The drive to work was a purification. The car—a battered Mini Cooper with hairline cracks radiating from the edges of the windscreen—functioned as a kind of mobile airlock, a membrane separating her private night world from the public rituals of the day. She never listened to music in
She dragged him the rest of the way, his body already slack and compliant. The tunnel was just as she remembered from her last visit, maybe drier, the walls almost warm from the unseasonable weather. She made efficient work of the prep, first stripping him down, then positioning him on
NUMBER THREE GARY In fact he had seen her online for nearly a month before the first in-person meeting, and he’d studied the profile with an obsessiveness that embarrassed even him. It had started as a dare, really—a sort of ritual humiliation in the forums, the way the
This is The Cold Face, a brand new site by me (James) that's just getting started. It is the tale of dark things are happening in Shropshire. It is a tale of mystery, infatuation and remorse. But not necessarily in that order. Who knows where it will lead