SHAFTED: an erotic thriller
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Authors: Rachael Hayden
SHAFTED
Rachael Hayden
Published by
The Book Folks, London 2014
© Rachael Hayden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it through an authorized distributor or received it explicitly from the author or publisher, this book has been pirated. Please delete this copy and support the author’s hard work by purchasing the book from an authorized distributor.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
This is a story about sex. Evocative, illicit sex. Sex with people I shouldn’t have been fucking. Sex with both my mind and my body. All of my body.
I was the perfect pawn for their games; games which turned them
on, made them closer as a couple. They didn’t care about their victim, only their satisfaction and gains.
As you read what happened to me, you may question how I could be so weak, so trusting, so oblivious.
It was because I loved it and it almost destroyed me.
MARCH
The old, tarnished skeleton key stuck fast in the enormous, heavily marked door I apparently now owned. I held tightly onto the rounded end and jiggled it, grunting as I did so, when finally, to my relief, it moved a fraction. I hauled back on the key and slowly it shifted in the lock until an audible clunk echoed around the arch that enclosed the old, rectangular door. I pushed on the loose wrought iron that attached to the door and it swung off its remaining threads and crashed onto the sandstone step at my feet. I squealed and jumped back to avoid the raging tetanus I was sure was swarming on the rusty metal.
Not the most auspicious start.
This time, careful to avoid breaking more of the door, I placed both hands on the wood paneling and pushed as hard as my small frame would allow. It stuck for a moment but then after another mammoth shove, opened surprisingly easy. Too easy, I realized, as I observed it swing back quickly on its huge hinges and crash against the inside wall of the old manor. I heard rock crumble.
“Shit,” I uttered
under my breath.
The morning, early-spring sun filtered through the overgrown shrubs that
hemmed-in the run-down 17
th
century Georgian manor I’d just inherited from my recently-deceased, eccentric aunt Beatrix. The rays lit the foyer, stretching my silhouette into a long, unrecognizable smear on the dirty black and white square tiles.
“Thanks, Aunt Bea,” I uttered without enthusiasm, won
dering again why she thought a 27-year-old, pathetically single legal secretary would want a 300-year old house and £300,000 to restore it? I loved Aunt Bea and missed her terribly, but this was nuts!
Still, in the time it took to transfer ownership, I grew to like the idea and decided to use my long service leave to fund six months off work and to follow my aunt’s request. My boss was a slimy
asshole that I was happy not to see for half a year, anyway.
And so, here I was.
I stepped over the threshold and walked into my house.
Good God. What have I
got into?
A deep, masculine voice poured out of my phone and down my body, leaving tingles in its wake. “Hello, Dan Baronet.”
“Hi. My name is Alex Osborne and I’m looking for a builder.”
“To start when?”
“Immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Ms Osborne, but I’m fully booked for the next two months.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“You see, I’ve just moved into Briar Manor...”
“Briar Manor? You’re the owner of Briar Manor?” The voice changed from smooth to interrogative.
“
Only recently, but I want to restore it.”
“That’s a big job.”
“I know, that’s why I want help, local help. Could you take a look?”
Dan went quiet on the other end before answering in his honeyed voice again. “Can I call you back in
five minutes? I’ll just see if I can move things around.”
True to his word,
five minutes later, my phone rang. “I have been able to reschedule my other jobs. I can be around first thing tomorrow. Does that suit?”
“
That was quick. Yep, that’s great. What time can I expect you?”
“Around 7am.
Hope that’s not too early.”
“No, I’ll be there.” Actually, it was too early but I was interested in seeing the
man who owned that sexy voice.
My next job that day was to drive to one the ubiquitous retail parks that now seemed to be the gateway to every English town and picked up some groceries. Then I went to the DIY store and equipping myself with some basic tools, headed back to the manor, snacking as I went.
Once there, I yanked a baggy pair of overalls over my clothes and went to work
on the gardens, snipping and hauling in a manner which had my office-work hands aching quickly. An hour later, I was able to drive my car up the 300-year-old cobbles to the front door. The house looked better already.
The afternoon was spent pulling the boards off the windows with
a crowbar. Both inside and outside had been boarded up and it took me heaps of grunting and swinging to knock them down. The thick ply hit the floor with almighty crashes, puffing mega dust into the air, working its way behind the flimsy dust mask I wore. Sunlight flowed through the dirty windows, angling between the glistening dust motes. I sneezed many times and stepped on the multitude of spiders whose unfortunate paths crossed mine.
After checking all the taps, I was able to confirm the water hadn’t been turned on and not even knowing where to start, I locked up the house, drove to the local village
a few minutes away and booked myself into the little inn. I washed, ate, relaxed with a heady masturbation with my vibrator Mr BOB (Battery Operated Boyfriend) and settled into my favorite position to sleep.
So far, so good.
How hard could this be?
It took several blinks to make out the numbers 6:55 on the bedside clock the following morning.
“Oh my God!”
The builder
.
I arrived 15-minutes later, sloppily dressed, hair
yanked into a messy bun and zero make-up.
Dan Baronet’s white
transit van was parked at the gates, the large lettering of ‘Dan Baronet Carpentry’ emblazoned in black and white lettering on the side.
I drove up quickly
and jumped out of my little white Corolla to drag back the gates.
“Hello?” I called. There was no sound, anywhere. Leaving my car at the gates, I hurried up the slippery driveway, my ballet flats slapping on the cobbles. The front door was closed and still no Dan.
“Hello? Mr Baronet, are you here?”
One of the many bushes in the overgrown garden shook frantically and parted as a sex god stepped with a lion’s grace into the light. My jaw literally dropped.
He was around six-foot tall, muscular shoulders covered in a tight-fitted red and black flannelette shirt which slimmed down across a small belly and finished at slim hips. His long legs were encased in soft, worn jeans, held up by a black belt. Work boots finished the attire. Dan’s thick brown hair was in need of a cut and it brushed against his forehead and ears in the breeze. His eyes were a lovely, sleepy brown with long lashes, set below a heavy brow and above a straight, Romanesque nose and amazing lips. Day-old stubble darkened his strong jaw. He bore a striking resemblance to the actor James Purefoy, who’d I’d had a celeb-crush on for years, and I had to fight not to yell, “Take me, James!” and rip my shirt from my fluttering chest.
He
analyzed me for a moment, too, and I sensed something dangerous and exciting in his arrogant stance.
“You must be Alex.” That same deep voice that had
trickled down my phone resonated from his broad chest and I actually shivered as it entered my ears. I got wet just from hearing it.
“Yes, I’m sorry I’m late.
Slept in.”
He reached the
portico and held out a hand which I took, admiring his firm grip and rough, workman’s skin.
“That’s okay. Seven A.M.
is pretty early for you city girls.”
“How’d you know I’m from the city?”
“I can smell the smog. Oh, and Mr Baronet is my father. I’m Dan.”
“Oh.” I
didn’t know how to respond. “You’ve had a look around the gardens?”
“Yes, I’ve done a circle of the house. So far, most of the damage appears to be superficial but I won’t know until I see the inside…” he paused expectantly.
“Oh yes. Of course.” I had been watching his mouth move, envisioning it skimming my skin and wasn’t fully listening. Dear God, I was turned on from just standing next to the bastard and I’d only met him a minute ago.
Going to the door, I struggled with the key in the lock again, gritting my teeth and grunting.
“Here, let me help.” He was right behind me and his hand, then arm, skimmed my ear as he reached over my shoulder. I jumped out of Dan’s reach.
“Yes, please. Thing took me ten-
minutes to open yesterday.”
“Hmm, I have something in the van that’ll help. Be right back.”
He’d brought back a can of lubricant with a small straw attached to the spray. Dan simultaneously squirted it into the hole whilst jiggling the key and a satisfactory
click
quickly followed. He repeated the action a few times until the key turned easily.
“Genius.”
“Not really. Locksmithing 101.”
“You’re a locksmith, too?”
“Yep. The only one in the village.”
We walked together into the foyer.
“Well, I guess that makes you trustworthy, then?”
“No. It makes others trusting.” His voice had dropped even lower and he walked close behind me, the breeze from his passing skittering across my tense skin. I laughed off his comment like it was a joke. He didn’t smile.
We walked the house together; him concentrating on checking each room carefully; me, concentrating on checking out him. He moved smoothly and with purpose, his chocolate brown eyes narrowed as he surveyed.
We
went through several rooms and eventually arrived at the formal lounge. He wiggled the mantelpiece with his left hand, testing it for strength, allowing me to carefully note the absence of a wedding ring. Then suddenly, the huge slab of marble cracked off the wall with a sickening snap and fell heavily on the hearth, a centuries of dust, soot and dirt pouring out of the hole it left behind.
I automatically protected my face with my hands to avoid the cloud of dust, stepped back and clipped my heel on a raised floorboard. My heart stopped while my body
moved and I crashed to the floor, bottom first, landing directly on my tailbone, before rolling onto my back.
The pain was horrendous, the embarrassment more so.
Dan was there quickly and he helped me to my feet.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my butt but wanted to give the impression of toughness. “I’m fine”, I said, pushing aside the throbbing radiating from the bone. “I’m more embarrassed than anything.”
“Don’t be.” Then he mumbled, “I just hope that fine
ass hasn’t been injured.”
My fine
ass?
“What?”
“Nothing.
Sorry. Bad joke.”
Has he been admiring my
ass
? My loins tingled at the suggestion.
We both turned towards the ruined fireplace. The back of the chimney peered sinisterly through the broken brickwork, coated liberally with thick, black dust.
“That’s a big hole,” I said.
“It would’ve had to come out anyway. Still, gives me a chance to check for cracks.”
I followed him around the house for another half hour, hobbling a little and rubbing my sore bum when he wasn’t looking.
Finally, we were standing on the porch once more.
“My assessment is that the framework and overall structure of the house is remarkably sound. The weakness is in the superficial decorative features that have been added over the decades.”
“Okay. What about time frame until full repair?”
“A year, if it’s just me.”
“A year?”
That was far longer than I expected. “But I wanted it done in six months!”
“You’re talking seventeen
big rooms, plus ancillary cupboards, all requiring extensive restoration. Naturally, I could bring in some others, which will reduce time but increase costs. You’ll be looking at £125 plus VAT, per person, per day, plus building costs.”
I worked out the sums in my head. Depending on the number of people, I’d probably be looking at more than half my entire budget in just
labor costs. I mentally balanced up the joy of having Dan to myself with the joy of having the house completed. Dan won.
“How about we start with just you till we get a better idea of the man power we need?”
“If you wish.”
“When can you start?”
“Thursday.”
“Well, you’d better slot me in.”
“In intend to…” h
e shot me a gorgeous smile, therefore pointing out my double entendre and my knees wobbled.
I covered my discomfiture by saying an innocuous,
“Well, have a nice day. I’ll see you soon. I’m looking forward to it.”
Dan glanced meaningfully over his shoulder at me.
“Me, too.” His smile held promise and I watched guiltily as he sauntered casually down the long driveway.
“Good God above.” I hadn’t been this aroused in years.