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Subject: {ASSM} Prudence, TX Population 1276 24 (mff ff)
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Standard disclaimers apply; this story may or may not contain, in any
given part, graphic depictions of lesbianism, homosexuality, group sex,
bdsm, underage (teen) sex, magic, occultism, violence, and biting 
sarcasm.  If you're underage, or if for any other reason it's illegal 
for you to read this, or you're disturbed by the content, please don't 
read it.

Archived at, and we've got a web-forum at as well, for discussion of both
Prudence and our other stories. Send an email to and
I'll add you to the mailing list to be notified when Prudence

Comments *greatly* appreciated.



She huddled on the couch, sobbing, hugging her crying baby to her
chest. Her eye was black and swollen nearly shut, and a trickle of blood
ran down her chin from a split lip. 

"Shut that brat up, slut. I don't intend to listen to another man's
bastard scream in my own house." The man stood by the fireplace, a glass of
bourbon in one hand and the bottle it came from in the other. He was a
good-looking man in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and eyes that
were almost gold. He was tall and strongly built, with thick, heavy muscles
and huge hands. His handsome face was twisted in a dark scowl.

"I didn't cheat on you, Ryan! Celeste is _your_ daughter!"

"Bitch!" He strode angrily over to the couch. "Lying little slut. I was
offshore in February."

"She was just early--"

His hand cracked across her face. "Liar. She doesn't look early to

The baby screamed and he snatched it from her arms. "I told you to shut
that brat up. Since you won't, I will."

"Ryan, please! What are you _doing_?!"

Crossing the room, he wrenched open the grate on the fireplace.

"NO!" She threw herself across the room, trying to tug the crying baby
away from him. "Ryan! Oh god, stop!"

He easily held the baby away from her with one hand while he stirred
the flames higher. "Bitch. Whore. You'll burn in hell and your little
bastard with you. He tossed the poker down and started to unwrap the baby,
shoving his wife roughly to the ground.

She sobbed in terror, and her desperate hands found the poker, still
hot from the fire. As Ryan grinned down at her and prepared to toss the
infant in the roaring flames, she swung the hot iron bar with all her
strength, striking him across the face. The smell of sizzling flesh filled
the air and he screamed, dropping the child.

The woman caught her as she fell and scrambled madly away, lurching to
her feet and running for the door. She almost made it.

With a bellow of pure rage he caught her, wrapping his fist in her long
braid and yanking her backward.

She curled around her baby as she fell, trying to keep her from her
insane husband's reach, but her strength was no match for his, and he
unwrapped her as easily as he'd peel a banana and tore the child from
her grip.

The poker had slashed deep into his flesh, the skin of his right cheek
seared and split, his right eye just a blackened, bloody, oozing mass. She
stared at him in horror, knowing that no sane man would be smiling in the
grip of such pain.

Tenderly, he caressed her cheek. "Emma darling. Fire would have been
fast, but now she'll suffer. And so will you, while you listen to her cries
grow weaker and weaker. You'll both pay for this. "

He dragged her up the stairs to their bedroom. Opening the closet, he laid
the child on the floor and grabbed a handful of belts from the shelf.
Closing the door on the screaming infant, he tossed the hysterical woman on
the bed and proceeded to tie her tightly to the bedposts.

He tortured her for three days, using knives and fire and his body to
torment her as the baby's cries grew more desperate, more terrified, and
then faint and weak, and finally stopped completely late in the second

Finally, he lay a gentle kiss upon her burned and bleeding lips. "It's
been fun, sweetheart, but I have to go to work now. Goodbye." He plunged a
knife into her stomach, twisting the blade viciously, and left it. Then he
got up and showered. . He took clothes from the closet, ignoring the tiny
corpse, and dressed. He smiled into his wife's tormented, still aware eyes
one last time.

"You can stay in bed, love. The baby's sleeping." Then he left, never
to return. 

Mark woke in a cold sweat, every detail of the dream burned into his mind.
Retching, he scrambled desperately out of bed, vomiting on the floor as he
ran for the bathroom and fell to his knees in front of the toilet. He was
sick for a long time, retching and heaving long after his stomach was
empty, leaving him with aching muscles and a throbbing headache by the time
he was finally able to stand up and splash cold water on his face.  He
managed to clean up the mess before stumbling back to the bed where he lay,
wide awake and terrified to go back to sleep.

It was his tight, shivering grip around her waist that finally woke her.
She blinked sleepily as she turned in his arms to look up at him. "Mark?
What's wrong, love?"

He shuddered. "I dreamed about them," he said hoarsely.


"Emma... and the baby... and Ryan," he choked out, trying not to be sick

"Oh," she said quietly, then sat partway up and cradled his head to her
breast, stroking the damp hair back from his temple with cool, soft
fingers. He was shivering, even under the blanket, so she tucked him in
tightly and held him close, stroking his hair. She kissed his forehead.

"He... he..." Mark shuddered again, squeezing his eyes closed. "He was
insane. Insane." He sat bolt upright all of a sudden, grabbing her
shoulders, his eyes wild. "He's missing an eye, his right eye. If you see
someone like that, get the fuck away from them, promise me!"

"Love, it's okay," she said soothingly. "He's long, long gone. Probably

Mark shivered, shaking his head. "Or he's come back. Remember that message?
And the animals... he's capable of that. They suffered _less_ than she did.
_Promise_ me."

"What animals?" she asked.

"Oh..." He blinked, calming some. "You weren't at school. There was the
body of a tortured, burned, dismembered dog left on the schoolyard this
morning, and from what I've heard, it's not the first to be found around

"Oh. Fuck," she said. "Honey, I'm sorry. This sort of thing happens every
October around here. I think there are some real sickos around who just
love to wait for this time of year so they can scare everyone to death. I
should have told you."

"It doesn't matter. Just promise me," he begged.

She snuggled down into his chest, wrapping her arms around him. "Okay,
love, I promise. Anything that makes you feel better."

He held her close, nearly crying with relief, and let her pet and soothe
him back to sleep.

Sleeping, though, turned out to be a bad idea. The dream repeated itself,
though not in its entirety. It just skipped from scene to scene, never
lingering more than a second or two in any one spot. And apparently his
subconscious wanted to scare him to death, because Emma's face kept melting
into Kristen's, her dark hair turning red-gold.

He woke with a start when the alarm went off, hitting the button by reflex.
He glanced down, and a strand of hair across Kristen's throat looked for a
moment like a line of blood. He shuddered, and in that instant realized
that there was no way he could make himself leave her alone. He looked
around for a phone, but there didn't seem to be one in the room. Not
willing to leave her for even an instant, he scooped her into his arms and
carried her with him as he headed to look for one.

She yawned, her eyes fluttering open. "Mmm?"

"Looking for a phone," he said. "Calling in sick."

"What's wrong?" She frowned, worried, and put a hand on his cheek.

"Not leaving you alone."

"Love, I'll be fine," she said. "My dad'll be here."

Stubbornly, he shook his head. "Nuh-uh." The dreams were still to vivid,
the fear clutching his gut too real. He shivered and tightened his arms
around her.

She turned her head and kissed his shoulder. "There's a phone in the guest
room, then," she said quietly. "That door, there."

He carried her into the indicated room. It was quite large and well
furnished, just somewhat dusty and stale with disuse. It had a much bigger
bed than the one in Kristen's room, too, and he sat her down on it before
reaching for the phone.

Kristen waited in silence while he called in, his shaking voice making his
excuse of a stomach flu sound quite believable. The sympathetic secretary
assured him that they'd got a substitute in, and he thanked her and hung up
the phone. "There," he said, with a relieved sigh.

She reached for his hand. "Love... you _can't_ be with me every moment of
every day."

He sat down and pulled her into his arms. "I can try."

"Honey, you _can't_. And ever if he were back... there's no reason he'd
want to hurt me more than anyone else."

Mark shook his head. "You spend enough time at my house... all he has to do
is think you're her. He was _insane_, love. Utterly insane."

"Then he's really not likely to still be alive, Mark," she pointed out.
"Insanity is not a survival trait."

He shivered again, remembering the dream. "Not usually. But sometimes it
is. And what if he's been in a mental institution for the past however many
years, and just got out?"

"I'll be careful, love," she promised. "I don't go walking anymore, not
alone. _I_ don't want to be alone, you know, not at all. But... you can't
just stop living to watch over me."

He sighed unhappily. "I know. I know. But humor me today, okay?"

She smiled and rubbed her cheek against his chest. "Okay. I'm selfish
enough to be glad to have you with me no matter what."


If you like this, you might want to take a look at Strange Love, an
e-zine of sf/fantasy/paranormal erotica. The first issue is on sale
now for $2 at:

Take a look!

Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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