Haunted 22

I am haunted.

I am haunted by that night.

I am haunted by that night still. I'm haunted now deeper than in the beginning.

I am haunted by memories of that Halloween night that rise up like ghosts in my mind; ghosts that rattle chains and summon phantom figures from my past. They come to me and go bump in the night, and then vanish.

When that first day of autumn arrives -- I'm not referring to a sterile date on a calendar, but the first morning when I can smell that something in the air has changed, bringing a palpable sense of a new season. For me, this is the true beginning of autumn, my haunted season. I feel the change in my bones. I know that an invisible threshold has been crossed. This time of year, when the light of day grows short, when the sun slips low on the horizon casting long shadows over the landscape; I am reminded, no, I am haunted, by the happenings of that night. I wonder if the shadows cast by the events at that gathering were so long and deep that those shadows reach into my life up to this very day. I am still haunted by that night long ago.

It has been twenty years plus. I was married once for two years, nine months and one day. I've taken a few stabs at relationships, finding little to no contentment to reward me for my efforts. I knew what I was hoping to experience, but I was always disappointed. I felt that deep down, it was me. I thought there might be something inside of me that was denying me the love I sought. Or, a more terrifying thought was that there was <I>not</i> something inside of me. I have come to feel that something within is missing, a dawning suspicion that something precious has been taken from me.

I have begun to fear that my string of years of failed love and intimacy goes deeper than physical body image, self-esteem or conventional psychological afflictions. I fear that my condition goes back to that shadowy Halloween gathering and the people -- or things, that I encountered that night. My greatest fear is that what is missing deep inside me is something sacred that was taken away.

I fear I am haunted to the depths of my soul.

When the bins of pumpkins go on sale in the grocery store and cheesy kid's costumes are advertised in ads featuring Spiderman and the latest Disney Princess and when I choose to indulge myself in a discounted bag of trick-or-treat candy (or two); I know that these American cultural signs are selling the arrival of the Halloween holiday. A night promoted for kids, candy and fun. Hell, it really isn't Halloween anymore; it's a freakin' Fall Festival.

I know differently. The ancient ones knew, as I now know; that this is a time when our world of life and light draws perilously close to the other world, the world of shadow, spirits, powers and principalities from the other side, the dark realm of the dead. The commercial trappings of twenty-first century American Halloween may weary the typical American shopper; but for me, as October 31

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approaches, I am swept up in a tide of chaotic emotions that take me back to my first year in college. It seems that I cannot escape from the shadows of that wild, carnal and unexpected ritual that played out on that autumn night in the wooded hills outside of town. For me, it all goes back to that place where I was once -- and possibly still am, entangled with a deep mystery, a vivid sexual experience and perhaps a dark spiritual force that penetrated deep within me.

I prepare for Halloween night as I have for years. It is a ritual for me now. I lift from the back of my top bureau drawer a lacey black corset which I wear only on one day a year. Undoing the clasps on my every-day bra, I throw my shoulders together and allow the bra to drop to the bed, leaving the dead soldier lying there. I like the looks of my tits. I use both palms to feel their round, sensual heft as I cup them, offering the girls a playful boost as I turn to admire them in the mirror at the end of my bed. The years and gravity have taken a toll on the ol' girls, but I see them as unique and beautiful. My areolas are dark and larger than those of most other girls and I have kept their secret, my ladies are bearded ladies.

When my nipples began to take on their thickening feminine form, they also sprouted a few coarse hairs around the widening areolas. I used to be mortified by this unwanted masculine attribute and for a while I painfully plucked out every thick chest hair.

I've come to revel in my special secret. Back in the days when I'd take a lover, I'd explain to him that I must have done or drank something that "put hair on my chest." It was good for a little giggle before we fucked. Too often, the giggling was better than the fucking. Those lovers that I enjoyed the best, seemed to be aroused by their discovery of my secret titty whiskers.

When I take the time to pleasure myself, occasionally I like to begin by oiling and teasing my nipples, then pinching them and alternately tugging my titty whiskers to add extra stimulation before I push myself over the edge with a good, vigorous finger bath for my stimulated twat, wallowing in her own slick juices. I expect I will play with Miss Jellybean and the twin beauties later tonight, but for now, I have a ritual to get ready for.

I uncover my special Halloween garment from underneath the pile of mixed cotton panties and satiny underthings and welcome her embrace tight around my ribs as I begin to fasten each clasp, beginning at the waist and working upward. I love the texture of the garment caressing my skin and I realize once again that being naked has its moments, but I find arousal by selecting and dressing in pretty things.

My boobs settle into the cool, silken cups where I manipulate them into their places. In turn, they are playfully buoyed in a girlish, exuberant, perky profile, enhanced by the firm boning underneath. My nipples take notice of the attention, rising in mild excitement as I sweetly tuck them in, hidden just below the stiff rim at the top of each cup. I make sure the girls are comfortable before I close the last clasp. I linger in front of the mirror and do a bit of adjusting to make sure the girls are properly and proudly displayed -- because we ladies just never know who might show up unexpectedly tonight.

From the edge of my walk-in closet where seldom worn clothing is hung, I pull out a green and black satin brocade 18th Century style gown and slip into it. I make sure my pair of smart looking ladies are shown at their best, peeking above the low scooped neckline. I tug at the black lace trim on top of the cups to make sure it shows just so coquettish and sets off the naughtily bunched bosoms before they dive under the satin bodice.

I braid my hair, pinning it up in an elegant wrap, looking quite fashionable for pre-revolutionary France circa 1780. I use a touch of makeup for the face, emphasizing my high cheekbones, applying an over-the-top shade for the lips, something that I wouldn't normally choose, but after all, it is Halloween night. I step into a pair of black evening slippers with green bows added to match the gown. I pause to take in the effect; Madame Soirée is ready for her visitors - whomever they may be this Halloween night.

I set out a bowl of chocolate candy. I'm hoping that I've over-bought the good stuff, so that once the stream of trick-or-treaters trickles off, I am left with a plentiful supply of mini candy bars and M&M's. Enough to treat myself just a little bit all the way through Thanksgiving.

Madame Soiree's visitors tonight will be the likes of Ninja Turtles, ubiquitous superheroes and Disney princesses, sometimes a skeleton or a kid wearing a minimalist bathrobe thrown over his street clothes, the least amount of effort for free candy I suppose.

The costumed kids who race up to ring my doorbell come from the tangible world of my neighborhood. But dressed once again as Madame Soiree, just as I was back on that Halloween night when it all began, I know that on this anniversary night I will also be visited by phantom memories. A reminiscence of the place where I chilled to feel the parting of the veil that separates this world of flesh and blood from the world of spirit and mystery. Tonight, I will dwell on that distant evening when the veil parted, allowing both worlds to briefly mingle, leaving me in the grip of consequences that reach far across time and into my present world.

When the kids come up on my old wooden porch to ring my doorbell, my hand always trembles ever-so-slightly and my heart skips a beat as I reach for the doorknob to see who or what is on the other side. From my experience with trick-or-treaters from years past, I know what to expect. Still, I am fearing, or maybe hoping, that when I open my door, I will find not a cute little ballerina, but a man dressed in a specific, old-fashioned naval uniform. If he ever did show up, I don't know what I'd do; would I let him in? Or would I bar and double lock the door and fall to my knees and pray? Would he be just a mortal man on the other side of my door, or would he appear once again out of the darkness on a Halloween night as if traveling here from another realm? From the realm where ghosts of the departed wander and demons prowl.

While I wait behind my door for the arrival of my visitors, I am drawn by my secret, haunted thoughts back to an awkward freshman year far away from home and a night that shattered my understanding of my place in this world. For years I have grappled with just what happened to me on that hilltop. As the sun goes down on All Hallows Eve, the creep of unavoidable and irrepressible chaotic feelings come upon me. I have stirrings of a strange madness coursing through my mind, steaming into my veins, permeating my skin. My flesh feels so keen as if I could detect the faint brush of a pale ghost passing over my shoulder. And yes, I do feel those ghosts come to me. I feel the ghosts of the past conjuring up memories of every step and every random choice I took that night. I think of the confluence of all of the events that led me to finding myself shivering, confused and spread naked under the yellow moon on a hilltop above Schattental Farm. I play those memories over and over in my mind. Bedeviled memories of those events that have placed me in the position where I am tonight, feeling suspended between two worlds. I am at the crossroads between two halves, light and dark, love and apathy, ecstasy and depression, hope and fear, and maybe life and death.

Flickering through my mind once again this night are remembrances of the summer days following graduation from my suburban California high school. Back then, my thoughts were alternating between excitement for my future and doubt as to whether I had made the right choice for college. I was the first in my family to continue beyond high school. I was to be the one to break out of this small town orbit. I was to follow my dreams. I wanted out of my current stifling life and its low trajectory of expectations. I wanted refinement, culture and somewhere far away from where I was. I was longing for the opportunity to go somewhere that seemed established; not this shallow novelty of ever more streets paving over the fields, cookie-cutter housing subdivisions sprouting up like weeds, filling with plastic, tawdry shopping centers catering to transitory Californians.

Mrs. Charon, my guidance counselor, had called me into her office early in my senior year to discuss college applications. She asked me some questions, my ideas were not well articulated, but she listened to my answers anyway and took some notes on what might interest me. Mrs. Charon said she would make a few phone calls and look up some places in her set of college directories. We would talk a little later once she had gathered some brochures and recruiting material.

A couple of weeks later I was investing my evenings pouring over the literature and application forms provided by the counseling office. I yearned for a place that had the feel of gnarled and twisted roots that sunk deep into a primordial earth. I wanted some small place where strong old stone buildings stood projecting a sense of history, where generations had moved among the trees along well-worn paths. And I was hoping I could find a school that wouldn't make me take too many math classes.

Throughout March I was eagerly checking the mail at home every day, hoping to have my dreams fulfilled - then doubting any school would accept me. I convinced myself that I would have all of my applications rejected, compelling me to join my pitiful classmates at the junior college. One afternoon I pulled a large, thick manila envelope with my name on it from the mailbox. It was from the only small college in which I was genuinely interested. What was to be my fate?

I slit open the top of the package and held my breath as I read the letter: "We are delighted to inform you..." And yes! I was offered the financial aid I needed through a position for paid work-study off campus.

Over the summer I readied myself for the new college experience. Because my work-study position was to be a few miles away from the small, secluded campus, I would need a car in this rural setting to get to my work-study library job. Mom insisted that daddy find a car in tip-top mechanical shape that I could safely drive nearly all the way across the North American continent. She meticulously planned out my route to school and wrote down a list of warnings and required check-ins for me to strictly follow along the way.

Daddy, for his part as an independent auto mechanic, had good connections in the area and was able to get a good deal on a Mercury Cougar that fit all of mom's specs to safely deliver a young woman thousands of miles away. Mom was fairly sure that a single woman traveling alone could not avoid being kidnapped and raped somewhere along the way -- though she never said as much, I could feel her misgivings. But, she let me prepare to go to college anyway.

Leaving California in early September, I was driving east-northeast, but I was also going into uncharted personal territory, somewhere far off the map from anything me or my relations had ever experienced. My new home for the next four years might as well be in the place where the ancient cartographers would add the solemn warning, "There be Dragons and Ye Demons." I had to call home thrice a day, using the $25 in quarters I carried for pay phones at lunchtime. I was to call collect from my motel room when I arrived for the night and again when I was about to leave on that day's leg of the journey.

On my first night away from home, I checked in early in the evening, made my call to mom and had settled into bed to do some reading. It was almost ten when I could hear the voices next door through the thin walls over the noisy air conditioner throbbing in my own room. Soon the constant throbbing of my A/C unit was interrupted by a thump on my wall. Another loud thump came moments later. At first, I was alarmed, but I quickly figured out that I was hearing the headboard from next door being driven into the wall.

I had never heard a couple fucking before, for me it was almost a religious revelation. I quickly became aroused by the rhythmic thumping of their love bed as I imagined what she was experiencing. I heard her start to moan with punctuated barks of "Oh! Oh! Oooh!" that sang harmony to each percussive beat against the wall. She was getting fucked and she was a real screamer with every ramming that was delivered between her thighs. I got excited listening to the frantic action just a 2x4 and a couple of pieces of sheetrock away. I didn't know my pussy could get this lubricated this fast. I was overwhelmed by a surging desire to be fucked myself, despite mom's misgivings and contrary to her warnings to me during my solo road trip.

As I listened to my neighbor get pounded and thrown around on her bed, I too wanted to be fucked hard like her. I shed my panties and grabbed the extra pillow next to me, bunched and stuffed it tightly between my legs and began to mimic the humping and bumping coming through the wall. My hips rose and thrust in measure with the sex sounds flooding my room. We were all going to come together; I had secretly joined my neighbors making it a nasty three-some. I was desperate to keep pace with my hidden couple, yet I was afraid I would scare them into stopping if my own screams were heard. I soon let that concern fade away as I rubbed my own succulent, puffy labia folded over my clitoris as I worked hard on ruining that pillowcase.

I heard the woman's chirps turn into a long, moaning staccato scream, then a short outburst followed by a deep sigh. I could hear the man speak to her, but I couldn't make out his words, but the tone sounded like a command.

Then they were silent for a few minutes until I heard the woman saying, "Do it baby! Do it! There. Be a good boy for me -- come on now. Cum in me baby." There was a growl. Then they were quiet.

I was climbing toward my own climax, but they finished before I had reached my pinnacle. That is when I discovered the little bottle of sample lotion and flipped onto my back and gave myself a soothing slathering that was cool and creamy. I began to fantasize that this was the ejaculated sperm spilled on me by a man who had stopped to help me fix my flat tire. In my fantasy he had demanded payment for his help and as I reached for my purse, he knocked it out of my hands and snarled at me, "That's not what I had in mind!"

He brought me to this motel room and bolted the door behind us. He took a seat in the chair against the wall and lit a cigarette. He sounded impatient with me as he told me, "I'm waiting to get my compensation little lady," as he leaned back blowing smoke in my direction.

I pretended that I was flustered and had no idea of what he was wanting from me, "I don't know what I am supposed to do. I offered to pay you." I was a trapped girl. I knew I was going to have to please him. I decided I would give him a performance so sexy that he would be in awe of my body and my sexual skills. He would be so impressed with what I did to him that he would have to grant me my freedom. I masturbated to the thought of being forced to sexually perform for a strange man who had captured me as I traveled alone. I was getting worked up something terrible. I ground my soft flesh into my hand as my fingers slipped into my creamy cunt and explored to find the right spot.

My conjured fantasy scene playing out in my motel room stoked my arousal, "Your tire was flat little missy, but you ain't." He was looking at my shirt and I knew that he was going to make me expose myself. It was part of what I owned him for fixing my tire.

"Come close over here, I need to take a good look at your knockers up close 'cause there's not 'nough light in here. My darling, I need to see you up close and real, real personal."

I had to do what he wanted me to do. He wanted a look at my tits, and I was going to be forced to show them to him. I imagined that I would have to please him and not be shy. I would give him what he demanded and more. I was going to be fucked by a stranger in my motel room, just like the pair next door.

I seductively unbuttoned my blouse as I swayed my hips a few feet in front of his face as I watched for the effect my cleavage was having on his dick. I stopped moving toward him. I was going to turn the tables; I was going to be the aggressor and tease him.

"Get your big titties over here," was his demand.

"Come help yourself mister. If you won't take my money, I just don't know what you'll take."

In my fantasy, my plan was to give in to his forced fucking as a way to impress him and win my release. I would display my big titties and reveal my feminine assets. I was confident my plan would work like a charm - and it did. My mister faceless-stranger became so smitten with me and the boobs behind my bra that he could not control himself. He leapt to his feet and pulled a knife from his pants and cut away my bra as he watched the pleasing, full view plop unrestrained in front of his lusting face.