Backwater Bondage

by Reese Gabriel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Backwater Bondage Collection

  Featuring Bondage Town & Tormented Twins

  by Reese Gabriel

  ISBN: 978-1-939916-57-0

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Original Copyright © Bondage Town 2001

  Original Copyright © Tormented Twins 2001

  Copyright © 2013 by Reese Gabriel, All rights reserved

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

  For information contact:

  Pink Flamingo Publications

  www.pinkflamingo.com

  P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083

  USA

  Cover Art © Anatoly Tiplyashin - Shutterstock.com

  Email Comments: comments@pinkflamingo.com

  Bondage Town

  Chapter One

  Cynthia Marshall gripped the wheel of the ancient hatchback with fierce determination. The sun was beating down, lofting heat off the tired asphalt in shimmering waves. She was making the trip of her life and the road seemed to be stretching forever. Her heart thudded as she finally saw it—the exit sign for Charred River. Releasing one white knuckled hand, she took a deep breath, signaled right and eased up on the accelerator with her bare toes.

  The tollbooth hadn’t changed in twenty years. Digging into the pocket of her cutoffs, fending off leers from the uniformed Florida Turnpike operator, who was making a point of ogling both her and her eighteen year old daughter asleep in the passenger seat, Cynthia produced the exact change, pressing the coins into the man’s beefy palm. It was red, like his neck and forehead.

  The sign at the end of the ramp was hokey as ever. A steer surrounded by ears of corn and wearing a necklace of oranges to symbolize the three ancient industries of the town, Charred River. Even the name was bizarre. Supposedly when the eight original settler families had taken possession of the state chartered land, they’d had a common burning to clear the underbrush. The smoke and debris had temporarily blackened the nearby river, hence the name.

  “Reyna, sweetie, we’re almost there.” Cynthia touched her daughter gently on her obscenely bared thigh. Waking the child was never easy, and whenever she did get up, she was bound to be in a foul mood. Sure enough, Reyna muttered something unpleasant and turned to her side, increasing the volume of her headphone radio and filling the air with the thumping sound of whatever excuse for music she was into now.

  It was amazing how at times like these Reyna looked so sweet, all curled up, her long light brown hair in a top knot, her face lost in a dream. Of course, she was a well-developed child, wearing way too little as usual. Cynthia had bit her lip when her shapely daughter turned up this morning in a camouflage halter top, flip flops and cut-offs short enough to rouse the spirits of an octogenarian.

  What could Cynthia do? Anytime she’d tried to lay down the law, Reyna would run to Zeke, her ne’er do well father, tracking him down in whatever state he happened to be in at the time. A perpetual beer chugging adolescent himself, he was hardly a role model, nor would he stand a chance against his daughter’s wiles even if he tried.

  “Ease up, Cynthia, for Christ’s sakes,” was Zeke’s answer to everything. Which meant it had been up to her to deal with their daughter whenever she came home crying from her latest crisis. The last one was the worst of all, but Cynthia had survived it, and most probably saved her daughter’s life in the process.

  Reyna’s alcohol rehabilitation was hell on both of them, but she’d graduated with flying colors. The trouble was that in Atlanta, where Cynthia waitressed to keep a roof over their heads, there were way too many temptations. When the call came from attorney, Clyde Oglesbie, telling Cynthia that her Aunt Marianne had died leaving her the old house on Grant Street back in Charred River, it took her all of ten seconds to decide what to do.

  “We’re moving in,” she’d told him. “First of the month.”

  Oglesbie had breathed heavily at the other end of the line, saying nothing. She was quite certain he’d expected her to tell him to rent the house out or put it on the market.

  “It is quite old,” he reminded her. More silence. “And it’s a very quiet neighborhood.” He’d said it like that would be anathema to her. It was a rude implication, but she couldn’t blame him. Small town Floridians were like that. And frankly, for the two years Cynthia spent in Charred River under her aunt’s care, she hadn’t enjoyed the best of reputations.

  ‘Sin’ Marshall was her nickname. Undeserved, really. She’d cut loose a little, but a lot less than most of the rich kids. It was her attitude, probably, her northern brashness, not to mention her unwillingness to cow tow to rural Bible belt ideals that got her in trouble. She’d kept her skirts short and her comments slicing. Worst of all, she thought for herself, and most Sundays she passed notes over the pews of her aunt’s one room church instead of pretending to enjoy the forty-minute sermons.

  ‘Sin’ was an unfair designation, for sure. She hadn’t even gone all the way until the night of her eighteenth birthday party. It was the worst night of her life. The night she lost her one true love, sandy haired, blue-eyed, Shep Trace, after being humiliated and sexually terrorized by her rival, head cheerleader Meredith Frisk and her evil friends.

  It was Shep’s dark haired and dark hearted fraternal twin brother, Caleb, who had caught her on the rebound, ensnaring her in a relationship of progressive degradation and bondage that eventually left her self esteem shattered and her reputation ruined for good.

  In so many ways that one night at the birthday party had changed everything. After Shep had run off in disgust after seeing Cynthia naked and leashed and apparently enjoying it, Meredith had made a play for him, but was promptly rebuffed. Shortly thereafter, Shep left town, supposedly joining some kind of cult in Asia, one involving immoral sex acts. No one had heard from him since.

  Not surprisingly, gold bricking Meredith had ended up in Cal’s bed, turning up pregnant in short order. Since the Trace family owned half of Charred River, there was a quick and quiet wedding. Although they stayed married, there were no more children for the couple after they had their son, Jason. Ironically, their boy would be exactly Reyna’s age. Which meant at nearly the same time she had been finding solace for herself in the arms of Zeke Tralor, a roughneck transient on his way north to Atlanta, Meredith had been bellying up to the last available Trace scion.

  Cynthia couldn’t believe what she was seeing out the window now. Good grief, but the place had gotten built up. Miles out of town the landscape was littered with strip malls, housing developments and mini marts. The few remaining acres of the once green paradise, which had boasted some of the largest orange groves and cattle ranches in the nation, all had for sale signs on them. Old Man Rossiter’s Farm, where kids used to go parking with their dates, was gone entirely, replaced with a discount auto part store.

  Even downtown looked different, the once sedate Main Street empty of all but a few of its old storefronts. The rest were conver
ted to convenience stores or gas stations. At least the courthouse was still there. She noted it was white this year, which meant by town tradition it would be beige next year. That was only one of many strange customs in Charred River. Another was decorating the palm tree that sat in the middle of the town square for Christmas.

  Needless to say, leaving here had been an easy decision for young Cynthia. Except now she understood what she’d missed. Stability. Security. Something she was determined to give to her own daughter. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw sleepy Grant Street looking just as she remembered it the first day, when Mr. O. as she called him then, had driven her here after her mother’s death from cancer. She’d been sixteen then, insecure, budding physically, terrified mentally.

  Aunt Marianne had been a saint. A widow for ten years and childless, she took Cynthia in as her own, giving her all the nurturing she could stand. A pang of guilt hit as she turned into the driveway of the brick ranch house. It looked so overgrown. There were weeds in the once proud flowerbeds, foot high grass nearly covering the mailbox. Auntie must have been weaker than she let on. Cynthia had pleaded with her to come to Atlanta, but she was a Florida girl. Her whole life she’d never even left Citrus County. Cynthia should have come down to get her, but she couldn’t work up the courage.

  Not after the way the whole town had laughed at her following Meredith’s so-called ‘birthday initiation’, in which she’d lured Cynthia into a trap that would cost her her virginity and her pride both. And that was only the beginning. The laughter and sneers had followed her as Cal became her paramour, slipping in her window at night, using her callously after dropping off his legitimate dates. Like a patsy, she’d wait, naked or scantily dressed, however he’d told her to be. He’d even provided her handcuffs, so she could bind herself to the bed and lay waiting for him.

  Half the time he never even showed. Of course, she was called a slut, not him. A Trace could never be anything but a gentlemen. Girls like her, loud, lower class, were just playthings to boys like him. As for Meredith’s kind, a cut below the Trace’s on the social ladder, they had to take every opportunity to step on the little people to prove themselves.

  “Reyna, honey, we’re here.”

  “Leave me alone,” Reyna whined, her lush lips moving to a deep pout. “I’m tired.”

  Cynthia watched the black ink snake slither up the visible top of Reyna’s left breast as she shifted positions. The tattoo had been a surprise, sprung on Cynthia just last week, a clear reprisal for Cynthia’s plan to move them to Florida. A so-called friend with the unlikely name of “T-Top” had helped Reyna get it. When Cynthia pointed out that she would have to live with this mark her whole life, Reyna’s response was typical, the same she’d given to everything since she’d turned eighteen.

  “I’m an adult now, Cynthia,” she’d said snidely. “I can do whatever I want.”

  “Reyna, you need to wake up,” Cynthia repeated, more forcefully.

  “I said I’m tired!”

  “Well, maybe you wouldn’t be so sleepy all day if you slept nights,” Cynthia pointed out, trying to muffle her sarcasm.

  Reyna stretched lazily, rubbed her eyes and sized up her new distinctly rural surroundings. Looking at her mother contemptuously she snapped, “Where’d we land, The Twilight Zone?”

  Cynthia drew a cleansing breath, trying to focus on the lazy, tree-lined street, with its small working class houses. “Be it ever so humble,” she dared to say out loud, “there’s no place like home.”

  Reyna flashed her devastating blue eyes. Even as a baby these had had a power all their own. “Like hell it is!” she challenged, swinging open the rusty car door and jumping out with a shake of her rounded behind. “I hate you, Cynthia.” Reyna declared, looking over her shoulder. “And you’re not keeping me here, either. I’m eighteen and I have my rights.”

  With that she was gone, blithely walking up a street she’d never been on in a state she’d never seen except on television, sashaying like she had the world by the tail. A spoiled little ball of anger, that’s what her daughter was, indeed she came equipped with a giant chip on her shoulder, a lot of half-baked comic book notions of life and not the first clue of the reality waiting out there to slap her in the face. Let her try living on her own, Cynthia thought, and then let’s see if she can hold herself to that standard of perfection she was always holding her mother to.

  Cynthia got out of the car. Honestly, it was a relief to be alone. Her daughter was a mere dot now, all the way up on the corner of Grant and Main. Have I made a mistake? Cynthia wondered. Wouldn’t Reyna just find worse trouble to get into here? She’d been clean and sober for two months, but would the pressures of a new way of life prove to be too much?

  Opening the hatchback, she grabbed the luggage. Whatever was going to happen next, she knew this much: The moving truck was coming tomorrow, she’d quit her job at Shively’s Tavern and there was no turning back.

  ***

  Reyna despised her mother. Then again, she felt that way about most adults over nineteen. With the exception of T-Top, the guy she’d met at rehab. He’d named himself after the type of car he’d totaled the last time he was high on crystal-meth. She’d never gotten that heavy duty herself. Mostly it had been beer, a little whiskey and a couple of times with pot. She was a traditional kind of gal, she supposed. Like her old man, who was cool sometimes. Herself, she’d been a great drunk, the life of the party. As for Zeke, he would get this look in his eye, sort of red and cartoon freaky, veins popping out all over his neck, and then he’d pass out. Pretty harmless in the scheme of things.

  Damn, this was a shit hole of a town! Reyna surveyed the dusty street, the sorry ass storefronts: two quickie marts, a gas station, and an antiques’ store. She felt in her pocket for her stash—not drugs, thank you very much—but cash. The righteous stuff, as T-Top would say. Did this place even have a bus station? Because if it did, she was outta here.

  Adios, Cynthia, and her messed up white picket fence, Beaver Cleaver ideas. Who was she kidding? From the little she’d heard Cynthia Marshall’s name was mud around these parts anyway.

  A pair of old men gawked at her from across the street. White shirts, hats, and tired old faces in the middle of July. Reyna adjusted her top, gave them a little of what they wanted as she passed by. What the hell? This was a girl’s world, if you played your cards right.

  Girl power... whatever.

  But hey now, what was that she spied? A bogie on the scope. Fixing her 20/10 baby blues on the group of teens hanging in front of a video arcade, she isolated the hottie. Dark hair, black t-shirt, tight jeans, and leaning against a brick wall. Sad to say, there were two bimbos with him, in short skirts, midriff tops and too much makeup. They were blondes, with that clueless, pop princess-wannabe thing going. One was tall and thin, the other shorter, curvier.

  Ignoring them both, she walked right up to Prince Charming. “I’m Reyna,” she told him. “Any place around here you could buy me some fries?”

  The girls’ mouths dropped open, but the boy just kind of stood there, hands dug in his pockets, looking cool, like somebody off a soap opera. After a few seconds he said, “Sure.”

  The loser twins went all ballistic and high pitched, but he just walked away from them, not even looking back. Reyna gave them an evil look, letting them know they’d been beat.

  “I’m Jason,” he said as he fell in step next to her on the sidewalk.

  A few minutes later, at a booth at the Quik Burger, she reached across to squeeze his arm. “Thank you for getting me off that freak show of a street.”

  He shrugged. “No sweat.” After a sip of his soda, he said, “You’re new here.”

  “Uh huh.” She sipped seductively from her straw, showing him how a real woman did it. “So what do you all do for fun around here?”

  Jason popped a french fry in his delicious mouth. If those deep brown eyes didn’t get her, the lips would. Normally, she wasn’t into guys who looked this straig
ht, but he had an edge about him she couldn’t put her finger on and she liked that.

  “We hang out mostly,” he replied noncommittally.

  Reyna slipped off one of her flip flops, ran the tips of her toes up his leg. “Wanna hang out with me, Jason?”

  “Maybe.”

  She smiled. “Can I have a french fry?”

  “You got a whole order of your own,” he observed coolly.

  “I want one of yours.”

  Taking one of the golden sticks, he put it between his teeth. “Come and get it.”

  Reyna leaned forward, pressing her bosom onto the tabletop in the process. She sucked rather than bit the fry, inhaling it all the way up to meet his mouth. Hungry lips and tongues wrapped round the saltiness, claiming each other’s depths. Midway through his kiss, she felt her nipples popping out.

  “Take me somewhere, Jason,” she begged throatily.

  He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  The Mustang was brand new, mint green, with a tan, convertible roof. As soon as he opened the door for her, she could smell the leather. Catlike, she crawled in.

  “Why don’t you put down the seat back?” he suggested as he cranked the ignition.

  It was a deliciously wicked suggestion, made all the more appealing as she settled herself down on the buttery smooth material. God, but his cock looked good, straining against the fabric of his jeans.

  When her seat was all the way reclined, he leaned across and grabbed the seatbelt. “Don’t forget to buckle.”

  The little click of the belt in the mechanism sent a shiver down her spine. She was confined now. Her breasts trembled as she exhaled. Lying down like this, next to an upright man made her feel very vulnerable. The thought was getting her wet beneath her shorts. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes.

  “Kiss me, baby,” she urged, her voice a racy whisper.

  A few seconds later, still puckered, she opened her eyes again. Apparently he’d declined the offer. She looked at him pointedly, but he ignored her, watching the road as he drove.

  “Hello!” she reminded him, gesturing towards her available body.