by Ray Gordon
DARK DESIRES
by
RAY GORDON
Dark Desires first published in 2003 by Hodder & Stoughton. Published as an eBook in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.
ISBN 9781780801445
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.
New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.
This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Ray Gordon. The right of Ray Gordon to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
Chapter 1
Samantha stood in front of her dressing-table mirror and gazed at the reflection of her body. Wearing a white blouse and short pleated skirt, she looked smart in her school uniform. But it was what lay beneath her clothes that fascinated her. Lifting her skirt and focusing on the material of her tight panties faithfully following the contours of her sex lips, she grinned. This was what men wanted, she mused, pulling her panties to one side and exposing the fleshy swell of her hairless vaginal lips. Gazing at her tightly closed vaginal crack, the pinken wings of her inner lips protruding invitingly from her valley of desire, she knew that men watched her in the street and thought their male thoughts of illicit sex.
'If I knew then what I know now,' she breathed, concealing her virginal sex crack with her panties and lowering her skirt. But she did know. With the mind of an experienced adult in the body of a naive girl, Samantha knew only too well. But this must have been a dream, she thought, looking around her bedroom. She was twenty-two years old now. Her schooldays were far behind, drifting in the memories of her mind. She couldn't really have travelled back in time, could she? No, this had to be a dream.
Samantha eyed her balding editor despairingly as he sat behind his desk, grinning at her. He knew that she didn't want the assignment. She'd said that an undercover operation to expose a man who purported to harbour ghosts in his mansion was ridiculous. What was the point? she wondered, twisting her long blonde hair around her slender fingers. Gerry Andrews was charging people to visit his so-called haunted mansion. He was a charlatan. What of it? The punters loved the prospect of coming face to face with a ghost as they roamed the mansion, and Gerry Andrews was raking in the cash. Where was the problem?
'Sam, Sam,' Dave sighed, leaning forward across his desk, his hands clenched. 'This could be a big one. It's a blatant rip-off, baby.'
'Don't call me baby,' Samantha snapped. 'I'm twenty-two years old, for Christ's sake.'
'OK, OK. Right, this is the highly devious plan. Andrews—'
'Gerry Andrews is an eccentric, Dave,' Samantha broke in. 'The punters know full well that there are no bloody ghosts in his ramshackle mansion. He's just trying to bring some money in to run the place. The electricity bill alone must be—'
'Listen to me, Sammy baby. Andrews is ripping off the public. Fifty-odd punters a day at twenty quid each? The crook's raking it in. That's a grand a day, for fuck's sake. The Daily Moon is a pillar of the community. We're here to give the public the truth. We're here to—'
'Sell newspapers?'
'Yes, of course. But... you are here to do a job, Sammy.'
'Can't you put John onto this one?' she sighed.
'John's a prat, you know that as well as I do.'
'John's all right. He...'
'He fancies you.'
'Of course he doesn't,' she laughed.
'He fancies you rotten, any fool can see that. Anyway, a beautiful young blonde such as you will be able to get in with Andrews. Show him a bit of thigh and—'
'I'll show you a bit of fist, in a minute.'
'Into fisting, are you?'
'Pardon?'
'Look, there's no such fucking thing as fucking ghosts, Sam. This bloke is a fucking charlatan and he's taking money under false pretences.'
'OK, OK - I'll do it,' Samantha finally conceded, raising her blue eyes to the ceiling.
'I knew you wouldn't let me down, babe. Right, get your arse to the mansion and take a look round. Hidden speakers, tape recorders, lighting... Look for anything...'
'I know what to look for, Dave.'
'Excellent. Give us a ring on your mobile when you've sussed the joint, OK?'
'OK,' she agreed, holding her hand out.
'What is it?'
'Money, Dave. I'll need some money.'
'Shit,' he cursed, opening his desk drawer. 'There's twenty.'
'Is that all?'
'That's what Andrews charges.'
'I don't even get a cup of tea?'
'Fucking hell, you'll be the ruin of me,' he sighed, thrusting a second twenty-pound note into her hand. 'I want a result on this one, Sam.'
'Yeah, yeah, I know.'
'Try to show a little enthusiasm, babe.'
'If you keep calling me babe, I'll show you—'
'A little bit of tit?' he chuckled.
'A little bit of blackmail.'
'Blackmail?'
'I might just have to have a chat with your wife.'
'Oh, that.'
'Yes, that. How you can carry on with your secretary is—'
'Cool?'
'Uncool, Dave. She's half your age, for fuck's sake.'
'Don't I just know it,' he sniggered. 'Actually, she's younger than my daughter.'
'You're despicable.'
'That's not what she says. Do you know, last night she got me on the bed and—'
'I'll call you later,' Samantha cut in, walking on her long legs to the office door. 'You'd better take one of your pills before you get too excited and keel over.'
Reaching Andrews's mansion, Samantha parked her VW Golf and walked towards the stone steps that led up to the huge oak doors. At least the sun was shining, she mused, dreading the thought of traipsing around a dilapidated eighteenth-century building. Looking down at her red miniskirt, she wished she'd worn jeans. She should have gone home and changed before embarking on a ridiculous mission to search an old mansion and expose an eccentric as a charlatan. But this wouldn't take long, she decided. A quick look round, make a few mental notes, and then home to an evening meal and on to the pub to meet her boyfriend.
Climbing the steps she was greeted by a middle-aged man wearing a peaked cap, a checked shirt and brown corduroy trousers. Looking him up and down, she couldn't help but laugh at his brown brogues. This was Mr Andrews she knew as he grinned at her and licked his narrow lips. Gerry Andrews, locally infamous for his eccentricity, he could often be spotted riding an old boneshaker bicycle through the local village. He was harmless enough, Samantha thought, focusing on the long black hair sprouting from beneath his cap and cascading over his suntanned face. Completely mad, but harmless enough.
'Afternoon,' he greeted her, raising his cap in a most gentleman-like manner. 'The ghosts are rampant today.'
'I'm sure they are,' Samantha murmured, unable to show the slightest inkling of enthusiasm.
'Kept me up all night, they did,' he complained. 'Moaning and groaning, banging and humping around...' His words tail
ing off, he looked down at her naked thighs. 'I wouldn't mind keeping you up all night, banging and humping,' he sniggered.
'Where do I buy a ticket?' Samantha asked dismissively, not so sure now that Andrews was harmless.
'There are no tickets. Just bung me the cash and you're in.'
'There you are,' she said, passing him a twenty-pound note.
'And there's your change,' he returned, passing her a one-pound note.
'Change? But I thought that the entrance fee was twenty pounds.'
'Yes, that's right. That's your change.'
'One-pound notes went out years ago.'
'Don't you want your change? If not...'
'No, no, I'll keep it. Is there a guide or do I just wander around aimlessly until I'm confronted by the ghost of a headless woman?'
'Just wander around.' Looking over his shoulder as if making sure that they were alone, he leaned forward. 'The ghosts will find you, if they want to,' he whispered mysteriously.
'That is reassuring.'
'Beware of the Monk of all Perversions,' he murmured. 'He's a sod for getting his hands into girls' knickers. Especially horny little blondes in red mini-skirts. Right, you've only got an hour as the pub opens at six.'
'But it's only four o'clock.'
'I close at five. That gives me time to change and get ready for an evening of heavy drinking in the local. You're... you're not married, are you?'
'No, why?'
'You're a bit of all right. Nice figure, firm thighs, well-rounded titties—'
'Excuse me,' Samantha cut in angrily. 'I'd rather you didn't...'
'Sorry, it's just that I'm looking for a wife. You'd do quite nicely.'
'Are you asking me to marry you?'
'No, no, no... Yes. You see, most of my female customers are old and wrinkled. Tits like empty leather bags, if you get my meaning. It's not often I get a tasty young bit of... a lovely young lady visit my haunted mansion.'
'Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm a lesbian,' Samantha announced unashamedly, hopefully putting an end to the subject.
'A lesbian?' he echoed, flashing her a lecherous grin. 'That's even better.'
'You do know what a lesbian is?'
'Too right, I do. Er... I don't suppose you do shows? I could hire out my banqueting hall and we could—'
'Shows?' Samantha breathed incredulously. 'Certainly not. And to answer your next inevitable barrage of questions. Yes, I am wearing panties. They're red. And, yes, I masturbate, using a vibrator. Happy now?'
'Good grief, you must be psychic.'
'No, just worldly wise.'
Leaving the man examining the twenty-pound note, Samantha entered the building and looked around the huge entrance hall. Antique furniture covered in layers of dust, cobwebs hanging from the high ceiling... Gerry Andrews didn't need a wife. He needed an army of cleaning ladies. There again, she supposed that the cobwebs and dust were in keeping with the notion of an old haunted mansion. Years of dust and cobwebs were consistent with the presence of ghosts, she reflected. As were thunder and lightning and blood-curdling screams echoing in the dark of the night. But it was the afternoon and the sky was blue, so there'd be no thunderstorms. Unless they were pre-recorded on tape. Wondering where to start, she picked up a leaflet from a table.
'Female masturbation lessons every Friday at six,' she read, her blue eyes frowning. 'Candles supplied.' There was far more to Mr Gerry Andrews than fake ghosts, she mused, tossing the leaflet onto the table. But he was a likeable character, in a most peculiar way. Doubting that he'd ever find a wife, she felt cold and shivered as she again wondered where to start. The scent of musk filling her nostrils, she walked across the threadbare carpet and climbed the huge staircase. There were no other visitors, which she thought odd. But this was hardly the sort of place for a family outing. Candles supplied?
A distant, blood-curdling scream echoing around the building as she wandered into a large room, Samantha shook her head and sighed. The eerie sounds were obviously coming from hidden speakers, and she half expected to see someone covered with a white sheet leap out of the shadows and shout boo. 'This is crazy,' she murmured, sitting on a tatty chaise longue by the window. The eerie sounds growing louder, she gazed around the room. They were coming from a large wooden cabinet standing by the far wall. If there was a speaker in the room, the cabinet would be an excellent place to hide it. From her low position she could see a wire running along the skirting board and up to the base of the cabinet.
Sure that she'd found what she was looking for, she left her seat and tried the cabinet door. As she'd expected, it was locked. But it didn't take much effort to yank the door open, breaking the ageing lock. 'Well, well, well,' she whispered, discovering a small loudspeaker at the back of the cabinet. Closing the door, she followed the wire along the skirting board to a hole in the floor. Shit, she thought, wondering how to get to the room below as eerie sounds continued to emanate from the wooden cabinet. She also wondered why she was stuck in a dingy old mansion when the sun was shining and her stomach was calling for food.
Leaving the room and smiling at a young couple as she made her way along the landing, Samantha descended the stairs and slipped through an oak door. The wire ran down the wall and, again, through a hole in the floor. Pleased to think that there were at least two other visitors in the building, she crossed the empty room to a small door. Unless the visitors were ghosts? Trying the door's handle, she was determined to discover why it was locked. Things locked normally harboured secrets, she mused, pushing with her shoulder against the door. Grinning as another ancient lock broke and the door swung open, she found herself at the top of a narrow staircase. Finding a switch, she turned the light on and closed the door before creeping down the stairs to what appeared to be the basement.
The eerie sound of dripping water echoing around the basement wasn't fake she knew as she looked up in the low ceiling. Hoping that the water dripping from long strands of green slime didn't come from a toilet, she took her mobile phone from her belt and punched in Dave's number. 'Fuck it,' she murmured, realizing that there was no signal in the basement. Looking around and noticing a pile of magazines stacked on a shelf, she grabbed one and opened it. 'God,' she breathed, gazing at a photograph of a huge purple knob about to enter a gaping pussy hole. Gerry Andrews didn't want a wife; he wanted a whore-slut. Checking her watch as thoughts of diving into bed with her boyfriend filled her mind, she tossed the magazine onto the shelf.
Gazing at the piles of old furniture and cardboard boxes strewn around the basement, Samantha could see no sign of the wire and reckoned that she was wasting her time. Again wondering what point there was in exposing Andrews, she decided to call it a day and go home. It wasn't as if Gerry Andrews was a criminal, she mused. The crazy man was only trying to make a few pounds. Dave would have a go at her for letting him down, she knew. But there'd be nothing he could complain about if she told him that she'd not found anything suspicious. If he really was hell-bent on exposing Andrews, then he'd have to go to the mansion and check it out for himself.
A pinpoint of red light glowing in a dimly lit corner of the basement caught her eye and she noticed a computer and video equipment on a desk. This was proof enough she knew as she switched the monitor on and found herself looking at the entrance hall. The computer appeared to be controlling a tape recorder, probably sending eerie sounds to various rooms as visitors entered. Gerry Andrews was a charlatan, all right. But what of it? Should she expose him? She pondered, watching the young couple walking through the hall and leaving the building. His ghost scam was harmless enough, after all.
Walking up the narrow steps to the basement door, Samantha was horrified to find that, despite the broken lock, it was somehow firmly secured once more. Turning and yanking the handle she began to panic as she thought that she might be trapped. Yanking again on the handle, she hammered on the door in the hope that someone would hear her. There again, hammering sounds emanating from the basement would be deeme
d to be the antics of ghosts. No one was going to investigate, she was sure. Checking her watch, she reckoned that Gerry Andrews would be closing up before long and would come down to switch the computer off. She'd have a little explaining to do, she reflected, descending the steps and making herself comfortable in an old armchair. But if she said that she'd lost her way and had somehow ended up in the basement, the eccentric would believe her.
After an hour Samantha was becoming fearful. Her mobile phone didn't work in the basement and there'd been no sign of Andrews. Imagining being locked in the bowels of the mansion all night, she again thought about her boyfriend. She'd arranged to meet Zak in a local wine bar at seven and then go on to see a film. The time approaching seven, she reckoned that Zak would contact Dave and... and what? Dave wouldn't know where she was. He'd probably mention that she'd gone to the mansion, but he'd not assume that she was still there.
'Who's there?' she breathed, sure that she heard someone murmuring in the shadows. Leaving her chair and gazing into the shadowy corners of the room, she felt that she wasn't alone in the dingy basement. Reckoning that it was nothing more than the eccentric's electronic ghosts - and her imagination running wild - she flopped into the armchair and closed her eyes. Resigning herself to the fact that she would probably have to remain in the basement all night, she decided to stay calm. There was no need to panic, she thought, trying to reassure herself as a dull thud resounded throughout the ancient building. As Dave had said, there were no such fucking things as fucking ghosts.
'There you are,' Zak said, smiling as Samantha stood next to him at the bar.
'I... I must be dreaming,' she breathed, looking about her. 'I was locked in the basement and—'
'Basement?' Zak murmured. 'What are you talking about?'
