Gateway

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 anticipation 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 giveaway... perfect for what I have been looking for.

I turn from the road ahead to search for the face of the agent. Marge. Marge something. She's about mid-50s, pudgy (is that unkind?), hair dyed to eliminate any sign of gray, and dresses that are 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 on 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 halfway 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 except for the road continuing to wind ahead. The fence and gate were obviously very old but still 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-1800s, became vacated, then renovated several times. It was now on the National Registry so the renovations had brought the house up to current code but maintained 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 footpath 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 a 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 period: an impressive entryway; a large living room with a massive fireplace; a 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 is 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 the 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 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 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. I agreed to show it to you and I'll take any offer you want 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 at a corner café is very much another thing. Also ... you know of the talk ..."

"That it is 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 weren'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 names 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 settling 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 ingrained a compulsion for security into my life. Every night, therefore, I diligently locked doors and windows, 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 creeks 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 an 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, the 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, and sheer floor-length nightgowns 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 a 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 increasing 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 selection 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 selections for others as I became recognized in the community.

I am pleased that my 47 years are 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 ... is a 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 the lights as I moved to the stairs to 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 feelings 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.