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by NastyPierre & colleen
Chapter One: Greeding
I shall reveal to you the most unimaginable tale of woe ever conceived, a story of perversion. It is one of grief and overwhelming anguish woven into a fabric of sorrow. The fabric is worn by Mother Nature’s own manifestation of surrender, a virgin without equal, Laura. I shall begin my story behind the ivied granite walls of the magnificent six hundred and sixty-nine room fortress, Chateau Paines Manor. Its twenty-three hundred acre estate is nestled ingeniously, high atop the steep man-made terraces of the otherwise jagged Black Mountains. It’s a secluded citadel located in the southwest corner of North Carolina, at an elevation of fifty-seven hundred feet.
From its side of the mountain the chateau has a splendid view, a panorama if you’ll imagine. Let’s begin in the north with Mount Mitchell, a majestic peak rising to sixty-seven hundred feet. This natural rock pinnacle is covered in beautiful spruce pine, a wondrous rolling sea of greens, or ocean of white snow. To the west and in the distance, the Appalachian Mountain Range crinkles by. It’s an old gash with a long scar healing slowly on the bosom of mother earth. Its pearl, the Great Smoky Mountains, floats on its own sea of bluish gray clouds. It’s a dreamlike scene from an almost unreal place. To the south, at a greater distance, one can see the steeply rising Orchard Mountains, and on a clear day, all the way to Montgomery, Alabama.
This eighth wonder of the world was planned and built by the late Mr. Bigg Paines. He was a fire and brimstone bible thumping women’s undergarment tycoon, libertine and insatiable voyeur. He died quite unexpectedly at the age of one hundred and thirteen. It happened while locked together with his female companion and wet nurse, in a complicated sexual position invented by the Chinese about 500 BC. His last breath was his granddaughter’s first.
His granddaughter, Laura, was born in her mother’s bed, on that unseasonably cold and storm-laden night of April first, nineteen hundred sixty-nine. She emerged twixt a blinding flash of lightening, a deafening roar of thunder and the last gasp of her grandfather, Bigg Paines, before the end of midnight’s first chime and morning’s first moment.
Keeping with a faith practiced by half the world’s perverts, Laura was baptized. She was christened, Laura ‘Lottsa’ Paines, by Father Fransic Balonni. This sixty-nine year old ex-communicated Catholic priest was the toe-sucking slave to Laura’s mother, the late Mrs. Betsey Paines. Laura was christened in October, baptized in the wonderfully dank chapel of Saint Judas Iscariot. The chapel is situated deep in the mountain, somewhere under the chateau. It serves as the entranceway to the winding catacombs of the Black Mountains and Paines Manor.
Reele Paines and the late Betsey are Laura’s parents. Reele is the late Mr. Bigg Paines only acknowledged male offspring. He’s a devilishly handsome spoiled brat and utter cur, born with several silver spoons jammed down his throat and a silver butt plug jammed up you know where. He’s had every worthless little thing handed Maltepe Escort to him from immense silver platters, supported and transported on the crooked backs of naked female peons. Indifferent to everyone, Reele is impassive with women, a drunkard and incurable gambler. You will find him lounging about at horse races and living in the gambling casinos of the world. He’s dressed and scented by valets of impeccable taste, but is a connoisseur of revelry in his own right. Though he often can’t find his way out of a john without help, he’s a famous world traveler. He lives in denial and total excess, off the large trust funds left him by his father.
Reele never knew his wife Betsey and met her only a few times. The first time was on their wedding day, the night Laura was conceived. Reele simply married when it was expected of him, meeting Betsey at the altar. While his mind wandered with the carelessness of a teenager, he closed his eyes and proceeded as father planned. He went through every motion and helped with conception. He fulfilled all obligations, and then disappeared as if nothing happened.
Betsey Paines, nee Betsey Parton, was the daughter of Abigail Von Parton, a well poised but deeply passionate woman. Abigail came from a very old and established family from Kentucky. It was a family of haughty aristocrats, early settlers, freedom loving moonshiners and colorful statesmen. Abigail just happened to be one of Bigg Paines favorite mistresses, and together they spent many months, years, in deliciously scandalous debauchery within the comfortable confines of Paines Manor.
Betsey considered herself a love child, a soiled flower, a weed in the Garden of Eden and lucky as sin. Like many females born to Paines Manor, Betsey grew up on its ether, in a dream, a fairy tale. She learned to dread venturing from the comforts and safety of its surroundings. Her fears endured through eighteen years of tender care and continued after she’d answered the door of opportunity. It was the ‘tap-tap’ of destiny and Betsey swung the portal open on the first knock. Then and there, without hesitation, she accepted Mr. Bigg Paines’ unbeatable offer. She would marry his son Reele and bear him a grandson, or die trying. In reality, she delivered a granddaughter he’d never see. After that, her life became sweet and messy.
Betsey died quite capriciously, while caught in the throes of passion. It was during one of her many secret trysts, with one of her many clandestine lovers. She developed the habit of acquiring and discarding men like shoes whenever Reele was absent, which was always. Seems Betsey was on her knees, in her favorite position, praying to Eros. It was the gardener this time that bucked and bobbed in her grasp while fidgeting around at his work.
Betsey was looking forward to drowning in the mother of all orgasms, when the giant earthmover of a man suffered a charley horse of sorts. The very muscle Betsey devoured with so much greed exploded in spasms of violence and pain. The killer root lodged in her throat, suffocating the poor woman before its owner could extricate himself. Anadolu Yakası Escort This was on Christmas Day, nineteen hundred eighty-four. Betsey was buried on the first of January, in Barabbas Cemetery.
The cemetery, like all the grounds, is beautifully manicured and well kept. It’s situated on a small shaded terrace along the lower east forty acres of this vast mountain estate. Betsey had left Laura, her poor bewildered daughter, alone and at the mercy of wolves. A frightened child left teetering on the wrong side of a dark abyss, without a light, answers, or means of escape.
Alas, poor Laura. Every horny fellow and madam who’s heard of her loss wishes to possess this sweet delicious fifteen year old, alone with no knowledge of the world, its vices, lurking dangers and grotesque avenues. She’s an innocent child in dire need of a mother’s gentle advice now more than ever before, while adrift on a stormy sea of anguish and doubt.
Laura was left alone to her own devices and those consisted of prayer. So she prayed as never before. She prayed day and night, through every meal, round laughter and tears, while relaxed and while nervous. She prayed and she prayed again and again, and always for the same thing. She prayed to be saved by a real life fairy tale knight in shining armor. She prayed for a conqueror who would appear out of nowhere riding a noble white charger that snorted aloud and galloped to thunder. A champion who’d rescue her from the cold, lift her from where she now knelt stunned and immobile, just a very small step from womanhood. She kept her hand extended for her hero to find, as she floundered alone in an ever changing array of emotional melee. She prayed while being sucked into a black hole devoted to extinguishing life.
Problems aside, Laura’s an authentic southern belle, plucked from the pages of Gone With the Wind, complete with the cutest southern drawl. She’s a delicate flower petal of femininity, a whisper of a thing. She has long shimmering golden blond hair, brilliantly translucent green eyes and a tiny cut of a mouth with small thin lips, soft fillets in salmon pink. She has a dainty point of a nose and peaches and cream complexion. At just over five foot tall, Laura is a sleek slender creature, a frail object you could easily break. Her long limbs taper into thin delicate wrists and ankles. Now, before your imagination writes this lady off as a twig, rest assured she is yet a deliciously majestic figure. And that’s because this poor girl’s petite torso has been created by the masculine god of her religion. A maybe jealous, but surely devilish deity who’s endowed her with a big round bouncy behind and an extremely firm, overly proportioned pair of breasts. The poor child carries these massive attributes around in noticeably piquant trepidation. In and around the Manor, when you meant to say, “tits and ass,” you said “Laura.”
For fifteen years Laura had been overly protected, kept safe and sound. She’d been wrapped in bliss, ignorance and a false sense of security, sheltered from the cruelties of real life. While hidden from Mr. İstanbul Escort Vulgarity’s titillating warm embrace, Laura’s languished more comfortably than any other person in history. Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, couldn’t have had it better. Laura’s lived in a very pretty world of the finest everything. She’s enjoyed the most exotic flowers and most exquisite foods. Her clothing is hand-stitched finery of imported silks, chiffons, wools, satins and lace. Even her servants and handmaidens were chosen because they were born to serve. And the entire time she has lived as a prisoner in a large gilded cage of a room, under the authority of her mother’s iron thumb, somewhere within the confines of Paines Manor.
As a mother Betsey was stern, and raised her sworn virgin daughter to be poised, graceful and polite. She’d taught her to be feminine beyond all measure and unfortunately for Laura, obedient without question. Obedient without question or fault, and as pure and blameless as a newborn lamb. In this way, Betsey had hoped to preserve in her daughter, for her daughter and through her daughter, that which she herself had surrendered so many years earlier. ‘Twas harsh repentance and a hopeless endeavor by a desperate hypocrite who hoped to provide her daughter the opportunity of meeting and marrying a real, hard working man. A gentleman who would appreciate, love, honor, and care for her daughter by providing her a real home, raising normal children. A family man, in a down to earth family neighborhood, far, far, far from Paines Manor’s gentle intoxication.
But now, Laura is to be pitied. She is one of a multitude stuck to a strange web. She’s one of life’s unfortunate victims, awaiting the spider and its casing, a cocoon from which none escape. She’s left with a father she’s never known, virtually without family and definitely without friends. She’s lost somewhere in a giant fortress she knows nothing about, catered to by troops of faceless, nameless servants. Her continuing situation leaves little reason to seek answers, though she did at first. She tried venturing from her room a couple of times, but each time found herself followed continually. She was harassed by very aggressive individuals who thought nothing of approaching her while speaking in vulgarities she had no understanding of. She never ventured from her room a third time. Left with no other choice, Laura was forced on her father, the aloof, arrogant, give-a-damn Reele.
Reele had neither the time, the appetite nor inclination to help, and came up with the easiest remedy he and his buddies could think of on the spur of the moment. It was only natural of Reele to act this way whenever he found himself burdened with what he considered an extremely bothersome task. The only difference was, this time the responsibility was thrust on him by his father’s very powerful attorneys. Though he was forced to consider the problem and legal constraints, his mind stayed half way around the world, moving about constantly.
The simplest answer for Reele was his sick aunt, Thelma. Though he was scared to death of her and always had been, everyone agreed the old crone would never pass up such a splendid opportunity, and the lawyers would imagine he’d made an honest attempt. Everything would be over by tomorrow and he’d be off to Monte Carlo. It was a perfect plan, and a messenger was sent to Thelma’s room, while Laura was notified as well.
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