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Message-ID: <45091asstr$1067656202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Prince of Wails {GameraDark} (horror rape ghost/F seasonal)
Date: Fri, 31 Oct 2003 22:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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                         Disclaimer

This is a work of erotica by Kenny N Gamera.  No persons,
either living or deceased, or real events are described in
this work.  Access to this work may be regulated by local
law.  It is not to be read or distributed in those areas
where access to erotica is denied nor to those individuals
to whom it is prohibited.  The author doesn't assume
responsibility where such laws have been circumvented and
supports the prosecution of such laws where they exist.  In
many cases, the actions of characters violate any and all
reasonable and proper moral codes.  If you have the desire
to perform such actions, please seek help for the sake of
everyone.  The distribution of this work by any means is
the sole right of the author and his agents.  It is not to
be copied or published by others except where allowed by
fair use under standing international copyright law.
Archiving by Google and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and
encouraged.

For other Spooky/Scary stories check
Lost Boy's Other-Worldly Story Links
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/lostboy/www/storylinks.html

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
Turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera/www
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera

                         Prince of Wails
                               by
                         Kenny N Gamera

                            Prologue
                             London
                      Sometime in the 1830s

The driver pulled over to the side of the street and brought the
carriage to a stop next to the woman.  She had her red hair done
up in imitation of the current style among the ladies.  Her pale
face held two piercing green eyes.  They lit up together with
the smile on her red lips. The man in the carriage pulled the
cord that caused the curtains to spread aside.  The girl came
over and looked up to his face.

"What can I do ya for, sir?" she said with a voice thick with
the accent of the street. "I can do ya a lot if ya'll let me."

"That depends Miss."  He reached into his suit coat and pulled
out a heavy and over stuffed purse.  "Are you free for the
evening?"

She stared at the money.  "Evening?"

"The whole evening.  Until morning at least.  I have an
important ... um ... client who wouldn't be interested in just a
few moments of your time."  He smiled his best politician's
smile at the girl.  "So would you be available?"

"For that," she nodded her head to the money, "a gentleman such
as ya would be able to get yerself a real lady not some whore
like meself."

"He has particular tastes.  And we are buying more than your
services, we are buying your silence."

"Silence?"

"Silence.  I wouldn't want this in the press.  Certain ...  ahem
...  papers would be interested."

"Oh."

"So," he asked the girl drawing out the word.

"Okay," She looked at him and smiled a very professional smile.
"Let's go."

The other girls at the corner watched her step into the gilded
carriage.  Some with a little envy.  Most with merely bored
momentary interest before turning back into their night's search
and wait.  They never saw her again.

                  --------=========--------

                           London

She was a young woman.  She wore an outfit meant to resemble a
girl's school uniform.  Rather than displaying her youth,
however, it displayed her age, making her appear older than
early twenties that she must be.  Still, she stood out from the
others on the street.  There was something about her that he
found, not so much appealing, but somehow of interest. Seifert
decided that she would do for the night.

"That one, the school girl."

The driver pulled over to the side of the street and brought the
car to a stop next to the woman.  She had her red hair done up
in pigtails. Seifert touched the stud on the door handle,
activating the small motor that lowered the window.  The girl
came over and leaned against the car.  Her pale face held two
piercing green eyes.  They lit up together with the smile on her
red lips.

Not yet burnt out on this, thought Seifert. He smiled to
himself; she would do quite well.

"What can I do you for, sir?" she said with a voice betraying
her Irish roots.  The brogue wasn't heavy.  Instead, it lent a
charming lilt to her voice.  "I can do you a lot if you will let
me."

"That depends young lady."  Seifert reached into his suit coat
and pulled out a stack of pound notes.  "Are you free for the
evening?"

She stared at the money.  "Evening?"

"The whole evening.  Until the morning at least.  I have an
important ... um ... client who would be interested in more than
a few moments of your time. "  He smiled his best politician's
smile at the girl.  "So? would you be available?"

She licked her lips, but her gaze never left the money.  "Yer
not ...?"

"No, young lady, I am not on the constabulary.  Even if I were,
it would hardly be a fair cop at this point now would it?"

"For that," she nodded her head to the money, "you would be able
to get yerself a real lady not someone like me."

"He has particular tastes.  And we are buying more than your
services, we are buying your silence."

"Silence?"

"Silence.  I wouldn't want this in the press.  Certain ...  ahem
...  papers would be interested."

"Oh."

"So," he asked the girl drawing out the word.

"Okay," She looked at him and smiled a very professional smile.
"Let's go."

The other girls at the corner watched her step into the black
car.  Some with a little envy.  Most with merely bored momentary
interest before turning back into their night's search and wait.
They never saw her again.

                    --------=========--------

"What is your name, young lady?"

The man reached into his coat pocket.

"Megan, sir." She could hear the unease she felt in her voice and
hoped that the gentleman next to her hadn't noticed, that it was
only her nerves causing her to hear things.  She tried her best
to keep it under control when she did this, but she always felt
the fear build in her when she went into a car.  No one she knew
ever disappeared, but there were stories.  And some of her
friends had been beaten and left somewhere with nothing to show
their pimps, not even money from their earlier tricks.

Nothing would happen this time.  Nothing ever happened.  Don't
worry, she told herself in her thoughts.  But in the back of her
mind, every time she entered a car, something always reminded
her that there must be a first time.

The man's voice turned not cruel, but something different than
the nice it had been.  Cold, bored, uncaring.

"No," he said in that new voice, "what is your real name?"

"What do you mean, sir?"  Her heart began to race.

He grew angry.  "Listen, I don't care a rat's arse what you call
yourself to the guys you whore your bleeding arse to.  I want
your bleeding real name."

"Sir?  I ... "

He slapped her across the face, hard enough to turn her head.
Before she could reach for the burning flesh of her cheek, he
took hold of her wrist.  He slipped a bracelet from a pair of
handcuffs over it.  Taking advantage of her shock, he placed the
other bracelet over her free hand, and snapped both tight in
front of her.

He grabbed her lower jaw and pulled her face close to his.  His
grip distorted her face with the pressure.  She looked less
pretty, ugly even, with the smear that her tears made of her
heavy make up.

"Listen, you bleeding whore."  He brought his face close to
hers.  His breath smelled sweet, like the mint candies some of
her clients would use.  "I need to know your name.  The real
one.  The one you were born with."

She sobbed.

"Now, are you going to tell me?"

She nodded her head as best she could with the hold he had on
her head.  He released it.  She jerked her head away.  The
window was too dark to see the streets outside.  They would be
too dark for anyone to see her.  As if anyone would notice her,
just another street whore.  She choked on another sob.

"Marguerite Katherine O'Neil."

"Good, that should help us, but just in case ... "

He reached to the floor and pulled up a case.  From the case he
brought out a pad of ink and a sheet of heavy white paper.  He
took one of her hands and forced each finger into the ink.  Then
the fingers were pushed onto the paper.  Once the impressions of
her fingerprints had been made, he tapped on the tinted glass
dividing them from the driver.

The window slid open.  A hand reached through and took the card.
Before it closed, the man gave whoever was behind the glass a
few terse instructions.  He turned back to her and smiled, she
didn't notice.  She just stared at her hands, her mind in a numb
state beyond fear and caring.

His pleasant voice returned, he asked "So, do they call you
Maggie."

Maggie nodded.

"You're from Ireland?"

"Yes."  She told him her hometown.  Seifert wrote it down on a
sheet of paper he passed to the front

"I'm sorry about this, Maggie.  I really am."  He touched her
cheek.  "But some very important people need someone like you to
do a very important job.  It won't be pleasant for you, even the
people who need this done know that.  They wish there was some
other way, but there isn't."

Maggie looked up.  She tried to make her face defiant and snarl
a few choice words at the man.  Instead, tears ran through the
paints around her eyes and carried it through the powders on her
cheeks.  She kept her mouth closed to save at least that much of
her dignity.

"They've tried to find a way for a long time, Maggie.  There
isn't one."  The man placed a hand on her leg.  The gesture was
meant to be comforting not sexual, Maggie knew in a way she
could feel.  "But I think you can do this.  I need you to be
strong Maggie.

"My name in Seifert, Maggie.  If there is anything I can do,
please tell me."

She swallowed and sighed.  "I want to go home."

"That, Maggie, I am afraid will never happen."

                    --------=========--------

Maggie woke up in a dark room.  It was a dark like she had never
seen before.  Always before there had been some light somewhere
so that she could eventually get some sense of where she was.
Here, she saw nothing.

The last she remembered was in the car.  With the man.  Seifert.
He had taken a cloth from his pocket and placed it over her
mouth and nose.  It smelled like chemicals, maybe a little like
the vodka that she remembered drinking once, before she faded
into the sound of her tears.

She heard nothing and saw nothing.  She felt herself on her back
on a soft bed. She still wore her clothes and her arms and legs
were spread eagle in that well-remembered, classic position.
She tried to count the number of men who had her this way in the
past two years. Faces came to her mind, and a few names, maybe
real, but most likely not.

She tested the ropes, and felt more than the accustomed give to
them.  She could move her limbs enough to prevent cramping, but
no further than that.  She sighed and felt the dryness in her
throat.  She swallowed, but the small volume of saliva that had
gathered in her mouth failed to calm the demands her body made.

"Mr Seifert?"

Her voice echoed, but only slightly.  She called again.  The
sound of a doorknob turning rewarded her.  No light entered the
room as the hinges of the door creaked slightly.  She heard the
soft tread of shoes on a heavy, wooden floor.

"Mr Seifert?"

"Yes, Maggie?"

"I'm thirsty.  Can I get something to drink?"  She made a try at
playing the game she found herself in.  "Master."

"Yes, you may."  He chuckled to the sound of pouring water.
"But I am not your master.  I am a mere servant."

"A servant?"

"Yes."  He paused a moment, then continued, "of the Queen."

"The Queen?"

"Yes."

He sat on the bed next to Maggie, causing the mattress to sag in
his direction.  She felt his hand over her wrist undoing a knot.
When the rope came loose, he grasped her wrist with one hand and
held it.  With the other, he pressed a plastic cup into her
palm.

One swallow after another, tilting the cup in a higher and
higher angle she drank until it was empty.  When she was done,
he took the cup away and placed it a table that was next to the
bed.  It made a solid thonk as it hit the wood.

"How can you see," she searched for something to address and
settled on "Mr Seifert?"

"Night vision goggles.  A wonder really.  It was so very
difficult in the dark before they came up with these."

Maggie felt him reach over her body.  He began tugging at the
ropes on her far wrist.

"Why not just turn on the light?"

"There are no lights in this room."  The rope came loose from
her arms.  He bent back to her feet.  "His Highness dislikes
electric lights.  He usually brings his own."

"Prince Charles?"

"No.  Not Prince Charles.  Someone else who once had a claim to
the throne, before Charles."

"Who?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. In any case, you would've never
heard of him." He swore softly in distracted voice as a knot
fought his efforts to loosen it.  "He can sense the circuits in
a room.  We found it best to have all the surrounding rooms
without electricity.

"Damn. It's almost time."

"Time for what, Mr Seifert?" Maggie felt uneasy and afraid.
Very afraid, but also unsure of this strange man and what was
happening.

"You will find out soon enough."  He grunted and the knot came
undone.  He sat up.  "Just try to be strong through this.  Once
it is over you will be a very rich young lady.  And far away
from here, as well.  That cannot be helped.

"Just stay strong."

Seifert stood from the bed.  Without a word, he walked with his
soft steps across the wooden floor.  The hinges squeaked.  There
was a click of the latch, and the room returned to silence.

Maggie sat up and rubbed her wrists.  She turned and placed her
feet on the floor.  She sighed.

I should have run, she thought.  Everything about the situation
felt wrong, but Seifert had found ways to make her feel
reassured and if not at ease, at least safe.  Like a lover,
almost.  But very much like a master.

She felt around the spot she remembered the sound of the cup
coming down.  She knocked it over, then took hold of it.  With
her other hand, she reached around until she touched the handle
of a pitcher.  With great care, she poured herself some more
water.  Again, she drank greedily.  She poured out another cup
that she drank more slowly.

She set the cup and pitcher down.  The cup missed the tabletop.
It rattled along the floor, before she heard it roll away deep
into the dark room.

She swore.  Alone in the dark, only the words of Seifert kept
away tears.  She wished that she were home, but thoughts of home
almost started her to cry.  She ought to cry, she knew.  Still,
she lived and she sensed something honest in Seifert.  She would
survive, somehow.

Time passed beyond her counting or awareness.  She called again
for Seifert, but he didn't return.  She searched for another
cup.  Not finding one, and feeling hopeless in finding the one
on the floor, she resorted to drinking from the pitcher.  She
sipped a few times, more to relieve her growing boredom than any
real thirst.

She set it down.  She lay back on the bed and stared into the
blackness between her and the ceiling.  She closed her eyes and
drifted away.

                    --------=========--------

The light on the outside of her eyelids woke her.  Blinking, she
opened them.  The room was still dark, but not as dark, as if an
approaching light was slowly brightening it.  The light was
uneven.  It faded a bit before growing back in brightness,
sometimes even a bit more than it had been.

The room was large, maybe the size of her whole flat.  The
headboard of the bed sat tight against the wall.  To the side
with the water pitcher was a large fireplace.  A large picture
of a group of riders with horses and hounds were above it.  The
people didn't wear the red coats of the hunters she had seen on
the telly.  They had on armour and carried spears.

After a time she thought that the light grew from the wall
opposite the fireplace and painting.  She turned toward it and
watched for a long moment.  Just before she looked away, a
glowing candle floated through it.

Another followed behind it.  It took a moment before Maggie saw
that a candelabra held the candles.  A mist-like hand held it.
The hand was attached to an arm; the arm attached to the form of
a boy with the look of a thirteen-year-old.

The boy had a young and pock marked face, filled with rage.  His
clothing was coarse but without tears, or holes that had been
left unmended.  His trousers were baggy and of a dark colour
that appeared almost black in the gloom of the light cast by the
candles.  His shirt seemed pink but may have been red but for
its wearer's filmy nature.  The shirt was long, almost the
length of a nightshirt, and held tight around his waist by a
heavy belt, covered with metal studs.  A sheath held a dagger to
his side.

He looked at the room, scowling.  He eyes passed over everything
twice, as if he were searching.  The first time they alighted on
Maggie, he smiled for a moment before resuming his search.  The
smile was cold and lifeless, the smile of a mean little boy
finding a small animal to bully.

He finished his second visual search with his eyes back on
Maggie.  He stared at her, the evil smile back on his lips.
With a word in some rough language, he stepped towards her.  It
almost sounded like the German that she sometimes heard from a
tourist or possibly French.  She knew enough of both to know it
was neither, only one very much like them both.

He took the knife from his belt and put it between his teeth.
This freed his hands to work the crude buckle of his belt, which
he let drop to the floor.  He pulled the tunic over his head and
tossed it over his head.  The pants were held in place by a
drawstring.  He merely stepped out of them as he walked.

He reached the bed nude.  His body was scarred and covered with
bruises and sores.  His penis was erect but small.  He smiled
hard at her and spoke again in the language that Maggie couldn't
place.

She smiled back.  She had practiced it for months when she
started on the streets.  Night after night before she went to
her spot, she would look at her image in the mirror getting the
right mix of sweetness and invitation.  It had done her wonders,
making her many pounds since she had perfected it.

He punched her in her stomach, knocking the wind from her.  The
boy grabbed her hair and repeated his strange words in her face.
He shouted them at her, then slapped her across the face.

She wanted to scream, but the wind had been knocked out of her.
She could only gasp, as the boy tugged at her hair.  He brought
her closer to his face. As he once more shouted those unfamiliar
words at her, she could somehow smell garlic and rotted meat of
his breath.

He knocked her across the brow with the handle of his dagger.
He let her dazed body sag onto the bed.  When she had slumped
onto the covers heaving for air, he spat at her.  The spittle
passed through her and disappeared into the bed.

She fought for the energy to cry as he took the knife and held
it at her throat.  He pulled at her blouse, popping the buttons,
sending them bouncing across the bed and floor.  He bent down to
her exposed breast, attacking one with his mouth and the other
with his free hand.  The flat of the dagger pressed against her
neck.

She closed her eyes tight against the combination of fear and
pain.  She prayed, as she hadn't for years.  Hail Marys passed
through her mind, trying to take it all away.  She wanted to
swallow, but fear kept her still as the boy above her mauled
her.

She opened her eyes when the touch of the blade disappeared.  He
knelt over her, the knife above the hem of her skirt.  He slid
it beneath it and tugged up.  The fabric ripped.  She started to
cry as the boy moved between her legs.

He lifted the knife high above his head.  She screamed as it
came flying towards her head.  She turned away and closed her
eyes with the scream turning to a shriek on her lips.

When that sound had finally passed, she opened her eyes to see
the dagger buried in the headboard.  The boy laughed and said
something in his strange, foreign tongue.  She stared at him.
He laughed again, in a cruel, heartless way, then shoved his
penis into her.

She screamed again as the small shaft entered her dry, unready
pussy.  She cried with each thrust into her.  She forgot years
of working the streets and pretending just enough to make it
bearable.  She could only cry among her screams as the boy
rammed his penis in and out of her.  Eventually, the tears dried
at their source and the screams with them as she stared blankly
into the mist boy's laughing face.

He shuddered and held himself tight against her body.  He
directed his shouts at the ceiling.  She could feel the pulsing
of his penis as he had what she guessed was his orgasm.  After
two shouts, he dropped over her.  With a lazy roll, he spilled
over her onto his back.

Maggie slowly got up from the bed and walked to the door.  Even
in her bare feet, she made the floor creak.  Still, she crept to
the door.  With a slow, deliberate motion, she turned the knob
as it made the same creak as it had with Seifert.

The blade of the dagger plunged into the frame just above her
arm.  She tugged at the door's handle; it wouldn't budge.
Releasing it, she pounded against the door, calling for Seifert
as the boy walked slowly to her.  The cruel smile from his first
sight of her returned to his face.

No one had come to the door by the time the boy reached her.
She turned him and screamed.  He threw a double fisted punch
into her stomach again, and Maggie dropped to her knees.  She
sucked in air without result while the boy reached for his blade
in the door.  She tried to say sometime to him, her airless
lungs unable to power her throat.

She looked at his growing penis.  She reached for it and ran her
hand along it.  She looked up to him with a smile.  Let me do
this, her eyes begged.  He left his hand on the handle, but the
knife stayed in the wall, as he waited to see what she would do.

She swallowed and bent forward.  The penis in her hand smelled
of piss, years old sweat, and something rotten.  She swallowed
and somehow forgot to retch.  She opened her mouth and took it
inside.

She felt the jerk as he pulled the knife from the wall.  The
blade was pressed under her chin, the flat against her neck.  A
sudden movement would cut deep into her, following along the
edge of her jaw.  He spoke in his harsh language.  It had the
tone of orders.

She sat still and didn't move a muscle, but after a few
heartbeats where nothing happened to her, she began to lick the
head of his penis.  The boy stopped speaking and moaned.  The
dagger left her throat. Encouraged, Maggie began to rock on her
knees.  The penis moved against her lips.  The boy muttered
something.

She put all of her skill into it.  She pumped the penis into her
face as she licked and sucked on it.  She closed her eyes and
thought only of the goal.  It soon came.

The boy convulsed and shook.  She could feel the penis jerking
in her mouth as the spasm of his orgasm arrived.  He sent five
bursts of his foul tasting semen in her mouth.  She couldn't
bring herself to swallow it

He pulled out of her mouth and looked at her.  She looked at
him, and as she had done with so many of her customers before
this, she opened her mouth filled with his seed.

He shouted at her and brought his knee into her jaw.  She fell
backwards, knocking her head hard on the door.  She slumped
back, with semen and the blood of a bit tongue flowing down her
chin.

The boy went to his clothes and dressed.  The knife went into
its sheath.  He picked up the candelabra, and turned to the wall
he had appeared from.  He stopped and looked at Maggie.  He said
one last word and spat at her, before taking a step into the
wall.

Maggie passed out.

                  --------=========--------

"This one is still alive," Seifert told the man at the desk.

He looked away from Seifert's glare and lit a cigarette.  He
took a deep drag and placed the burning stick into an overfilled
ashtray. It was unusual for a man to smoke anymore, let alone in
a public building.  Seifert made no protest; he understood the
reasons for it.

"Good."

"She just isn't in very good shape." Seifert added in a mumble
just loud enough to be heard.  "Damn royal bastard."

The other man sensed the bitterness in Seifert's voice.  "You
don't like this job Seifert?  You have a problem with it?"

Seifert stood straight, and his body became rigid.  "Sir!"

"Bloody 'ell, Seifert.  You needn't take it out on me.  I didn't
make that monster.  If I could, I'd go back all those hundreds
of years and see he sat on his damn throne."   They burned
tight-lipped stares into each other's eyes.

"Seifert, it has to be done."  Anger filled the man's voice.
"Remember when they hadn't?  Do you remember how many that
bloody thing killed?  Left gutted in the bleeding streets?"

"That is why I do it, Sir!"

The other man broke and sighed.  "Thank God, it's only once a
year."

"Tell that to the girls. Sir!"

"Seifert."  The other man looked up from his desk.  "You know I
could find someone who enjoyed this."

Seifert's face softened to that of a tired man.  His body
sagged, and he dropped his head to look at his feet.  "Sorry,
sir."

"No, I'm sorry Seifert."  The man looked away.  "Have you found
someplace for her?"

"A convent.  In South Africa, sir.  She's willing.  And they'll
take care of her."

"Good."

"You know, sir.  The gentleman you replaced wanted to kill the
survivors.  Thought that it would be less likely to get out that
way."  Seifert looked at his superior.  "Thank God they wouldn't
let him.  They deserve something, sir."

"Yes, they deserve something.  And not what we have given them."
The man sucked hard on the fag as he stared somewhere beyond
Seifert's shoulder.  After a long silence, he looked at the
cigarette.  Quietly, he said, "it's a damnable business."

With a sudden violent motion, he shoved the cigarette into the
ashtray, knocking spent butts onto the desktop.

"That will be all, Seifert."

"Sir!"

Seifert turned and marched from the room.

                  --------=========--------

                          Epilogue
                           London

The driver pulled over to the side of the street and brought the
car to a stop next to the woman. Seifert touched the stud on the
door handle, activating the small motor that lowered the window.
The girl came over and leaned against the car.

"What can I do you for, sir?"

                             The End?

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