Disclaimers:
This story takes place in a fantasy universe where it is physically impossible for anyone below the age of 18 years and a day (21 and a day in some jurisdictions) to have, to be in any way exposed to, or to even know of the existence of sex.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is unfortunate and disturbing.
This story contains references to mind control, impregnation, harem/multiple partners, paranormal phenomena, crude behavior and attitudes, profanity, bad spelling, bad grammar, bad attempts at humor, and badly-written sex scenes. This story is meant solely to entertain and is not intended to promote or support any beliefs or ideology of any kind, because no one wants that nasty-ass shit in their erotica. Persons attempting to find a plot herein will be shot.
Author does not condone the use of mind control powers to take over small towns and turn them into paranormal breeding colonies.
1.1. Fixer-upper.
Rain was pouring from the grey morning sky, with no sign of easing up. Like a captain seeking shelter in a storm, the driver heaved his lumbering camper van down the cracking asphalt side-street and into the vacant lot where it dead-ended. He worked his way around multiple abandoned vehicles, some fire-gutted and most stripped down to the axles. He dodged piles of trash and rubble as he pulled around behind the storefronts and into the rear loading areas, driving directly into the store/warehouse that he was interested in buying. The realtor's Toyota 4Runner was already waiting inside.
They called it the town's historic district, meaning "they" were too soft-hearted to raze it. The rat-infested brick facades with their blindfolded windows stood silent for year upon year, slowly crumbling. Someone would occasionally make a lot of noise about a "downtown revitalization project" of one kind or another, which somehow never made the place any less of a sad forsaken twilight zone where no one wants to go. The new guy in town had made very little noise as of yet. For the time being, few would know that he was here.
The previous owners had left their shelving, pallets, and some office furniture stacked in the middle of the dirty concrete floor, all piled together like an unlit bonfire. The previous residents had left their bottles, needles and condoms in the corners and it was a wonder how they hadn't yet managed to torch the place.
The warehouse would have been prime real estate at the start of the 20th century, not far from the Cedar River which ran along the edge of the town. It had been right next door to the Cedar Station's industrial district: the titular train station, the depot and the sawmill. That part of town had been razed some years back; it was a large empty field where people now dumped their wrecked appliances and other garbage. The property was currently on the market for about the same price that might have been offered circa 1910, without adjusting for inflation. They must want it off their hands before it really does burn down, he thought.
Cedar Station had no cedars. Cedar Station had no station. The cedars were all chopped down and the station was abandoned with the collapse of the local lumber industry. That was decades ago. The homes and businesses were slowly left to rot, and so were the people who stayed. The main business of today was welfare and welfare fraud, the 600-odd residents were mostly those too old or too poor to leave. The primary pastimes were drugs, crime, and other forms of nihilistic self-destruction. What young people did hang around after high school were quickly gobbled up by the war machine to serve and die in Eastern Europe, Eastern Asia or any of the old favorites in the Middle East. The prospective buyer felt something unpleasant crunch beneath his new work boots as he stepped out of the van.
"I don't have to worry about asbestos here, do I?" he asked.
"Hepatitis or tetanus maybe." came a sharp-sounding female voice in response. "Not asbestos, not if the seller wasn't lying and the inspector wasn't bent."
Dressed in her dark slacks, prim white blouse and dark suit jacket, Brittany Kohl was a contrast against the wretched interior background. She was in her late-20's, with warm blue eyes and curls of honey-brown hair reaching down to her waist. Her hips were broad and flaring atop a very nice set of legs. She gave a well-practiced fake smile that nonetheless looked nice on her slightly-narrow face. She wore less makeup than was typical of the realtor's standard uniform, and had traded out her dress shoes for a practical set of well-worn hiking boots.
She also showed no sign of the drug abuse that seemed surprisingly common in her industry, neither in her physical appearance nor in her medical or legal records. She had worked in the nearest major city until recently, before relocating back to her home town. No real financial incentive to do this, so probably family-related. Few signs of her having reestablished social relations in the area yet, neither friendly nor romantic. She didn't invest much into advertising or self-promotion, meaning she either couldn't afford to or was good enough not to need it. Rentals and residential properties were her forte; this would be her first experience with commercial real estate. Bradley Colson knew all of this about her because he was almost more interested in the realtor than the realty.
Bradley was tall and rangy in a way that farmers were once said to be, before mechanization and farm subsidies made them all fat. The blue jeans and plaid shirt heightened that impression, even if he didn't have a farmers' tan or seemingly any other kind of tan. His skin was almost translucent. There was a strength and dexterity in his body that wasn't readily apparent, though Brittany noticed it. Not many people have that look anymore.
She might have thought him Amish if not for the lack of a beard and what might have been a slight New England accent. His forehead seemed unusually wide beneath his short black hair, his silvery gray eyes had an almost mesmerizing quality to them and she couldn't help but feel disarmed by his presence. As one who always carried an unregistered firearm when viewing empty properties with strange men, and as one who had used it before and didn't regret it, that wasn't typical of her.
They toured the building. It was a 3,600 square foot single-story structure, with 3,000 dedicated to an open floor and the rest made up of back office or storage rooms. It was in good shape structurally, considering its age and disuse. It had accommodation for water and sewage, both currently nonfunctional but not too hard to repair. New locks and doors and motion sensors had been installed since the place went on the market and it didn't look like any of the squatting or trespassing had been recent; uninvited guests shouldn't be an issue. Most of the rain stayed outside, and Bradley was even pleasantly surprised at how well the sound was dampened. He asked questions and she answered them intelligently and competently. When she didn't know the answer, she could always provide a quick reference to someone who would.
"I'll take it!" he said at last as they concluded the tour and returned to their vehicles. "We'll close at your earliest convenience, and I can pay immediately."
