin nodded. "Yeah," Steve continued, staring blankly at the floor. "Joe was one demented motherfucker. He used to talk about sacrificing animals and shit. I remember one time he got me to be in some old spell he found in some fucking book he got at Barnes and Noble." He smiled. "Barnes and fucking Noble. Can you believe he thought that shit would work?" "What was the ritual?" Franklin asked. Steve shrugged. "I can't even remember now, my man. But I remember what it was supposed to do." He locked eyes with Franklin and smiled. "This little hotty in his third hour was supposed to suck him off everyday from it. Heh." He glanced away, eyes staring blankly. "Didn't work, though." "Strange thing to have a ritual for," Franklin remarked. Steve shot him a look. "Not if you knew Joe, it wasn't. That guy didn't give a shit about money, or power, or good grades or any of that shit. He wanted sex eight days a week. He was the horniest guy I knew." He paused. "Ironic." "How so?" He didn't respond for a long moment. He seemed to be remembering things again, bad things. He was even beginning to look a little upset, but he shook it off. "You know, I should've gotten a shit load of cash when my dad died. He had life insurance, and plenty of it." "What happened?" Franklin asked. "Fucking cops," Steve glowered. "Froze my assets. 'Ongoing investigation', they told me. About his death, and Karen's..." At her name he stopped. "That's fucked up. That shit all happened a long time ago," Franklin said, trying to empathize with him. "What do you know about fucked up?" Steve snarled. "You come in here concerned about those fucking losers? Shit. You ever stop and notice that fucked up shit happens in this town every day?" "I've noticed some things," Franklin nodded. "Take your fucking blindfold off, man," Steve jibed. "It's all around you. Everyday, everywhere. And it affects people you'd never think." "Like your sister?" Steve paused. Suddenly his eyes grew wide and he jumped up. "Shut the fuck up!" he yelled. "What business is that of yours? Why would you even give a shit?" Franklin didn't budge, although Steve was now standing toe-to-toe with him. "I guess 'cause my blindfold's coming off, man." They stared at each other for a long moment, then Steve turned away. He started pacing. "No man, you don't know the first of it. Not about Karen, not about Joe, not about any of them." "Then tell me!" Franklin demanded. "How the fuck can I know what I don't know?" Steve stopped. "Remember Wendy?" Franklin nodded, perplexed. "Yeah, so?" "She still in the hospital?" "Last I heard she was in Lane's Grove," Franklin replied. "Yeah," Steve nodded frantically. "And why did they send a rape victim to the nut-house straight after intensive care? Huh?" Franklin shrugged. "Fuck, I don't know. She had problems, from what I heard. Threatened to kill herself." Steve smirked. "Yeah, I'm sure she did. She was obsessed with my sister. But that's not the point. She got locked up because her brain got fried." "Fried? How?" "From a drug," Steve said slowly. "One that even you've never heard of. Yeah, I know all about your little wanna-be drug empire, Frankie! Don't give me that look." "What drug?" Franklin persisted. Steve shook his head. "Now that's the question, isn't it?" Franklin paused. Thoughts were racing through his head. "Jodie," he said slowly. "Huh?" He looked at him. "Jodie... you don't know her. She's changed." "How so?" Steve asked knowingly. "A lot... like overnight. And now her best friend tells me Joe had a thing for her." "Maybe she's just upset," Steve said, grinning. He seemed to be playing with him. "No, it's not that," Franklin dismissed quickly. "No... it was like... not sad, but happy! Upbeat, and outgoing... she even dresses different. She used to be a stick-in-the-mud." Steve smiled, and nodded. "Then she got it." "The drug?" He continued nodding. "What is this drug?" Steve didn't respond. "Come on, tell me!" he demanded. "No," Steve said. "I'll show you. Hang on a second." He ran through the main room then, and opened a door to what appeared to be his bedroom. A moment later he returned with a notebook. "Here," he said. "What's this?" "Karen's note..." he said slowly. He locked eyes with him. "Her suicide note." Franklin nodded. He watched as Steve turned and sat on the couch, and realized that was his cue to leave. Just when he got to the door, however, Steve yelled to him, "Hey Frank!" "Yeah?" "Don't... don't think too low of me after you read that, alright?" Franklin stared at him intently. "I don't judge people." "I know man," Steve murmured. "That's why I trust you with it." And with that, Franklin left. ** Jodie sat in front of her mirror staring at the reflection. She was looking good. Damn good, she thought. And yet she wasn't smiling. Something was wrong, but she couldn't figure out what. "Are you in there?" she whispered, reaching out an extended finger towards the mirror. She stopped. "Fuck!" she exclaimed, snapping out of the fogginess. She got up and began pacing. She was naked because she still hadn't decided what to wear. She'd be going to the drug-dealer's house later that day to see if she could score some weed and maybe even some acid so she could start making money. But something was bothering her. Not her sister. She'd been acting weird after church but that could be taken care of. It was her father. He was a loose-end she was going to have to tie up eventually... preferably soon. But what to do with him? She had some new powers of persuasion, so perhaps she could slowly bend him to her will... but that would take too much time, and her powers weren't that practiced yet. Mental note, she thought, I need to take care of that. Besides, the guy was pretty religious. He wasn't just one of those people who went to Church every Sunday because he feared dying, but he actually believed the Church's teachings. He was a good man, pious, righteous. "Fuck," she exclaimed again. Then an idea occurred to her, and she stopped. There was something where all men, even the righteous, were weak... "Could it work?" she asked herself out loud, looking again at her naked body in the mirror. She began smiling. Dante trotted over to her and stared up with a questioning look. "It's all right, boy," she soothed, "I know what to do." ** Ellen Samson was sitting in her living room wearing nothing but a long damp T-shirt. She had just showered and was feeling more relaxed, but the stresses of the last few days still weighed heavily on her shoulders. Ever since the Test, as Father Rickle called it, began Ellen had been busy. He had put her in charge of studying the new Witch, to discover all she could about her powers and how they might be used to further the Church's own ends. It was an honor to be given so much responsibility by her patron; it showed how much faith he had in her. But at the same time she didn't feel ready for the task at hand. Her powers were still unpracticed and undisciplined, and she didn't trust herself to carry out the assignment as well as it should be. That's why she was relaxing this Sunday afternoon. She'd found in the last few months that allowing her mind to rest a while sometimes meant all the difference between success and failure. And Ellen Samson hated failure. The doorbell rang, distracting her from the television program she was watching. Her mother was gone for the weekend with her new boyfriend, Charles, and her brother was at a Church Camp sponsored by Father Rickle-it was part of his training. And so Ellen was alone, but she wasn't worried, and she didn't feel the least bit self-conscious about walking to the door wearing only a wet tee. "Good morning, Father," she greeted her patron, who stood outside the door. She couldn't remember ever seeing her teacher outside the confines of dusty old St. Beckett's before, and certainly never during daylight hours. She held the door open as the old priest invited himself in. "We have work," Father Rickle said in his raspy voice. He walked into the kitchen, a small out-of- style one in the older home, and took a seat at the table. Ellen followed. "What's going on?" Father Rickle stared at her intently. "Your subject came to confession today." "Oh?" He nodded. "She had some... interesting things to discuss." "I'm sure she did," Ellen said lazily, taking a seat across from the old man. "It's all in my report." "Is it, now?" Father Rickle said, raising one bushy eye-brow. "There's more going on than her attempts to corrupt her family and friends." "How so?" Ellen asked, lighting a cigarette. Father Rickle sighed. "Suffice to say she's making mistakes. She's new to this power and hasn't learned the proper... respect for it. She moves too quickly. "She'll draw people to us." Ellen froze. "That's not possible," she said in disbelief. The priest shook his head. "It happens even now. Indirectly, anyway, I can feel someone or... well, it doesn't matter. The point is she's being careless. She could ruin everything." Ellen considered for a moment. After thinking carefully she said, "Then we should... take care of her?" The priest nodded. "And," Ellen continued slowly, "use her first... to handle this problem you speak of?" He smiled. "My most cherished student," he said, standing. "My thoughts exactly." "What do you want me to do?" The priest made his way towards the door to leave. "Watch her, watch her... this will be your final exam. If you deal with it correctly, you'll pass." "And if I don't?" The priest snorted. "Well, then, I guess you'll fail." Ellen thought about that for a few minutes after he'd left. She eventually came to one conclusion. That she had just been warned. ** End of Chapter Three part 2 (of 6) ** For the rest of this story please visit my web-site at: www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/The_Lazy_Cup/www/ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+