By John Everson
She yearned to head beyond...but a few curtains should not be opened.
while Rae broached the assumption of vacationing an underground intercourse membership, Mark didn't blink. He must have. simply because NightWhere isn't your ordinary swingers membership. the place it's hung on a given night...only those that obtain the purple invites comprehend. quickly Rae is indulging in her lust for discomfort. And Mark is warned by way of a gorgeous stranger to take his spouse away sooner than it's too late.
yet it's already too past due. simply because Rae hasn't come domestic. Now Mark is in a race opposed to time—to locate NightWhere back and shop his spouse from the mysterious Watchers who run the membership. to prevent her from taking that final step throughout the degradations of The purple into the final word BDSM promise of The Black. greater than simply their marriage and her existence are at stake: Rae is at risk of wasting her soul...
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Law makes no difference. Up here, they don’t give a rat’s ass about what the law says on runaways. ” “If’n they want trouble, they’ll get a bellyful of it,” he said, touching his pistol. ” “You heard me,” Cain said. Preacher stared coolly at him. Then he let out a laugh. “They can kiss my corn cracker ass for all I care,” he taunted as he spurred his horse on and pushed past Cain into the North. In eastern Pennsylvania, they came across the scarred, humpbacked hills where they saw huge mounds of coal and entire mountainsides clear-cut and oozing a black sludge.
He smelled different. He certainly behaved differently. He thought in ways that were as fundamentally different from those of the white man, as a hunting dog’s mind worked differently from that of, say, a squirrel or a deer. It was, to him, an abundantly clear fact of life. Although Cain had decided early on that he wasn’t cut out for the life of a farmer and thus would have no personal need for slaves himself, he agreed with those who felt that no Yankee, no court up north, no politician or abolitionist or amalgamationist, was going to tell a southerner how to live his life or what to do with his property.
She had been a woman of ungainly comeliness: too tall and angular to be considered a beauty by traditional southern standards, her doelike eyes excessive for her narrow, bony face, a mouth too small to contain its pleasure, so she was given to presenting an awkward, toothy grin to the world. Still, as a boy Cain thought her the most beautiful woman alive. There was about her a delicate, almost ethereal loveliness, made all the more exquisite by her illness. Pale, with dark circles beneath those pretty gray eyes, eyes that always seemed to have an otherworldly gleam to them, a look that had its source both in the illness that sapped her body and in the laudanum that she consumed in ever-increasing quantities.
NightWhere by John Everson