Sex Death And Other Strange Ideas

SEX, DEATH, AND OTHER STRANGE IDEAS

By RS Thomas

Jo Van Doren is a wealthy woman who has twice attempted to escape her past. The first was fleeing from the high society she was an unwilling part of, and the second was due to a cruelly broken engagement and a future left in tatters. With nowhere else to go, Jo returns to the city she grew up in and moves into a historic mansion owned by her family. However, she will soon discover she's not alone in this glamourous place.

Alex is a ghost and can tell you one thing for certain: Death is crushingly boring and lonely. Trapped and unable to leave the estate he has haunted for decades, he craves nothing more than companionship in the godforsaken place. When Jo moves in, he gets far more than a housemate however, as she has abilities she doesn't understand yet. Abilities that could make her Alex's savior.

Sex, Death, and Other Strange Ideas is a steamy supernatural romance novel with multiple chapters. Contains language and situations (utterly) inappropriate for those under 18.

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CHAPTER 1

The old Cairnwood house stood among the trees in the wealthiest part of Governor's Island. The legacy of a long dead railroad baron, it was a sprawling two and a half story example of what the hoity toity would call "Beaux arts" and loomed like a bird of prey at the top of Blake Hill Road. From a purely aesthetic standpoint it was a beautiful structure, the meticulous design echoing strongly of French Renaissance architecture with Greek and Roman touches thrown in for flavor. Overall, the exterior was a blend of rustic elements and high style, the effect that of a majestic French chateau adapted to the conditions and requirements of modern American life. Overgrown lawns and neglected walking gardens surrounded the main building and adjacent courtyard, and the meadow sized expanse to the rear was home to both a gazebo and a once-elegant greenhouse. The property offered a fine view of the woods to the east and the Pine View Country Club to the south, and was set far enough away from major roads that city noise was barely a problem. In the picturesque and extraordinarily wealthy Washington suburb, Cairnwood was a landmark and remarkable for many reasons, but perhaps most of all for its lack of permanent residents.

Given its location and amenities, one would think the old place was a prime piece of real estate, but the "For sale by Windermere realtors" sign rarely moved from the front gate and then never for long. Indeed, Cairnwood had changed so many owners over the last decade or five that it had started to gain a reputation among the locals. People would move in, bringing their families, pets, and dreams of a new life in the glamourous house located in "one of the best places to live in Washington", and rarely lasted a year before moving right back out. Bad smells were blamed, and drafts, and once a stubbornly stated "bad feng shui". What was never so easily expressed, however, was the uneasy feeling that seemed to permeate the entire grounds. Prospective buyers came and went, not sure what it was about the beautiful old house that was so troublesome. Animals would be restless, babies would cry incessantly, and even adults found themselves on edge. And so, year after year the walls grew weathered from lack of care and the house took on an abandoned, gloomy vibe that was difficult to put one's finger on but was definitely present.

The chug-chug of a riding lawnmower broke the silence of the bright spring morning as Rick of Rick's Lawn and Gardening Service tried to start his cold machine and failed on the first try. "Come on, don't do this to me," the pudgy man grumbled. He turned the key again and this time got three "chugs" for his trouble before it died. A third try proved no more successful than the first two and Rick cursed out loud. "Mother FUCK!" This thrice damned machine needed to be looked at

again

. He cranked the key madly, operating under the belief that if three turns hadn't worked, turning it a dozen more times

really hard

was sure to do the trick.

"Bastard," Rick snarled at his cold, dead mower as he pulled a stained handkerchief from the pocket of his overalls and wiped his balding pate. Suddenly struck with a feeling that he was being watched, he shot a look over his shoulder at the main house. The windows stared back at him, empty and somehow soulless. They reminded Rick of a shark's eyes. The man shuddered openly and clambered down from his seat keeping an eye peeled for movement. Nothing revealed itself of course, and Rick chided himself for letting this job get to him. It was just a gloomy house for hell's sake, and he was a grown man, not some friggin' kid scared of ghosts. Grumbling out loud, Rick turned his back on the place and popped the hood of his riding mower, hoping against hope that whatever the problem was, it would be an easy fix.

As much as Rick hated this job, it paid extremely well. The realtors called him up every time they wanted to show the property. Usually, it was just to get the lawns under control, but they apparently had a hot buyer on the line this time. They also wanted the decorative hedges trimmed, the stone planters filled with flowers, "the

woiks

" as Rick would have said in his native Brooklyn-ese. Just doing the lawns was bad enough, they were vast and full of strange angles and took forever to tend to. With all this added work on the order, Rick had a long hard day ahead of him, and his mower giving him grief was NOT how he wanted to start it.

Shooting one last look at the mansion's empty windows, Rick closed the hood and climbed back into his seat. "All right, you lousy bitch," he snarled. "Wakey wakey!" He turned the key and the engine roared to life sending up a flock of crows from the trees, their rattling voices raised in protest. Heaving a sigh of relief, Rick steered his noisy machine toward the eastern lawn and set about getting this job over with.

#####

From an upstairs window, unseen eyes watched the older man in grease-stained overalls go to work. Their owner didn't know the fellow's name, but he guessed it was Rick judging from the paint job on the side of his truck. They had never exchanged a word, but whenever he showed up with his smoke belching mower to beat the lawns into submission it always meant the same thing. More people were incoming.

Alex sighed to himself. Soon the pretty, older lady in the pink pantsuit would arrive to take the drop cloths off the furniture and bake a batch of cookies, the better to entice a buyer with a nice, homey atmosphere. It had been a long time since someone had been through here, though how long Alex couldn't remember for the life of him. He hated it when he lost track of time, it was a sign of his growing disconnect from the outside world. It was the first time this spring he had seen good ol' Rick, and it had been a long and lonely (not to mention wet) winter, so it had to be five or six months since a living soul had set foot in the house. Alex himself had been here for literally as long as he could recall, undisturbed by anyone but the occasional would-be buyer or trick-or-treaters looking for a spooky thrill on Halloween night. If he stayed in his attic hidey hole, nobody was the wiser.

Alex turned away from the window and meandered down to the second-floor landing, his feet making no noise on the lush carpet. The worker would be here all day and there wasn't much to watch. The stairs down to the front hall below were a grand, sweeping construction, and Alex descended them letting his fingers trail through the thick dust on the handrail. The entire place could use a good cleaning, but suffice to say Alex wasn't much of a housekeeper.

Once one reached the front hall, made even more elegant by the addition of a crystal chandelier and a stained glass window above the front door, you could turn in any direction. To the east lay the kitchen, outfitted with an expansive collection of cooking gadgets, and the dining room dominated by a long, oakwood table that could seat twelve without breaking a sweat. An archway to the north led to a library-slash-study, mostly picked clean but with a few odd works remaining. To the west was the living and billiard room, the expensive furniture all covered with drop cloths. In was in this direction that Alex turned, passing by the full-length mirror mounted on the wall for the express purpose of

checking yourself out

. It had been placed there by a former tenant who saw himself as a swinging bachelor before he moved out blaming "cold spots" and "a shaky foundation". Alex cast nary a glance at himself and moved into the room beyond.

Near the entrance of the monstrous living room was a fully functional and modern wet bar, and the western wall was dominated by a huge fireplace, seemingly made for tumbling with a lover in front of. At the moment the bar was stripped bare, and the fireplace lay cold and dead, no fire having been lit for several months. The mantle and hearth were as thick with dust as the rest of the house. The southwest corner of the room was one gigantic bay window offering a grand view of the woods that surrounded the estate, and sunsets could be mesmerizing from this vantage point.

Alex took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs, currently covered with a plastic drape. He could hear the roar of good ol' Rick's mower, but the man was still working on the far side of the house, and the noise was muffled. This was Alex's favorite chair, and for the umpteenth time he wished he had a cup of tea to enjoy, but alas there was none to be had. As he gazed out the window, he saw one brave little chickadee flit into view and land on an outstretched branch.

"Hello little friend," Alex said to it, a smile coming to his face. "How's the weather today? Nice and spring-y?" The bird twitched its wings and took flight, zooming away and out of the range of Alex's vision. For neither the first nor last time, Alex wished leaving this place was that easy for him.

#####

Jo piloted her "hello officer" red Corvette northward, maintaining a stately seventy-per. There weren't many others on the road at this time of night, which was nice as this part of the world was built around hills and water and the freeway bottlenecked for the sixth time in front of her. She had been counting. Her car was a convertible, but Jo had lived in this gloomy corner of the country before and knew she wouldn't be putting the top down much. Seated in the Pacific northwest it was nicknamed "Rain City" for a reason. Although she was already missing sunny California, Jo reluctantly admitted that a near-constant drizzle would be preferable to wildfires, earthquakes, and Chris.

At the thought of his name, Jo did an automatic attitude check, extending her middle finger at no one and the whole world at once. It was a feeble act, but there was small satisfaction in knowing that her mother wouldn't approve. Her ladyship Penelope Van Doren was a constant thorn in Jo's side, and living close enough to endure her visits was one of the least appealing things about this change in her life. And there was a lot that lay ahead of her that she wasn't exactly feeling gleeful anticipation about.

First and possibly least was the prospect of being drawn back into quote-unquote "high society" again. She thought she had escaped it the minute she turned eighteen, bought the shortest skirts she could find, started listening to girl-power anthems at top volume, and became 'Jo' instead of the ghastly 'Georgina'. Mother-dear had been appalled of course, but that was the entire point. Jo had appeased her mother somewhat by starting to date Chris who was "the right kind" and "good for her". Of course, if the always proper Queen Penelope had known the sort of things Chris liked to do to Jo on the kitchen table, she might have changed her opinion.

God, those first years had been a romantic dream. Jo didn't have to worry about Chris being after her money, he had more than enough of his own. When she graduated high school and told him of her longing to attend Stanford, he had purchased a bungalow in California by the end of the month. Mother, naturally, considered medicine to be an unladylike profession for some dumb reason or another, so Chris had even helped Jo with tuition after Mother had cut her off in a predicable bout of spite. Jo was accepted by the college easily enough following a phone call to the dean from her rich Uncle William, and she truly loved her studies. But what she was learning during the day was nothing compared to what she was learning at night.

Jo hadn't come to Chris a virgin, but she had been reasonably close. A few fumbled attempts in the backseat of a car and one disappointing night in a hotel room was about her level of experience. At first, Chris was the absolute gentleman, with no indication whatsoever of what he held inside. It was their third date before he even kissed her for real. Jo had been considering looking for someone a little

less

proper when Chris took her to bed for the first time.

Jo had very quickly learned the term "hypersexual". Chris' word for it was "satyriasis" and he proudly declared himself a satyr. The highborn gentlemanly façade he presented wasn't so much false as it was a second skin he wore until he was sure his inner self would be tolerated. To put it bluntly, if there was a sex act in the world the man hadn't tried, he couldn't name it, and his appetites were literally insatiable. Jo was more than eager to take advantage of his vast experience. She would pound the books all day and get pounded in every conceivable way all night.

And it wasn't just the mind-blowing sex that practically left her seeing dead relatives that made their relationship so good. Chris was also the most romantic man a woman could ever ask for. His gifts varied from extravagant jewelry to a pretty flower he plucked from the side of the road just because he was thinking of her. He never bought her an anniversary card, he always made one with his own hands. He was happy to take care of her and protect her and grant her every wish, so long as she attempted to satisfy his sexual appetites. She couldn't do it on her own and it was difficult for Jo to adjust to the fact Chris

had

to have other women. But his heart remained hers, and if sharing him sexually was what it took to keep him, it was a small price to pay, one or two curable infections aside.

What followed for Jo was a sexual awakening for the ages. She was the portrait of the young eager medical student during the day, and quickly learned to love being the Turbo-Slut 2000 at night. When Jo was unable to satisfy Chris' needs by herself, which was fairly often, she arranged three ways, four ways, and more ways, his thirtieth birthday present being a days long ten woman orgy. She gave him (almost) anything he wanted and built up a network of friends at the many kink and swingers clubs they attended, so she knew who was safe to bring home to satisfy his more scatological desires. Jo didn't begrudge him his fetishes, but there were a few lines she simply couldn't make herself cross.

Being Chris' personal sex goddess wasn't a role Jo fell naturally into, it took some training and forays into uncomfortable territory. But Jo soon discovered that if Chris was enjoying it, she could have a ball even if she were only enjoying it twenty percent. Some things she tried tentatively and was delighted to find she had a taste for them, such as her dip into the lesbian end of the pool. It was most fun when they were sharing Chris, but Jo found the touch of another woman to be happily erotic. Perhaps in part because her mother would

utterly

disapprove of such a thing. The point was, Jo had given Chris anything, including the freedom to seek out any sex acts she was unable to provide.

Somehow, crammed in between her medical studies, her extremely busy nightlife, and the occasional cat nap, Jo was discovering herself. She

loved

herself as a sexual being. Hell, she was a catch. She ran to class every morning to build endurance and keep herself in shape, and Kegel exercises were part of her daily regimen. While Jo pooh-poohed most girly shit, not liking the feel or smell of makeup much, she still invested in an extensive collection of beauty products, and her perfumes were chosen for their pheromone content. She'd never considered herself a clothes-whore either, but her closets were full of the sexiest outfits she could find, sorted by their level of appropriateness for the general public. Jo even went so far as to research female aphrodisiacs and found places to order things like maca root and a funky extract called Tribulus Terrestris that claimed to evoke greater desire, arousal, lubrication, and orgasm satisfaction. Jo took twice the recommended dose for sexual dysfunction.

Jo glanced down at her hand where it rested on the steering wheel, illuminated by the dashboard light. Even in the dark, the pale band that marred her perfect California tan was clearly visible. She'd given the damn ring back as she'd been asked to do, but still carried around a constant reminder, at least until she turned as pale as everyone else who lived in the Pacific northwest. From the passenger seat came a soft "Mow?" and Jo reached over to put her fingers through the grill of the cat carrier. "It's okay Jean-Luc," she soothed the animal. "I know you hate it in there but it's only a few more miles." The fluffy orange tabby rubbed his head against her fingers, accepting her affection, and Jo was grateful that

somebody

still did.

The hardest part of her broken engagement was how unexpected it was. Jo had gotten about three weeks' notice that something was wrong, and then the rug was pulled out from under her. When a person was flying that high, it

really

hurt when their wings melted and they plummeted to the ground.

Jo had been celebrating the end of finals at college and was contemplating her residency. She was looking forward to taking a year off and becoming a full-time slut as Chris needed her to be. Jo had been

happy

, dammit. Not merely content or settling for anything, but genuinely grateful for her lot in life. She didn't need a career, her late father's trust fund alone would be enough to support her into seniority. Her desire to study pediatrics was her own way of paying it forward. Sure, Jo had been born a member of the lucky sperm club, but she could put her many advantages to good use by caring for sick and injured children and was already looking into volunteer clinics in impoverished areas.

Then right when Jo felt she had this whole 'life' thing settled, Chris simply turned himself off. Without any warning or any reason given, he became distant and even thoughtless. Jo worked harder than ever to make him happy, but she suddenly couldn't reach him anymore. Their bedroom (and kitchen, and laundry room, etc.) life remained as active as ever, but it turned as joyless as if Jo were alone with a dildo. Their profound connection that she treasured above all else had vanished without a trace and Jo had no idea why.

Jo barely had time to wonder if Chris had encountered someone he loved more than herself, when she came home one day to find all his belongings and most of their shared ones simply gone. On the bare countertop was an envelope, stamped and addressed to a PO Box, with a polite note requesting she use it for her engagement ring. When Jo called Chris' mobile phone it went straight to voice mail. When she called again fifteen minutes later it was out of service. None of their mutual friends had seen or heard a peep from him, or at least weren't willing to admit it.

Chris had ghosted her. Without so much as an 'abracadabra', he had vanished without a trace, taking nearly everything Jo expected about her future life with him.