1. The Wolves of Berlin


    Date: 9/17/2015, Categories: Dark Fantasy, Coercion, Consensual Sex, Cruelty, Death, Exhibitionism, First Time, Horror, Lesbian, Monster, Murder, Oral Sex, Reluctance, Teen, Author: BlackRonin, Rating: 0, Source: sexstories.com

    Ernest and Janine Chastel, both deceased. You have one older brother, Paul Chastel, presently incarcerated. You were raised by your paternal aunt, Sophia Chastel, also now incarcerated. In the four years since her arrest there has been no official record of you anywhere and no small speculation that you’re dead, and now I find you working at this laundry service under an assumed name?" He borrowed a sock from a basket to wipe the sweat off his brow. "Or am I mistaken?" Bethanie's fingers twitched. She wanted to shoot him more than she wanted to continue breathing. But no; if he was here to arrest her he would have done it already. Plainly he had evidence enough. His game was something else. Blackmail, maybe. If she killed him it would only invite scrutiny from his superiors, who perhaps could not be bought off as easily as he would be. So, against her every instinct, she let him live again. "I don't know any of those people are." "Is that so?" said Kerman. "On one hand I have your word and on the other the intelligence given by my contacts. Which of those should I find the more compelling?" "Since I don't know who told you these ridiculous things I can't imagine. But I'm sure they’re all wrong." The Militia man looked at her. She looked back. The hiss of steam from the machines punctuated their stares. He knew she was lying. She knew he knew. He could do almost anything he wanted and she had no rights at all. And yet... "It seems I’m in error. I won’t bother you again." He ...
    flipped his notebook closed and left. He didn't even pause to be shown out, but went himself and shut the door behind. He was gone so quickly that Bethanie had to blink to clear the faint outline of his figure from her vision. She held her breath, listening for the thud of boots, and the heavy bang of the door being kicked, and the shouts of policemen and maybe also voices in German, but nothing happened. Betraying nothing, she busied herself with the laundry. The humidity of the workroom disguised her fear sweat. After 40 minutes she decided she’d waited long enough and, taking her basket (and her pistol), she went to the back of the workroom, passed the machines and the presses and the scattered washerwomen, and found the door. Not a hidden door; not even a locked one. Just a simple door that led down a flight of steps into the cellar. Once on the other side she heard the telltale click of a hammer drawn back in the dark. "A stranger was here," said a voice. "Are you alone?" "You think I’d lead them here?" "That isn’t an answer." "A Militia man was here, but he's gone now. I'm going to talk to Velin." For a second there was no reply and she thought she might be shot anyway, but then the sentry showed himself: a pale young man with precisely pressed clothes. Fabien. She followed him into the cellar. As soon as the lower door opened she heard the tumult of the newsroom, including the roar of the press that churned out stack after stack of newsprint day and night. The room ...
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