The Storyteller

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The Storyteller by D.P. Adamov

Storyteller is an uncanny combination of horror tales and erotic spanking literature. The Twilight Zone meets Fifty Shades of Gray.

Carla is a producer of erotic spanking films and books, yet the hidden source to her fame lie sin a mysterious set of match covers. When a crusading do-it-yourself evangelist condemns her starting an adult store in a small Ohio community, the pair meet and when discovering Carla’s secrets, her nemesis gets more than he bargained for.

Vampires, demons, mad women, aliens and cursed paintings all have stories to tell in ten tales of erotic horror. The best of adult discipline emerges too with old reliable implements such as the belt, the paddle, the hairbrush and more. Emotions run high, the screams are many and the bottoms are red.

When Carla’s critic learns the haunted background of her success, his own ghosts come back to torment him. In the end, poetic justice is seen, with the accuser becomes the accused and has some hidden fetish interests of his own.

Storyteller offers just the right amount of sex, spanking scenes and story line to make a great read in a highly original setting.

A young woman receives a visit from her imaginary friend from childhood and just as belief in him was once spanked out of her by an irate father, it is spanked right back into her with a brutal hairbrushing. A vampire and his mortal girlfriend share in mutual s/m interests. A painting from an antique shop possesses a young couple and drives them to explore their darkest fetishes. A sexual guidance counselor who relishes spanking his clients ends up being more than he seems. The pants come down and the bare bottoms turn crimson again and again in an assortment of brooding tales.

Ten chilling and butt-blistering tales lead to a grand finale of epic proportions in this highly-original piece of work.

Weight 0.99 lbs
Artist Credit

Cover Art Studio 10Artur – Shutterstock.com

Publish Date

3/6/2015

Page Count

256

Word Count

71112

Excerpt

Though on the surface, the meeting seemed like little more than a rendezvous at a local coffee house where business associates assembled to discuss strategy for such things as a big insurance policy sale, the gathering in question held a distinct air of foreboding. New Philadelphia, Ohio, was not your average Midwestern city and the participants at this encounter were anything but friends.

Carla Craig was thirty, with long brown hair and eyes of matching tone that burned when agitated. At this particular moment, they were a virtual forest fire.

Across from her sat a man who could have been her father, though he was not. In fact, the diversity between these two people would have provoked contemptuous laughter from either, had a third party asked if they were related.

This was Troy Vanderford, and while he was not a pastor, he was a prominent church member in an overly-evangelical town. He was one of the good people of New Philadelphia and did not mind letting those ignorant of his social standing know the same. He was also a crusader, taking up his cross when the opportunity arose, which led to this confrontation. His ancestors had been some of the original settlers in the area, and the cemetery up the street had more than its share of tombstones carrying the names of relatives gone on to their eternal reward.

Carla on the other hand, was his antithesis. She was much younger and had moved down from Cleveland to escape the pollution, inflation, and crime. She had brought her business interests and what some would deem questionable morals to this new location with her. Thoughts of a quiet life in a more tranquil community, while conducting international affairs through delegates or traveling northward when needed were quickly derailed when she learned how locals in a town like this failed to mind their own business.

No one thought too much of someone writing erotic novels up in Cleveland. Nor did they consider the formation of a production company to create DVDs depicting fetishes such as sexual spankings to be an ordeal that could possibly usher in the end of the world. New Philadelphia, however, was the proverbial different ballgame.

When Carla sought to bring an adult book and video store to this town, she was suddenly quite high-profile. Though her actions were perfectly legal, others in her immediate locale questioned the morality of the same. The pickets and petitions circulated by Vanderford had helped, rather than hindered her efforts, and the store was thriving. She had no doubt some of Vanderford’s friends were her best customers. Her efforts to pull New Philadelphia into the current century, kicking and screaming in protest all the way, or at least it would seem so on the surface, had attracted national attention. This had been a boon rather than bane for her, but there were still issues to be resolved.

The fact of the matter was Carla liked Vanderford even less than he liked her, and there was more to this meeting than a mere effort to resolve the friction. How little he knew.

Vanderford failed to notice Carla’s lack of comfort sitting on the hard wooden chair, yet erroneously attributed this to nervousness. He didn’t see the bruised buttocks hidden by her pants. That, however, was another story and not truly relevant to the brewing battle here.

“The situation is this,” Vanderford whispered, as if somehow ashamed of his self-righteous stance. The actions seemed unrealistic when compared to his past vocal performances speaking out both against Carla Craig and her new store. “We are an old and a moral community. We don’t need or want things like this here. Now I realize you may have won the battle for the moment, but you will not win the war.”

“A moral community,” Carla interrupted. “Oh, yes, your history is full of morality, like when those whack jobs from Pennsylvania came here and slaughtered all those Christian Indians down in Gnadenhutten? Like when that traveling evangelist came through and worked that counterfeit gold dust miracle like right out of a Sinclair Lewis novel? Like when the Ku Klux Klan was thriving here in the early 1930s? Oh yes, Troy. You’re right as rain, as people here would say. This area thrives with morality and goodness. History is full of such things here, so just who do you think you’re kidding?”

“I would rather you not call me Troy,” her antagonist retorted. “We do not know each other. We will not know each other after this meeting. We will not become friends. I am doing this just for you and not me.”

Carla grinned, as if not only waiting for, but predicting this response. She reached down and placed a small shoe box in front of her on the table. Hidden by her foot beforehand, it had gone unnoticed until now.

“Then let me tell you about myself and explain some things,” Carla hissed. “This box will explain it all better than I can. In a little over ten years, it took me from being a college student to the rich woman I am now. It helped me rise from some boring college kid to a queen in adult entertainment.”

Vanderford’s eyebrows rose.

“A box?”

Carla nodded.

“Need I remind you there is nothing illegal about what I do. My novels contain characters who are consenting adults. The fact is this is what many people want. The spankings, bondage, and other activities add to a sexual relationship and do not detract from the same. This is not Marquis De Sade material here, but legal and acceptable. The same holds true for my productions, and the business location right here that I have chosen to add to my list of accomplishments. The city saw fit to issue me a permit to operate, and if they saw nothing wrong with my intentions, then neither should you. My personal preferences are likewise my concern alone and not yours. If I prefer to be spanked with my pants off before sex or as an alternative to the same, it is my business alone.”

The last sentence was deliberate and it made Vanderford wince.

Carla likewise winced, but it was the way the sudden movement she had made caused her clothes to press against her flesh. A number with the belt earlier had done that, and once again she was reminded not only of her disciplinary session, but how the wooden chair offered no relief from the situation.

Under different circumstances, she may have found Vanderford as a proper figure for her desires. He was the right age for her liking and carried himself with a sternness she was usually attracted to. Such, however, was not going to be.

“Take a look,” she ordered as she removed the lid from the box and moved it closer to her glaring nemesis. “I found these at a yard sale long ago and bought them. These are the connections I draw my stories from and always have. These started the whole chain reaction going. Books to movies and sales of rights to production. Take a gander.”

Vanderford eyed the box as if it contained a waiting cobra, but to his surprise, he found nothing of the kind.

“Match covers.”

Carla nodded.

“You don’t find these anymore. Smoking has become taboo, and businesses no longer see it beneficial to pass out free matches with their logos on them. In the past, these little booklets were standard for everyone from local garages to big hotel chains. Some people didn’t use them to light cigarettes or church candles. Some people collected the things. They would undo the match cover by taking out the staple, remove the matches and place the then flat casing in a box like this or an album. A little voice just whispered to me to buy these and it changed me forever when I did.”

Vanderford again raised his eyebrows.

“Changed you?”

Carla motioned toward the box and smiled wickedly.

“They tell you stories. If you don’t believe me, take out one at a time.”

Vanderford gave a snort so loud, an old woman at a table behind him thought he had sneezed and offered him a blessing.

“Story time?”

Carla nodded and baited Vanderford further.

“Draw out ten. Place five on one side of you in the form of a hand and five on the other in the same way.”

As she mouthed these words, Carla flinched noticeably and Vanderford caught the motion. The chair caused the fabric to press against her punished bottom again. It had been unwise to take the leather belt before this meeting, but aside from pain, she also felt pleasure.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Carla shook her head.

“That would be another story for another time. Let’s deal with you. Go ahead and draw the match covers, if you have the nerve.”

The contempt could not have been more obvious as Vanderford reached in without looking and pulled out a match cover carrying the image of a multi-pointed star. He did not like the drawing as it went against his principles almost as much as Carla Craig Productions.

“The Pentagram,” Carla smirked. “A bar from all the way back in time. They tore it down a few years ago.”

There was a hint of enjoyment she felt in his choice. She knew what was coming, thanks to this selection.

“Now draw nine more.”

For whatever reason, Vanderford went along with the game. One by one, he extracted the match covers. An apartment complex in Arizona. The picture of a bullring someplace in Mexico. A business complex in Indiana. On and on he went until all ten match covers rested in front of him.

Carla gloated triumphantly as she looked at the match covers before them.

“Excellent. The Cherry Wood Apartments, The Pentagram. The El Toreo Bullring in San Luis Rio Colorado, Redwing Adult Books and Stanlisus Pool Services, just to name a few.”

Vanderford’s expression originally indicated he couldn’t have cared less, but now there was something different about him. He seemed drawn to the final match cover and displeased. If he was not familiar with the matches from the old pool services, he would be finding out soon enough.

“Now you will see where my stories come from. All you have to do is touch the match covers with the tips of your fingers and thumbs.”

“This is absurd,” Vanderford growled.

Carla’s eyes burned once again, darker than her hair and darker than the bruises that had formed on her rear, the very ones Vanderford could not see. Soon he would be learning many new things.

“Touch the fucking match covers!” she ordered.

Vanderford frowned at the use of the word, but rather than give her the satisfaction of knowing how much he was bothered by this unladylike behavior, he did reach out to touch the match covers as instructed.

“Welcome to my world,” Carla declared, but the words were far way.

Vanderford was propelled into a different realm, an alternative universe of flashing colors and hideous laughter coming from disembodied voices. This was not what he expected, but there was no way to escape, and one by one the stories came. He had learned too late that Carla Craig was much more evil than ever anticipated.

There was, however, no turning back and no way out.

Ten match covers would bring ten tales of a lifestyle he was totally against. The problem was there would be no stopping the same.

He wholeheartedly regretted having wondered where and how Carla was able to conjure up such filth.

Now he knew.

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