Authors: Sarah Masters
Tags: #Erotic Romance Fiction
A Totally Bound Publication
©Copyright Sarah Masters 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2013
Edited by Sarah Smeaton
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Totally Bound Publishing,
Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
This story contains 135 pages, additionally there is also a
at the end of the book containing 6 pages.
Book three in the Voices Series
With a serial killer on the loose, Langham and Oliver have their work cut out finding him before he kills again…
Detective Langham has had a case on his desk for a while, but there have been no clues, no leads, and no damn break to help him find a serial killer. That is, until his psychic lover, Oliver, hears the voice of someone he knows—a woman he works with at the local newspaper who has been abducted. When the woman is dumped in the stream, Langham decides to goad the killer via a press release and put one of his female sergeants out there as bait. He can only hope his team remains vigilant as the time draws near for them to catch the killer…
David is that killer. After growing up in a dysfunctional household, he has very important reasons for abducting then killing women. He’s on a personal journey, intent on understanding why he does what he does—why he enjoys dressing in women’s clothing sometimes and why he doesn’t have sexual feelings for either gender. With his doll, Sally, by his side, David is convinced he will find the answers he seeks…
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Morrison’s: Wm Morrison Supermarkets plc
Wetherspoon’s: JD Wetherspoon plc
Fiat: Fiat S.p.A.
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
Ribena: Suntory Holdings Limited
Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation
Hush Puppy: Wolverine World Wide, Inc.
Levi’s: Levi Strauss & Co.
Google: Google, Inc.
Nike: Nike, Inc.
Ford Fiesta: Ford Motor Company
Post-It: 3M Company
eBay: eBay Inc.
Every so often you come across a complete and utter cunt.
David was with one now, some fucked-up guy he’d met ages ago while eating in here—the café part of the local Morrison’s supermarket—who sneered at him like he was a piece of shit. Yeah, one of
people, someone who needed his head caved in and a few fingers removed.
David stifled a laugh at that and stared at the man. He didn’t look like he belonged in here, suited up the way he was. David reckoned Conrad would fit better in a restaurant environment, where waiters hovered to do your bidding, hoping to be of such great service that you gave them a hefty tip.
People, they got on David’s nerves. Greedy for the most part, always wanting more. A pinch of unease griped at his gut, and he sulkily acknowledged he was just as bad. He wanted more. He wanted to climb the ladder of success, only it wasn’t a career ladder he had in mind. He wanted more of a personal journey, one where he tested how far he was prepared to go in order to sate the urges inside him. He wanted to be clever like, he supposed, Conrad was. He wanted people to know
clever he was, so he could go around with a nice feeling in his belly that told him he’d been born for a reason, that his shitty life up to now hadn’t been a waste of time.
Conrad here, well, he looked like he was on the road to being a winner where he worked. He’d said, on numerous occasions—David zoning out half the time because Conrad was a boring bastard, his voice a monotonous drawl—that his boss had him earmarked for promotion. Conrad had been spinning that yarn for about four months now, and he was still in an office with several others, striving to get noticed, to be the one the partners chose as their right-hand man.
Reckon if he poked his tongue out it’d be brown he’s licked so many arses.
David knew all about wanting promotion. In his job, he’d been overlooked too many times to mention.
“So you see,” Conrad said, pinching his chin as though deep in thought, when in reality he probably had his answer ready and waiting, knew exactly what he was going to say several sentences before he said it. “You have to give it to her. She knows how to dress.”
They were going down that road again, then. Conrad harping on about that woman. He wondered when they’d have a conversation that
about some bird Conrad fancied. David had to admit that yeah, the current woman in question knew how to dress. But David wasn’t after her in
way—he’d wanted to get to know her for another reason entirely—but she obviously thought he’d just wanted to get into her knickers. She needed to pay for that—assuming such a thing about him, but now wasn’t the time. Not when he sat in the local supermarket, a pot of tea between him and Conrad and the remnants of a cooked breakfast on their plates.
“Been working here for ages, she has,” Conrad said, eyeing the woman, winking at her as if she’d be interested in a prick like him. A long lock of his black fringe bobbed. “Said this is her second job or something. Like, she has two. Reckon she’d be a right goer, don’t you? Hot in the damn sack.”
David nodded—best thing to do when with Conrad, otherwise David would say something he might regret. Or, rather,
something. Not that he’d regret it as such, just… Yeah, well, this wasn’t the time for thinking about what he’d like to do to Conrad either. Wouldn’t sit right with some people if he picked up a knife and jabbed it into the man’s eye, would it? Not when there hadn’t been any provocation. Not when David just fancied doing it for fun, to see Conrad’s reaction.
“I’m going to ask her out,” Conrad said, scraping his chair back.
“Good luck with that.” Anger sparked inside David. He had to leave before he picked up that knife. “Anyway, I gotta go.” He stood and, walking away without looking back, left the store.
Conrad might question him next time they ate together, asking what his problem had been, fucking off like that. But that was a conversation for another day, and besides, with Conrad so engrossed in his plans to snare that woman, get her to go out on a date with him, he might not even have registered that David had just been pretty damn rude.
The air outside slapped him. Harder than that bitch the other month, the one who hadn’t wanted him to— He shoved those thoughts away and headed for his car, a beat-up Fiat the color of shite. If he had a woman at home, the slapper would need feeding around now, but he didn’t have anyone there and the voice hadn’t told him to make a move on the Morrison’s girl yet. He was still angry about Conrad going to ask her out. If that bird in there got involved with him, it would fuck David’s plans up—ones he’d been making for the past couple of days.
Conrad wasn’t in the plans he had for her, so if Conrad managed to get her to go out with him, David would have to rethink.
Jesus. Yeah, every so often you come across a complete and utter cunt.
He didn’t go to his car in the end—parked in the far corner. No, he wanted to walk. It always helped him to think, walking did, so he took the path beside the supermarket then crossed the road, entering a dog-walking area where he’d met many women in the past. It appeared as just a massive field, but at the back were dense trees where dogs liked to ignore their owners and go inside to investigate. It always helped if the animals did that. When David wanted to chat a woman up—or let them think that’s what he was doing—he parked on a rarely used road behind the trees, and whether they were willing to go with him or not, he bundled them into his car and took them home.
With the Morrison’s café woman, he’d entertained many a scenario. He’d overheard her telling another customer she lived close, and that after her evening shift in the café she walked her hound here—had to do it as soon as she got home from work—seven-thirty on the dot—otherwise he’d piss in the hallway—happened every time. If only she knew how her seemingly innocent conversation had saved him the hassle of finding this shit out.
He strolled toward the trees, remembering how he’d met the other bitches here. The latest bitch. It had been a choice between two—one small and slim, the other tall and athletic-looking. Small and slim won. Easier to manhandle if she had a mind to get away from him.
She hadn’t. Had fallen for his patter, hadn’t she, all wide eyes and pink cheeks from a blush of embarrassment. He’d told her she was stunning—the lie had tripped easily off his tongue—and she’d agreed to get into his car, dog and all, and go home with him. He’d plied her with tea, offered her some cookies—‘
God, no, you don’t need to watch your weight, gorgeous, you’re beautiful as you are. Go on, have a cookie’
—and she’d relaxed.
Her dog had proved a bind, though. Little bastard had wanted to go out, hadn’t he, breaking the spell he’d cast over the woman, making her anxious that he’d mess in David’s flat.
“Let me do the honors,” he’d said. “I can take him down to the patch of grass out the front and he can do his business there.”
She’d agreed, but the dog hadn’t managed to do his business. Not on the grass anyway. In the lift on the way down, the Yorkshire Terrier had nipped David’s hand while in his arms and, well, that had annoyed him. He’d broken the animal’s neck—satisfying snap, that—and the damn thing had emptied his bowels all over David’s leather jacket before going limp.
He’d returned to his flat, dog still in his arms, and put it beside the front door. He’d quickly gone into the bathroom to put his jacket in the tub, wash himself up a bit before returning to the hallway. The woman had gotten up to investigate while he’d been busy and stood in the living room doorway, staring down at her dead mutt, her mouth a perfect O.
He’d had to shut her up before she’d screamed.
* * * *
Diary Entry #307
Quote for the day: I am the man! Yes! The fucking man!
Breaking her neck wasn’t much different from doing the same to her Yorkshire Terrier. Okay, the subject was bigger, and it took more strength, but I heard that satisfying cRaCk again and it suited me just fine. There’s something about breaking bones that makes me go all weird, like my own bones don’t exist, like
don’t exist as a body, and I’m there but not. Can’t explain it so
Who’s likely to read this and give a shit anyway?
I heard that voice again this morning. The one that tells me to get the GiRLs. ‘
Get the girls, get the girls, go out there and get the girls.’
It’s as though that voice was made just for me. And maybe it was. Maybe whoever it belongs to knows everything about me. Knows I’d follow his instructions. The first time I heard it— Shit myself, didn’t I, absolutely crapped my pants, but the more it spoke the more I got used to it.