CHAPTER 1: GATEWAY HOUSE

The real estate agent turns her signal on. We are traveling down a county road dozens of miles from the nearest small town that held her office. I find myself leaning forward against the seat belt in anticipate that we must be getting close but I can’t see where the next turn is among the trees ahead on either side of the narrow, paved road. From all reports, the property 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 face of the agent. Marge. Marge something. She’s about mid-50’s, pudgy (is that unkind?), hair dyed to eliminate any sign of grey, and dresses that too young for all that. She’s widowed. Ten years now, I think she said. She’s always smiling. Honest smiles, too, not fake. Not sales smiles. She’s also the town’s bookstore owner and self-designated town and region historian. 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 crawl that I saw it, a very narrow, two-track path leading into the woods. I looked from the narrow tract back to Marge in surprise. Her 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 half way across the country. The two-track was winding and rising through the trees. Soon, we came to a widening in the view, a small clearing amid the trees and rolled to a stop at a tall wrought-iron fence and gate.

Marge slipped the vehicle into park and her shoulders seemed to visibly sag and relax as if the narrow 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 wind ahead. The fence and gate were obviously very old but sill maintained. Above the gate was an arched structure of wrought-iron and a word … or name … ‘GATEWAY’. The listing had referred to the property as Gateway House. I knew the property was old, historic even, but the name hadn’t meant anything or caused much curiosity. Now, sitting here in front of the name, I wondered about it.

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

The house was perfect 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 house up to current code but maintaining the architectural styling and details of the original. The property sits on about ten acres along the Pacific Coast of Northern California. Thick woods hide the property from the small 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 area with a view of the ocean and a 50 foot steep drop to the rocky shore below. A crude foot path is just visible leading down to the shore. It must be high tide because I am told there is a small sand beach below at low tide.

The house is two stories with a large attic. The outside is yellow-tinted local brick and red clay tile on the roof. Six steps in front lead to a huge wrap-around covered porch detailed with slender dual columns around the front and sides. The main floor has all the style of a grand home from that time period: impressive entryway; large living room with a massive fire place; formal dining room with built-in hutches; a library with built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves on two walls; and, a massive kitchen (modernized) with dinette and walk-in storage. A door off the kitchen leads down to what was originally a root cellar. The second floor are bedrooms and baths, three bedrooms and two large baths, and a room in one corner that would be ideal for my 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 design?), it would get wonderful morning light and a peaceful view of the countryside. The largest bedroom in back 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 little balcony where I can envision a chaise lounge to greet the morning and to watch sunsets. “Honestly, Marge … what’s wrong with it?”

“Wrong?”

“When I first came across this listing, I anticipated a property needing years 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 nothing, the other admitted to having to be nit-picky to find even the two measly issues 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 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 provide the old listing information.” It was quiet for longer than I expected for her only 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 nervous smile. “You’re right, of course. I’d love to list this for what it’s worth, but I would also love to see it owned by someone who will treasure it, also. I agreed to show it to you and I’ll take any offer you want to offer back to the owner. It’s a treasure 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 question. “Structurally, mechanically, nothing is wrong. It’s a solid house on a wonderful property. Plumbing, heating, electrical, structural … everything. But …” She sighed as if seeing another potential 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 small? People who might afford what this place is worth want a lot more options available to them. Remote near a resort town is one thing but remote near a tiny town that offers dining as a corner café is very much another thing. Also … you know of the talk …”

“That’s its haunted?”

She nods. “Let’s be honest … people will intellectually reject the idea as silly superstition. But, put them in an old house 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 thump with expansion and heating kicking in. Yes, this is built with bricks but that is the outside. Inside is old 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. “Superstition, Lexy. Over the years, several buyers have spent some nights here. The owner returned their money.”

“Are you saying they saw ghosts?”

She laughed. “Yes … NO … Their minds imagined all sorts of things 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 doors or windows were opened or closed. They just heard things and their minds … 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 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 small town was a big change from Chicago but with the internet 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 soul and heart and that was the source of my failure in the last few novels. I needed a change … I needed a big change.

* * * *

I bought the house and moved before the sale of my Chicago downtown condo was finalized. It probably had the appearance 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 porn but they are hugely popular … or had been. Many romance novelists don’t use their real name 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 agent and publisher were hopeful this change might be a catalyst to snap me back to something new and exciting.

It took me several weeks to fully move 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 country, was only too happy to part with everything, finally. It took almost no time to emotionally and psychologically recognize the relief settle over me. The quiet, the views, the peace of the property. 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 windows, over the small balcony, or across the expansive porch. It was too early to see any results reflected in my writing but my time was more energetically and enthusiastically part of my day, again.

My time in the big city, especially one like Chicago, had engrained a compulsion 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 access even as remotely located as it was.

The sounds of the house that Marge had talked about scaring away other buyers didn’t bother me much after a few days and nights. That was probably the conditioning I experienced from the many times my family visited my grandparents homestead in rural Iowa. The house and barn were both real creekers and groaned with expansion and contraction in weather changes. That experience actually had the effect of making this house real and alive 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 house with its peaceful solitude, two of my enjoyable vices also awakened: good wine, which was plentiful regionally with both small and larger wineries; and my toys. I am a 47 year old divorcee. Almost a cliché for an image of a romance novelist, especially when you consider that I was left for a much younger option. I was working at a small newspaper at the time. For a few years, it was absolutely devastating. I thought we had a good sex life. But eventually, his interest seemed to wane so I researched … in other words Googled sex forums … for ideas to entice 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 home with a variety of excuses for not having interest 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, 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 career aspirations of writing so he could move up in his career. What I call my ‘idiot years’ at the end of the marriage 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 satisfying 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 ride any available man, I won’t stoop to being a man’s toy or object), I have a closet full of erotic outfits 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 mind has become a chamber of eroticism in the 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 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 floor length night gowns while roaming the house 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 buildings 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 yard. The impulses are real and it has the desired effect of spiking my writing anew.

Recent novels have had me experimenting with new character images as my own frustrations have clouded my own desires. Being here, in this house, I am returning to my own image 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 writing 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 support 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 loose-fitting t-shirts and shorts or light dresses. I feel an energy in the house that I accept and yield to. When my fingers aren’t occupied by the keyboard or some other activity, I frequently find them touching myself. Hence, the loose clothing and no underwear. I have decided to support the small town in unique ways. 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 establish a line of clothing 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 body is still fairly tight. My hazel eyes are clear and bright and my brown hair has a hint of red. My hair is its natural color, as you could see (if you ever did) the thin line of pubic hair above my pussy. It is naturally wavy and kept styled long. Dressed only in a floor-length sheer gown that tied together below my breasts I moved comfortably through the house with a glass of wine. I step out onto the front porch feeling brazen knowing the light near the door would shine through the fabric 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 feel of exhibitionism. Being outside, nearly naked, looking up at the stars in the very black 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 enthusiasm 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 bedroom. As I ascended the stairs, I used my free hand to pull the bow holding the gown somewhat together despite it separating with each step. As the gown flowed behind me, now that it was opened, my hand eagerly cupped my right breast and a delightful shiver of anticipation coursed through my body. I pulled back the covers after setting the wine on the bedside table before moving to and opening the bottom dresser drawer to display my array of toys to choose from. I slipped the gown off my shoulders 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 shadows from the billowing curtains and my image in the large vanity mirror at the end of the bed. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? The moonlight is perfect tonight perhaps. Now that I notice it, I can’t take my eyes away from it, from the image of it, the image of me naked, my fingers and hands moving.

I stare at my reflection. I watch my right hand move over to my left breast. I cup it gently. I run my fingers lightly around the underside 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 someone 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 erotic woman who senses she might be watched but decides to continue unabashedly with her display. 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 touch to cover my entire left breast. A wonderful tingle flows through my body as my nipple is rubbed by the palm of my hand. I lightly squeeze my breast, leaving the nipple exposed in the space between my thumb and forefinger. I can see the hard, erect nub of my nipple exposed, fully aroused by the touching.

The nipple 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 body. My thighs 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 sensitive to manipulation, I bring my hand to my mouth, briefly suck on the index and middle fingers, and return it to my breast, depositing saliva 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 other nipple. I watch the small of my back arch up as the feeling course through my body from my nipples. And, my eyes. God … how erotic … the visual … watching this woman’s blatant stimulation 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 time for more. My eyes fixed on the mirror, my image in the mirror, I part first my right leg, then my left. My right hand leaves my breast and slides 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, soft light of the full moon I can see the wetness on my lips. They seem to open to my light touch as an eager response to my needy stimulation. The sight is so extremely erotic.

I use my index and middle fingers to spread my pussy lips. I can see the fully exposed nub of my clitoris and the opening of my pussy. My eyes shift in the mirror from the lewdness of my exposed pussy to my own eyes. A powerful shiver runs through me as I softly beseech, “See my pussy … my cunt … see my need, my arousal, my hunger … watch me … take me … use me however you want …”

I watch my middle finger 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 hand are pressed against me. I twist it, I curl it, I feel the ripples of tissue inside. I move the finger in and out, knowing this first action will produce more lubricant. I slip another finger inside to join the first. Both slide in and out. I part the fingers inside, sliding the fingers along both side of my pussy as I pull them back out.

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

I pull my fingers from my pussy. They are coated with the clear, slick fluid of my pussy. I pull the fingers along my body and between my heaving breasts to my mouth, my other lips. I coat my lips like a fresh application of lip gloss. 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 minutes, my thumb bumping against my clit, my arousal instantly spiking. Again, I pull my fingers out but this time bringing them directly to my open mouth. I watch the fingers enter my mouth, the lips close around them, and my cheeks hollow as I suck the slickness 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 rise and fall. A light sheen has formed on my body 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 shadow passes by the foot of the bed, the mirror becoming fussy for a moment. It is nothing, just a shadow, a movement 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 image. It is clear, again. I leer at my image 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 caress my breasts while the other returns to my glistening pussy. My eyes flick between the fingers rolling, pinching, and twisting a nipple to the index and middle fingers disappearing between my pussy lips, my thumb rubbing my clitoris. The action, and the image, quickly sends me to a higher level of arousal, closer to the ecstasy I desire.

My need heightened higher, my hand leaves my nipple and breast to join my hand between my legs. As if one hand encourages the other, it presses it harder and deeper into my pussy. A third finger folds into my pussy while the second the hand retreats slightly to my clitoris, the swollen, engorged nub occasionally visible as my fingers move in and out. Faster and faster my fingers slide in and out of my slick and drooling hole. Faster and faster the fingers 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 coating of lubrication to my very stimulated and sensitive clit.

My orgasm is fast approaching. It is close. My body tenses. My back arches as I feel my body filled with the electric tingle of nerve endings firing. My mouth opens without sound. My tongue comes out to wet my lips as I pant and gasp. My knees rise and my feet press into the bedding as my hips rise from the surface as if they could encourage my fingers more. I have a fleeting glimpse of my lewd display a milli-second before my eyes roll up and my lids close. My three fingers are buried deep in my pussy as they drive in and out, lewdly and obscenely making a squishing sound through my over-wet hole. I curl the middle finger and probe, searching for that spot, that wonder spot until … OH GOD, YESSSSSSS … I hit my g-spot as my other hand mauls the clitoris on the outside. The ultra-sensitive nubs, inside and outside, bouncing electric shocks back and forth until they crash in an explosion that almost cripples me.

For a moment, I feel that way … crippled … unable to move, to breath, to think. My hand is nearly buried in my pussy with my back arched and hips raised. My body shakes and trembles. Seconds seem like an eternity, a magnificent, wonderful, glorious, astonishing moment that held no earthly bounds.

When my breath came back with a gasp, my body crashed to the bed spent and fulfilled. My hand came out of my pussy and my other hand releases my poor, abused clit. I brought both up to my lips, my other lips, and again took in my scent and taste my orgasm.

My empty 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 breasts and parted legs, I see my image looking back. The image becomes blurred … again … as a deep shadow 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 words. 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 house with lights 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 fills my eyes. I gaze at her in the mirror. She taunts me, again. And I am so willing. As if I really do have a witness, a voyeur, an audience. My pussy is shiny 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 passes before the mirror and for an instant my image 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 sexy, 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 arousal escalates. The taunting, the teasing, the blatant display. My mind tricking me with my image and thoughts as if it is someone else is here with me. “Okay … you want to let it go and be the slut? You want to let the slut out? Not enough to use my fingers; 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 suck in a gasp of air before sliding it down my body to my clit. My back arches as the vibrations shock the engorged, extremely sensitive button. I stare at the mirror, at me. Is it fuzzy because of a shadow or my surging, resurrected lust? “Okay, slut … not enough to finger yourself to a release, anymore? You need more? You want to be 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 problem? This thing inside me needing release and holding me back, clouding my work?

God … I can smell the scent of sex in the air, an aroma like a faint perfume mix of musky arousal and light sweat. It wafts over me with the light breeze through the balcony door. The vibrator glides over my glistening, open pussy lips. My image in the mirror smiles at me. I turn the vibrator at my hole and it sinks inside. My eyes, my mirror image’s eyes, are sagging in lust but the smile on her face 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 hole 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 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 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 eyes 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 hole and cry out. I stare at my image 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 much if you release. Don’t hold back timidly; don’t settle for partial experience. Release. Experience. Feel. Accept everything. My eyes 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 mouth and suck my arousal, my juice, off the buzzing surface. It tastes good. The taste excites me further. My scent is on it and it is good, too.

I feel a change. I become deliberately undeliberate. I don’t want to rush to a climax with proven manipulation only to cover-up and go to sleep. I want to experience. I want to explore. I want to experiment. I want to feel. I want to experience. I want sensations to lead me, to guide me.

I bring the vibrating, buzzing shaft to my right nipple. I just hold it there, not pressing, not urgent. The vibration tingles. Electric impulses increase and flash through me. I shift it to my left nipple as my free fingers roll and tease the excited one. I gasp and moan. My tongue comes out to lick my lips which have already become dry from heavier breathing. I softly, gently swirl the buzzing shaft around my breast, then the other, then between them and down to my stomach. I slow its travel to a crawl. My stomach muscles contract with tension of anticipation. As the shaft comes to my belly button, my pelvis involuntarily rotates down as if nervous about the approaching stimulation. A smile forms on my lips. Slow and easy. A gentle building that almost seems to be too much in anticipation. The shaft reaches my mound and my lower back curls down to bring my pelvis up, now in welcoming anticipation of contact.

My eyes slit open. I look between my heaving breasts and spread thighs with the vibrator poised at my mound as a shiver 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 head sound like mine? Maybe to sound more erotic, more enticing to me?

The vibrator slides over my mound, just above my clit. I suck in a breath, then slide the end onto my clit and press 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 lips, tilt the shaft so the end glides along my slit, parting my lips 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 sound as a shiver ripples my body.

I feel the pleasure building, skyrocketing. Little moaning sounds escape my mouth between ragged gasping breaths. My upper back arches, thrusting my breasts into the air. My neck curls with my head craning back against the headboard, my eyes shut tight. Both hands grasp the vibrating shaft, one hand over the other as if two are necessary to secure it, to drive it home 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 forefinger grab the sensitive nub, they squeeze, twist, and press.

A scream flies from my mouth filling the room as my body … my soul, my being … rushes 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 crest of the most wondrous, most powerful, most amazing physical sensation ever felt ever. It has to be, it must be.

With one hand thrusting the shaft in and out of my dripping, sloppy pussy, the other grasps the end and twists it to highest vibration. My mouth gasps, then my breath sticks in my throat as my head curls to my chest and my pelvis tilts up in a semi-crunch. My muscles ripple, tense, and ripple alternately.

With the vibrator pulsing inside, one hand 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 pussy. 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 release as the most powerful orgasm crashes over me. “Ahhhhhh, ohhhhh, huuuuuhhhhhh … yessssss … YESSSS!”

My shoulders crash back into the bed and pillows as my lower back and hips rise off the bed. My feet pressed into the bed, my body 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 breath coming in gasping panting. My fingers smooth down over my clit and pussy lips. They are engorged, swollen and too sensitive to the touch. My hole is dripping and gaping open.

I fall back, roll over and pull 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 sheet, I sigh with satisfaction and contentment. I have never released myself so much. It was wonderful.

The ocean breeze gently wafted into the room through the open French door 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 best erotic pleasure 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 lips. The satisfaction and fulfillment I felt was joined with enough fatigue that I could easily fall into sleep. But there was something about the house that seemed to exude an energy 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 real orgasmic experience. It was silly, of course, because I was definitely alone.

I opened my legs as my eyes closed and my fingers again moved deliberately along and into my wet pussy, my thumb glancing off my throbbing, engorged clit. I felt very much like I was splayed before a lover as I masturbated for his eyes to entice him to hardness, again. My heart began beating faster, two fingers now buried deep in my pussy, the other hand rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger. I gasped as my arousal again surged and I opened my eyes with only slits, peering down along my body to the foot of the bed, almost expecting to see my unknown lover standing there, stroking his hard cock, his eyes riveted on my displayed body 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 sleep 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 voyeur to catch a glimpse of me. I sighed, yet again.

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, grabbed the wine glass as I stood, and nakedly walked down to the kitchen for a third glass of wine. I took the glass out onto the front porch without the light on and sat on one of the chairs there. The ocean was relatively quiet, the breeze again softly caressing my body, the sounds from the dark world were peaceful. My body and mind ebbed with that peacefulness of the world.

I set the glass on the small table in the entry after closing 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 stronger than ever. I was being watched. I felt it but knew it was impossible. Unconsciously, at first, my walk responded as though there were someone to actually entice. My hips swung and my steps were firm, all to enticingly put a swing to my butt and a bounce to my breasts. At the top of the stairs, the light 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 feeling was much stronger this time.

My heart raced as I called out, “Hello?” But there is no response. 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 house … alone … 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 thing, 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 fades, a presence approaching. Yet, I do not budge, not a muscle. I can’t. It is as if I am frozen. Frozen with a mixture of sensations and reactions from curiosity to fear to rejection … and stimulation and renewed arousal. Outrageously, I feel all this at the same time. He, the image, is very much closer 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 hard. I feel my pussy lubricating with new readiness. All this for an image that doesn’t exist. It can’t exist. There is an impression of a hand, it is rising with the palm out as if to indicate it is okay, don’t be afraid. The image is of a man, young, but still a man. He is black, I think. Yes, black. His clothes are of an old style, as if of several past 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 hand is still out in front … to reassure me? Or … does he intend to touch me? Oh my God … my body quakes.

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

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

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