The Monster on Old Mill Road
Chapter 7

Copyright© 2010 by Bad Ogre

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Marc Heywood isn't really a bad guy. He just occasionally makes some bad choices. When one really bad choice leaves him waking up next to his fifteen year-old babysitter, blackmail, election fixing, and mayhem follow as he tries to stay out of jail.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   Consensual   Reluctant   Blackmail   Heterosexual   Oral Sex   Babysitter  

Dana took the drink Marc poured for her, "You're not having anything?"

Marc shook his head and sat down next to her on the couch, "I may have overindulged a bit this weekend. And, I'm afraid I've gotten too old to get away with being wasted more than once a week."

That got a rueful smile from Dana, "Just don't become a teetotaler on me, please. I only ever drink when I'm around you these days--unless you count communion, I suppose. And they really frown on people going back for seconds, there." She swirled her drink thoughtfully, the ice clinking melodically against the side of her glass.

"I understand," said Marc. "If I had to spend time with me, I'd drink, too."

Dana laughed, "No. I'm just afraid that, if I start drinking at home, while it's just me and my mother, I may never stop."

Marc nodded solemnly, "Because of your father?" Dana had described her father as "the world's most boring alcoholic," telling Marc how the man had come home every night for years, ignored his wife and children, drunk himself into a stupor, and then fallen asleep.

She shook her head and spoke quietly, "Because it's a relief from everything. If I do things that relieve some of the godawful tedium of being in that house, the desire to overdo them becomes unbearable." She frowned, "Your babysitter left for camp on Saturday morning. Were you alone with Adam when you were drinking?"

"I called my brother," said Marc immediately. "As soon as I realized I'd had too much to be the only responsible adult in the house, I asked him to come over or send his wife."

Dana took a thoughtful sip, "Did he?"

"Actually, he sent over his assistant."

Dana chuckled, "The Russian one?"

"Polish, actually," said Marc. "And don't laugh. Zdenka has a surprisingly strong nurturing streak. She made sure I got to bed and didn't sleep on the couch in my clothes. And, she took excellent care of Adam."

"Did she take advantage of you?"

Marc laughed at the wording, "No. She was a complete gentleman." He rose, "I'll be right back. I just need to clean up a few dishes."

Dana followed him into the kitchen, drink in hand, "Can I help?"

Marc shook his head, "Absolutely not. You're on a date. Who does dishes on a date?"

Dana sat at the kitchen table, "You, apparently."

Marc ran hot water in a pan, "I just want to make sure that I soak these or they're impossible to clean later."

"You know, I think I knew Kim would marry you back in eighth grade ... after I saw the two of you in home ec."

"Home ec?" Marc paused and thought back, "I don't remember even talking to her in home ec."

"You may not have. But, she nearly failed and you were the star pupil. Everything she touched was a disaster. Our group only passed because we stopped letting her cook." She laughed, "And I told her that she'd better marry a man who could cook or she and her husband would starve to death."

Marc smiled at the memory of his wife's occasional, disastrous attempts to cook, "I have you to thank for the marriage, then. I always suspected you were in my corner."

Dana fell silent as Marc finished filling the pans he'd used with hot, soapy water. He wished he'd had more time to cook for Kim. When he'd been establishing himself as a tradesman, months had gone by where they'd lived on cold cereal, sandwiches, and take-out.

"If you need someone to watch Adam in an emergency, you can call me," she said quietly.

Marc shook his head, "You already have so much to deal with. I wouldn't..."

"My mother went back in the hospital this morning," said Dana, not looking at him. She finished her drink, "The doctor says she's probably not coming out again. But, this is the ... third time he's told me that."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Dana shook her head, "How could you? I never talk to you about her. But, it does mean that I would be free to watch your son for a few hours if you needed me to."

"That's unbelievably sweet," said Marc. "But, I'm sure you still have plenty to deal with."

Dana nodded and rubbed the back of her neck, "I do, but it would be a nice change of pace." She chuckled, "Okay. There would still be diapers to change and a fair amount of screaming, but at least Adam wouldn't be calling me a whore."

Marc turned and stared at her, "Your mother does that?"

Dana's shoulders gave a single shake, "She doesn't mean it. Ever since she lost her mind, she forgets who I am sometimes. As long as she knows it's me, she's cloyingly grateful for what I'm doing. But, sometimes she yells at me for things my sister did years ago. Sometimes, it's for things my aunt did decades ago. Once, she berated me for an hour about an affair she seems to believe my grandmother had back in the fifties."

"That's horrible."

Dana shrugged and gave him a thin smile, "Apparently, I come from a long line of whores." She ran a hand through her hair, "Marc, I'd like to spend the night here, please."

"Of course," said Marc immediately.

"As sick as it is, I hate being in that house without her." Dana shook her head, "Whenever she goes into the hospital, I start cleaning. And then she comes back and everything smells like piss and medicine again." She raised her empty glass to him, "If you're going to be staying sober enough to watch your son, I could use a refill."

Marc brought her another drink. She took a generous sip, "What brought on your binge? Was it your babysitter leaving?"

Marc gave an uneasy laugh, "It's hardly the end of the world. She'll be gone six weeks. It took me by surprise, though. I haven't had time to line up a replacement."

Dana's shoulders gave another shake. Paired with the Mona Lisa smile on her lips, it was probably a laugh, "You've gotten pretty attached to her. Haven't you?"

Marc heart sped up, but he said gamely, "I guess I have. She's a good kid and her home life has been kind of rough lately."

"I could tell." Dana sipped her drink slowly as if she were considering what to say next, "You never call her by name, you know. It's like you're afraid to. You always call her 'the babysitter, ' like you're terrified I'm going to think she's something more to you than that."

Marc was frozen, too afraid to say anything which might be properly construed. Dana took another long sip of her drink, "When I run into her in town, she goes out of her way to be nice to me, like she wants to be friends."

Marc knew he had to say something. Weakly, he got out "She..."

"You slept with her. Didn't you?"

Marc mind raced along with his heart. He wanted desperately to deny it and to be believed. He couldn't. He had one good, decent person in his life and she was about to hate him forever. He closed his eyes to fight back the tears that threatened to come and nodded.

He couldn't open them again. He was too much of a coward to look Dana in the eyes and see the anger, the disappointment, and the disgust he knew would be there.

"When?"

Marc turned his head and opened his eyes, "The first time was back in late April."

The silence that followed was the longest in Marc's life. Finally, Dana said, "I don't want to be alone tonight. But, I don't want you to touch me, either. Can you do that?"

Marc nodded, "I'll sleep in the guest room."

After a much shorter pause, one that only seemed to go on for weeks, Dana said, "Two weeks ago, I put a pillow on my mother's face while she slept, but I didn't have it in me to press down."

Marc stared at her.

"I wanted to kill her so badly. It's been so long and the old cunt just ... won't die. She goes into the hospital. She comes out. She lays in that bed. She can't remember her own name sometimes. But, she just goes on and on. I can't give her my whole life. The only thing that kept me from killing her was the fear of going to jail. And even jail wouldn't be that bad compared to my life at this point, except that I wouldn't get to see you."

She stared at him dry-eyed. Marc saw none of the emotions he'd expected. He saw no emotion at all. She broke the tableau by extending her glass, "Please get me another drink."


Todd was in an unusually jubilant mood when Marc came into his office later that week. Marc scowled at him, "What are you happy about?"

Todd grinned, "On a hunch, I paid a kid at Huntington to go through the photo archive the school keeps of yearbook and newspaper photos for the years our friend was there. You'll never believe what they found."

Marc dropped into his customary chair and rubbed his forehead, trying to fight off the headache that had plagued him since his drinking binge, "What did they find?"

Seemingly unperturbed by his brother's lack of enthusiasm, Todd drew two crisp black and white photos from a manila folder, "Be careful with these. They're the only prints and I don't think the negatives exist."

Marc studied the pictures carefully. Even with two eyes, two hands, and hair down to his ass, Sheriff Beaufort was easily identifiable. In one picture, he had a daisy in his hand and a peace sign painted on his cheek. In the other, he held up a sign that read "War is Murder."

"So, he protested the Vietnam War. Practically every high school kid at the time did."

Todd leaned forward and made to smack Marc in the center of the forehead with the heel of his hand, a maneuver he'd been performing for more than twenty years to mean "Don't be a dumb-ass."

Today, Marc caught his wrist and held it firmly over the desk. In an even, emotionless voice, he said, "If you hit me today, I'm going to kill you, carve the sheriff's initials in your chest, and bury you in a shallow grave under Huntington's football field where people will be sure to find you."

"You're in a mood." Todd drew his wrist back and rubbed it.

"Were you there for our last conversation?" Marc asked. "Eileen is blackmailing me because she knows I slept with her daughter. It's making me a little testy."

Todd shook his head, "That's because you're looking at it wrong. Most mothers in Eileen's position would have called the cops or personally come and cut your balls off. Our Machiavelli in pink has given us an opportunity to buy her off. Once she takes your money, she's even guiltier than you are. Not only is she an accessory to your raping her daughter, but she's a panderer and a blackmailer, too. Hell, if it ever came to trial, I could probably get you a deal just for agreeing to testify against her."

Marc paused. Some day soon, Todd would come up with something he was unwilling to do in order to stay out of jail, but that wasn't quite it. He stared down at the photos, "Tell me what I'm missing in these pictures."

"You're not missing anything," said Todd. "This is him calling his voting base a bunch of baby murderers. Don't you see the brilliance?"

"Tell me."

"We make copies of these pictures, give them to some of the Sheriff's fellow veterans, let them pass the pictures around the VFW for a few days. We let the sheriff respond. If we're lucky, he'll make a big speech about being a war hero. Then, we make the big reveal."

Marc shook his head, "But, aren't we mixing our messages here? Either he's so bloodthirsty, his men tried to kill him or he's a peace-loving hippie. How can he be both?"

Todd shook his head, "You're not old enough to remember, but during the Vietnam era, there were a ton of movies made where the whole story is about good, God-fearing Americans chasing down packs of hippies who are running around raping and murdering nice, church-going white girls."

"You're not old enough to remember that either."

"Well, no. But, I do enjoy those movies." Todd scowled, "Besides, he doesn't need to be both. People who want to believe he's a crypto-peacenik will. People who want to believe he's a monstrous lunatic will believe that. Either way, they won't be voting for him. And because old people have nothing to do on a Tuesday afternoon, they're still going to vote. We'll take it in a landslide."

Marc's headache was getting worse. He was pretty sure the vein in his forehead was about to whip free and start spraying blood around the room at any moment. The electioneering had taken on a life of its own. He decided to focus on his more immediate problem, "I'm meeting with Eileen tomorrow. I need to go over it one more time."

"How much cash did you get?"

"A little over a hundred thousand," said Marc. "It would have been more, but nobody takes a check for election fraud these days."

Todd raised a finger, "We're not engaging in election fraud. These are all legitimate, time-tested techniques." He leaned in, "If she asks for more than a hundred thousand, offer her fifty. If she asks for less, offer her half of whatever she asks for."

Marc scowled, "I need legal advice, not negotiating tips. I'm not comfortable ... haggling over Tamara."

"As opposed to paying retail?" Todd paused to let that sink in, "This isn't about haggling. If you meet her first offer, no matter how low, you're going to seem weak. If you're weak, you're like a big, friendly ATM. Every time she needs cash, she'll be back."

Marc rubbed his eyes, "I'm sure I should have asked this before, Todd. But, what the hell kind of lawyer are you, exactly? I thought you were supposed to be in corporate law."

Todd rolled his eyes, "When Dad started the practice, he had the attitude that a lawyer in a small town like this can't be too specialized. You do some corporate. You do some criminal defense. You do some estate planning."

"Which one of those is this exactly?"

"It's ... criminal planning." Todd grinned, "But, if you don't want my help, just say so."

"No," Marc said without enthusiasm. "I appreciate your help. This is just such a dirty business."

"All business is dirty eventually." Todd looked serious for a moment, then his face lit up, "Oh, I almost forgot. Zdenka hasn't stopped talking about you since the other night. She said she'd be happy to watch Adam again if you need her to."

Marc let out a sigh that took some tension with it, "That's very sweet. But, I've got a fill-in babysitter already."

Todd raised an eyebrow, "How old is she?"

Marc shook his head, "She's sixteen."

"And you didn't have sex with her before she turned sixteen. Did you?"

Marc scowled, "I haven't had sex with her at all. She's just the babysitter."

Todd shrugged, "Well, if you do, it's legal. So, don't sweat it."


Olga Peterson was cut from the same cloth as Tamara--a little taller, a little bustier, just as blonde. She also seemed to consider herself something of a sexual sophisticate. Some of the topics she brought up with Marc could have made a construction worker flinch. Marc wondered if that was what passed for seduction these days.

Marc made sure to get her out of his house promptly after he returned from work each day. Every evening since she'd slept in his bed, Dana called him. Each time, they talked for more than an hour. They talked about Dana's past, about the housing development. They talked a lot about Kim. They talked about everything except Tamara.

"I got an e-mail from Tamara today," Olga told Marc as he drove towards her house, Adam ensconced in his child seat in the back.

"Oh." Marc tried to act only moderately interested. "How's she enjoying Christian fellowship camp?"

"It's Christian leadership camp," said Olga. "And she hates it. She says she's biding her time until she can shank one of the screws and make a run for it."

Marc felt a pain in his heart, "I don't know what that means."

"It's prison talk. It means to stab a guard." Olga demonstrated a stabbing motion with her hands.

"Oh," said Marc. "I'm sorry she's not having a good time."

"She says she's glad I'm babysitting for you."

Marc was afraid he understood what that meant, "Do you think I could get her e-mail address from you? I have some questions about ... things ... that happened while she was working for me."

"Sure." Olga smiled, "I'm sure she'll be glad to hear from you about ... things."


Marc sat on his couch, sipping from a glass of water and wondering if it was possible to become an alcoholic while stone-cold sober. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting or needing a drink more badly than he did right now. But, he needed his wits about him more.

The cash he'd raised was in a wall safe he'd never used for anything but storing the deed to his house, his family's birth certificates, and other important documents. It was more cash than he'd seen in one place before, stacked up in neat bundles of hundred-dollar bills totalling five thousand dollars each. He thought about how much that money would have meant for him and Kim in the early years and how little it meant to him today. If he could get through this, he would happily give Eileen every cent he had in there.

 
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