The Beginning

Disclaimer:

The following story contains explicit content and is intended for mature audiences and open-minded people only. Reader discretion is advised.

This work of fiction includes themes of sexuality, romance, and adult situations and is not meant to be taken seriously. In fact some of my works may require you to suspend belief. It may contain scenes of explicit language, graphic depictions of sexual acts, situations of cheating and polyamory, group minglings, and other content suitable only for those over the legal age of consent in their jurisdiction.

All characters depicted in this story are consenting or willing adults and are works of fiction. Any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, or both, is purely coincidental.

By continuing to read this story, you acknowledge that you are of legal age to access adult content in your area and that you understand the nature of the content provided and have an open mind for such things. The author assumes no responsibility for any actions taken by readers as a result of the content of this story. Further, the author accepts no responsibility if you are offended by what you have read.

If you are not comfortable with or legally allowed to access explicit adult content, please discontinue reading now.

Personal Note: Thank you for the input of my two beta readers (both asked to remain Anon) who suggested that I call this story "The Chambers House" instead of "The House of the Thirteen Whores" as I planned. This does sound better.

I hope you all enjoy this. It will be a thirteen parter and it will not get done overnight.

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The Chambers House

The house on 1515 Trundelle Street had a reputation. It had a good reputation unless you knew what went on there, and the truth was that most people did. It was called the "The Chambers House" because of its connection to a well-known family in Virginia, but it had been willed to Isabella Crane, the mistress of the owner, when the last family member had died.

Built in the mid-1800s, it was a massive estate for its time. It had three floors, seventeen bedrooms, two parlors, two kitchens, quarters for the staff, and one of the first houses in the area to have its carriage house attached to the main house.

Where the Chambers House made its fame or infamy in what Isabella did with it after it had been left to her, she had made it into one of the more successful bordellos in the area. But unlike similar places in the lower-class sections of town, she set out to make this a high-class establishment, which she did. All her girls were clean, well-mannered, and well-read.

In addition, The Chambers House became well known for the parties and events it hosted for local politicians, visiting dignitaries, and foreign visitors, you name it. There was a rumor that even a president or two visited The Chambers House. However, since no records were ever kept of the visitors, one will never know for sure.

It was late, and the day had been grand. A bachelor's party for the son of a Navy Commander had the girls busy all evening. Now that they had left and the house staff had cleaned up, Isabella walked through the halls, ensuring that everything had been cleaned up and everyone was settled down for the night. She had a policy for her girls: There were never any overnight guests or patrons. At midnight, all business was done for the day, and she would check in on each girl.

A door opened as she reached the end of the hall, and Pauline giggled and closed it behind her. When she turned and saw Isabella, she jumped slightly and bowed her head: "Oh, sorry, Madam Isabella. We were just talking some before bed."

Isabella nodded and smiled warmly, "It's fine, Pauline. Have you cleaned up already?"

She nodded, "Oh yes Ma'am, some time ago."

Isabella nodded, "Very well, the go to your room and get some sleep. We've all had a busy day."

She curtsied, "Good night, Miss."

As Pauline hurried off, Duncan, the negro that Isabella hired to maintain the house, walked around the corner. He was an elderly man that she had hired because he was good with his hands and knew about mechanical things.

"Good evening, Duncan. Up late again, I see."

He smiled his usual, wide, toothy smile, "Yes, Ma'am. Cleaning out all the coal soot on the lamps. That alone be keepin' me busy mose days. We still getting those Edison lights you talked about soon?"

She smiled, "I hope so, but we must see how business is. That new power company just put those posts behind the house so it might happen."

He nodded and moved on to the next light, "OK... I hope so. These are getting old."

"Aren't we all, Ducan?" She quipped.

He laughed, "Oh yes we is, Miss Isabella, yes we is."

She continued to the end of the hallway, entered her room, and closed the door.

She walked over to her writing desk and looked at the ledger that was opened for today. It had been a very good day indeed. All the girls had made more money than they expected.

"Randy and drunk sailors and their money." She said to herself as she looked at the books and the two empty spaces.

The house typically had fifteen ladies working, but two of them left for bigger and better things. One going to school in Massachusits and the other starting a local bakery.

Madam Isabella always tried to ensure that the girls worked on bettering themselves. She never wanted them to think that this was their only life. In some cases, she even paid for classes for them. Betty, the girl who left to start a bakery, was given the seed money to start, no strings attached, out of the Chamber's House general fund.

She looked at the ledger again and her eyes blurred, "Not tonight, I will deal with this in the morning." She then changed into her nightgown and laid down, quickly falling asleep.

It was around two in the morning when something tragic happened. The house was quiet; everyone was asleep. Duncan had finished his rounds and gone to bed in the small workman's house behind the main house.

All the coal gas lamps in the house were set to the lowest setting, casting a dull, flickering glow on the walls, furniture, and artwork. In the kitchen, a mouse, not finding anything left behind to eat, found a crack to crawl through and looked for a better place to eat.

Anyone watching would have thought that someone was playing with the valves to the lamps. They brightened, then dimmed. Then they sputtered and got bright again, and then they all went out, the flames sputtering and dying due to the lack of fuel. About five minutes later, the gas came back on, but with no flame.

No one heard the low hissing sound of the deadly gas escaping from the lamps. No one was aware that they were all about to die.

One of the girls, Amanda, had a gift, and she woke up feeling the dread filling the house. She quietly called out, "Miss Isabella?"

She tried to get out of bed and tried to stand, but she was overcome with dizziness and fell to the floor. She thought she could hear the other girls crying, calling for help, but she knew it was just in her mind. She was not hearing them but hearing their souls crying in anguish.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry."

The house was silent.

The following day, Duncan climbed the steps to the back of the main house and met Luanne, the cook. She had been out at her family's house all night and was getting in to start the morning meals.

"Good mornin', Lulu," Duncan chirped.

She smiled and winked at him, "'Morning yourself."

As soon as they opened the door, they both started coughing, and Duncan touched his face with a handkerchief.

"Oh god, the lamps went out." He ran in, opened a window, and then had to run out again. "Lulu, be careful; the whole house is filled with coal gas."

She nodded and returned with him, helping him open windows to air out the house. After a few minutes, he found the lever to turn off the gas for the house and pulled it.

As he exited the small utility room, he met Luanne, tears running down her face.

"What's the matter, Lulu?"

She shook her head, "They all dead... all of them. They dead."

Martin looked at the deed. It was official: He owned the house. No one else wanted it, and it had sat in neglect for some time. The previous owners tried to turn it into a museum, but the city would not allow it. So they tried to make it a Bed and Breakfast, but there were never enough guests to make it work and some of the ones they did get said the place was haunted.

Tamara, his girlfriend, looked at him and frowned, "This is not going to be one of those 'Money Pit' houses, is it?"

He shook his head no, then pointed at it, "This has a history to it, and it just needs a new steward to bring it back to life." He looked at it, "Did you ever hear the story?"

She shook her head, "No, not beyond what they used to say in school."

"So yeah. It was a whore house but like a high-class one. Her girls were some of the highest paid in the city at the time." He turned to face her, "Then, in October 1902, they think someone messed around with the gas for the lamps and suffocated everyone. The live-in maintenance man, Duncan Sutter, was blamed and hanged for it."

He turned back around and said, "Everyone says the place is haunted by the ladies that died there that night, but I never bought into that shit."

A truck pulled up to the front of the house, the VELCO logo emblazoned on the side, and a large man got out and approached him questioningly.

"Are you..." He looked at his clipboard, "Martin Simms?"

"Yes, Sir."

He nodded, "Okay, good. I'm turning on the utilities for the house right now. I am just turning on the part outside. You are responsible for the stuff inside, like breakers, gas valves, or the stove and heater and all that, okay?"

Martin nodded, "Sounds good."

Tamara looked at him and said, "Hey, I gotta go to work. I'll catch you later, okay?"

They kissed goodbye, and she ran over, jumped into her Toyota, and took off.

Martin followed the man onto the property and then to where the utilities came into it. "Pardon my following. I just want to see where all this comes in in case I need to do anything myself."

The man shrugged, "Not much good that will do you. We keep our part of it locked up. There is another set of valves for the gas that you have access to over there." He pointed to a small enclosure on the side of the house. "Then the breakers are inside, probably in a utility room or the basement."

Sometime after the utility truck pulled away, Martin walked up to the front of the house. He had only been in it once during the showing and walkthrough. But now it was real; he had the keys and was about to enter it as the owner.

He unlocked the padlock that had been screwed to the door, then used the other key to open the old locks on the door itself and opened the doors. It was almost cliche how the double doors creaked as he opened them, and then again, they slammed shut in an almost comically loud way.

Inside, he expected to see dust and old furniture. Stepping in, he was impressed with how well the place had held up over the years. Granted, one of the previous owners had spent the money to have the old shake roof replaced with a newer tile roof, and he was sure that that was what protected the building and its contents.

Electricity had finally been installed in the house in the 1960s, but it was all run on the surface of the walls, adding to the old-timey look of everything. For now, there was enough light coming in through the windows, so he did not need to turn the lights on.

He moved through the foyer and into the sitting room. It was filled with ornate love seats and couches and a buffet that had been used as a bar, as one could tell by the empty bottles still sitting there, their contents long since evaporated.

Martin pulled the heavy canvas off one of the couches and was amazed at the condition of the furniture.

"It almost looks like they were dropped off yesterday." He said to himself as he slowly sat down on it, testing it with his weight until he was comfortable that it would not collapse under him. He bounced a couple of times, then leaned back. "Comfy."

He heard a creek down the hall, which made him jump a little. "Hello?" he called, thinking that maybe the utility guy had come back or that maybe Tamara was here, but no one responded.

Sanding, he walked over to the cabinet and opened the drawer; inside, there was a sheaf of papers with writing on it. He looked closer and could see that there were names.

There was another noise behind him, this time louder; he spun around to find himself face to face with a tall, attractive, older woman, maybe in her fifties. She was wearing a robe covering what looked like a nightgown.

She spoke quietly yet powerfully, "What are you doing in my home?"

Martin stepped back, "Pardon me?"

She stepped forward, matching the distance he backed up, "My home," she said, looking around, "Why are you here?"

"I'm afraid there is some mistake, Ma'am. I own this property. I just bought it."

She looked at him carefully, then turned and walked up to the bar leaned against it, and turned to him once again, "What year is it?"

Martin shook his head a little, then said, "2024, why do you ask?" He stepped toward her, "Ma'am, are you OK? Should I call you a..." He paused when he realized he could not see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

She followed his gaze, smiled wanly, and looked back at him, "I see nothing as well, but I know I am here with you."

Martin took another step forward, more curious than afraid, "May I ask your name?"

Sighing, she smiled again, "I am... I was... Isabella Crane. And this was my home." Again, she looked around at the house. "We asked the last person to leave, but he would not. Wanted to turn this into someplace for people to gawk at who we once were."

"We?"

She looked at him again, "Yes, Sir. My girls and me."

He felt a little weak in the knees; he was sure that this was some crazy lady who had come in and was going to kill him, but that did not explain the mirror or her outfit. He stepped back and started to fall when he felt her hand on his arm.

The touch was cool, but with it came a wash of memories that were not his: men, women, parties, laughter, tears, fear, darkness, and suffocation. A voice and touch he recognized jolted him back to reality.

"Tam?" He said, looking at the woman helping him up off the floor.

Tamara smiled, "Yeah, who did you expect?" She helped him over to the couch and sat him down.

He shook his head again to clear the cobwebs, then noticed it was dark outside. "What time is it?"

She looked at her watch, "About nine-thirty." She then felt around his head, "No bumps or bruises, not sure what happened to you."

"I must just be tired. It's been a long week."

They left the house, and Tamara drove him home, worried that he might pass out again while driving.

It was a few days later before Martin felt the urge to return to the house. He was still unsure if what he had experienced was real, but he was pretty sure that it was just exhaustion.

When he entered, it still looked the same, with no sign of ghosts or anything that might cause him to run out screaming.

Carefully, he walked through the lower rooms, looking in one and then the other, only finding dust and memories. He had lights on now, which was a plus, so he could go through quickly and look through the rooms.

"Maybe it was a squatter," he thought as he rounded the corner and started up the steps.

"We are no squatters," a voice said from behind him. He turned and slowly walked down the short hall that separated the main kitchen from the formal dining room. As he cleaned the entry to the dining room, he saw them.

Sitting at the table were two figures; one was Isabella Crane, and the other was a petite, almost wispy, blonde. They were both wearing what looked like hoop dresses, like they wore in the old days. Not the sexy kind, the functional kind.

"Have a seat, Mr. Simms." Said Isabella.

Stepping into the room, Martin looked around, feeling lost, and then looked at the seat.

"I'd uh... prefer to stand." He said meekly.

She nodded, "Very well, but we have to talk."

He nodded, then asked, "So this is real? But I don't..." He looked at the other woman at the table; she was smiling at him, "I Don't believe in ghosts." It came out as more of a question than a statement.

The young girl smiled and stood up. She seemed to glide across the room to him. She was incredible. Her pale skin seemed to be her natural color, not from makeup. She touched his arm, and it felt like energy flowing through him.

She looked at Isabella and said, "He seems kind, and I don't feel ill intentions from him."

"What..." Isabella began, "Are your intentions with my house?"

He was trying to keep an eye on this porcelain beauty while he was speaking to Isabella: "I planned on restoring it to what it was and then opening a period-themed bed and breakfast or Inn."

The woman stopped before him, her green eyes and pale skin contrasting sharply with her red hair, "I'm Amanda." She reached up and touched his face gently.

Unable to take his eyes off her, Martin whispered, "You're just a child."

Amanda smiled, "No, silly, Madam would never let girls under twenty in her house." Then she grinned and proudly said, "I'm twenty-one..." Then, a look of sadness washed over her, "Or at least I was. I was going to be a ballerina."

"Amanda..." said Isabella from her seat.

Amanda momentarily averted her eyes from Martin, "Sorry, yes, Madam."

When she looked back up at Martin, he saw something serious in her eyes. Her words came out almost intoxicating as she returned his stare: "I have a gift, Martin. This might make you feel funny."

She reached up and gently pulled him toward her, their lips meeting, their mouths opening, their tongues touching. Her kiss was warmer than any he had ever had, and he could feel her presence throughout him.

Without thinking, he reached up and put his arms around her, holding her tightly as they kissed. He felt her hand on his back, making slow massaging motions, and her other hand traced its way down his chest and abdomen, then stopped on the front of his jeans. He did not even realize that he had gotten hard until she began rubbing his erection through his pants.

He heard, no, felt her voice somewhere deep in his mind, speaking to him in kind and loving words, "We need to know that you will not take our home from us, Martin. We need to ensure that you will take care of this home." He could feel a soft probing from her, like someone shuffling through papers, looking for something.

"I..." He panted, vaguely aware that she had pulled his throbbing member out of his pants and was massaging it slowly and methodically. "I... don't understand."

"You don't have to; you just have to promise us you will not defile our home. I need to see what you have in your mind, Martin." She held him a little tighter, "Let me see."

He gasped as he felt her mind penetrate his. Even though it was gentle, and she did not hurt him, it was an unusual feeling. He moaned as he felt the tightness forming in his groin and stomach as she sped up her work on him.

"Ah... I see." She said, and he could feel her pleasure through his entire body. He felt her smile and the warmth of it as it spread from her and into him, and then he came.

He opened his eyes and found himself still looking at her, smiling at him; then, they both looked down at the puddle of his cum on the floor. He was breathing hard and leaning over a little when she gently kissed him on the forehead and stepped away.

"I see his plans, and they are good. They will not destroy the house or what lives in it, but will actually benefit the home and us," she said to the Madam.