Very taboo. Not for the faint of heart. May include taboo and forbidden elements. This is a vintage **full length** (100+ Pages), post-censorship erotic novel.
HOW MANY WOMEN DISAPPEAR A YEAR? FORGET for a moment, the plain, the pretty, or the borderline attractive ones. Forget the ones who make up for certain physical deficiencies with their wit, intellect, or personality. For the moment, just consider how many beautiful, even stunning women disappear each and every year.
We did the math last time. Out of a quarter million missing people, we narrowed it down to over one thousand shapely, magnificent female creatures who vanish during any given twelve month period. Statistically speaking, that's over eighty-three girls a month. That's twenty girls or so a week. That's more than two girls a day.
On this particular day, it was Anne Thomas and Vicki Palmer's turns.
It's a delirious thought walking along eighteenth Street in New York on a cool October Saturday. Walk past the pizza parlors, the salvage shops, the disused theaters, and all the other decrepit storefronts. At first these decaying husks seem to take up every inch of street space. But pay attention, look closer. There are unmarked doors between many of these stores. Look up, there are second and third floors to these buildings. And moving inside their dirty, opaque windows are shadows.
On one second floor, inside one dark great, nontransparent sheet of glass, a shapely shadow moved. Continue the thought. Unlock the plain wood and glass door on the street to reveal narrow, uneven, clipped marble steps that are trapped between dirty walls. Move up these stairs to a metal door marked with a simple B.
Open that door. Inside find a single dimly lit room. It is shaped like a giant shoebox. It is eighteen feet high. Along the pipe-lined ceiling are hanging lamps with a single yellow bulb in each. Along the far wall is a wooden pole attached horizontally about three feet off the floor. Other than that bar, the wall consists entirely of reflective glass. The other walls are brick. Some sections of the room are masked with deep red curtains.
The floor is polished wood that has not been swept for some time. It is smooth and cool, but the residue leaves a gritty feeling beneath shoes or feet. The sounds of New York City are distant now, muffled by the brick and the thick glass. It is another world inside this single room-murky, mysterious, romantic.
Imagine entering this room and seeing its single, astonishing occupant. The eyes are light, light green. The hair dark yellow and short, styled boyishly. But there is nothing boyish about her figure-long, shapely legs attached to firm shanks. The stomach has just a thin covering of smooth skin, adding to her shape rather than displaying her ribs prominently. The breasts are beautiful-strong, round, mound-like globes in the center of her torso.
Anne Thomas moved with muscle-tensing beauty. She wore cream-colored tights, a green suspender-leotard, a pink rope belt, and a wrinkled loose pink T-shirt with a wide scoop
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