The Sect

THE SECT

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

A PERSONAL NOTE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2014 by Courtney Lane

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Publication: December 2014

For more works by this author, visit: www.redcherrypunch.com

Edited by: Kristen Switzer

Altered Image Courtesy of: Shutterstock Inc.

DEDICATION

To my “Soul Sisters”: The conception of this story wouldn’t have been possible without the three of you. Thank you for the inspiration, the challenge, and trusting me to run with the story.

To the Mavens of Mischief: Thank you so much for
 
being a sounding board and
 
encouraging me to keep my finger off the deletion key. Your encouragement allowed me to continue with the story and make it my own. I hope you’re all pleased. I love you all!

To my literary surgeons Emma and AnnMarie: I anxiously anticipate and treasure your written words about my books. I’m very lucky to have two people who understand my work down to the letter. Thank you.

To Jettie: Thank you for taking me under your wing and making so many things possible for me. I’m forever indebted to you.

To the readers who supported me through all my shenanigans: I love you all so much and I very much appreciate every one of you.
 

ON A VERY PERSONAL NOTE:

I’m not going to include a Preface as I normally would, because this story was written under very special circumstances. I never set out to be a “dark” author, it just so happened that I’ve been writing dark stories since I was very young. Many years ago I read my first dark erotic novel titled: “The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy”. The book definitely opened my eyes and inspired me to stop holding back when I created a story. Back in March of 2014, I searched around to find out where dark erotica stood.
 
I noticed quite a few captive and captor stories. I purposely strayed away from the theme, because I felt it was very popular and the narratives usually included themes that were triggers for me.

Fast forward to August. I was given an incredible opportunity to write outside of my comfort zone that I couldn’t decline. I’m constantly pushing my boundaries and challenging myself; the project gave me a chance to do that. The project didn’t work out, and I was left with a sixty-thousand word-count story that I had agonized for months over. I was going to delete it, because of the theme, when the incredible women on my street team encouraged me to keep going. My biggest concern was that the story stood as unique; it’s the one aspect I strive for in all of my stories.
 
I hope I accomplished that with this book.

I’m not going to do the usual warning here (it’s largely ignored anyway). What I will say is this: My mother has a very open (and dark) mind. She has and will always be my biggest supporter. I never would’ve thought to publish my work at all if it wasn't for her. She’s read almost all of my stories (some published, some not). When I finished this story, I immediately called her and told her this was the one book she couldn’t read.
 

Please know your limitations.
I am not a literary sadist. If you know you have issues with reading about very dark and depraved themes, this is not the book for you. If you believe some things should be left sacred or untold, this is definitely not the book for you. If you want every question to have simple and easy to find answers, I may not be the author for you.

This is not a romance. It is barely a love story. This is a complete work of fiction and as such it is not indicative of my beliefs, nor should the things contained in the story serve as a manual, or as inspirational literature for any of the topics contained within.
 

N
O
SMALL
act of kindness goes unremembered. It was a small facet of wisdom my father passed onto me that I always followed. I never fathomed that someday his advice would be the key to my survival.
 

Franklin Square Park in Washington D.C., it used to be a place I frequented during my lunch breaks when I was still a part of the world. During that time, I often kept the company of a homeless vet named Jeff. I never spent time with any of my coworkers outside of work. Instead, I preferred Jeff’s company. After purchasing lunch for the both of us, we’d sit by the fountain. Sometimes, our moments were filled with silence. Other times, Jeff would tell me about the life he once had. He shared with me his wisdom and uncovered the secrets of a different side of the world—a side my affluent upbringing never allowed me to experience.

In a way, I envied his freedom. He was detached from anything and everything, a wanderer with no responsibilities and no living relatives to tether him to another life.

I never thought that someday he would become my protector.
 

I ran away from a nightmare and walked into homelessness. It was a world within a world, where the men outnumbered the women, and women were easy prey. I learned pretty quickly that all of my teachings from The Manners Institute in D.C.—or my skills learned during my time as a debutante—wouldn’t help me in this moment of my life.
 

I hid my gender through layers of clothes. Tucking my mid-back length dark brown mane underneath hoodies and beanies when necessary. On the hotter days, I used an old ace wrap bandage to bind my c-cup breasts. I never spoke, and I never looked anyone in the eye. Speaking would’ve revealed my femininity and made me an easy target for assault. If anyone became curious, I enacted my defense mechanism and pretended I was mentally unwell by screaming at the top of my lungs. My voice, once a twelve-octave range instrument that won many competitions, was a weakness in this side of the world. Since the day after I began living on the street, I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone.

Many think the homeless live on the streets because they don’t have a choice. I did. I chose this life over the one I led. The nightmare. The pain. The memories.
 

A park bench or the ground of an alley served as my bed. The soft knit pack containing my belongings was my pillow. The sky was my ceiling. Discarded or abandoned food became my source of sustenance.
 

I set my gaze to the pending sunset, peaking over the tops of the trees. A cool October breeze rustled through the fallen leaves decorating the park and flittered around my face. Smiling at the simple pleasure, I realized it was time to leave. We had to keep moving during the day to circumvent harassment by the cops or pedestrians.
 

Standing away from the bench in a ready stance, I prepared to awaken Jeff.
 

Waking him was the equivalent of dismantling a bomb. He had severe PTSD, and at times, disturbing him in his sleep meant asking for an injury. I learned that the hard way when I woke him during one of his night terrors. The scars on my torso, done from a razor blade taped to an old toothbrush, served as a reminder. I didn’t know exactly what had happened to me until I woke up in the hospital.

I used to be horrible with pain, having a very low threshold with it. Eventually, I had to learn to hone the sensation and feel something else. Physical pain became a moderate nuisance as my brain shut down and focused on something else—something that cured what ailed.

As I shoved Jeff’s shoulder and immediately ran backward, he jolted off the bench. His fists and arms flew through the air, fighting with the invisible. His eyes were wild as he searched around, collecting his bearings. When he saw me, he stroked his dingy grey beard that blanketed his neck and extended past his collarbone. His narrow brown eyes, underneath unruly brows, began to dim. “What, mute? I had five minutes.”

Mute was what he called me. Real names weren’t allowed; especially for those of us who had family members who were actively seeking us out. Camaraderie amongst the people of the street was a rare find. If the price were right, anyone who you thought might’ve been a friend would’ve sold you out. Just as I was sure Jeff’s name wasn’t really Jeff, my trust only extended as far as my arm’s reach. My belief was one that differed vastly from Jeff’s credence.

I pointed to the sky, indicating to him that it was time to move on.

“Right, right,” he mumbled. He folded up his ratty fleece plaid blanket and placed it inside his cart full of various items.

When I stood on the outside, I’d always thought the carts the homeless pushed around were full of junk. As it turned out, the oddest things served dual purposes and the key to surviving the elements. Plastic grocery bags protected us and our makeshift shelters from inclement weather. They also protected our feet when the soles of our shoes had worn thin.

I was a relative newbie to the streets, having only been living in this area of D.C. for a few months. Jeff’s invaluable advice and protection kept me safe. Shelters were a no-go. They often filled up fast and carried too many rules. They also didn’t have enough security to prevent sexual assault or theft.

Due to the fierce way I disguised my femininity, to most bystanders, I looked like Jeff’s grandson. Upon closer inspection, they could see the feminine features of my face; my full lips, my bronze skin, almond shaped light brown eyes, and heart-shaped face. Screaming and behaving as though I was unstable were my backup defenses.

As we strolled past the fountain and headed toward the main road, streams of cars passed us by on K Street. I took in the storefronts, some closed, some were on the brink of opening. The owners and patrons cast disdainful looks our way, warning us against using their facilities to bathe or pander.