This is the start of a new story that is the result of a dare from the Truth or Dare Room on the Literotica chat. All characters are older than 18 years of age. This is probably going to be a long-running series, with the "sexy fun" happening primarily in later chapters!
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Fuck! I thought inwardly. Old Blue had once again bitten the dust and stalled at the bottom of the hill topped by the scariest haunted house of this town or any other. Old Blue, my grandfather's old car, had seen me through college and six years of my life of being a librarian. I loved the old Ford Mustang and felt closer to Gramps whenever I drove it.
But Old Blue was unreliable at best. And, now, he had stalled and died outside of cell phone reception. Yup! I checked again. No service at the top left of the screen instead of the name of my service provider. Well, shit!
My Southern gentility, hammered home by 18 years spent living with my grandparents after my mom died giving birth to me and my dad—well, my dad was a sperm donor, eschewed such language. But I had spent the last ten years away from home and in the Yankee big city of Boston. Even ten years away, I spoke out loud and in my mind with a Southern accent. So, the "fuck" and "shit" were spoken with my trademark Southern drawl.
There was no option, really. Gram and Gramps were on their way to celebrate their anniversary in Branson, Missouri, and I was house-sitting this weekend. The only house for a couple of miles was the one that rested at the top of the hill.
I started the half-mile trek uphill. I was thankful that I grew up in the Ozarks and not the Rockies at that moment. With another muttered curse, I slid out of my shoes and started carefully mincing myself up the road to the mansion.
At the top of the hill, I stopped and stared. The house had given me nightmares as a child. Once a grand mansion, it had fallen into disrepair from years of neglect. Squaring my shoulders and slipping my shoes back on, I walked to the door of the old, seemingly abandoned, house.
I still could not believe that Old Blue had stalled so close to my goal, but, for once, I did not seem to be lost. Unfortunately. I had heard stories as a child to stay away from the house, that people had vanished from there, but now I was desperate.
I was back in my hometown, the town of my birth, with another purpose in mind: to win the guy of my high-school dreams at my ten year high school reunion. Painfully shy and awkward—even more than I was now—I was never able to approach Brad Jones. But he was the fuel for my adolescent fantasies—and my adult ones, as well.
He was the quintessential bad boy, and every girl wanted to be debauched by him. I loved that word, debauched, and it featured quite often in my (bad) poetry about him. He had the dark hair and eyes that gave new meaning to the words tall, dark, and handsome. And, my best friend Pammy, who was head of the reunion committee, swore that he would be attending.
For once, I was dressed to kill. Sheer black stockings capped with lace at mid-thigh ended in a pair of black platform fuck-me heels that were open-toed to give the impression of a flawless scarlet pedicure underneath.
My bounteous breasts spilled creamily out of my black lace demi-bra, covered only by the stretchy, super short little black dress. How short? My garters attaching my thigh-highs to my pussy lips were clearly visible beneath the hem.
I felt eyes on me, staring at me, probing me in the gloom. With a gulp and a futile, discreet tug at the bottom hem of my dress, I rang the doorbell and heard it echo cavernously though the house of my nightmares.
Suddenly chilled, I was surprised as the door slid slowly open to reveal someone nearly my age, a 30-something-year-old man with dark hair and a compactly muscled body barely concealed by slightly old-fashioned jeans and a white tee with rolled up sleeves. He looked like an older version of James Dean, but hotter than the late Hollywood heartthrob could ever have hoped to be.
In that instant, Brad ceased to exist. I swallowed hard again, this time not from fear, but from arousal. Never had I been so aware of the skimpiness of my chosen attire as he looked me up and down like a steak he wished to devour.
"H-hi," I whispered, stuttering.
He nodded silently in response and stepped back to allow me to enter. His gaze was dark, hungry, eating me up in a way my body had never been visually feasted upon before.
My breasts threatened to spill out the top of my dress, my panting breaths were so heavy. Impudently, he reached out to trace the low neckline of my dress. "Wh-what are you doing?" I asked, aghast, even as my juices threatened to drip down on the floor, unfettered by my spread-open pussy lips.
I watched, almost outside of myself, as he reached for a letter opener on the entryway table. Deftly, masterfully capturing my hands behind me at the wrists with one capable hand, he traced my cleavage, neckline, and the valley between my breasts with the letter opener. He bent to my ear and growled, "Lost, little girl?"
Something about his voice, the chill of the dagger-like letter opener, and his control over me caused my heart to skip a beat. I had long read erotica based on BDSM, and, even though he was a stranger, even though he scared the bejesus out of me, part of my submissive nature began to respond. A part of me remembered his question to me and nodded absently, my tongue darting out to trace my unexpectedly dry lips.
The innocent flicker of my lips aroused him, and he groaned. I barely had time to revel in my newfound feminine power, for he slid the letter opener down the front of my dress, shearing it, renting it in two until I stood before him in only a bra, garters, stockings, and heels.
He seemed fascinated with my solution for a missing garter belt as he fingered my clit almost wonderingly. His mouth, compressed in a hard line, opened with parted lips and settled over mine, silencing any protests I could make.
His kiss deepened, turning voracious. I had been kissed before, had even fucked before, but his lips, hands, and arms betrayed an expertise I had never before been the recipient of. Fingers twined in my rumpled golden-brown locks, twisting the soft threads in his hands until he revealed my neck to his lips and tongue.
I melted into him as his starving mouth pressed kisses, nibbling, then biting against the pulse at my neck. Never before had I experienced such caresses. Breathing in, I smelled his scent, raw musky male mixed with the sweat of strenuous work.
He pulled back slowly, almost regretfully, with a tender, gentlemanly stroke of my breasts as he stepped away. Taking my slack right hand in his and putting it up to his lips, he introduced himself. "My name is Anthony Damon." His lips brushed the back of my hand as his breath warmed my fingers with his words. "This is my home. I inherited it from my great-uncle."
For a few moments, I was speechless, a natural state for me. When it appeared that he would remain motionless and silent until I managed to do the pretty and introduce myself, I blurted out, "Saffron. Gray." Awkward. "Saffy," I continued, sounding utterly ridiculous and childish. And tongue tied.
