The young girl awoke to dank aroma of mold and sweat; the smell drenching her senses. She felt her stomach in knots, and although it coiled madly she dared to open her eyes and gaze at her surroundings. She grimaced as she sat up on what appeared to be an engorged slab of stone and looked down at herself. Bewildered, as she realized that she was only clad in a sheer black gown, that clung feverishly to her shapely frame in the coolness of dingy room. She did not recall how she got into such clothing, and she frantically wondered if someone had dressed her, she felt violated and knew she had to find a way out of this room.
Her breasts stood ripe, erect and visible through the sheer cloth-like material. She glanced around the windowless quarter, her onyx eyes dashing to and fro taking in the hushed gloom of the dimly lit room. Her gaze trailed up the large mineral walls that were coated with a sickly greenish moss, and light glaze of what seemed to be dew, the fragrance stale and thick enough to taste....she breathed through her mouth. Turning she saw a heavy wooden door stood which stood at the end of diminutive room. It looked at her with a threatening sneer and somehow she knew without testing it that it was bolted shut.
"Great, what's really going on..?" She thought aloud. Her memories were a blur as she struggled to recall how she could possibly have arrived in such a dreary place. The girl while fearful was intrigued and her belly ached from the excitement of it all as she wondered what might lie behind the closed door.
Folded in a neat pile in the corner were animal furs fashioned into blankets, she looked at them longingly and shivered as a draft swept across her bronzed tone and trickled down the curvature of her spine. When attempted to push herself off of the stone slab she was startled to discover that her delicate wrist was trapped in a crude and rusty pair of chains. A smoldered gasp of dismay sprung from her full lips as she realized the full length of her entrapment.*
This all seemed strangely familiar to her somehow, and she wished she could remember something, anything. Her eyes started to fill with tears and her teeming chest heaved, while needles of fear and anticipation flipped wildly in her stomach.
She began to argue helplessly with the metal attached to her wrist, pulling with all her might, but the shackle remained grounded. Realizing that her efforts were futile, she looked around for something she might use to assist in her escape, but then she heard a loud set of boots could be heard coming down an adjoining corridor. Quickly, she scrambled back up on the cool stone slab, shutting her eyes tightly and lying down quietly. She pretended to be asleep, her gentle features frozen in a doll like pose.
The clatter of the bolt sliding back mingled with the quickening pace of her heart, and her ears stung from the sound. The door rattled, creaked and was finally pushed opened. After a short pause the door swung shut loudly, the bolt latched, and a dismal grunt of disappointment, could be heard in the corridor along with the descending sounds of the thunderous boots.
The girl listened until the echo of the boots was far in the distance and climbed back down from the slab. Although chained, she moved as much as her tether permitted, to search the cramped area for a makeshift tool to free herself. She sighed aloud discovering nothing that would assist her, however, she did acquire one of the fur blankets; she picked a black one and snuggled her form into the darkness of it while she paced the floor in the attempt to stay warm.
Glancing at the chain around her wrist, and growing increasingly fearful, she knew that her attachment to the wall was no for utter amusement, and was well aware that the disappointed grunter with the strident boots would soon come back to check on her. The girl gulped, deciding to do whatever her captor or captors expected of her. There did not appear to be much of a choice—She had no idea where she was, who she was, or how she would escape but, playing along seemed to be the best move, at least for the moment. Her belly stirred with the awareness of her uncertain fate, becoming more compelling as the moments passed.
Something glimmered in the corner of the depressed room catching her eye. She gently fell to her knees, and crawled over to the small space. She reached under a solemn looking table and retrieved the last piece of a mirror that perhaps had been long forgotten. The dust on the glass was thick and she rubbed it against the furs. Gazing into the mirror she smirked at the tender lips and long dark tresses of the stranger staring back at her with a glimmer of mischief that danced, wildly, in her almond shaped eyes.
Suddenly she began to hear the deafening pound of the boots marching down the hall, again. Startled, she scrambled to her bare feet, taking the piece of mirror with her. She looked towards the door, her eyes wide in their blank stare. She dropped the blanket, letting it fall at her feet and slipped to her knees, silently, with her head held high. The sheer gown swayed about her pleasantly luscious body, the fabric lingering against her rounded thighs and she modesty pressed them together, folding her hands behind her back, the sliver of mirror clutched firmly in her hand. She breathed deeply, mustering her courage, and thrust her chest outward, the tender nipples striving to burst through the gown as her night clad tresses cascaded about her shoulders. Her piercing black eyes were fixed on the wooden door, and her heartbeat drummed into her ears as the bolt was released ---the door rattled, creaked and was finally pushed opened....*
Pushing myself away from the desk, I glanced up at the story, as I had often done over the last few weeks but nothing came to me, not a name, not a plot, and not the faintest idea about what would or could happen next. I needed some form of inspiration.
A cool autumn night air swept into the study, the sweet scent of the rose bushes, below, rode in with it and gently crept up my spine; I shivered and wrapped my robe tightly about my shoulders. In March my publisher was informed that I was beginning a new series, it was now August, and the page of the first book was not even done, he would not be pleased.
I ran my hands through my long white hair in frustration as I leaned back in the plush computer chair. Once when I was younger, I searched the internet for the possible causes of my pallid locks, which ranged from stress, to nutrient deficiency, to the lack of cells called "melanocytes" that are apparently found in hair follicles. Regardless my hair had gradually began to lose its color the year that I turned thirteen and now at the age of thirty-three my stone white mane caused me to always look, deliciously, pixilated since it insinuated the flecks of silver that swam in my deep grey eyes.
Aside from my hair there was nothing extremely special about me though I did have the erotic burdens of a true Scorpio and my passions were rarely satisfied, most of my novels were all loosely based on my own hyperactive libido and how the slit between my legs had captivated many men, bringing them to the brink of obsession and madness.
However, marriage was an idea that I was completely in love with and resulted in me trying the monogamous union three times, each time was unsuccessful and always lead to me straying often. My third husband was never a fan of my many lovers or admirers, and priding himself as a man who would never be second best to anyone or anything, departed a month earlier, I felt nothing but the relief of freedom when he left, and I make no apologies for it. *
Nevertheless, soon after his nightly departure I changed my name, retreated into seclusion, and purchased an illustrious twelve room estate, equip with menacing walls of blackened stone, an impenetrable fort like gate, and towering pillars that loomed against the grayish-green bark of Michigan's eastern white pines.
Staring back up at the story I felt that the passion that I once had for my writing was gone and I realized that the story would remain in its barren state for as long as I continued on this desolate path, and perhaps all that was left to do was email Justin Miles, my publisher, and tell him that I would no longer be producing a series.
