-Warning - This chapter contains a graphic transformation. Duh! Werewolves! If you're not into that, I warned ya, so you can go knit or something. β Truth
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"Look, I can't help you. You're the one that programmed her. You'll have to fix whatever happened that stripped away her commands," a rather large man sighed down at Ron.
"I can't get anywhere near her. This guy's disrupted my control. I tried resetting her, but she just ..."
"Let me get this straight. You reset her?" The big guy leaned forward to Ron.
"Yeah," Ron grew more confident. "I bent her over and did her just like the book said, but..."
"Wait. Franklin, did you do the test on page 23?"
"Test?"
"To see if your mind is strong enough to do the required exercises for full control."
"Well, it's been nearly ten years." The man frowned and tossed a well worn book at him. "What would the test have to do with getting her back?"
"When you get her back, are you strong enough to do it all over?"
"Yes, of course. I get it. It's from the beginning. I'll just have to get her for a week and return her, like I did before."
"She's too old for that. What do you want her back for? She'd probably be all stretched out from some black buck by now. Pick up another one who's ass won't be sagging in a couple years...."
"You obviously didn't look at the picture I furnished with the twelve hundred down."
The man shuffled through the papers on his desk and let out a whistle. "You must have invested a fortune."
"She's all real. 32 inch inseam, 22 inch waist.... My little black doll's all real. Right down to that little mole on her brown ass. I guess you know why I want her back. Besides, I'd just have to start all over learning some girl's fears from scratch. What's the fun of trying to invoke fear when they aren't afraid?"
The fear was what he lived for. The prostitutes weren't cutting it. They would throw his money back in his face when they realized what he wanted. Ellen was his only chance. He felt warm just thinking of how she could writhe and scream. He didn't want to see the bruising. That's why he picked a black one in the first place. The flash of her pearly white teeth as she anticipated the blows was heaven. He wanted to get heaven back. If this guy wasn't gonna get it for him, he'd find someone who could. Ron pulled the picture from his grasp and turned to go.
"Wait," the fat man called. "I might know someone. He might do it. She might just look close enough."
Xavier watched the lone horseman head straight toward his house. He made sure he was down wind and followed as close as he could. The rider jumped down and knocked on the door. No one had been to see him in nearly twenty years. He peeked out of cover and the horse immediately reared. Used to that kind of a reaction, Xavier walked up to the rider.
"Xavier?"
"Yes," he softly replied.
"I was sent by Mr. Johnson. He said you could help me. I've got to get my wife back."
"So, what's that to me? I don't do that anymore."
"He said you'd be especially interested in this assignment. Somehow, I thought you'd be older."
"Yeah, well looks can be deceiving. Especially in these parts."
"The farm belt? Hell, I'd thought you'd be all gnarled from the sun..."
"Give it a rest, Sparky. You're interrupting my hunt. Spill it. What's so special about her."
"Here," the thin man handed him a picture. Xavier was about to snarl that he didn't need to see her to know that he wasn't doing the job, but then he glanced down. The spitting image of his best friend's sister smiled back out at him. In his mind he knew it couldn't be her. She'd been dead for thirty years or more. Along with Chuck, God rest his soul. That fucker, Mike Johnson. He knew he'd do it. Asshole. Tossing some freaky image in his face.
"Johnson, said you'd be able to get an idea of where to look if I brought an article of her clothing. Here it is."