CHAPTER 1 : GATEWAY HOUSE

The existent estate agent turns her signal on. We are traveling down a county road heaps of Roman mile from the nearest small town that held her part. I find myself leaning forward against the hindquarters belt in anticipate that we must be getting close but I can't see where the next tour is among the trees ahead on either side of the narrow, paved road. From all reports, the prop we are nearing by the land mile is a steal, almost a give-away … perfect for what I have been looking for.

I turn from the road ahead to search the expression of the agent. margarine. Marge something. She's about mid-50's, pudgy ( is that unkind ? ), hair dyed to annihilate any sign of greyness, and dresses that too untried for all that. She's widowed. Ten days now, I think she said. She's always smiling. Honest smiles, too, not fake. Not sales grin. She's also the town's bookstore owner and self-designated town and region historiographer. The town is only a couple thousand people and this first visit of mine to it made me wonder if they were also counting the local livestock in that number.

It wasn't until she had the car slowed to a front crawl that I saw it, a very narrow, two-track path leading into the wood. I looked from the contract pamphlet back to oleomargarine in surprise. Her full concentration was in making the turn with her big domestic SUV from the paved road. I wasn't expecting this entrance to the property that had caught my eye in my search from one-half way across the country. The two-track was winding and rising through the trees. Soon, we came to a broadening in the horizon, a small clarification amid the trees and rolled to a stay at a marvelous wrought-iron fencing and gate.

Marge slipped the fomite into park and her berm seemed to visibly sag and unwind as if the constrict piece of land had been tense for her. She smiled at me."Almost there."She dug a key out of her purse at her feet, opened her threshold, and moved to the gate. I leaned forward. There still wasn't much to see. The road, driveway, whatever continued beyond the gate up the rise. The woods continued to obscure any sight but the route continuing to curve ahead. The fence and gate were obviously very old but sill maintained. Above the gate was an curve social organization of wrought-iron and a Holy Scripture … or figure … ‘ GATEWAY ’. The listing had referred to the holding as Gateway House. I knew the place was old, historic even, but the public figure hadn't meant anything or caused often oddment. Now, sitting here in movement of the figure, I wondered about it.

What I was concern in was a house, seclusion, isolation … starting over. If the aspect of this road and its space from the town were index, I may let found it.

The house was stark in every way and detail beyond what I could have hoped for or even imagined. The house was built in the mid-1800's, become vacated, then renovated several times. It was now on the national registry so the renovations had brought the home up to current computer code but maintaining the architectural styling and detail of the master copy. The property sits on about ten acres along the Pacific Ocean coast of Northern Calif.. midst woods hide the property from the humble road. The house itself sits at the top of a rise with intermittent trees and mature plantings. The back of the house overlooks an open orbit with a view of the ocean and a 50 foot exorbitant fall to the stony shore below. A crude foot way of life is just visible leading down to the shore. It must be luxuriously tide because I am told there is a small sand beach below at low tide.

The house is two write up with a gravid attic. The alfresco is yellow-tinted topical anaesthetic brick and red clay tile on the roof. Six steps in front tip to a vast wrap-around covered porch detailed with slender threefold columns around the front and sides. The independent floor has all the expressive style of a imposing home from that time menses : impressive entryway ; vauntingly living room with a massive fire office ; formal dining way with inherent shack ; a library with inbuilt floor-to-ceiling shelves on two walls ; and, a monolithic kitchen ( modernized ) with dinette and walk-in computer memory. A door off the kitchen leads down to what was originally a root wine cellar. The s floor are bedrooms and baths, three bedroom and two big baths, and a room in one turning point that would be ideal for my employment. It has a brush up jut-out with windows along the lap. And, although it doesn't face the sea ( an supervision in the original plan ? ), it would get wonderful good morning light and a peaceful purview of the countryside. The gravid sleeping accommodation in book binding has a pocket-sized balcony facing the sea and I immediately know it would be the one I would use as the master.

oleomargarine and I are standing on that little balcony where I can figure a chaise sofa to greet the morning and to watch out sunsets."Honestly, margarine … what's wrong with it ?"

"Wrong ?"

"When I first came across this listing, I anticipated a property needing eld of renovation under strict Historical Registry rules. Instead, it is already renovated and up-to-code in every way. As you know, I have had two independent inspectors go through the place. One found zilch, the other admitted to having to be nit-picky to find even the two measly outcome he listed. So, what's wrong with this exposure ? By my research, this should be listed for at least three metre what it is being listed for."

She sighed deeply."As you know, this place isn't even listed right now. It hasn't moved in years so the possessor pulled it off the market. It was only your interest in that old listing that inspired me to supply the old listing information."It was quiet for foresighted than I expected for her only when to gather her thoughts. I glanced at her and she was staring out over the ocean as if she hoped to find the explanation out there somewhere. She felt my stare and gave me a flighty smile."You're right, of course. I'd love to lean this for what it's worth, but I would also enjoy to see it owned by someone who will value it, also. I agreed to show it to you and I'll take any offer you want to offer back to the proprietor. It's a treasure of the region and it shouldn't fall back into disuse."

I sighed."What's legal injury with it ?"

She smiled. Surely, she knew she hadn't answered my question."Structurally, mechanically, nix is wrong. It's a solid house on a rattling property. Plumbing, heating, electric, structural … everything. But …"She sighed as if seeing another potential vendee walking away because of feeling it was a risk."Have you ever really lived this far away from everyone ? Have you ever lived where the only town is that minor ? citizenry who might afford what this place is worth want a lot more options available to them. Remote near a resort hotel Town is one matter but remote near a tiny town that offers dining as a corner café is very much another affair. Also … you know of the talking …"

"That's its haunted ?"

She nods."Let's be honest … people will intellectually reject the thought as dizzy superstition. But, put them in an old firm at night, have them hear the house ‘ talk'to them as the air cools or warms or the hint hits it … old homes creak and thumping with expansion and heating system kick in. Yes, this is built with bricks but that is the outdoors. interior is old Natalie Wood construction and there is a lot of it."She turns fully to me and looks me directly in the optic. There is a look of vacate frustration."Superstition, Lexy. Over the long time, several buyers have spent some nights here. The proprietor returned their money."

"Are you saying they saw trace ?"

She laughed."Yes … NO … Their thinker imagined all kind of thing but even they admitted they didn't really see anything. They weren't absolutely surely that something was moved on tables or chimneypiece, or that doors or windowpane were opened or closed. They just heard things and their creative thinker … it's an old house."

I turned and looked out over the ocean. I imagined this balcony and the room just inside as a place to originate and end my days. I imagined the round niche room as the place where I would do my composition and research. The calm down and remoteness wasn't a negatively charged to me ; it was what I was looking for. And, yes, that small townspeople was a big change from Chicago but with the internet why did I need to be near my newspaper publisher or agentive role ? I didn't. And, I had become convinced the big urban center had drained my soul and ticker and that was the rootage of my loser in the final few novels. I needed a variety … I needed a big change.

* * * *

I bought the household and moved before the sales agreement of my Chicago downtown condo was finalized. It probably had the visual aspect that I was escaping an unreported pandemic before it was too late. Career-wise that was kind of how I felt. I loved writing novels but something had become missing in my approach, my inspiration, my imagination, my attitude. Yes, Lexy Dorman writes romance novels but not the billionaire or Texas cowboy novels. Truth be told, they were on the edge of pornography but they are hugely popular … or had been. Many romance novelists don't use their real epithet but I was generally proud of the work I did and the pleasure it brought to the audience that followed my efforts. But lately, even I was disappointed in what was being published. I knew both my agentive role and publisher were hopeful this change might be a catalyst to snap me back to something new and exciting.

It took me respective weeks to fully move my matter in and meld them in the sign with the many oldtimer that were a part of the house. The owner, living across the land, was only too happy to character with everything, finally. It took almost no time to emotionally and psychologically recognize the substitute settle over me. The tranquillise, the vista, the peace of the place. The tone of the ocean air without the oppressive heat felt further south in the state was like a calming toxin as it moved on the breeze through the open windows, over the low balcony, or across the talkative porch. It was too ahead of time to see any results reflected in my writing but my metre was more energetically and enthusiastically share of my day, again.

My time in the big metropolis, especially one like stops, had engrained a coercion of security into my life. Every night, therefore, I diligently locked doors and window, especially downstairs. While my condo had limited access, this house felt like a sieve of potential drop access even as remotely located as it was.

The speech sound of the house that Marge had talked about scaring away other purchaser didn't bother me much after a few years and nighttime. That was probably the conditioning I experienced from the many clock time my family visited my grandparents homestead in rural Ioway. The sign and barn were both real creekers and groaned with expansion and muscular contraction in conditions change. That experience actually had the effect of making this house real and live for me, like it was welcoming me, like it was reassuring me that I wasn't alone in a strange new place.

Along with settling into the new theatre with its passive solitude, two of my enjoyable frailty also awakened : honorable wine, which was plentiful regionally with both small and larger wineries ; and my toy dog. I am a 47 year old divorcee. Almost a cliché for an prototype of a romance novelist, especially when you consider that I was left for a much vernal option. I was working at a small newspaper at the metre. For a few years, it was absolutely devastating. I thought we had a good sex sprightliness. But eventually, his interest seemed to go down so I researched … in other Scripture Googled sex assembly … for ideas to tempt him into more sex. What an idiot … why don't we recognize the signs ? He was working later and later, more and more frequently, and coming dwelling with a variety of alibi for not having interest in sex no affair how I was dressed or undressed as he came in from the garage. Of track, he was seeing someone. Of course, I was an idiot. It was devastating in many ways and took time to work through it. What I couldn't ultimately work through was trusting a man, again. Not after all that time together. Not after giving up my calling aspirations of writing so he could move up in his calling. What I call my ‘ idiot years'at the end of the wedding did, however, provide the foundation for the time to come when I was ready : break up to pore on writing ; and, the knowledge to provide myself with very real number and satisfying pleasure with plaything and my own fingers.

evening though I am alone, and committed to being solitary ( I won't confidence a man ever again and, despite writing about slutty, desperate charwoman ready to ride any usable man, I won't stoep to being a man's toy or objective ), I have a closet fully of titillating getup I love wearing for myself and more mirrors throughout the house than normally seen. In essence, I use the outfits and the mirrors to entice myself … and the wine helps. Desperate ? Not in my mind. And, my idea has become a chamber of erotism in the process. Spending that much prison term enticing yourself and pleasuring yourself and your mind becomes a welcome archive of imaginations of pleasance scenarios your wayward, bastard hubby didn't imagine.

So, I may be 47 but my interest in my own lure has kept me focused on my own appearance. And, I like my own appearing very much. When I am in the mood, which happens often, wearing erotic lingerie, sheer baby-dolls, sheer floor distance night night-robe while roaming the house at night becomes very erotic while catching coup d'oeil of myself in the mirrors. In my condo, I frequently left the drape open, imagining people in adjacent building being able-bodied to see me. Here, in this privacy, the melodic theme of exhibitionism in heater climate has me pushing outside onto the balcony or on the porch or into the yard. The pulsing are real and it has the desire effect of spiking my writing anew.

Recent epoch novels have had me experimenting with new eccentric prototype as my own frustrations have clouded my own desires. Being here, in this family, I am returning to my own figure of speech and mental stimulations. Putting myself into new and ever more erotic situations has been successful with readers demanding more. My old publisher balked at the increasingly explicitness of the committal to writing but there seemed to be a very large interview of heroic charwoman looking for it. With a new publisher and a greedy agent, I have all the boost and support to explore whatever focussing I want.

beingness here, my ***********ion of outfits has evolved. I rarely wear any underwear and my choices have moved to baggy t-shirts and drawers or light frock. I feel an Energy in the theater that I accept and yield to. When my fingers aren't occupied by the keyboard or some other activeness, I frequently find them touching myself. Hence, the lax clothing and no underwear. I have decided to support the small township in unique way of life. I have worked out an arrangement with a store in town by arranging for a shop owner to order what I wanted and then purchasing them from her at a profit for her. She would eventually make a line of wear around my ***********ions for others as I became recognized in the community.

I am proud of that my 47 class is at least partially hidden behind a still attractive appearance. I am 5'3"tall at only 105 lbs. with a 34 - 24 - 34 figure with 34D bosom and my eubstance is still fairly tight. My hazel eyes are cleared and brightly and my John Brown hair has a hint of red. My tomentum is its innate gloss, as you could see ( if you ever did ) the thin line of pubic hair above my pussy. It is naturally crinkled and kept styled long. Dressed only in a floor-length sheer gown that tied together below my boob I moved comfortably through the sign with a methamphetamine hydrochloride of vino. I step out onto the straw man porch feeling brazen knowing the light near the room access would shine through the material of the gown but also knowing there was nobody outside that could see it. Not thinking there is an audience, though, doesn't eliminate the feeling of immodesty. Being outside, nearly naked, looking up at the adept in the very blackened skies and sipping wine … it is more titillating touch sensation than I ever experienced in the condo.

I had returned to my self-pleasuring with renewed ebullience that matched my general rejuvenation in the house. Refilling my glass of wine in the kitchen, I began turning off lights as I moved to the stairs for my bedchamber. As I ascended the stairs, I used my gratuitous hand to pull the bow holding the nightie somewhat together despite it separating with each footprint. As the gown flowed behind me, now that it was opened, my hand eagerly cupped my ripe breast and a delicious shudder of anticipation coursed through my trunk. I pulled back the concealment after setting the vino on the bedside table before moving to and opening the tail end dresser drawer to display my raiment of toy to choose from. I slipped the gown off my shoulder for it to softly cascade from my dead body to the floor … and made my choice.

Naked and aroused, I crawled onto the bed with a BASIC no-frills vibrator. I just wanted to get off tonight. null fancy, aught prolonged, nothing fantasy filled. Just get off and the quicker the better.

The moonlight filtering through the balcony curtain raising and the softly moving sheer pall shown over the bed tonight. Even that seemed especially erotic tonight. The soft light, the shifting mild shadows from the billowing curtain and my simulacrum in the tumid dressing table mirror at the end of the bed. Why hadn't I noticed that before ? The moonshine is perfect this night perhaps. Now that I notice it, I can't take my eyes away from it, from the paradigm of it, the image of me raw, my finger's breadth and hands moving.

I stare at my reflection. I watch my properly helping hand move over to my lead breast. I cup it gently. I run my finger's breadth lightly around the underside and thrust it up in a familiar taking hold exertion. I watch my hand and even in the soft, shifting light I can see how my nipple has already responded. It is as if I am outside of myself, as if I am watching, voyeuristically spying, on mortal else as she is about to pleasure herself. I feel as if I am violating her privacy as she becomes so intimate with herself. It is very erotic.

I pull all the pillows and pile them behind my shoulders and head so I am propped up and my view into the mirror is comfortable. It is as if I am looking into the eyes of this titillating womanhood who senses she might be watched but decides to proceed unabashedly with her display. My body … her body … is on fervidness like never before. I feel like I am being watched. I know I am being watched and it excites me. The thought of being watched as I prepare to fuck off to orgasm is submerge. I think it is only me, myself, doing the watching, though.

I widen my touch to shroud my entire left white meat. A wonderful tingle flows through my torso as my tit is rubbed by the palm tree of my hand. I lightly squeeze my breast, leaving the pap exposed in the space between my thumb and forefinger. I can see the hard, erect nub of my pap exposed, fully aroused by the touching.

The mamilla arousal isn't the only sensation I enjoy now, though. My caresses have a delicious effect elsewhere and my gaze from the mirror shifts lower on my trunk. My thighs character to expose the root of those feeling, that new arousal. I can feel, even if I don't yet see, the dampness forming deep in my pussy.

As my left mamilla gets too spiritualist to manipulation, I bring my handwriting to my mouth, briefly suck on the exponent and middle fingers, and retrovert it to my breast, depositing spittle to my nipple as I resume its manipulation. At the Saami time, I repeat the activeness with my other hand to add stimulation to the early teat. I watch the small of my dorsum archway up as the feeling course through my dead body from my tit. And, my optic. God … how erotic … the optic … watching this adult female's blatant foreplay of herself before me. Watching but also the feeling of being watched. The feeling of being watched while I stimulate myself is so real.

It 's prison term for more. My eyes fixed on the mirror, my figure in the mirror, I region first my right leg, then my left. My right script leaves my breast and coast over my stomach and abdomen to my mound before crawling between my thighs. I feel the wetness of my arousal as my middle finger glides through my pussy lips. I raise both knees and splay my legs widely apart. Even in the shifting, lenient lighting of the full phase of the moon Moon I can see the wetness on my backtalk. They seem to open to my lighting touch sensation as an eager response to my destitute stimulation. The muckle is so extremely erotic.

I use my index and middle fingers to unfold my purulent lips. I can see the fully exposed nub of my clitoris and the orifice of my snatch. My middle shift in the mirror from the lewdness of my exposed pussy to my own eyes. A powerful shake runs through me as I softly beseech,"See my kitty … my cunt … see my need, my arousal, my thirstiness … watch out me … claim me … use me however you want …"

I watch my middle digit slowly disappear into my opening. I gasp. There is something amazing about the initial insight and I allow it to be slack until the knucks of my manus are pressed against me. I twist it, I curl it, I feel the rippling of tissue inside. I move the finger in and out, knowing this first-class honours degree military action will produce more lubricant. I slip another finger inside to unite the first. Both slide in and out. I component part the fingers inside, sliding the fingers along both position of my kitty as I pull them back out.

Already, my bedroom is filled with my soft groan, gasps, and groans.

I pull my fingers from my kitty. They are coated with the clear, silky fluid of my pussy. I pull the fingers along my organic structure and between my heaving chest to my mouth, my other lips. I coat my backtalk like a fresh application program of lip gloss. I inhale the scent. I look directly into the mirror and meet my own regard … and smile wickedly. I drive my fingers back into my twat and masturbate furiously for hour, my finger bumping against my clit, my arousal instantly spiking. Again, I pull my fingerbreadth out but this metre bringing them directly to my open back talk. I watch the fingers enter my rima oris, the lips close around them, and my nerve hollow as I suck the slickness and the discernment from them. All the while my eyes are fixed on my eyes through the mirror : tempting, teasing, entreating.

My respiration has become faster and punishing. I see my ribcage expand, my breasts hike and fall. A light sheen has formed on my body in the warm air washing over me from exterior. My pauperism, my arousal, my yielding is obvious. I plead to my own image,"I need to cum ! I need to orgasm ! PLEASE !"

A new fantasm passes by the foot of the bed, the mirror becoming fussy for a present moment. It is nothing, just a shadow, a movement of the sheer curtain and moonshine. A interpreter in my psyche, ‘ I would do rattling matter for you. I would pleasure you completely.'I stare at my image. It is clear, again. I leer at my effigy with the lust and hunger that fills me."Do it then, slut !"I command, I entreat, I plead."Give us the orgasm we need !"

I use one hand to fondle my breasts while the other returns to my glistening kitty. My eyes flick between the digit rolling, pinching, and twisting a nipple to the index and halfway finger disappearing between my pussy lips, my thumb rubbing my button. The natural process, and the range of a function, quickly sends me to a higher degree of foreplay, closer to the transport I desire.

My demand heightened higher, my hand leaves my nipple and breast to get together my hand between my wooden leg. As if one hand encourages the former, it presses it arduous and deeper into my kitty. A tertiary finger folds into my pussy while the second the hand retreats slightly to my clitoris, the swollen, engorged nub occasionally visible as my digit move in and out. Faster and faster my fingers slide in and out of my slick and drooling hole. Faster and faster the fingerbreadth strum my clitoris. As if on their own, as if my fingers understand what's needed, they switch position and action. The fingers from my pussy now bringing with them a thick covering of lubrication to my very cause and sensitive clit.

My orgasm is fasting approaching. It is close. My body tenses. My back arches as I feel my dead body filled with the electric tingle of nerve endings firing. My rima oris opens without sound. My tongue comes out to wet my lips as I pant and gasp. My knees advance and my foundation jam into the litter as my hips rise from the surface as if they could encourage my finger more. I have a fleeting coup d'oeil of my lewd display a milli-second before my eyes roll up and my eyelid close. My three fingers are buried deep in my pussy as they drive in and out, lewdly and obscenely making a squishing audio through my over-wet maw. I curl the middle finger and investigation, searching for that spot, that wonder dapple until … OH GOD, YESSSSSSS … I hit my g-spot as my early hand mauls the clitoris on the outside. The ultra-sensitive nubs, inside and outside, bouncing electric shocks back and Forth River until they crash in an explosion that almost cripples me.

For a here and now, I feel that way … crippled … unable to displace, to breath, to opine. My hand is nearly buried in my snatch with my back arched and hips raised. My body handclasp and tremble. Seconds seem like an eternity, a magnificent, rattling, brilliant, amaze here and now that held no earthly bounds.

When my breath came back with a gasp, my body crashed to the bed spent and fulfilled. My mitt came out of my twat and my other hand going my miserable, abused button. I brought both up to my lips, my other lips, and again took in my scent and taste my orgasm.

My hollow handwriting flopped to my side and it was only then that I rediscovered the block vibrator. My hand grasps the toy and raises it. I catch myself in the mirror, again. Between my heaving titty and parted legs, I see my image looking back. The image becomes blurred … again … as a deep trace passes in front of it. Then, it clears and I hear the voice in my head, again, but I don't pay attention to the sound, only the Logos. I don't recognize a deeper voice than my own. Not now, anyway.

‘ Do it. I'm watching you like you want me to. You like being watched. Why else would you dress like that, walking through the firm with Inner Light on, not caring if someone might see in with your body exposed under that flimsy, sheer gown. Do it, again. Use that this time.'

I stare at my image. Lust filling my eyes. I gaze at her in the mirror. She taunts me, again. And I am so willing. As if I really do hold a witness, a peeper, an audience. My pussy is glazed with my wetness, my continued arousal, the evidence of my climax. My nipples are still laborious and sensitive, my clit engorged and big. A overshadow passes before the mirror and for an instantaneous my image is blurred and the interpreter in my headway, that deeper vocalization that doesn't seem right for my mind but must be, taunts me more.

‘ Do it … you are so aphrodisiacal, so beautiful, so exciting … you are sex. Do it. Show me how you use that.'

"Yessss !"I moan it out as my breathing rises as my rousing escalates. The twit, the teasing, the clamorous exhibit. My mind tricking me with my range and thoughts as if it is somebody else is here with me."okeh … you want to let it go and be the trollop ? You want to let the fornicatress out ? Not enough to use my digit ; you want the vibrator, too."I turn the nob at the base of the toy and it begins to vibrate in my hand. I rotate it over each nipple and suction in a pant of air before sliding it down my body to my button. My back archway as the vibrations shock the engorged, extremely spiritualist clit. I stare at the mirror, at me. Is it fuzzy because of a trace or my surging, resurrected lust ?"Okay, slut … not enough to finger yourself to a loss, anymore ? You need more than ? You want to be Thomas More, be slutty ? We'll be slutty !"

I've never felt this hot, this aroused, this needful. Maybe I really am a long-dormant slut. Is that my job ? This thing inside me needing release and holding me back, clouding my body of work ?

God … I can smack the perfume of sex in the air, an aroma like a faint perfume mix of musky arousal and lighter sweat. It wafts over me with the spark breeze through the balcony door. The vibrator glides over my glistening, outdoors puss lip. My double in the mirror smiles at me. I turn the vibrator at my hole and it sinks inside. My oculus, my mirror range's eyes, are sagging in lecherousness but the smile on her facial expression is lusty and encouraging.

"You like watching me, don't you ?"I taunt my image as I pull the vibrator out and slue it up to my clit. I know my hole is open ; I can see it. So can she, my image, her heart riveted on my drooling hole.

‘ Yes … I like watching you. I have since you arrived. You're different than all the others. You belong here. We want you here. We'll protect you.'

The voice doesn't make any good sense but I am too stimulated for it to bother me.

"I'll be the trollop, then ! It's what we need, right ? We need to be released to renew ourselves."Maybe. Maybe releasing what is inside will renew even my work, my creativity, my writing. I'm alone. It's safe. Letting the slut out is still just for me, it's still private and myself. Well … my centre refocus on the taunting image in the mirror … for her, too. I stare into the eyes of my image."Yes, slut … ”, I gasp out with mounting lust,"I'll be your slut."I drive the dildo into my kettle of fish and cry out. I stare at my look-alike staring at the vibrator filled pussy … mine, ours …

The mirror blurs with the loss of the shadow, once more. ‘ Be our hussy. There is so much waiting for you.'

Yes, I think, there is so often if you release. Don't hold back timidly ; don't settle for fond experience. press release. Experience. tone. Accept everything. My eyes close. My image is lost."Yes, I want this."

I pull the vibrator out of my slit. I pull the gently buzzing shaft, slickness with my juice, over my clit and up my body. I bring it to my mouth and give suck my arousal, my juice, off the buzzing aerofoil. It tastes respectable. The taste excites me further. My perfume is on it and it is full, too.

I feel a change. I become deliberately undeliberate. I don't want to look sharp to a flood tide with try manipulation only to cover-up and go to sleep. I want to know. I want to research. I want to try out. I want to find. I want to feel. I want star to lead me, to guide me.

I bring the vibrating, buzzing shaft to my the right way nipple. I just hold it there, not pressing, not pressing. The vibe tingles. Electric impulses increment and flash through me. I shift it to my left tit as my free fingers roll and tease the stir one. I gasp and moan. My tongue comes out to lick my mouth which have already become dry from heavier breathing. I softly, gently swirl the buzzing peter around my titty, then the former, then between them and down to my stomach. I slow its travel to a crawl. My breadbasket brawn contract with tensity of prevision. As the light beam comes to my belly release, my pelvic girdle involuntarily rotates down as if flighty about the come on stimulant. A grinning forms on my lips. Slow and easy. A docile edifice that almost seems to be too much in anticipation. The shaft reaches my pitcher's mound and my scummy back curls down to bring my hip up, now in welcoming anticipation of contact.

My middle slit clear. I look between my panting breasts and spread second joint with the vibrator poised at my mound as a shiver of prediction rolls over me. My grin is thoroughgoing lust.

"This is what you want ? Unhurried, unrestricted, open."

The vox, ‘ Yes. You will experience so much.'Why doesn't the voice in my straits sound like mine ? Maybe to go more titillating, more enticing to me ?

The vibrator slides over my cumulus, just above my button. I suck in a hint, then slide the end onto my clit and wardrobe it onto the nub. I almost cry out as a jolt of condense sensation shoot through me. But after only a moment I press it down over my lips, tilt the dick so the end glides along my slit, parting my mouth until it reaches my mess. When I feel it hit my hole, I pull to sink it into my pussy. My mouth opens without a sound as a shiver ripples my body.

I feel the joy construction, skyrocketing. footling moaning sound escape my mouth between ragged gasping breaths. My pep pill back arch, thrusting my boob into the air. My cervix curls with my head craning back against the headboard, my eyes shut mingy. Both hands grasp the vibrating shaft, one hand over the former as if two are requisite to fix it, to drive it home completely. My nipples ache they are so taut and stimulated. My stomach contracts off and on as the intensity level of the feelings grow from within me. With the shaft buried thick inside me, one hand transmutation to finger my clit. The thumb and forefinger grab the tender nub, they squeeze, crook, and press.

A scream tent flap from my mouth filling the room as my body … my person, my being … rushing to an climax like none of my life.

"OH GOD … OH GOD … OH YEESSSSSS !"

My skin crawls with a feeling so intense I can't stop shivering, quaking. It is right there. I am at the crest of the most wonderfully, most right, nearly stick forcible sensation ever felt ever. It has to be, it must be.

With one hand thrusting the tool in and out of my dripping, sloppy kitty-cat, the other clutches the end and twists it to highest vibration. My back talk gasps, then my breathing space control stick in my throat as my head curls to my chest and my pelvic girdle tilts up in a semi-crunch. My muscleman ripple, tense, and ripple alternately.

With the vibrator pulsing inside, one paw moves to a knocker and tit, the other to my clit. My nipple is tortured as is my clit. Leaving my nipple, I press a finger alongside the vibrator to add it inside my pussy. I curl the finger and find the g-spot. The vibration of the shaft courses through the finger onto the spiritualist g-spot which courses through me to my clit. It is all I can take.

"OHHHHH … FUCKKKKKKK !"It comes out in a howler of sudden passing as the most potent climax crashes over me."Ahhhhhh, ohhhhh, huuuuuhhhhhh … yessssss … YESSSS !"

My shoulders crash back into the bed and pillows as my gloomy back and hips develop off the bed. My feet pressed into the bed, my trunk tense and pulse as wave after wave crashes and explodes through me.

I suddenly yank the vibrator from my pussy and throw it somewhere as I continue to quake and shiver, my breathing place coming in gasping panting. My digit smooth down over my clit and puss lips. They are engorged, swollen and too sensitive to the touch modality. My mess is dripping and gaping open.

I fall back, roll over and deplumate the top sheet with me to cover into a fetal position. But as my breathing slowly calms and I am sure my heart isn't stopping and I am squeezed into a protective ball under the cover of the weather sheet, I sigh with satisfaction and contentment. I have never released myself so much. It was wonderful.

The ocean piece of cake gently wafted into the room through the open French door from the balcony and felt like mild caressing over my sweat-sheened naked pelt as I lay still gasping for breathing spell and reveling in the honest erotic pleasure I've allowed myself in … forever. I uncurl myself and lay on my book binding, one mitt softly fondling my breast with the other gently stroking my slippery pussycat sass. The satisfaction and fulfillment I felt was joined with enough tiredness that I could easily fall into eternal sleep. But there was something about the theater that seemed to ooze an free energy I never experienced in the condo, a feeling or good sense of being watched that spreadhead a layer of exhibitionism over the top of the very substantial orgasmic experience. It was silly, of course of action, because I was definitely alone.

I opened my legs as my eyes closed and my fingerbreadth again moved deliberately on and into my wet pussycat, my flip glancing off my throbbing, engorged clit. I felt very a great deal like I was splayed before a buff as I masturbated for his eyes to tempt him to hardness, again. My meat began beating faster, two fingers now buried deep in my slit, the early mitt rolling a nipple between pollex and index finger. I gasped as my arousal again surged and I opened my eyes with only when cunt, peering down along my body to the foot of the bed, almost expecting to see my unknown lover standing there, stroking his hard putz, his eyes riveted on my expose consistence as I brazenly showed him my rousing and desire.

He wasn't there … of course.

I sighed, reached for my wine and found it hollow. I sighed, again. I could turn into the bed for sleep but … that zip had a hold of me. I still felt follow though I knew nobody was here. No fan to foresee more from. Not even any homes nearby for an accidental voyeur to capture a glance of me. I sighed, yet again.

I swung my ramification off the slope of the bed, grabbed the wine deoxyephedrine as I stood, and nakedly walked down to the kitchen for a third gear glass of wine-coloured. I took the looking glass out onto the forepart porch without the light on and sat on one of the professorship there. The ocean was relatively quiet down, the breeze again softly caressing my body, the speech sound from the dark-skinned world were peaceful. My organic structure and mind ebbed with that peacefulness of the world.

I set the looking glass on the humble table in the entry after ending and locking the door, a now silly habit engrained by coming from the big city.

As I started up the stairs, I felt that feeling of the house inviolable than ever. I was being watched. I felt it but knew it was impossible. Unconsciously, at 1st, my pass responded as though there were somebody to actually tempt. My hips swung and my steps were house, all to enticingly put a swing to my butt and a bounce to my breasts. At the top of the stairs, the lighter on the wall behind me flickered. As I moved down the hallway, I look over my shoulder. I know there was soul here with me, at the other end of the hall. I also know there isn't. But the feeling was much warm this time.

My heart raced as I called out,"Hello ?"But there is no answer. Of course, there wasn't.

No, I was mistaken. I am alone. I must be alone. I know I am alone. But … I thought I saw a man, but there is no man here. Only me.

No. He's there. I can see him … almost. I fully turn in the hallway in the direction of the image. I am completely naked in my own family … alone … and I think there is someone here with me. The melodic theme is derisory, certainly a product of the wine-colored and my erotic imaginings and arousal earlier. The light spark more, the entrance hall intermittently illuminated. The scary thing, though, is that this other somebody, this man, is in some way intermittent, too, lupus erythematosus human figure than a disturbance in the air, a phantasma that appears and then slice, a presence coming. Yet, I do not budge, not a muscle. I can't. It is as if I am frozen. Frozen with a commixture of sensations and response from curio to revere to rejection … and stimulation and renewed arousal. Outrageously, I feel all this at the Lapplander clip. He, the range, is very much confining now. But I still don't move. His regard falls down my eubstance and I look down with him. I blush. My body is aroused. My nipples are again rock heavily. I feel my pussy lubricating with new forwardness. All this for an image that doesn't exist. It can't exist. There is an impression of a handwriting, it is rising with the palm out as if to indicate it is sanction, don't be afraid. The image is of a man, young, but still a man. He is black, I think. Yes, black. His wearing apparel are of an old style, as if of several past generations. I see him but he isn't real … less substantial than real. The luminousness behind him passes through like a silhouette. I can't breathe. His manus is still out in front … to reassure me ? Or … does he intend to touch on me ? Oh my God … my dead body quakes.

The young man … or image … turns to look behind him down the hall and shakes his head. I lean to comply his gaze. When I turn my gaze back to him … he is gone.

* * * CHAPTER 2 will follow * * * Thanks for recital .