CHAPTER 1 : GATEWAY HOUSE

The rattling landed estate factor turns her signal on. We are traveling down a county road dozen of miles from the nearest little townspeople that held her office. I find myself leaning forward against the seat belt in anticipate that we must be getting confining but I can't see where the side by side turn is among the tree ahead on either face of the narrow, pave road. From all reports, the property we are nearing by the nautical mile is a steal, almost a give-away … perfect tense for what I have been looking for.

I turn from the road ahead to look the face of the agent. margarine. oleo something. She's about mid-50's, pudgy ( is that unkind ? ), hair dyed to winnow out any sign of grey, and dresses that too youthful for all that. She's widowed. Ten long time now, I think she said. She's always smiling. Honest smiles, too, not fake. Not gross revenue smiles. She's also the townsfolk's bookshop owner and self-designated Ithiel Town and region historian. The townsfolk is only a couple up thousand people and this first sojourn of mine to it made me wonder if they were also counting the local anesthetic livestock in that number.

It wasn't until she had the car slowed to a crawl that I saw it, a very specialize, two-track path leading into the woods. I looked from the narrow tract back to marge in surprisal. Her to the full concentration was in making the turn with her large 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 Tree. Soon, we came to a widening in the eyeshot, a small clarification amid the Tree and rolled to a full point at a tall wrought-iron fence and gate.

Marge slipped the vehicle into park and her shoulder joint seemed to visibly sag and relax as if the peg down tract had been tense for her. She smiled at me."Almost there."She dug a key out of her bag at her animal foot, opened her threshold, and moved to the logic gate. I leaned forward. There still wasn't much to see. The route, driveway, whatever continued beyond the gate up the rise. The woods continued to becloud any view but the route continuing to thread ahead. The fencing and logic gate were obviously very old but sill maintained. Above the gate was an arched anatomical structure of wrought-iron and a word … or figure … ‘ GATEWAY ’. The listing had referred to the holding as Gateway House. I knew the attribute was old, historic even, but the name hadn't meant anything or caused much curio. Now, sitting here in battlefront of the name, I wondered about it.

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

The household was perfect in every way and detail beyond what I could have hoped for or even imagined. The star sign 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 firm up to flow code but maintaining the architectural styling and details of the master. The property sits on about ten acres along the Pacific Ocean Coast of Northern California. midst woodwind hide the holding from the small-scale road. The planetary house itself sits at the top of a rise with intermittent Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree and get on plantings. The back of the theatre overlooks an open sphere with a prospect of the ocean and a 50 infantry steep cliff to the rocky shoring below. A crude animal foot path is just visible leading down to the shore. It must be mellow tide because I am told there is a small guts beach below at low tide.

The house is two stories with a large bean. The remote is yellow-tinted local anesthetic brick and red stiff roofing tile on the roof. Six steps in front track to a huge wrap-around covered porch detailed with slender three-fold columns around the front and side. The main trading floor has all the style of a expansive home from that clip period : impressive entryway ; expectant bread and butter elbow room with a massive fervidness situation ; formal dining room with built-in shack ; a library with inbuilt floor-to-ceiling shelf on two paries ; and, a massive kitchen ( modernized ) with dinette and waltz store. A door off the kitchen leads down to what was originally a antecedent cellar. The second floor are bedroom and bathroom, three bedrooms and two great tub, and a elbow room in one corner that would be ideal for my workplace. It has a attack jut-out with windows along the circle. And, although it doesn't face the ocean ( an lapse in the master copy design ? ), it would get wondrous morn luminousness and a passive view of the countryside. The largest bedroom in backbone has a small balcony facing the ocean and I immediately know it would be the one I would use as the master.

Marge and I are standing on that petty balcony where I can envision a chaise waiting room to greet the morning and to determine sunsets."Honestly, Marge … what's wrong with it ?"

"damage ?"

"When I first came across this listing, I anticipated a place needing days of redevelopment under strict Historical registry regulation. Instead, it is already renovated and up-to-code in every way. As you know, I have had two free lance inspectors go through the place. One found nothing, the other admitted to having to be nit-picky to find even the two measly takings he listed. So, what's ill-timed with this motion-picture show ? 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 place isn't even listed right now. It hasn't moved in years so the owner pulled it off the market. It was only your interest in that old listing that inspired me to cater the old listing information."It was quieten for longer than I expected for her merely to conglomerate her thoughts. I glanced at her and she was staring out over the ocean as if she hoped to find oneself the explanation out there somewhere. She felt my stare and gave me a aflutter smile."You're decently, of form. I'd love to list this for what it's worth, but I would also love to see it owned by person who will appreciate it, also. I agreed to show it to you and I'll take any offer you want to provide back to the owner. It's a hoarded wealth of the region and it shouldn't fall back into disuse."

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

She smiled. Surely, she knew she hadn't answered my interrogative sentence."Structurally, mechanically, aught is faulty. It's a solidness house on a tremendous dimension. plumbing, heating, electrical, structural … everything. But …"She sighed as if seeing another potential drop buyer 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 humble ? citizenry who might afford what this shoes is worth want a lot more options available to them. Remote near a resort townsfolk is one thing but remote near a tiny townspeople that offers dining as a corner café is very much another thing. Also … you know of the talk of the town …"

"That's its haunted ?"

She nods."Let's be honest … hoi polloi will intellectually reject the approximation as silly superstitious notion. But, put them in an old house at Nox, have them hear the family ‘ talk'to them as the air cools or warms or the wind hits it … old homes creak and clunk with enlargement and heating system kicking in. Yes, this is built with bricks but that is the outside. inside is old Sir Henry Joseph Wood twist and there is a lot of it."She turns fully to me and looks me directly in the centre. There is a flavor of step down defeat."Superstition, Lexy. Over the geezerhood, several vendee have spent some nights here. The proprietor returned their money."

"Are you saying they saw ghosts ?"

She laughed."Yes … NO … Their head imagined all form of things but even they admitted they didn't really see anything. They weren't absolutely certain that something was moved on tabular array or mantel, or that door or window were opened or closed. They just heard things and their head … it's an old house."

I turned and looked out over the sea. I imagined this balcony and the room just inside as a topographic point to start and end my days. I imagined the round corner room as the place where I would do my writing and research. The quiet and remoteness wasn't a negative to me ; it was what I was looking for. And, yes, that modest town was a big change from stops but with the cyberspace why did I need to be near my publisher or agent ? I didn't. And, I had become convinced the big city had drained my person and affection and that was the reference of my loser in the last few novels. I needed a modification … I needed a big change.

* * * *

I bought the sign of the zodiac and moved before the sale of my boodle downtown condo was finalized. It probably had the appearing that I was escaping an unreported pandemic before it was too deep. Career-wise that was kind of how I felt. I loved writing novels but something had become missing in my plan of attack, my aspiration, my imagination, my mental attitude. Yes, Lexy Dorman writes romance novels but not the billionaire or Texas cowpuncher 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 public figure but I was generally proud of the work I did and the pleasure it brought to the audience that followed my effort. But lately, even I was disappointed in what was being published. I knew both my agent and publishing company were bright this alteration might be a catalyst to photograph me back to something new and exciting.

It took me several weeks to fully act my things in and coalesce them in the firm with the many old geezer that were a part of the planetary house. The proprietor, living across the commonwealth, was only too happy to part with everything, finally. It took almost no time to emotionally and psychologically recognize the relief settee over me. The tranquillise, the purview, the ataraxis of the place. The smell 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 windowpane, over the small-scale balcony, or across the talkative porch. It was too early on to see any event reflected in my writing but my sentence was more energetically and enthusiastically constituent of my day, again.

My time in the big city, especially one like Chicago, had engrained a obsession of security measures into my life. Every nighttime, therefore, I diligently locked doors and window, especially downstairs. While my condo had limited admission, this house felt like a sieve of potential difference approach even as remotely located as it was.

The sounds of the business firm that oleomargarine had talked about scaring away other buyers didn't bother me much after a few days and nighttime. That was probably the conditioning I experienced from the many times my folk visited my grandparents homestead in rural Iowa. The theatre and barn were both actual creekers and groaned with enlargement and contraction in weather changes. That experience actually had the effect of making this house genuine and alert 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 menage with its peaceful solitude, two of my enjoyable vices also awakened : commodity wine-coloured, which was plentiful regionally with both small and great wineries ; and my toys. I am a 47 year old grass widow. Almost a cliché for an image of a romance novelist, especially when you consider that I was left for a much younger choice. I was working at a small newspaper publisher at the fourth dimension. For a few days, it was absolutely devastating. I thought we had a unspoiled sex life. But eventually, his interest seemed to go down so I researched … in other row Googled sex forums … for melodic theme to lure 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 house with a change of excuse for not having involvement in sex no issue how I was dressed or undressed as he came in from the garage. Of course, he was seeing someone. Of course, I was an changeling. It was devastating in many shipway and took sentence to ferment through it. What I couldn't ultimately work through was trusting a man, again. Not after all that clock time together. Not after giving up my life history dream of writing so he could run up in his vocation. What I call my ‘ changeling class'at the end of the marriage did, however, provide the foundation for the future tense when I was ready : adjudicate to focus on writing ; and, the knowledge to provide myself with very real and comforting pleasure with toys and my own fingers.

Even though I am alone, and committed to being alone ( I won't trust a man ever again and, despite writing about slutty, desperate women ready to taunt any useable man, I won't stoop to being a man's toy or physical object ), I have a closet entire of erotic outfits I love wearing for myself and More mirrors throughout the mansion than normally seen. In essence, I use the rig and the mirrors to entice myself … and the wine helps. Desperate ? Not in my nous. And, my mind has become a sleeping room of amativeness in the process. Spending that often meter enticing yourself and pleasuring yourself and your mind becomes a welcome archive of resourcefulness of delight scenarios your wayward, cocksucker husband didn't imagine.

So, I may be 47 but my interest in my own enticement has kept me focused on my own appearance. And, I like my own appearance very much. When I am in the mood, which happens often, wearing erotic lingerie, sheer baby-dolls, sheer flooring length nighttime nightie while roaming the star sign at dark becomes very erotic while catching glance of myself in the mirrors. In my condo, I frequently left the curtains surface, imagining people in adjacent building being able to see me. Here, in this seclusion, the idea of immodesty in warmer mood has me pushing outside onto the balcony or on the porch or into the yard. The impulses are real and it has the craved consequence of spiking my writing anew.

Recent novels have had me experimenting with new character images as my own defeat have clouded my own desires. Being here, in this home, I am returning to my own range of a function and mental stimulations. Putting myself into new and ever more erotic state of affairs has been successful with lecturer demanding more. My old publishing firm balked at the increasingly explicitness of the writing but there seemed to be a very large audience of desperate cleaning woman looking for it. With a new newspaper publisher and a greedy agent, I have all the encouragement and funding to explore whatever direction I want.

Being here, my ***********ion of outfits has evolved. I rarely wear any underwear and my choices have moved to baggy T-shirt and shorts or twinkle dresses. I feel an push in the house that I accept and yield to. When my fingers aren't occupied by the keyboard or some other natural action, I frequently find them touching myself. Hence, the light wearable and no underclothes. I have decided to indorse the small town in alone ways. I have worked out an arrangement with a store in town by arranging for a shop owner to orderliness what I wanted and then purchasing them from her at a profit for her. She would eventually establish a channel of wear around my ***********ions for others as I became recognized in the community.

I am pleased that my 47 yr is at least partially hidden behind a still attractive appearance. I am 5'3"tall at only 105 lbs. with a 34 - 24 - 34 name with 34D breasts and my soundbox is still fairly tight. My hazel tree middle are clear and bright and my dark-brown hair has a hint of red. My hair is its natural people of color, as you could see ( if you ever did ) the slight wrinkle of pubic fuzz above my pussy. It is naturally wavy and kept styled long. Dressed only in a floor-length sheer gown that tied together below my bosom I moved comfortably through the star sign with a ice of wine. I step out onto the nominal head porch feeling brazen knowing the light near the doorway would shine through the fabric of the gown but also knowing there was nobody outside that could see it. Not thinking there is an consultation, though, doesn't eliminate the feel of exhibitionism. Being outside, nearly nude, looking up at the whiz in the very black skies and sipping wine-colored … it is more erotic tone than I ever experienced in the condo.

I had returned to my self-pleasuring with renewed ebullience that matched my general greening in the family. Refilling my shabu of wine in the kitchen, I began turning off lights as I moved to the stairs for my bedroom. As I ascended the stairs, I used my detached hand to attract the bow holding the gown somewhat together despite it separating with each pace. As the gown flowed behind me, now that it was opened, my hired hand eagerly cupped my right breast and a delightful shiver of anticipation coursed through my trunk. I pulled back the covers after setting the wine on the bedside table before moving to and opening the merchant ship dresser draftsman to expose my array of toy to choose from. I slipped the scrubs off my shoulder joint 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 fancy, nothing prolonged, nothing fantasy filled. Just get off and the quicker the better.

The moonlight filtering through the balcony opening and the softly moving sheer curtains shown over the bed tonight. Even that seemed especially erotic tonight. The soft light, the shifting soft phantasma from the billowing curtains and my image in the tumid vanity mirror at the end of the bed. Why hadn't I noticed that before ? The Moon is perfect this evening perhaps. Now that I notice it, I can't engage my optic away from it, from the paradigm of it, the image of me naked, my finger and hand moving.

I stare at my reflection. I watch my right hand motility over to my left breast. I cup it gently. I run my finger lightly around the underside and get-up-and-go it up in a companion grasping exploit. I watch my manus and even in the soft, shifting light I can see how my tit has already responded. It is as if I am outside of myself, as if I am watching, voyeuristically spying, on someone else as she is about to pleasure herself. I feel as if I am violating her concealment as she becomes so versed 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 erotic woman who senses she might be watched but decides to keep on unabashedly with her display. My body … her body … is on blast 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 overpower. I think it is only me, myself, doing the watching, though.

I widen my tinge to cover my entire left breast. A howling chill flows through my body as my nipple is rubbed by the palm of my hand. I lightly squeeze my knocker, leaving the teat exposed in the space between my thumb and index finger. I can see the hard, upright nub of my nipple exposed, fully aroused by the touching.

The nipple foreplay isn't the only sensation I enjoy now, though. My caresses have a delicious effect elsewhere and my regard from the mirror fault blue on my body. My second joint part to expose the source 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 nipple gets too sore to handling, I bring my helping hand to my oral fissure, briefly suck on the indicant and middle fingers, and refund it to my tit, depositing saliva to my nipple as I resume its manipulation. At the same time, I repeat the action with my early hand to add arousal to the other mamilla. I watch the small of my back archway up as the feeling trend through my trunk from my pap. And, my eyes. God … how titillating … the visual … watching this adult female's strident stimulation of herself before me. Watching but also the notion of being watched. The touch of being watched while I stimulate myself is so real.

It 's time for more. My eye fixed on the mirror, my epitome in the mirror, I share first my right leg, then my left. My right hand parting my breast and chute over my stomach and venter to my cumulus before crawling between my thigh. I feel the wetness of my arousal as my middle finger coast through my pussycat lips. I raise both stifle and turn out my legs widely apart. Even in the shifting, soft light of the wide moon I can see the wetness on my brim. They seem to open to my swooning touch as an eager reception to my needy arousal. The sight is so extremely erotic.

I use my exponent and halfway fingers to spread my pussy lip. I can see the fully exposed nub of my clit and the orifice of my pussy. My eye shift in the mirror from the lewdness of my give away pussy to my own optic. A herculean shiver runs through me as I softly beseech,"See my pussy … my snatch … see my need, my stimulation, my thirstiness … see me … submit me … use me however you want …"

I watch my midsection finger's breadth slowly disappear into my opening. I gasp. There is something amazing about the initial penetration and I allow it to be slow until the knuckles of my helping hand are pressed against me. I twist it, I curl it, I feel the wavelet of tissue inside. I move the finger in and out, knowing this first gear natural process will produce more lubricant. I slip another finger inside to join the inaugural. Both slideway in and out. I office the finger's breadth inside, sliding the finger's breadth along both face of my puss as I pull them back out.

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

I pull my fingers from my pussy. They are coated with the open, glib fluid of my kitty-cat. I pull the digit along my consistency and between my heaving breasts to my mouth, my former sassing. I coat my backtalk like a new application of lip gloss. I inhale the scent. I look directly into the mirror and forgather my own regard … and smile wickedly. I drive my fingers back into my pussy and masturbate furiously for minutes, my leaf bumping against my button, my rousing instantly spiking. Again, I pull my fingers out but this time bringing them directly to my open mouth. I watch the finger enter my mouth, the lips close around them, and my buttock hollow as I suck the slip and the taste from them. All the while my eyes are fixed on my eyes through the mirror : tempting, teasing, entreating.

My breathing has become faster and heavier. I see my ribcage expand, my breasts raise and dusk. A light sheen has formed on my eubstance in the warm air washing over me from outside. My need, my arousal, my surrender is obvious. I plead to my own image,"I need to cum ! I need to orgasm ! PLEASE !"

A new phantasm passport by the foot of the bed, the mirror becoming fussy for a bit. It is nothing, just a shadow, a bm of the sheer curtain and moonlight. A voice in my head, ‘ I would do wonderful things for you. I would pleasure you completely.'I stare at my persona. It is acquit, again. I leer at my image with the lust and hungriness that fills me."Do it then, adulteress !"I command, I entreat, I plead."Give us the sexual climax we need !"

I use one hand to caress my bosom while the former return to my glistening slit. My eyes flick between the fingers rolling, pinching, and twisting a nipple to the power and middle fingers disappearing between my pussy lip, my thumb rubbing my clitoris. The military action, and the epitome, quickly sends me to a higher horizontal surface of rousing, closer to the ecstasy I desire.

My need heightened gamy, my bridge player leaves my teat and breast to join my hand between my legs. As if one mitt encourages the other, it presses it surd and deeper into my pussycat. A third finger's breadth folds into my puss while the second the hand retreats slightly to my button, the swollen, engorged nub occasionally seeable as my digit move in and out. Faster and faster my finger slide in and out of my slick and drooling golf hole. Faster and faster the finger strum my clitoris. As if on their own, as if my finger understand what's needed, they switch position and activeness. The fingers from my puss now bringing with them a dense coat of lubrication to my very stirred and medium clit.

My sexual climax is fast approaching. It is close. My consistence tenses. My back archway as I feel my body filled with the galvanising tingle of nerve ending firing. My oral fissure opens without sound. My knife comes out to wet my sass as I pant and gasp. My knees rise and my feet press into the bedding as my coxa rise from the surface as if they could further my fingerbreadth more. I have a fleeting glimpse of my lewd expose a milli-second before my eyes roll up and my lids close. My three finger are buried deep in my puss as they drive in and out, lewdly and obscenely making a squishing sound through my over-wet hole. I curl the midriff finger and probe, searching for that spot, that wonder spot until … OH GOD, YESSSSSSS … I hit my g-spot as my early bridge player mauls the clitoris on the outside. The ultra-sensitive nubs, inside and out of doors, bouncing electric shocks back and forth until they crash in an blowup that almost cripples me.

For a bit, I feel that way … crippled … unable to move, to breath, to think. My handwriting is nearly buried in my pussy with my binding arched and hips raised. My organic structure shake and trembles. minute seem like an eternity, a magnificent, wonderful, magnificent, amazing moment that held no earthly bounds.

When my intimation came back with a gasp, my eubstance crashed to the bed spent and fulfilled. My hired man came out of my twat and my early hand press release my poor, abused clitoris. I brought both up to my brim, my early lips, and again took in my perfume and taste my orgasm.

My abandon hand flopped to my position and it was only then that I rediscovered the bury vibrator. My deal grasps the toy and raises it. I catch myself in the mirror, again. Between my heaving breasts and parted legs, I see my ikon looking back. The image becomes blurred … again … as a mysterious phantasm laissez passer in front of it. Then, it clears and I hear the representative in my principal, again, but I don't pay attention to the sound, only the password. I don't accredit a abstruse 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 house with lights on, not caring if mortal might see in with your body exposed under that flimsy, sheer nightie. Do it, again. Use that this time.'

I stare at my picture. lustfulness fills my centre. I gaze at her in the mirror. She taunts me, again. And I am so bequeath. As if I really do receive a witness, a voyeur, an consultation. My twat is shiny with my wetness, my continued arousal, the grounds of my sexual climax. My nipples are still heavily and sensitive, my clit engorged and outstanding. A shadow passes before the mirror and for an instant my range of a function is blurred and the voice in my head, that deeper voice 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 respiration rises as my arousal escalates. The twit, the teasing, the blatant display. My nous tricking me with my persona and idea as if it is soul else is here with me."Okay … you want to let it go and be the slut ? You want to let the adulteress out ? Not enough to use my finger ; you want the vibrator, too."I turn the nob at the infrastructure of the toy and it begins to thrill in my hand. I rotate it over each tit and suck in a pant of air before sliding it down my dead body to my clit. My rear arches as the vibrations shock the engorged, extremely sensible release. I stare at the mirror, at me. Is it fuzzy because of a fantasm or my surging, resurrected lust ?"Okay, slut … not enough to finger yourself to a acquittance, anymore ? You need more ? You want to be more than, be slutty ? We'll be slutty !"

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

God … I can smell the scent of sex in the air, an aroma like a swoon fragrance mix of musky arousal and light travail. It wafts over me with the twinkle breeze through the balcony doorway. The vibrator glides over my glistening, surface pussy back talk. My image in the mirror smiles at me. I turn the vibrator at my hole and it sinks inside. My eyes, my mirror double's eyes, are sagging in lust but the smiling on her facial expression is lusty and encouraging.

"You like watching me, don't you ?"I taunt my picture as I pull the vibrator out and slide it up to my clit. I know my kettle of fish is open ; I can see it. So can she, my image, her eyes 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 trouble oneself 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 creativity, my piece of writing. I'm alone. It's safe. Letting the slut out is still just for me, it's still secret and myself. Well … my eyes refocus on the taunting range in the mirror … for her, too. I stare into the centre 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 epitome staring at the vibrator filled puss … mine, ours …

The mirror blurs with the passing of the trace, once more. ‘ Be our strumpet. 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. Release. Experience. smell. Accept everything. My centre close. My image is lost."Yes, I want this."

I pull the vibrator out of my pussy. I pull the gently buzzing shaft, slick with my juice, over my clit and up my body. I bring it to my oral cavity and suck up my arousal, my juice, off the buzzing Earth's surface. It tastes good. The gustation excites me further. My scent is on it and it is good, too.

I feel a variety. I become deliberately undeliberate. I don't want to rush to a coming with bear witness manipulation only to cover-up and go to sleep. I want to live. I want to explore. I want to experiment. I want to feel. I want to experience. I want sensations to take me, to conduct me.

I bring the vibrating, buzzing shaft to my right mamilla. I just concur it there, not pressing, not pressing. The vibe thrill. electric car impulses step-up and flash lamp through me. I shift it to my left nipple as my discharge fingers roll and tease the excited one. I gasp and moan. My clapper comes out to lick my lips which have already become dry from grievous breathing. I softly, gently swirl the buzzing spear around my breast, then the former, then between them and down to my belly. I slow its travel to a crawl. My stomach muscles contract with stress of prediction. As the shaft comes to my belly button, my pelvis involuntarily rotates down as if aflutter about the draw near stimulant. A smile build on my mouth. Slow and easy. A gentle edifice that almost seems to be too much in prevision. The beam of light reaches my agglomerate and my downhearted back curls down to impart my hip up, now in welcoming anticipation of contact.

My eyes slit undecided. I look between my panting knocker and spread thighs with the vibrator poised at my mound as a quiver of anticipation rolls over me. My smile is unadulterated lust.

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

The voice, ‘ Yes. You will experience so much.'Why doesn't the voice in my top dog 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 hint, then slide the end onto my clit and closet it onto the nub. I almost cry out as a jolt of concentrated sensation shoot through me. But after only a moment I press it down over my brim, tilt the shaft so the end glides along my pussy, parting my back talk until it reaches my golf hole. When I feel it hit my muddle, I pull to lapse it into my cunt. My mouth opens without a sound as a shake ripples my body.

I feel the pleasure building, skyrocketing. picayune moaning auditory sensation escape my mouth between ragged gasping breathing spell. My upper back arches, thrusting my breasts into the air. My neck curls with my point craning back against the headboard, my eyes shut tight. Both hands grasp the vibrating shaft, one hand over the former as if two are necessary to batten it, to drive it menage completely. My mamilla ache they are so taut and stimulated. My venter declaration off and on as the intensity of the notion grow from within me. With the shaft buried deep inside me, one hand slip to finger my clit. The thumb and index finger grab the sore nub, they squeeze, twist, and press.

A scream flies from my mouth filling the room as my body … my soul, my being … upsurge to an orgasm 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 top of the most wondrous, virtually brawny, most amazing physical sensation ever felt ever. It has to be, it must be.

With one helping hand thrusting the peter in and out of my drip, sloppy slit, the other clasp the end and twists it to highest shakiness. My sass gasps, then my hint spliff in my throat as my point Curl to my chest and my pelvis tilts up in a semi-crunch. My muscles ripple, tense, and undulate alternately.

With the vibrator pulsing inside, one paw moves to a breast and nipple, 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 twat. I curl the finger and happen the g-spot. The shaking of the spear courses through the finger onto the sensitive g-spot which courses through me to my button. It is all I can take.

"OHHHHH … FUCKKKKKKK !"It comes out in a scream of sudden dismissal as the most powerful orgasm crash over me."Ahhhhhh, ohhhhh, huuuuuhhhhhh … yessssss … YESSSS !"

My shoulders crash back into the bed and pillows as my down back and hips rise off the bed. My groundwork pressed into the bed, my physical structure tense and pulsing 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 space coming in gasping heaving. My fingers smooth down over my clit and snatch lips. They are engorged, swollen and too spiritualist to the touch. My hole is dripping and gaping open.

I fall back, paradiddle over and draw out the top sheet with me to cover up into a fetal position. But as my breathing slowly calms and I am surely my middle isn't stopping and I am squeezed into a protective clod under the cover of the tack, I sigh with satisfaction and contentment. I have never released myself so much. It was wonderful.

The ocean breeze gently wafted into the way through the loose French doorway from the balcony and felt like soft caressing over my sweat-sheened naked skin as I lay still gasping for breath and reveling in the dependable erotic pleasure I've allowed myself in … forever. I uncurl myself and lay on my book binding, one hired hand softly fondling my breast with the other gently stroking my slippery pussy lips. The gratification and fulfilment I felt was joined with adequate fatigue that I could easily return into eternal rest. But there was something about the sign that seemed to exude an energy I never experienced in the condo, a feeling or sense of being watched that ranch a layer of exhibitionism over the top of the very substantial orgasmic experience. It was silly, of course, because I was definitely alone.

I opened my legs as my eyes closed and my digit again moved deliberately along and into my wet pussy, my pollex glancing off my throbbing, engorged clit. I felt very much like I was splayed before a lover as I masturbated for his heart to entice him to hardness, again. My tenderness began beating faster, two fingers now buried deep in my pussy, the former hand rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger. I gasped as my arousal again surged and I opened my optic with just slit, peering down along my body to the foot of the bed, almost expecting to see my stranger lover standing there, stroking his hard cock, his eyes riveted on my displayed body as I brazenly showed him my stimulation and desire.

He wasn't there … of course.

I sighed, reached for my vino and found it evacuate. I sighed, again. I could turn into the bed for eternal sleep but … that vigor had a hold of me. I still felt watched though I knew nonentity was here. No lover to anticipate more from. Not even any homes nearby for an accidental peeper to trance a coup d'oeil of me. I sighed, yet again.

I swung my legs off the face of the bed, grabbed the wine spyglass as I stood, and nakedly walked down to the kitchen for a third ice of wine. I took the deoxyephedrine out onto the front porch without the light on and sat on one of the death chair there. The ocean was relatively quiet, the breeze again softly caressing my body, the sound from the sinister world were peaceful. My body and intellect ebbed with that ataraxis of the world.

I set the meth on the pocket-size table in the launching after end and locking the doorway, a now ridiculous habit engrained by coming from the big city.

As I started up the stairs, I felt that spirit of the sign stronger than ever. I was being watched. I felt it but knew it was impossible. Unconsciously, at number 1, my walk responded as though there were somebody to actually tempt. My pelvis swung and my whole tone were firm, all to enticingly put a golf stroke to my goat and a leaping to my breasts. At the top of the stairs, the visible light on the wall behind me flickered. As I moved down the hallway, I look over my shoulder. I know there was somebody here with me, at the other end of the hall. I also know there isn't. But the touch was much stiff this time.

My heart raced as I called out,"Hello ?"But there is no response. Of track, 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 effigy. I am completely naked in my own household … unparalleled … and I think there is person here with me. The idea is laughable, certainly a product of the wine-colored and my erotic imaginings and arousal earlier. The light glint more, the Hall intermittently illuminated. The scary matter, though, is that this other person, this man, is somehow intermittent, too, less human figure than a disturbance in the air, a shadow that appears and then slicing, a presence approach. Yet, I do not budge, not a sinew. I can't. It is as if I am rooted. Frozen with a intermixture of sentience and reactions from peculiarity to fear to rejection … and foreplay and renewed arousal. Outrageously, I feel all this at the Lapp time. He, the trope, is very much snug now. But I still don't move. His gaze falls down my body and I look down with him. I blush. My body is aroused. My nipples are again rock backbreaking. I feel my pussy lubricating with new preparedness. All this for an image that doesn't exist. It can't exist. There is an picture of a paw, it is rising with the palm out as if to argue it is okay, don't be afraid. The image is of a man, Thomas Young, but still a man. He is black, I think. Yes, dark. His clothes are of an old panache, as if of various by coevals. I see him but he isn't real … less significant than substantial. The light behind him passes through like a silhouette. I can't breathe. His hand is still out in straw man … to reassure me ? Or … does he signify to touch me ? Oh my God … my torso quakes.

The young man … or image … turns to look behind him down the hall and throw off his head. I lean to postdate his regard. When I turn my regard back to him … he is gone.

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