Feature Writer: Hal

Feature Title: The Haunting

Published: 15.04.2015 / Copyright© 2015 by HAL

Story Codes: Erotic Horror, MF, Magic, First, Anal

Synopsis: A woman tells the story of her experience of the haunted house her aunt lives in. It isn’t a horror story, more a girl finding herself.

 

The Haunting

Mum died when I was 11. I can’t say it was especially traumatic, just the normal, standard trauma of a young girl losing her mother. I lost about 6 months schooling and my weight see-sawed; unable to eat one month, unable to stop another. Things settled back down and I guess now I’m about the right weight, right height, right IQ, right everything. Little miss average (apart from having no mum). That’s largely down to Dad.

Dad was great, he was a high flier, no question. As soon as you met him you knew he was a good few IQ points higher than you; but not in an intimidating way. Most of my friends parents seemed to like him when we had parties. He could talk about “the match last night” (even though he rarely watched football) or England’s chances against India in the 3^rd Test now Ravi Balti SenCurry (or some such name – sorry I think cricket is up there with paint drying and French in the interest stakes) has been ruled fit to play. Or he could discuss the relevancy of transubstantiation as a block on the re-unification of Catholics and Anglicans with Rev. Joe – father of Bev, my bestest, bestest friend at 10. We drifted apart after Mum died, according to her since God must be right, it must be okay for her to die. All I knew was my mum was dead. I digress (I can do that).

Dad was away a lot before Mum died; we’d get postcards from Singapore or Denver. Usually after he’d got back already and we’d laugh about it. He sold or developed or demonstrated software, I never really understood what it was he did but he loved it and it apparently loved him. He was going places. Then Mum died. He changed jobs to a desk job, was home at 5:30 almost every day, came to the parents’ evenings, the school concerts, even my last sports day before I left Joseph Conrad Primary. He cooked cakes for the Christmas Party and helped out at the Summer Fair. My girlfriends all said that their mums said he was great for being so involved and supportive and stuff. I was proud of my dad, he was there for me and I got through it all with not too many hangups and only one visit to the Head for smoking; and yes it was behind the bike sheds; which was stupid because the staffroom overlooked them and they must have seen the smoke even if we were too small to be seen where we were. And I didn’t tell on my friends, I was let off with a caution because of “well, we know it’s been tough but we’ll have to write to your parents … I mean your father”.

Dad read it, laughed and said “don’t be so stupid, if you’re going to waste your money at least buy something that makes you high, not sick”. He could have gone crazy and shouted at me – Mum died of lung cancer (I called it lunch cancer for a long time, how embarrassing THAT was) – but he didn’t, he knew that would be more likely to make me do it again. I heard him crying later that night. I’ve never smoked, or taken any other drugs since. I’ve only been drunk twice. Why waste a load of money producing vomit?

He must have taken a drop in salary, a big drop. We didn’t go to The Seychelles or Bahamas anymore, but we went away every summer. Sailing on the Norfolk Broads on a wooden boat that didn’t like changing direction; or camping in Scotland. Roughing it, cold sometimes. And we got to know each other. And one year I asked about something to do with sex or babies. I knew the basics, that got done in school and again with my friends in more lurid (and inaccurate) detail. But, I can’t remember what it was, I saw him take a breath and then we talked. Like it was the most natural thing for a Dad to talk to his daughter about periods and contraception and, yes, even about the different ‘bases’ and what boys might want to do. I realized it was dangerous territory for him. “There be dragons” he’d say when we strayed off the normal tracks in Scotland; he was in among the dragons now. But I wanted to know, from an adult, not from a girlfriend who made up stuff about taking it in the mouth or wherever. And because he was so open I learnt a lot and made my own mind up. When a boy first tried to touch me up I knew what he was doing and I knew if I wanted to or not. This isn’t about that. So I’m not saying.

On my fifteenth birthday I reciprocated. I took a deep breath and told him that I could see he didn’t really enjoy the job, that he was better than it (the job) was and it was time to start getting back in the race. I could stay with friends for the odd night, they’d often said so, and their parents had said so too. Because he’d kept me on the rails I had good friends with kind parents and that paid off – even if he hadn’t done it for that it all worked for good. I loved having him around but it was time to grow up and let him start to leave a bit more – I understood a bit what parents must feel when the children leave. He looked surprised, then relieved, then poured us both a glass of wine.

It didn’t take long. A demonstration in Corby, an exhibition in Edinburgh. A night or two away. Mostly I stayed with friends, sometimes Sophie came to stay. Sophie is Dad’s sister. She hates being called Aunt Sophie as that makes her seem to be 107 she says. I don’t think she and Mum got on. Mum the cigarette smoking career lawyer. Sophie the laid back reefer puffing hippy – Dad’s description, and he loved (loves) them both. So if it was a half term or something or ran into a weekend Sophie came to stay. We went to stay with her occasionally; but it was out of the way, off the beaten track and out of phone signal range.

Then Dad came home. He was worried, I could see that. I’d had the opportunity to study him more than most daughters do. I waited and then, when he said nothing, I asked. At first he denied anything was wrong but eventually I got it out of him. A three week project in India in the summer. He’d already said no but the company weren’t happy. The customer had asked for him specifically. The project was big, the revenues were huge, the profits would be fantastic, and the bonus would be several 0s long. I said I’d be fine. He said he wasn’t going. I said he didn’t trust me, I was 16 after all. He said he didn’t believe I’d trash the house and have toga parties (toga parties? I didn’t even know what that was – I do now though – LOL ) but he wasn’t going. I gave up on him and went and rang Sophie and she said yes I could come and stay for three weeks.

So Dad was off to India and I was off to Shrewsbury. I could see he was relishing the prospect whilst trying to hide his excitement. I was pretty keen to go to Shrewsbury actually, Let me tell you a bit more about Sophie.

Sophie once told me she was an after-thought. She’s quite a few years younger than Dad, near enough to my age to be a friend. Being the youngest she was still around when Grandpa got sick, she nursed him, Grandma being, well a little odd. Grandpa used to call her Grandmad when she wasn’t around, and we’d laugh, she was a bit more than eccenteric (if not odd enough to be committed). Meals Grandma made could be steak and custard or beans and cornflakes. Some meals were wonderful, especially when you are 8, and even more especially when you see “the adults” looking uncomfortable. Some meals were inedible, even the dog would walk off.

So Sophie didn’t go to University, didn’t get married, didn’t move out. She nursed Grandpa for 5 years and then she nursed Grandma for 3 more years and she opened her “Alternative Shop” and that was that. It was accepted that she’d stay in the house. It’s been in the family for generations and no-one wanted to sell it and split it up. Since she’d been there for long enough she had a right of domicile and so that was okay. Dad got the writing desk; it has never looked right in our modern house. I got Grandma’s pendant. Sophie got the house and contents. The taxman got NOTHING (so definitely a good result).

The house isn’t some huge mansion, it is a largish half-timbered house of the type they had stopped building in the cities but still were building in the sticks in the 1600 or 1700s. It has floors that demonstrate the principles of bending space by curving in multiple directions. They creak and the windows open sometimes and won’t close at others. The kitchen is a large stone flagged room with a Rayburn range, installed new in November 1914 (life just went on as usual out here, until people started noticing families in mourning). It is about 2 miles from Shrewsbury, off the Kirby Misspenterton road. There is a shorter footpath straight to the church, through the wood – which I wouldn’t use when I was 10, and still wouldn’t use at night now.

Sophie’s shop has done quite well. Josh sticks and incense burners, hookah pipes and ethnic rugs. When I was 14 Sophie would see me looking ‘casually’ through the books at the ones with titles like “The All-Day Orgasm” or “Free-Sex: Free-Mind”. She’d tut and say “don’t believe it all” and walk off. I didn’t get past the title of “Sex and Sexuality; a Feminist Issue – an explanation of why heterosexual sex will always betray the woman”. In one corner of the shop was a poster of Donny Osmond. It had been there when she took the premises and she would explain to bemused and confused, long-haired, slightly smelly, mumbling, kaftan wearing 40-year olds from the failing commune at Banstaple Down that it would be bad karma to take it down as it was there before she was. I think she just liked taking the piss out of them.

She put me in the front bedroom. It had been bigger but Grandpa had split it into two bedrooms for their two children. Now Sophie slept at the back, down the corridor, down 3 steps, then up 5 steps to the right. One step had been added when the right wing sank in the flood of 1815. It was that kind of house. There was a bathroom at the front too. First evening I felt someone was watching me as I laid in the bath, but I thought it was just the mirror which needed re-silvering. There were shapes in the mirror that weren’t in the room.

That night as I slept, I woke and thought again. “I’m not alone”.

The following night I awoke with a start and there was a figure. I shrieked. No-one heard; big house, thick walls. But when I turned on the light it was only an old cape which was hanging on the door. I wondered who it belonged to. When I gave it to Sophie next day she looked surprised, took it and said nothing. It was back hanging up that night. “Maybe she thinks since I’m a guest I shouldn’t complain” I thought. So I left it. It looked old but in perfect condition.

The next night I heard the voice.

“Fear me not”

“What? Who said that?”

“Fear me not, damsel. I shan’t harm thee”

“Oh, Okay. Goodnight”

I wasn’t being really, really laid back. I was nearly asleep and convinced I was dreaming.

Next night I knew I heard it. It wasn’t scary. It was the sound of a rich purple velvet cloth or a creamy golden syrup. What more can I say. It was there, so was I. Goodnight.

Next day I asked Sophie if the place was haunted.

“Why do you ask?” she said

“I heard a voice, I think”

“A man?”

“Yes! So you’ve heard it too?”

She explained that she had heard it a long time ago but she thought it had gone. She assured me if I was frightened we could swap rooms.

“No, I’m sure there is nothing to be worried about”

Two nights went past in peace and then I heard, or felt, a breath. The lightest of sounds or the mildest of touches. As I reached for the light the voice said “Fear me not, damsel. But let us not flood the room with witches light”.

“Who are you?”

“Roger DeCourcey at your service”

“And you dislike the light?”

“I distrust a light that emanates not from a candle, yet bathes the whole room in the sun’s rays”

“We’ll leave it off”

I felt a tickle on my lip and the gentle caress of a kiss that no 16-year old boy has ever managed to give to a girl. Like a butterfly alighting. My heart began to race. A hand like a feather passed over my right breast and I nearly fainted with surprise.

And then it was morning

“Sophie, tell me more about the history of the house”

“He came again?”

“Yes. Roger DeCourcey he said he was called”

“He was a well-known philanderer; none of the serving girls and maids, if they were pretty, were safe. But by all accounts he was generous and kind. The local history society wrote an article and sent me a copy”

She went to where the writing desk had been. In its place was a modern piece of Ikea furniture doing the same job, a place for letters, bills, accounts and assorted stuff that needs to be looked at sometime, but not today. Every home has one. Halfway or more down the pile was a stapled booklet with a green cover; the proceedings of the Shrewsbury and District Local History Society (founded 1927). Page 9 had a two page article entitled “Sir Roger. Jolly Roger the Pirate or Roger the Gay Cavalier?”

It explained how no fewer than 15 local girls claimed he was the father of their child. There was a rumor about one of his sisters too. At least one – Gwendolline Parsim – appeared to get with child whilst Roger was fighting 85 miles away at Naseby; but give a dog a bad name … Luckily his sister married a puritan and so the house stayed in the family under Cromwell. Roger was shipped off to farm an estate in Virginia a year before The Restoration. It appeared the choice was that or being branded after he “coupled” with the wife of Brandsby Dupont, a captain in the New Model Army. How, why or if Roger returned was unknown but there was no record of his burial in Corceyville, Virginia and the stories of the ghost have continued since 1710 – the first sighting.

In his favor this lecher appears to have always settled money on the offended family and ensured the child got some education. The result being that Catherine Wite (granddaughter of the gamekeeper) became a personal maid to the Duchess of Blandford Tower on account of being able to read, Roger (clue in the name?) Brown (grandson of a pigman) became a midshipman and Reginald Thomas Smith (grandson of the blacksmith) became a teacher!

Sophie explained that Roger never married and once the puritans had the house they kept it. It followed their line down to her and Dad. So although not directly related, she was in the same family. Since it was the sister who married Peter Grone that explained how our name wasn’t DeCourcey but Green – the name had mutated over the years.

She also explained that all I had to do tonight was say “No” once and he would go and not trouble me anymore. It seems he is cursed to take women at their word now rather than use his blandishments to work round them.

Perhaps if I hadn’t read the article, perhaps if Sophie hadn’t told me about him, perhaps I might have put a stop to it. But I resolved that he wasn’t scary, I wasn’t frightened and what could happen anyway? How little I knew.

The voice, that soft mellifluous voice; it got the body ready before ever he appeared. His appearance, a cavalier with ruffs and lace and velvet and long flowing curls and that luxurious moustache. What was there not to entice you in? Truly he was the ultimate seduction machine. But could he deliver on the promise?

He came to me and looked down; his temporal powers were fascinating. He could pull back the bedclothes but also walk through walls. It was all down to thinking he said. And the same applied to me if I chose to understand. More of that later. And after pulling back the bedclothes he looked at my nightdress, hiding my young body but showing every slope and curve. Gently, so gently that sometimes I was hardly aware of it, he stroked my feet, my legs, my knees. My knees! I never knew knees were so sexy but his light touches and soft damp kisses said “your knees are the sexiest thing I know, until I know you better”. Then, as his hand traveled up my leg, as my blood began to boil inside me, his lips touched my forehead, then each eyelid in turn. A soft breath in my ear, a tongue tracing my earlobe.

He must have known that by now I would have been powerless to resist anything he wanted; but there was no rush, no storming of the castle. The defenses were all down, the gates wide open (literally for my legs, demurely crossed at the ankles at the start now found themselves voluntarily open for his charge), yet the attack did not come. An hour of such infinitely dexterous and dolorous caressing left me as a shipwrecked survivor on the beach, completely washed out and incapable of anything save acquiescence. Then his fingers made that final journey, soft feelings fluttered into my loins as he stroked and caressed; inserted and poked; and rubbed.

Yes, at last, as the waves of emotional energy crashed through me, as I felt a scream of ecstasy building in my loins up, up towards my mouth; his lips found mine and stopped the sound from escaping; his fingers rubbed with a frenzy of passion yet without the roughness that men are usually incapable of avoiding. And I exploded. That’s what it felt like. My body became totally sensitized, every nerve pulsed with pleasure and even the touch of my nightdress on my shoulder was the touch of an erotic dream. How long I was in this state I don’t know, seemed like hours, seemed like seconds. Somehow the feeling was outside time. Then I crashed back to the bed and his gentle, kind face beside mine.

I offered him myself, all of me, nothing held back. And he refused. The time will come he assured me, but to rush to that ultimate surrender is to lose the pleasure of the walk through the garden of delights. This guy should run training sessions on seduction; he was fantastic. He’d given me the best orgasm in the world and assured me better was to come and that he was fine for tonight thanks.

The following night I took off the nightdress. As I said before, my body is nothing special. Miss Average 2002, that was me. But he looked at me like I was a second Helen of Troy, His eyes alone made my nipples stand up like hard peanuts, which he sucked. Then he poured some honey on them (where had that come from?) warmed to body heat it flowed over the nipples and down the breast towards my stomach. His tongue eagerly licked up the flows and then transferred the taste to my mouth. I can’t even smell honey now without starting to get damp in my pants. One flow he allowed to continue past my stomach into my bush. I wondered if I should have shaved it; but when I said that he looked confused and then responded that exploring a woman’s garden was the greatest pleasure and honour. A shaved bush would be like a bald lawn he said. Of no use or attraction to anyone but a horse rider wanting to get to the finish. It isn’t the finish line of a race that matters but the vistas of the walk along the way that makes a journey special. Oh yes! Tell me more! He trickled a little more honey and then set to work to collect it. Travelling from my right breast down across my ribs to my stomach, into my pubic hair, his tongue lapped and licked and I was into seventh heaven. Then he reached my clitoris and eighth, ninth and tenth heaven slipped past. There were times I thought “I can’t take this, I’m going to faint”, and other times I thought “bring me to climax now, now, NOW!” But he carried on at his own pace his tongue was more dexterous that many a finger I’ve had down there (including mine). It stuck in the honey and then collected it and coated my button with the viscous liquid. I could feel my own viscous liquid flowing like a river and I thought about the stain on the bed but his tongue brought me back to the immediate pleasure at hand. A finger collected some of my juices and traveled up to my mouth. I’ve never liked the smell or taste of a woman but his finger must have had honey on it too for I felt like I was sucking ambrosia from his digit. Later, as a calming way to bring me off the precipice he showed me how to collect the honey and juice so it mixes and becomes a delight to lick. It’s my party trick when I’m with a girl now.

His other hand started to caress my buttocks, and then the space between my bottom and vagina, That took me over. He was too far away to stop my shout but the walls are very thick. If anyone – well, there was only Sophie – heard they did not respond. A long, incoherent word escaped me. It started as “Yeeesss” and went into “Ohhhhh” and ended as just a sound like “mmmmmmmm”. Not like the explosive overwhelming orgasm of the previous night, this was like being bathed in warm baby oil. Like finding the ultimate luxury handbag. Like, well, like a long, relaxing fuck.

When I woke up it was daylight and he’d gone and sure enough the stain made it look like I’d wet myself.

He taught me how to relive the feelings, how to explore what wasn’t there. He said I was a quick learner, but I think that was flattery; he was a good teacher. One day out shopping I tried the tricks, I looked at a pair of shoes and started to re-experience the feeling of the night before. Not the memory of what had gone on, just the excitement, the intangible part. And I had to go into a changing room to try something on before I was overwhelmed and doubled up there in the middle of the shop. Like Harry Met Sally but without the fake orgasm. This was real. I can make any man (or woman) think he is Liberace. Liberace? No, I mean Casanova. Trouble is it spoils it for any other woman, the men can see when they are faking it after that (though many don’t care), it spoils it for the men too. They’ll never turn on a woman like they think they’ve turned me on. Men are arrogant bastards, they always take all the credit for themselves. Women will tell me usually how sensuous I am and how that makes them feel, men will just assume they are gods.

Each night we explored more sensuous, more personal spaces. You think we’ve got as personal is it is possible to get? No. His tongue around my anus as he stroked my clitoris. His fingers delving into both my orifices as he made me squeeze pee into his delighted mouth. His hands guiding me to frig myself while his tongue explored further into my mouth than I thought possible without retching. He made me sit astride him (how to sit astride a partially transparent being?) and force out pee while he satisfied me with his mouth. He told me my wee was like finest wine, my vaginal juices the fruit of the gods. And yet still he held himself back. At last I asked why, was I not attractive enough? Was I just a plaything? He looked at me with those smouldering, lustful eyes and said. “tomorrow, go to bed early and take little exercise in the day, you shall be awake all night and shall give me all the pleasure I have given you”.

I gave overly dramatic yawns and stretches.

“Bit tired tonight”

“But you’ve done nothing all day! It’s not like we were rushed in the shop” I helped in the shop, though wasn’t allowed to sell the bong pipes.

“I know, I’ll be better tomorrow” “or perhaps even more tired” I thought.

I couldn’t wait to go to bed.

I was excited before he arrived. The thing I wanted most in the world was to excite him, to repay him for his pleasuring of me. His semi-translucent form drifted in. By now I could see him quite well; had he become more solid or had I become more acute? I didn’t know and had nothing to compare to.

Naked under the sheets I felt my juices start to flow and my mouth go dry as I watched him undress. He said nothing but watched me all the time. His eyes bored into me and I felt they were undressing me even more, divesting me of any last covering of resistance to any and every experience he might offer. Naked he was impressive. Not in a Mr Universe, muscles in his brain, way. He was in proportion. No bulging muscles or teeny tiny waist. He had a smooth body with just some sculpting indicating a fit rather than a fanatic attitude to health.

“Is this how you looked when you lived here?”

“Yes, I took the form of when I was last able to pleasure ladies in this house”

I could see why his sister might have accepted his advances so readily – especially if she had the same libido as him.

His cock was neither impressive like a donkey, nor particularly thick. I felt a twang of disappointment but then remembered that he obviously knew how to make the most use of what he had. It stood proud and straight with an impressive ball of hair round the base. “A man’s forest should complement a woman’s garden he whispered as he slid in beside me.

“How do you know when to just pass through things and when to treat them as solid?”

His arm went under my back and then progressed through my body so his hand caressed my left breast while he lay beside me. There was a feeling of ice and pins and needles and tingling where the arm came through me and a feeling of huge pleasure as he stroked my breast from outside and inside the skin.

“Practice” he replied

I couldn’t help myself and let out a long, low moan of infinite pleasure. Two weeks ago feeling him so totally inside me would have made me scream, now I wanted him to possess me totally.

“You wouldn’t be able to take it” he said “you can die of pleasure you know”. I had the feeling he knew this for a fact.

After that first orgasm my vagina naturally closed up but he was not to be denied – and I wouldn’t refuse anything to him. He rolled onto me. There was no weight, just a feeling of warm, naked body all over me. An erotic blanket of pleasure about to engulf me. His penis, straight and stiff, began to explore between my legs. I made to reach down and help it in but he grabbed both my hands and held them over my head. His lips connected with mine above and his penis opened my lips below all at the same time. A long, slow, continuous, firm thrust found my lubricated cunt forced open all the way without stopping. It hurt a little, the first time anything but a finger had penetrated me. His mouth stopped me gasping and his tongue explored my teeth, my tongue and lightly the roof of my mouth. His thrust stopped as he was fully in, as I thought, and then equally slowly slid back. Then the inexpressible feeling started again as a second long thrust began. Somehow he got in another half centimeter. Somehow he resisted completion. As so it continued. The slow thrusts in and out were erotically charged, like a static rod being charged up; eventually something would have to discharge. Nobody I’ve met since has ever had such control. He had avoided rubbing his body against mine so the pleasure was all inside my vagina and after maybe 15 minutes I knew I would cum as soon as anything contacted my clitoris. So did he. As another thrust began he dropped his pelvis and his body ground on mine (or would have ground if he were heavier, instead it was an external reflection of the internal thrust) and my senses went into firework mode. Again his kisses stopped me screaming the house down. Colours literally flashed through my eyes. My head started to feel faint but then I came back to reality and the subsiding pleasure of that orgasm.

“But that’s me twice and still you haven’t … I don’t understand”

“You will”

He lay for a while beside me, calming my body with gentle stroking movements. Then, before I was fully recovered, or before I drifted to sleep in a reverie, he rolled me over and thrust a finger into my anus. It was that sudden. I was wide awake now! There was no talk as he expanded me with his digits. He poured some liquid from a little vial into my bottom and followed it with his cock. My bum stung, the liquid was something like a mild chili oil. The oil allowed him to push in and open me further but the chili (if that’s what it was) made me warm and then squirm as it went further. His hands wrapped round my arms and grasped my breasts firmly, not gently as before. And he pushed on in. I wasn’t ready, it hurt but he did not stop until he was right up to his balls. I could feel them between my buttocks. As he started to slide and thrust one hand reached down to my bush and stroked it but I wasn’t excited. I knew I could say “No!” and stop it but if this was his pleasure I thought he must have it for the pleasure I have had from him. His thrusting became more urgent, more vibrant, more insistent and then came a sound between a lion’s roar and a sigh. Like the noise a strong wind makes as it builds up to a blast to flatten trees. I felt the ejaculation passing from his body and along his penis until it fountained into me. It continued for a long time, wave upon wave traveling up his member and squeezing more and more cream into my arse. Then he relaxed back.

“Arrgggggh, It’s been a long time”

“When?”

“Last time was when I took a maiden in Utrecht. I died a week later”

“You mean, not since you died? That’s hundreds of years. No wonder you filled me up”

“I’m sorry, I could have warned you. That’s why I took your arse first. Now I can relax and take you properly”

We both had to clean up – watching a ghost clean himself is quite an education. He washed his shrunken cock and then made it de-solidify. All the water just fell off. I was embarrassed to see him watching me as I washed out my anus of all the cum he’d filled me with. He looked away for the first time, allowing me a little privacy.

Then we started again. This time my pleasure was of equal importance to his own, no more, no less. He entered me from behind, from the front, with me on top and underneath. I knew now how to control my excitement and we built together. I slid down and sucked on him till it stood solid. Then he did the same to me until my clitoris stood out, straining against the skin. Then we rested. He went limp and inserted his hanging member into me before have it grow on the inside of me. I groaned with delight. I’ve taught this trick to some men, but many cannot manage the excitement enough to enter soft and then harden. They miss a rare treat. An hour of these games passed, and then we were of one accord that it was time. No word spoken but our bodies and minds and souls were entwined in the growing ecstasy. On my back again he smothered me with kisses and caresses. His cock made its way deeper and deeper into my recesses and his body rubbed all of me to excited oblivion. As I came, so did he and I felt once more an explosion of fluid coursing into me.

I would have slept but I felt something changed. Opening my eyes I could see he had faded a little. His voice became softer, then a whisper and finally just an idea inside my head. Once a virgin had allowed him to possess her fully and willingly he was ‘freed’ of his curse to haunt. I never got to ask if he wished to be freed. I would have stayed in that bed with him for ever. It happened quite quickly that he drifted away; barely time to say goodbye. He bade me remember the lessons and read the key – whatever that meant. And then he was gone. Only the memory of his alluring, intoxicating smile remained. And a slight smell of musty velvet.

I fell asleep almost immediately and dreamt a dream of such depravity and pleasure that it makes this story seem tame. The next morning I came down to breakfast. Sophie looked up, looked again and gave an odd smile.

“How did you sleep?”

“Very well”

“How much did you sleep?”

I blushed to the roots of my hair. “Not much”

“What will your dad say?”

“We won’t tell him, what could we say anyway? He’d think it was a girl’s wet dream. And he’d wish he didn’t have to deal with it. I’m sixteen; I’m of age. Don’t worry he won’t even notice. How did you know?”

“The rosy cheeks, the slight knowing look that says ‘I know the secret now’. What did he do? No, don’t tell me; it isn’t fair for me to ask. Ah, if only…”

Years before, she said, she’d been lying in her bed – she was only fifteen, but then naughty Sir Roger didn’t know about the legal age of consent, only about consent or refusal. She’d sensed the presence, she’d heard the voice saying not to worry or fear and she’d felt him. She was having her period. And she’d suddenly said “No!” as he caressed her between her thighs. She’d meant to say could they wait, but she’d said that word and instantly the sense of the presence began to fade until she was just a fifteen year old in a large and lonely room. Her regrets were unavailing, as were the seances she held. The only information she received, years later was that the writing desk held the key. By that time we had it in Bexleyheath.

xxxxx

When we got home I could hardly contain my excitement. But I made a point of yawning and saying I needed an early night

“Sophie keeping you up talking I suppose?”

“Yes, thanks for the presents Dad, see you in the morning”

Eventually I could hear his snoring – he would never get a new girlfriend with a foghorn like that.

The writing desk opened, I looked at the drawers at the back. Yes, it would have been such a cliché to have a secret cupboard there. The lid, folded flat for writing on was one piece of oak. But true to the instructions from Sophie, just where the wood was exceptionally smooth for writing on there was a thin groove round. Three inches from the middle a small piece of wood had come out. I pushed in the paper knife. Nothing happened. I scraped it along the groove and tried again. It moved slightly. I slid in the paper knife and levered it up carefully. Inside were three letters, undiscovered since they were written. One was a new will, leaving the house to be sold for all his children. The second was a bill for hay – probably arrived there by accident. The third was a further letter explaining why the will should be ignored.

“I find myself in need to travel. Indeed most urgently since Captain Dupont is not a forgiving man – though his wife do forgive him his small stature; not in his overall dimensions but rather in one part which doth not fulfill the requirement that she sayeth she hath need of. The Captain says that marriage is for having children and not pleasure. I say, in no wise meaning blasphemy, that our Lord must have meant us to have enjoyment in the act of coupling as else why give us such pleasure. And pleasure there is. Yet though the need to leave to the outside world seemeth from cuckolding a neighbor ; yet there is need also closer to home which one day shouldst be made plain. For, no matter what is said, yet I am an honest man. I own what I have begat and deny none (save Miss Parsim – which is none of me; though I wish I had had that strumpet for I hear she is a good lay).

Whilst sheltering under what had been mine own roof and now is part of Squire Grone’s estate. I found myself in sore need of relief on several occasions. The serving maids being warned of me, for fear of whipping, would have none of me; some indeed were so ugly that I wouldst rather lie with a sow than them. Yet my need was great. Abstinence is bad for a man of my makeup and am I not also in the image of God? My sister’s husband is a godly man who canst go full 3 months with safety and calmness; though he do get mighty angry as time travels on. Yet my sister is more of my blood. She felt sore the need to spend herself. One day, finding the servants in the fields, her husband in the town hearing a case of chickens laying eggs on the Sabbath, we found ourselves alone in the house; yet did she not know that I was still in doors.

As I passed her bedroom I heard me a noise of an angry woman belaying someone. Her cries and expletives were such that I feared for the miscreant’s life. But who could it be that was being taken to task in my sister’s own chamber? I peeked through the door and it was up for us both. There she lay on the bed, legs wide for all to see her inner secrets. Her skirts up around her waist she was energetically rubbing that area of delights hidden by the women’s garden. At first she saw none of me and as I watched she reached an ecstasy of passion which result in her spending much indeed on her fingers, both from her beautiful and much engorged cunny and from her piss hole above. Nothing abashed she lifted her hand to her mouth and licked every bespattered finger with the sound that indicated truly carnal pleasure at the taste of her exudations. Then she saw me. Her reaction was ferocious, angry. Asking how I came to spy on her she raised a jug to throw at me,

I smiled and indicated that I was passing and heard her in travail. Had I realized the activity I would have left her uninterrupted; yet now, I said, I fear I must tell her husband since she had engaged in such ludeness that none could approve. At this her anger abated somewhat and fear took its place for her husband would be thrice offended. Offended at the ludeness of giving in to desire, offended at such pleasure taken and given on her own and offended, perhaps most, at another man knowing his wife’s secrets so.

I promised circumspection. I had no wish for my fair sister to be beaten for having the desires I shared. Yet I indicated a need for something in return. For no bargain is fair if it be one-sided. Gently I uncovered her nether regions and bid her turn on her front. My cock was expanding at such a rate I barely freed it from my clothes in time before it would have been too stiff to move. Knowing her state of engorgement and lubrication I wasted no time, but entered her to its full length in one or two thrusts. She gave a squeal – whether of shock or pleasure I neither knew nor cared not. My hands explored up her body, finding her bodice still of a piece I had some trouble undoing the knots that freed her breasts into my care.

“Don’t tear it sir, else it shall be obvious that I have been taken by someone”

She helped untie the tightened strings that gave her such a cleavage under her demure clothes. Now they were all askew. Only her wifely bonnet stayed neatly on her head. Yet that was the least protection against the ravaging she was receiving. I squeezed her breasts and pinched the nipples and she squirmed in that pain that also excites (for her breathing was labored and her receptacle was making more lubrication). The wiggles gave me extra delight and I lost control and exploded within her. Notwithstanding that I stayed inside and transferred my hand to her Mons Venus. There with caresses and strokes we soon had her in a state of delirium from which only her orgasm released her. As I lay with her on her bed I heard her breathing returning to something of the norm. The servants due soon I was unable to repeat the performance. But having opened the campaign now I watched for opportunity to renew the attacks.

Who is reading this may be saying “but she wast your own sister”. In truth some nights my guilt near overwhelmed me, but next day I felt again she was the best lay of my life and I couldst not resist this temptation.

Some days we had little time and I would prevail upon her to kneel before me and take my member in her mouth. Once we did it as the household awaited us for morning prayers downstairs. She had no opportunity to spit as a servant was heard on the stairs. All through the prayers she held my spend in her mouth, unable to swallow without retching, unable to spit without offense. At breakfast she had extra porridge and that helped her in swallowing all my spend.

At her time of the month I had been unable to approach her or any maid for two weeks and though some self-satisfaction had relieved me, yet I was near to desperation. I even considered paying for the pleasure in town, but that tended to be a way to certain disease and early death. Then the godly squire was called away on business of supplying the army in quelling a rebellion in the north. His good wife announced she would retire to the small chapel to pray for his safe return. She slipped out of the side door and found her way to my chamber. But, she said she could only touch with her hand, for her cunny was unusable and her mouth would be sacrilege if she was meant to be at prayer. That day I taught her the pleasures of the other hole I made her insert her own finger first and followed with one of mine own. Together our entwined digits expanded her brown hole and, lubricated by some fat from the roast I forced my way in. It hurt her not a little. But every time she tried to shit me out I pushed in a little more. She swore she would expose me for cuckoldry and incest and buggery, but I pointed out her evidence would indicate her compliance. Hardly a good defense from the gallows herself. And so I stayed in and thrust ever more hungrily into that tight hole of pleasure. And when I came and filled her arse with spunk I found myself wholly satisfied with the experience. Before my cock divested itself of full stiffness I forced out some pee into her as well. It hurt me much but in that also I found much pleasure. Likewise as I watched her wash herself clean. She asked me to look away which I would in nowise do and at the end of her toilet I found myself standing to attention once more. I had her take me in her mouth but withdrew just as I came to full pleasure in deference to her religious feelings deliberately spraying onto her bosom. I refused her the chance to clean her this time as it excited me to think of my spend on her breasts for the rest of the day – as I think it excited her also.

There can be no surprises, for punishments are always eventually meted to the unrighteous After a session where I had taken her frontways, backways and sideway, feeling sore myself and seeing her standing bow legged from the rawness, she told me her time had missed that month. She said it happened on occasions but she feared this was caused by being with child; I knew the days of pleasure were over. She knew she could link the pregnancy to a short bout with her husband around the same time but my presence might cause questions and a likeness to me in the mewling babe could be the cause of much distress.

“I wish, Mary dear, that you would not make such lude noises. This is a duty to make children and if we take pleasure in it then we are giving the Devil joy” her husband would say, yet he was still nothing loathe to continue in the attempt to make an heir.

It was time to leave. I heard later the squire called his son a miracle from God, a reward for a pure life, since it was their only child. He never realised that the child was not of his loins.

And so now the story is told and I have kept my honesty, if not mine honour”

I read it twice, and it slowly dawned on me that I had had sex with my direct ancestor. A week later I realized I was pregnant. Clearly impossible, yet here we are, bigger by the day with young Roger.

Roger is now ten. By common consent he will inherit the house. I hope Sir Roger approves. I have acquired an enviable reputation in the neighborhood, treading a fine line between slut, vixen and friend. Several friends are still together because I took the husband under my wing whilst teaching the wife new tricks she hadn’t even dreamt were possible. Neither knew, nor will ever know, that the other was also receiving ‘treatment’. Roger’s gay teacher a couple of years ago discovered there were circumstances when he could be very successfully ‘bi-‘. I write a column for a national womens’ magazine (incognito) where my “frank advice without embarrassment” has been hailed as a wake up call for tired marriages (“if he wants you to take it up the bum, buy a dildo and say you should both try it. You both might enjoy the new experience. The medium-sized electroCumMan is a good one to try first, you can preload it with whipped cream”). And the shares in the East India Company and various banks found in a safe deposit box (“to the first direct descendant of Sir Roger DeCourcey who names her son after him”) have made me very, very rich. Thanks Sir Roger. Sleep well.

THE END