Title Page
Satan’s Sisters I
Story & Illustrations by
Paul Moore
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
ISBN: 0-9766519-5-5
All rights reserved
Copyright ©2000 Paul Moore
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.
For information contact:
Pink Flamingo Publications
www.pinkflamingo.com
P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083
USA
Email Comments: lizbeth@pinkflamingo.com
Prologue
Panic is no longer an option.
Mrs. Kraft fires up the van’s engine, and I hear all of the door locks clunk down in unison. When I realize that I don’t have the choice of wrestling the back door open anymore I suddenly realize that I want to be so out of there! True, it wouldn’t have been easy with my hands cuffed behind me, but I think I might have managed it. Now there is no point in even trying.
I can’t feature that kind of Hollywood stunt anyway. I try to imagine what would happen if I made a break the first time the van stopped for a traffic light. There would be other cars back there, a stockbroker with a heart condition maybe, or some soccer mom with her SUV full of Mia Hamm wannabes. Spilling myself onto a busy highway, totally starkers, trussed and stuffed like a Christmas goose, would be such a major mortification! I don’t even want to think about going there.
The dude who dreamed up those automatic door locks was probably thinking that the kidlets in the back would be safer in a wreck. I’m sure he was like totally naïve. He never wondered about who else might get locked inside. It never occurred to his nerdy little geek brain that the whole system was a pervert’s wet dream. To me, those locks sound like a trap springing shut.
So now I’m down to two choices. I can flop around on my mattress and make a fuss, or I can relax and enjoy the ride. Making a scene won’t get me anywhere. Even blindfolded, I can tell that no one is going to see through the van’s tinted windows in all this rain. With Heather’s panties taped inside my mouth, I’m not about to argue my way out of this, and my chained ankles would keep me from trying to run even if I had someplace to go.
So I settle myself in for the trip. I’m shivering. The night is warm, but my chains are icy, and I’m still damp from marching across the loading dock naked in the rain, I guess I’m shaking because I’m freaked too—way freaked.
I can’t get comfortable with my hands behind me. The shackles chafe, and there is a rubber shaft up my ass the size of a kitchen drainpipe. My bladder will be a water balloon before we get where we’re going, but I don’t think we will be making a pit stop at the “Gas and Go”.
I know what you’re thinking. Poor kid! How did she get into such a bogus situation? Well, just chill a minute. Before you organize the pity posse, I should probably tell you that I asked for this. I mean, like literally.
