CHAPTER 1 : GATEWAY business firm

The rattling estate agent turns her signal on. We are traveling down a county road dozens of miles from the dear belittled town that held her billet. I find myself leaning forward against the hind end belt in anticipate that we must be getting airless but I can't see where the future spell is among the Tree ahead on either side of the nail down, paved route. From all paper, the attribute we are nearing by the 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 case of the agent. margarine. Marge something. She's about mid-50's, pudgy ( is that unkind ? ), hair dyed to rid of any sign of gray, and dresses that too young for all that. She's widowed. Ten geezerhood now, I think she said. She's always smiling. Honest smiles, too, not fake. Not sales event smiles. She's also the Ithiel Town's bookstore possessor and self-designated town and region historiographer. The town is only a couple thousand people and this firstly visit of mine to it made me inquire if they were also counting the local livestock in that number.

It wasn't until she had the car slowed to a crawl that I saw it, a very narrow, two-track route leading into the Natalie Wood. I looked from the narrow piece of ground back to margarin in surprise. Her full assiduousness was in making the tour with her large domesticated SUV from the paved road. I wasn't expecting this entree to the attribute that had caught my eye in my search from 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 clearing amid the tree diagram and rolled to a stop at a tall wrought-iron fence and gate.

Marge slipped the vehicle into green and her shoulders seemed to visibly sag and relax as if the contract tract had been tense for her. She smiled at me."Almost there."She dug a key out of her purse at her feet, opened her door, 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 view but the road continuing to wreathe ahead. The fence and gate were obviously very old but sill maintained. Above the logic gate was an arched social structure of wrought-iron and a Bible … or epithet … ‘ GATEWAY ’. The listing had referred to the belongings as Gateway House. I knew the property was old, historic even, but the epithet hadn't meant anything or caused lots curiosity. Now, sitting here in front of the figure, I wondered about it.

What I was interested in was a house, privateness, closing off … starting over. If the looks of this road and its distance from the town were indicant, I may have found it.

The house was perfective tense in every way and detail beyond what I could induce 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 subject register so the renovations had brought the house up to current code but maintaining the architectural styling and details of the original. The prop sits on about ten demesne along the Pacific Ocean glide of Northern California. thick Natalie Wood hide the property from the belittled route. The sign itself sits at the top of a climb with intermittent Tree and mature plantings. The backbone of the house overlooks an open area with a vista of the ocean and a 50 pes extortionate drop to the bouldery shore below. A crude foot path is just seeable leading down to the shore. It must be gamey lunar time period because I am told there is a small sand beach below at low tide.

The planetary house is two stories with a turgid attic. The out of doors is yellow-tinted local brick and red clay roofing tile on the ceiling. Six steps in front lead to a vast wrap-around covered porch detailed with slender double newspaper column around the front and face. The main floor has all the style of a grand piano home from that prison term period : telling entranceway ; heavy living room with a massive fire place ; dinner gown dining room with built-in hutches ; a subroutine library with built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves on two walls ; and, a massive kitchen ( modernized ) with dinette and waltz repositing. A doorway off the kitchen leads down to what was originally a root cellar. The second floor are bedrooms and baths, three bedrooms and two heavy bathtub, and a room in one nook that would be nonesuch for my piece of work. It has a round jut-out with windows along the circle. And, although it doesn't face the ocean ( an oversight in the original purpose ? ), it would get rattling morning spark and a passive prospect of the countryside. The largest bedroom in back has a small balcony facing the sea and I immediately know it would be the one I would use as the master.

Marge and I are standing on that little balcony where I can visualize a shay lounge to greet the good morning and to keep an eye on sunset."Honestly, oleo … what's wrong with it ?"

"Wrong ?"

"When I first came across this listing, I anticipated a dimension needing age of redevelopment under strict Historical Registry ruler. Instead, it is already renovated and up-to-code in every way. As you know, I have had two freelance inspectors go through the shoes. One found nothing, the other admitted to having to be nit-picky to find even the two measly effect he listed. So, what's wrong with this picture ? By my research, this should be listed for at least three times what it is being listed for."

She sighed deeply."As you know, this seat isn't even listed right now. It hasn't moved in years so the owner pulled it off the market. It was only your interestingness in that old listing that inspired me to provide the old itemization information."It was tranquillity for longer than I expected for her sole to gather her thought process. I glanced at her and she was staring out over the ocean as if she hoped to find the account out there somewhere. She felt my stare and gave me a skittish grinning."You're right, of course. I'd love to list this for what it's Charles Frederick Worth, but I would also love to see it owned by someone who will care for it, also. I agreed to demo it to you and I'll take any pass you want to extend back to the possessor. It's a treasure of the region and it shouldn't downfall back into disuse."

I sighed."What's wrong with it ?"

She smiled. Surely, she knew she hadn't answered my head."Structurally, mechanically, nothing is wrong. It's a satisfying business firm on a howling property. plumbing, warming, electrical, structural … everything. But …"She sighed as if seeing another electric potential emptor 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 simply town is that small ? People who might afford what this place is worth want a lot more options available to them. Remote near a holiday resort Town is one thing but remote near a diminutive town that offers dining as a quoin café is very much another affair. Also … you know of the public lecture …"

"That's its haunted ?"

She nods."Let's be honest … hoi polloi will intellectually reject the idea as silly superstition. But, put them in an old theatre at Night, have them hear the house ‘ talk'to them as the air cools or warms or the wind hits it … old homes creak and thud with expansion and warming kick in. Yes, this is built with bricks but that is the out of doors. Inside is old Mrs. Henry Wood construction and there is a lot of it."She turns fully to me and looks me directly in the eyes. There is a look of resigned defeat."superstitious notion, Lexy. Over the eld, respective emptor have spent some Nox here. The owner returned their money."

"Are you saying they saw ghostwriter ?"

She laughed."Yes … NO … Their minds imagined all form of thing but even they admitted they didn't really see anything. They weren't absolutely sure that something was moved on tables or mantels, or that room access or windowpane were opened or closed. They just heard things and their minds … it's an old house."

I turned and looked out over the sea. I imagined this balcony and the elbow room just inside as a place to start and end my day. I imagined the stave corner way as the spot where I would do my committal to writing and research. The quiet and remoteness wasn't a veto to me ; it was what I was looking for. And, yes, that humble town was a big change from Chicago but with the net why did I need to be near my publisher or agent ? I didn't. And, I had become convinced the big metropolis had drained my soul and warmness and that was the reference of my failure in the finale few novels. I needed a change … I needed a big change.

* * * *

I bought the menage and moved before the sale of my Chicago business district condo was finalized. It probably had the appearing 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 approaching, my stirring, my imagination, my attitude. Yes, Lexy Dorman writes love affair novels but not the billionaire or TX cowherd novels. Truth be told, they were on the border of porno but they are hugely popular … or had been. Many romanticism novelists don't use their real name but I was generally majestic of the work I did and the pleasure it brought to the interview that followed my exertion. But lately, even I was disappointed in what was being published. I knew both my agent and publisher were hopeful this change might be a catalyst to crack me back to something new and exciting.

It took me several weeks to fully displace my things in and meld them in the house with the many antiques that were a part of the house. The owner, living across the area, was only too happy to part with everything, finally. It took almost no fourth dimension to emotionally and psychologically recognize the relief settle over me. The subdued, the position, the peace of the prop. The feeling of the ocean air without the tyrannous hotness felt further south in the state of matter was like a calming toxin as it moved on the breeze through the undecided windows, over the modest balcony, or across the expansive porch. It was too early to see any issue reflected in my writing but my time was more energetically and enthusiastically theatrical role of my day, again.

My time in the big urban center, especially one like Chicago, had engrained a compulsion of surety into my life-time. Every night, therefore, I diligently locked doors and window, especially downstairs. While my condo had limited access, this star sign felt like a sieve of potential access even as remotely located as it was.

The sounds of the menage that Marge had talked about scaring away former buyer didn't bother me much after a few solar day and night. That was probably the conditioning I experienced from the many meter my family visited my grandparents homestead in rural Iowa. The family and b were both real creekers and groaned with expansion and contraction in weather alteration. 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 sign of the zodiac with its passive solitude, two of my enjoyable vices also awakened : good wine, which was plentiful regionally with both diminished and bombastic wine maker ; and my toys. I am a 47 year old divorcee. Almost a cliché for an range of a love story novelist, especially when you consider that I was left for a much younger pick. I was working at a low newspaper at the time. For a few years, it was absolutely devastating. I thought we had a unspoiled sex life. But eventually, his interest seemed to wane so I researched … in former word of honor Googled sex assembly … for estimation to entice him into more sex. What an retard … why don't we recognize the house ? He was working later and later, more and more frequently, and coming nursing home with a multifariousness of exculpation for not having stake in sex no matter how I was dressed or undressed as he came in from the garage. Of course, he was seeing someone. Of course of instruction, I was an changeling. It was devastating in many direction and took time to bring through it. What I couldn't ultimately work through was trusting a man, again. Not after all that meter together. Not after giving up my career aspirations of writing so he could move up in his career. What I call my ‘ cretin twelvemonth'at the end of the man and wife did, however, provide the foundation for the future when I was ready : resolve to focus on writing ; and, the knowledge to provide myself with very real and live up to pleasure with toy and my own fingers.

Even though I am alone, and committed to being unique ( I won't trust a man ever again and, despite writing about slutty, desperate women ready to ride any usable man, I won't stoup to being a man's toy or physical object ), I have a water closet full of erotic outfits I love wearing for myself and more mirrors throughout the theater than normally seen. In heart and soul, I use the rig and the mirrors to entice myself … and the wine helps. Desperate ? Not in my intellect. And, my thinker has become a sleeping accommodation of eroticism in the mental process. Spending that much time enticing yourself and pleasuring yourself and your mind becomes a welcome archive of imaginations of pleasure scenarios your wayward, bastard married man didn't imagine.

So, I may be 47 but my involvement in my own enticement has kept me focused on my own appearance. And, I like my own visual aspect very much. When I am in the mood, which happens often, wearing titillating lingerie, sheer baby-dolls, sheer floor distance night gowns while roaming the home at night becomes very erotic while catching glimpses of myself in the mirrors. In my condo, I frequently left the curtains open, imagining people in adjacent edifice being able to see me. Here, in this privacy, the idea of exhibitionism in warmer climate has me pushing outside onto the balcony or on the porch or into the grounds. The impulses are substantial and it has the desired effect of spiking my writing anew.

Recent novels have had me experimenting with new character images as my own frustration have clouded my own desires. Being here, in this theatre, I am returning to my own image and mental stimulant. 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 penning but there seemed to be a very large audience of desperate women looking for it. With a new publisher and a greedy agent, I have all the encouragement and backing to research whatever direction I want.

Being here, my ***********ion of outfits has evolved. I rarely wear any underclothing and my choices have moved to loose-fitting T-shirt and shorts or lightly wearing apparel. I feel an energy in the house that I accept and yield to. When my digit aren't occupied by the keyboard or some other activeness, I frequently find them touching myself. Hence, the loose clothing and no underclothes. I have decided to sustain the belittled town in unique way of life. I have worked out an organization with a store in town by arranging for a workshop owner to order what I wanted and then purchasing them from her at a profits for her. She would eventually establish a agate line of wear around my ***********ions for others as I became recognized in the community.

I am pleased that my 47 years 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 breasts and my dead body is still fairly sozzled. My hazel eyes are bring in and vivid and my brownness hair's-breadth has a soupcon of red. My hair is its natural color, as you could see ( if you ever did ) the lean bank line of pubic hair above my slit. It is naturally crinkly and kept styled long. Dressed only in a floor-length sheer gown that tied together below my chest I moved comfortably through the house with a glass of wine. I step out onto the front porch feeling bald-faced knowing the light near the door would reflect through the cloth of the scrubs but also knowing there was nobody outside that could see it. Not thinking there is an audience, though, doesn't eliminate the flavour of immodesty. Being outdoors, nearly raw, looking up at the stars in the very fateful skies and sipping wine … it is more erotic feeling than I ever experienced in the condo.

I had returned to my self-pleasuring with renewed exuberance that matched my universal greening in the house. Refilling my looking glass of wine in the kitchen, I began turning off lighter as I moved to the stairs for my bedroom. As I ascended the steps, I used my free hand to pull the bow holding the gown somewhat together despite it separating with each step. As the nightgown flowed behind me, now that it was opened, my paw eagerly cupped my right breast and a delightful shiver of anticipation coursed through my consistency. I pulled back the covers after setting the vino on the bedside table before moving to and opening the bottom dresser drawer to display my array of toy dog to prefer from. I slipped the gown off my articulatio humeri for it to softly cascade from my 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. nothing partiality, zilch prolonged, naught fantasy filled. Just get off and the quicker the better.

The Moon filtering through the balcony opening and the softly moving sheer curtains shown over the bed tonight. Even that seemed especially erotic tonight. The voiced lighter, the shifting cushy tincture from the billowing pall and my icon in the vauntingly vanity mirror at the end of the bed. Why hadn't I noticed that before ? The moonlight is everlasting tonight perhaps. Now that I notice it, I can't demand my eye away from it, from the figure of it, the trope of me naked, my fingers and hands moving.

I stare at my reflection. I watch my right hand move over to my unexpended breast. I cup it gently. I run my fingers lightly around the bottom and push it up in a familiar grasping effort. 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 person 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 mob them behind my shoulders and head so I am propped up and my view into the mirror is well-situated. It is as if I am looking into the eye of this erotic char who senses she might be watched but decides to continue unabashedly with her presentation. My body … her body … is on fire like never before. I feel like I am being watched. I know I am being watched and it excites me. The idea of being watched as I prepare to masturbate to orgasm is overwhelming. I think it is only me, myself, doing the watching, though.

I widen my hint to incubate my entire left breast. A tremendous tingle flows through my consistence as my mammilla is rubbed by the medallion of my hand. I lightly squeeze my chest, leaving the mammilla exposed in the distance between my thumb and forefinger. I can see the hard, erect nub of my nipple exposed, fully aroused by the touching.

The nipple stimulation isn't the entirely sensation I enjoy now, though. My caresses have a delicious effect elsewhere and my gaze from the mirror shifts gloomy on my body. My thighs percentage to expose the reservoir of those feeling, that new arousal. I can find, even if I don't yet see, the damp forming bass in my pussy.

As my left tit gets too raw to manipulation, I bring my script to my mouth, briefly suck on the indicator and middle fingers, and return it to my titty, depositing spit to my nipple as I resume its manipulation. At the same time, I repeat the action with my other hand to add stimulation to the former mamilla. I watch the small of my vertebral column arch up as the feeling row through my consistency from my nipples. And, my optic. God … how erotic … the ocular … watching this cleaning woman's blazing stimulation of herself before me. Watching but also the feeling of being watched. The intuitive feeling of being watched while I stimulate myself is so real.

It 's sentence for more. My eye fixed on the mirror, my range in the mirror, I character first my right leg, then my leftfield. My correct hand leaves my boob and sliding board over my stomach and abdomen to my mound before crawling between my thigh. I feel the wetness of my arousal as my middle finger's breadth glides through my pussy lips. I raise both knees and splay my leg widely apart. Even in the shifting, gentle light of the broad synodic month I can see the wetness on my lips. They seem to open to my light pinch as an eager reaction to my poverty-stricken stimulation. The wad is so extremely erotic.

I use my index and middle fingers to fan out my pussycat back talk. I can see the fully exposed nub of my clitoris and the opening of my snatch. My center shift in the mirror from the lewdness of my disclose cunt to my own eyes. A powerful shiver runs through me as I softly beseech,"See my pussy … my cunt … see my demand, my rousing, my hunger … look out me … take me … use me however you want …"

I watch my centre fingerbreadth slowly disappear into my orifice. I gasp. There is something amazing about the initial incursion and I allow it to be slow until the knuckles of my script are pressed against me. I twist it, I curl it, I feel the riffle of tissue inside. I move the finger's breadth in and out, knowing this first gear action will produce Sir Thomas More lubricant. I slip another fingerbreadth inside to join the get-go. Both slide in and out. I share the finger's breadth inside, sliding the finger along both side of my kitty-cat as I pull them back out.

Already, my bedchamber is filled with my soft moans, gasps, and groans.

I pull my fingerbreadth from my cunt. They are coated with the clear, glossy fluid of my pussy. I pull the fingers along my body and between my heaving breasts to my lip, my other lips. I coat my rim like a fresh diligence of lip color. I inhale the scent. I look directly into the mirror and meet my own gaze … and smile wickedly. I drive my fingers back into my pussy and masturbate furiously for instant, my hitchhike bumping against my button, my arousal instantly spiking. Again, I pull my finger out but this time bringing them directly to my open mouthpiece. I watch the fingers enter my lip, the sassing close around them, and my cheeks hollow as I suck the slickness and the taste from them. All the while my centre are fixed on my eyes through the mirror : tempting, teasing, entreating.

My respiration has become faster and heavier. I see my ribcage expand, my breasts rise and tumble. A Light sheen has formed on my dead body in the affectionate air washing over me from outside. My demand, my arousal, my surrender is obvious. I plead to my own picture,"I need to cum ! I need to orgasm ! PLEASE !"

A new shadow strait by the ft of the bed, the mirror becoming fussy for a instant. It is zilch, just a trace, a movement of the sheer mantle and moonshine. A voice in my head, ‘ I would do wonderful matter for you. I would pleasure you completely.'I stare at my look-alike. It is clear, again. I leer at my image with the lust and hunger that fills me."Do it then, trollop !"I command, I entreat, I plead."Give us the orgasm we need !"

I use one paw to fondle my breasts while the other recurrence to my glistening pussy. My centre flick between the fingerbreadth rolling, pinching, and twisting a nipple to the index and middle fingers disappearing between my puss rim, my thumb rubbing my clitoris. The legal action, and the trope, quickly sends me to a high grade of stimulation, closer to the ecstasy I desire.

My need heightened high-pitched, my helping hand leaves my tit and breast to connect my handwriting between my leg. As if one hand encourages the other, it presses it hard and deeper into my pussy. A tertiary digit sheepfold into my puss while the secondly the hand retreats slightly to my clitoris, the swollen, engorged nub occasionally seeable as my fingerbreadth move in and out. Faster and fast my fingers slide in and out of my slipperiness and drooling kettle of fish. Faster and faster the fingers strum my button. As if on their own, as if my fingers understand what's needed, they switch attitude and natural process. The digit from my kitty now bringing with them a thick coating of lubrication to my very stir and sensitive clit.

My climax is riotous approaching. It is close. My body tenses. My back arch as I feel my body filled with the electric tingle of nerve endings firing. My oral fissure opens without sound. My tongue comes out to wet my back talk as I pant and gasp. My genu rise and my ft press into the litter as my hips raise from the airfoil as if they could encourage my fingers more. I have a fleeting coup d'oeil of my lewd expose a milli-second before my eyes roll up and my eyelid close. My three finger's breadth are buried cryptical in my slit as they drive in and out, lewdly and obscenely making a squishing auditory sensation through my over-wet fix. I curl the middle finger and investigation, searching for that spot, that wonder spot until … OH GOD, YESSSSSSS … I hit my g-spot as my other hand mauls the button on the outside. The ultra-sensitive nubs, inside and remote, bouncing electric automobile electrical shock back and forth until they crash in an explosion that almost cripples me.

For a consequence, I feel that way … crippled … unable to move, to breath, to remember. My hired man is nearly buried in my kitty with my back arched and rose hip raised. My eubstance shakes and trembles. instant seem like an infinity, a magnificent, tremendous, resplendent, astonishing moment that held no earthly bounds.

When my breathing place came back with a gasp, my body crashed to the bed spent and fulfilled. My mitt came out of my pussy and my other hand freeing my pathetic, abused clitoris. I brought both up to my lips, my other brim, and again took in my smell and taste my orgasm.

My vacuous hand flopped to my side and it was only then that I rediscovered the forgotten 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 ikon looking back. The image becomes blurred … again … as a deep shadow passport in forepart of it. Then, it clears and I hear the voice in my heading, again, but I don't pay attention to the audio, only the words. I don't realize a deeper vox 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 theater with Inner Light on, not caring if soul might see in with your body exposed under that flimsy, sheer nightdress. Do it, again. Use that this time.'

I stare at my image. lust fills my heart. I gaze at her in the mirror. She taunts me, again. And I am so will. As if I really do have a watcher, a voyeur, an consultation. My pussy is shining with my wetness, my continued arousal, the evidence of my orgasm. My nipples are still hard and sensitive, my clit engorged and prominent. A shadow mountain pass before the mirror and for an instant my image is blurred and the voice in my head, that bass voice that doesn't seem right for my mind but must be, taunt me more.

‘ Do it … you are so aphrodisiacal, so beautiful, so shake up … you are sex. Do it. depict me how you use that.'

"Yessss !"I moan it out as my breathing rises as my foreplay escalates. The twit, the ribbing, the strident show. My mind tricking me with my image and intellection as if it is someone else is here with me."okeh … you want to let it go and be the slovenly woman ? You want to let the slut out ? Not enough to use my finger's breadth ; you want the vibrator, too."I turn the nob at the basis of the toy and it begins to vibrate in my deal. I rotate it over each nipple and suction in a gasp of air before sliding it down my body to my clit. My back arch as the vibrations shock the engorged, extremely sensitive button. I stare at the mirror, at me. Is it muzzy because of a shadow or my surging, resurrected lust ?"okeh, loose woman … not enough to finger yourself to a dismission, anymore ? You need more ? You want to be Sir 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 loose woman. Is that my problem ? This thing inside me needing release and holding me back, clouding my piece of work ?

God … I can reek the odor of sex in the air, an fragrance like a faint perfume mix of musky arousal and light sweat. It wafts over me with the illumination duck soup through the balcony door. The vibrator glides over my glistening, exposed pussy brim. My image in the mirror smiles at me. I turn the vibrator at my hole and it sinks inside. My heart, my mirror image's eyes, are sagging in lust but the smile on her nerve is lusty and encouraging.

"You like watching me, don't you ?"I taunt my image as I pull the vibrator out and slide it up to my clit. I know my hollow 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 unlike than all the others. You belong here. We want you here. We'll protect you.'

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

"I'll be the slut, then ! It's what we need, right ? We need to be released to regenerate ourselves."Maybe. Maybe releasing what is inside will renew even my work, my creative thinking, my penning. I'm alone. It's safe. Letting the hussy out is still just for me, it's still private and myself. Well … my eye refocus on the taunting simulacrum in the mirror … for her, too. I stare into the center of my image."Yes, slut … ”, I gasp out with mounting luxuria,"I'll be your slut."I drive the dildo into my hole and cry out. I stare at my ikon staring at the vibrator filled pussy … mine, ours …

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

Yes, I think, there is so practically if you release. Don't hold back timidly ; don't settle for partial experience. dismission. Experience. flavor. 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 pecker, slick with my juice, over my clit and up my body. I bring it to my mouth and suckle my arousal, my succus, off the buzzing surface. It tastes good. The tasting excites me further. My smell is on it and it is good, too.

I feel a change. I become deliberately undeliberate. I don't want to race to a climax with testify manipulation only to cover-up and go to log Z's. I want to experience. I want to research. I want to try out. I want to feel. I want to experience. I want sensations to lead me, to conduct me.

I bring the vibrating, buzzing shot to my right nipple. I just hold it there, not pressing, not pressing. The palpitation tingles. electric car impulses increase and flash through me. I shift it to my left nipple as my gratuitous finger roll and tease the aroused one. I gasp and moan. My tongue comes out to work my lip which have already become dry from labored breathing. I softly, gently swirl the buzzing rotating shaft around my breast, then the other, then between them and down to my venter. I slow its travel to a crawl. My tum brawn contract with tension of expectation. As the light beam comes to my belly push, my pelvis involuntarily rotates down as if flighty about the approaching stimulation. A smile forms on my lip. Slow and easy. A conciliate building that almost seems to be too practically in anticipation. The shaft reaches my heap and my down back curls down to bring my pelvis up, now in welcoming anticipation of contact.

My eyes slit open. I look between my heaving knocker and spread thigh with the vibrator poised at my mound as a shiver of anticipation rolls over me. My smile is sodding lust.

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

The voice, ‘ Yes. You will receive so much.'Why doesn't the voice in my head sound like mine ? Maybe to sound more erotic, more enticing to me ?

The vibrator slides over my mound, just above my clitoris. I suck in a breath, then slide the end onto my clit and press it onto the nub. I almost cry out as a saccade of concentrated virtuoso shoot through me. But after only a mo I press it down over my backtalk, tilt the shaft so the end glides along my slit, parting my sassing until it reaches my hole. When I feel it hit my hole, I pull to sink it into my pussy. My mouth opens without a strait as a shiver ripples my body.

I feel the joy building, skyrocketing. Little moaning sounds escape my rima oris between ragged gasping intimation. My upper back archway, thrusting my breasts into the air. My neck Robert F. Curl with my head word craning back against the headboard, my eyes shut pie-eyed. Both hands grasp the vibrating shaft, one hand over the other as if two are necessary to ensure it, to labor it dwelling completely. My nipples ache they are so taut and stimulated. My stomach contracts off and on as the intensity of the feelings grow from within me. With the shaft buried deep inside me, one hand shifts to finger my clit. The thumb and index finger grab the sensitive nub, they squeeze, twist, and press.

A sidesplitter flies from my back talk filling the room as my body … my soul, my being … rushing to an orgasm like none of my life.

"OH GOD … OH GOD … OH YEESSSSSS !"

My skin crawling with a smell so vivid I can't halt shivering, quaking. It is decent there. I am at the crest of the most tremendous, nigh powerful, near beat physical whiz ever felt ever. It has to be, it must be.

With one hand thrusting the shaft in and out of my drippage, sloppy pussy, the other clutches the end and twists it to in high spirits vibration. My mouthpiece gasps, then my breathing spell sticks in my throat as my head curls to my chest and my pelvic arch controversy up in a semi-crunch. My muscles ripple, tense, and ripple alternately.

With the vibrator pulsing inside, one hand moves to a breast and mamilla, the other to my button. My mamilla is tortured as is my clit. Leaving my nipple, I press a finger's breadth alongside the vibrator to add it inside my slit. I curl the finger and find the g-spot. The vibration of the shaft courses through the finger onto the sensitive g-spot which courses through me to my clit. It is all I can take.

"OHHHHH … FUCKKKKKKK !"It comes out in a scream of sudden press release as the most brawny orgasm crashes over me."Ahhhhhh, ohhhhh, huuuuuhhhhhh … yessssss … YESSSS !"

My shoulders crash back into the bed and pillows as my low-down back and rose hip arise off the bed. My metrical foot pressed into the bed, my consistence tense and pulsation 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 tremor and thrill, my breath coming in gasping panting. My fingerbreadth smooth down over my clit and kitty mouth. They are engorged, swollen and too sensitive to the touch. My hole is dripping and gaping open.

I fall back, peal over and pull in the top flat solid with me to cover into a fetal position. But as my breathing slowly calms and I am certain my fondness isn't stopping and I am squeezed into a protective ball under the cover of the sheet, I sigh with satisfaction and contentment. I have never released myself so much. It was wonderful.

The sea pushover gently wafted into the room through the out-of-doors French door from the balcony and felt like soft smooching over my sweat-sheened raw cutis as I lay still gasping for breathing time and reveling in the best erotic joy I've allowed myself in … forever. I uncurl myself and lay on my back, one hand softly fondling my breast with the other gently stroking my slippery pussy sass. The expiation and fulfilment I felt was joined with sufficiency weariness that I could easily fall into sleep. But there was something about the house that seemed to exude an vigour I never experienced in the condo, a feeling or sense of being watched that spread a layer of exhibitionism over the top of the very material orgasmic experience. It was silly, of class, because I was definitely alone.

I opened my legs as my eyes closed and my finger's breadth again moved deliberately along and into my wet kitty, my pollex glancing off my throbbing, engorged clit. I felt very much like I was splayed before a lover as I masturbated for his middle to entice him to hardness, again. My tenderness began beating faster, two fingers now buried trench in my slit, the other handwriting rolling a mamilla between thumb and index. I gasped as my arousal again surged and I opened my middle with solely scratch, peering down along my consistency to the foot of the bed, almost expecting to see my unknown lover standing there, stroking his hard pecker, his optic riveted on my expose trunk as I brazenly showed him my arousal and desire.

He wasn't there … of course.

I sighed, reached for my wine and found it empty. I sighed, again. I could turn into the bed for sopor but … that energy had a hold of me. I still felt watched though I knew nobody was here. No lover to anticipate more from. Not even any homes nearby for an accidental Peeping Tom to catch a glimpse of me. I sighed, yet again.

I swung my peg off the English of the bed, grabbed the wine-colored glass as I stood, and nakedly walked down to the kitchen for a third meth of wine-coloured. I took the glass out onto the front porch without the light on and sat on one of the professorship there. The sea was relatively restrained, the air again softly caressing my soundbox, the strait from the dark world were peaceable. My body and thinker ebbed with that peacefulness of the world.

I set the deoxyephedrine on the low board in the entry after closing and locking the room access, a now sappy habit engrained by coming from the big city.

As I started up the step, I felt that smell of the house secure than ever. I was being watched. I felt it but knew it was impossible. Unconsciously, at first, my walking responded as though there were someone to actually entice. My pelvic girdle swung and my measure were loyal, all to enticingly put a swing to my bum and a bounce to my white meat. At the top of the stair, the ignitor on the wall behind me flickered. As I moved down the hallway, I look over my shoulder. I know there was someone here with me, at the other end of the hall. I also know there isn't. But the opinion was much stronger this time.

My affection raced as I called out,"hullo ?"But there is no reception. 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 mental image. I am completely naked in my own mansion … entirely … and I think there is someone here with me. The idea is absurd, certainly a product of the wine and my erotic imaginings and arousal earlier. The light flickers more, the hall intermittently illuminated. The scary affair, though, is that this other somebody, this man, is somehow intermittent, too, lupus erythematosus human figure of speech than a disturbance in the air, a shadow that appears and then slice, a presence approaching. Yet, I do not stir, not a muscularity. I can't. It is as if I am frozen. Frozen with a mixture of sensations and chemical reaction from curiosity to fear to rejection … and arousal and renewed foreplay. Outrageously, I feel all this at the same metre. He, the image, is very much closer now. But I still don't movement. His gaze falls down my physical structure and I look down with him. I blush. My body is aroused. My nipples are again rock hard. I feel my cunt lubricating with new preparation. All this for an image that doesn't exist. It can't exist. There is an impression of a helping hand, it is rising with the medal out as if to suggest it is okay, don't be afraid. The range is of a man, vernal, but still a man. He is inglorious, I think. Yes, black. His wearing apparel are of an old flair, as if of several by generations. I see him but he isn't real … less substantial than real. The light behind him passes through like a silhouette. I can't breathe. His hired hand is still out in front line … to reassure me ? Or … does he intend to touch me ? Oh my God … my body quakes.

The young man … or trope … turns to calculate behind him down the G. Stanley Hall and agitate his head. I lean to follow his regard. When I turn my gaze back to him … he is gone.

* * * CHAPTER 2 will pursue * * * Thanks for reading .