He bowed politely with a broad grin on his face. “Thank you, Ma’am.”
She continued to unpack for the rest of the day. Richard would have to send her somewhere to buy more things, or they’d have to shutter half the bedrooms off.
The feeling of being watched, that she’d had this morning while outside, was gone now, and she didn’t know what to make of that. What if he’d gone away? Maybe he could only appear near a full moon? She didn’t know how ghosts worked. It was possible, wasn’t it?
And so as dinner passed and there was still no sign of him, her anticipation curdled into fear. What if Arthur and Mrs. Dudley left tonight, and she was in her newly curtained room, completely alone?
Daphne found she couldn’t bear the thought.
“Is there anything else, Ma’am?” Arthur asked, after collecting the last of dinner’s cutlery.
“No. Thank you.” She didn’t know whether to plead for him to stay to keep her company or push him out the door and pray. “I’m fine,” she said, smiling, using the same calm voice she’d used with Richard on the phone, the one that anyone – if they knew her very well – would know meant that she was lying.
“Glad to hear it, Ma’am. Breakfast at eight again?”
“On the dot. See you then.” She waved at him as he left the dining room and heard the alarm chirp on their way out.
She waited in the dining room after that, pensive – scared. No heat, no sensation of being watched, just the vast presence of an empty house looming over her like a squatting hen.
Daphne got up, pushed her chair in, and walked out to the hall. If there was anywhere that he was likely to be, it was her bedroom, surely. He must be waiting for her there. He simply must.
She walked slowly, preparing for the best and the worst simultaneously, feeling her clit thump with each step. She needed him to take care of her, to make her feel alive again – and she realized she didn’t know what she would do in this huge empty house without him. Go insane, probably.
Daphne placed her foot on the first stair up to her wing of the second floor – and was yanked back, from behind.
Chapter Seven
Heat covered all of her, her back, her ass, her neck. Hands molested her roughly over her clothing, mauling her breasts, pushing through the fabric of her skirt to grope at her crotch. She cried out in fear and relief – he was still here, he’d been waiting for her after all – and he threw her to the cold tile.
She caught herself only barely, on all fours -- in the morning there’d be bruises on her knees. A hand she couldn’t see wound in her hair and pulled her head back as another hand pushed up her skirt and yanked down her underwear, and she knew what he had planned -- he was going to ride her like a horse, right here in the entryway hall.
Daphne felt the heat of him behind her, covering her ass and thighs, and then he let go of her hair and pushed her forward, buckling her down so that her ass was higher than the rest. She felt him pull her buttocks wide as if he were inspecting her – and she knew she was already ready for him, hopelessly, shamefully wet.
With one solid plunge he pushed his hot spear of a cock inside.
She cried out again as it rammed into her, in hunger and surprise. He started taking her roughly, right from the start, fucking her – on the cold tile there was no such thing as consideration, or as love. She scrabbled to hold onto something, anything, but the tile had no give and his cock was relentless, taking her hard and fast and deeply.
She didn’t want to come for him like this, dirtily spread apart, given no choice in the matter, but her body betrayed her and she felt her pussy begin to clench. She fought to hold on, to hold off, to not give him the satisfaction while keeping all of it in for herself, but she couldn’t – the hammering of his cock and the titillating shame of the situation shoved her over the edge.
She cried out again and it echoed through the house’s empty halls, making it sound like a howl instead of a shout, and she felt her pussy lock down on him, milking him as hard as it could in her wild orgasm. She shouted again, feeling all of him inside of her, brilliantly hard and straight and hot, and then sagged to the ground, barely cupping her hands in front of her face for the fall.
He took three more long strokes, still impossibly hard, owning her pussy just because he could and then pulled back, freeing her from his cock. Her hips dropped to the floor and she lay there, dizzy and gasping, her own juices seeping wetly from her cunt – that’s what it was now, she thought, after he’d used it like that – to stain the front of her skirt.
The sensation of heat from behind her disappeared, and Daphne realized she could maybe stay there all night, except that the tile was cold.
Daphne made her way upstairs after taking off her low heels and got into her bedroom, half expecting a repeat performance the second she walked in. But no one waited for her there – and without his heat surrounding her, she found herself chilly.
She got undressed and dropped her clothes to the ground and made her way into the bathroom’s claw-footed tub and drew the shower curtain closed.
Would he come for her again tonight? Would she, in turn, come again for him? She should be too tired to think of such things, or too scared – or angry that he’d had his way with her downstairs, like that, just taken her in the hall – but as the water sluiced down her naked body it washed away her exhaustion, her impropriety, her shame. She’d wanted someone to use her – anyone – and if she were completely honest with herself, she’d enjoyed being used.
She rinsed her hair off and began the work of washing off her body. Reaching down for the soap and coming up again she paused with a gasp.
Outside the milky white shower curtain, she could see a form. Her heart started beating faster, fear and hope twining again. Did he know she could see him? He was taller than her, but she couldn’t tell what he looked like. Was that for the best? Could he see her, in here? She swallowed, picking the soap up.
She cleaned herself off with him watching. Her boldness returned to her and it became a game, much as unpacking had. She held one arm up just so and faced him, while she washed off her left breast, and then repeated the show on the other side, taking elaborate care as her hands slid down her body, putting pointed toes up on the edge of the tub as she soaped and rinsed herself off, until the only space left to clean was that one, the one he’d just fucked.
There was no way to make washing her pussy off sexy, and so she didn’t try. She just stood there, facing him, hidden by the shower curtain, reaching with soapy fingers between her folds, and then cupping water with both hands to rinse herself off.
She bent over to set the soap down – and when she came up again, he was gone.
Daphne dried herself off in the bathroom and pulled her robe on. She reached out for the door knob and rested her hand on it without turning. She had no idea what – if anything – would be waiting for her outside, and she found that liked not knowing and being scared.
She turned the handle and stepped out into her boudoir.
There was a divot on her sheets, as though a man sat on the edge of her bed. She walked across the room to him, discarding her robe. She felt more powerful naked than she ever had wearing clothes.
Daphne presented herself. Because he couldn’t speak, she couldn’t know what he wanted – he’d have to show her with his hands. One hot hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer – and a hot arm pulled her awkwardly down.
“What?” she fought, then remembered if she pushed through him, she’d break the illusion they shared, that he had all the power. She felt his legs beneath her stomach, her naked breasts jiggling on the far side of his thighs as her ass – for the second time that night – went in the air. She was like a poor 1950’s housewife or a recalcitrant schoolgirl, about to feel a father’s wrath.
Before she could protest further, or ask what was going on, the first blow landed. She felt the heat of it, the weight of it, as it stung her with pain and surprise. It reverberated through her, body a
nd soul. Was this really happening? Was she letting it happen to her? She had an infinity of time to contemplate exactly how she had gotten here before she felt the next smack.
“No –“ she protested, as the heat flooded her again. It welled up from his hands as he hit her, from legs beneath her, and she could feel the bobbing of his hot cock against her stomach. If she were honest with herself, she felt the heat rising from between her own legs. “Stop –“
Another smack. There would be no stopping, at least not on her behalf. The ghost would continue until he saw fit, and she would just have to learn how to take it.
He changed his hand so that his next spank was a slap, crisply echoing around the room, and he began to speed up, striking one spot repeatedly before changing to the other, cooler, cheek. His handprints weren’t differentiated on her anymore, they were like an endless stream that blended together, and she was squirming, squirming, squirming to get away from them, twisting in his lap to hide herself from him, but unable to get away. Her body genuinely wanted flight, but her mind needed his attention and knew – hoped, prayed – that he wouldn’t give her more than she could take, although with each new strike she felt closer to crying for mercy than the last and ending their game -- assuming he would stop then.
Just as she thought she couldn’t take anymore, that her bottom was on ruined, that she’d never recover – he stopped.
She tensed on his lap, unable to believe it was over, oddly missing it now that it was gone. Her head was spinning, she didn’t know what to think, she’d used her riding crop on horses before, but she’d never had anyone else put her through her paces – not like that.
He stroked a hand over her wet hair and down her back and softly, so softly, over the ass he’d just welted. She whimpered and twitched, an animal sound, feeling small and lost. He stroked her again, calm, and reassuring. The man whose hands cared for her like that, who touched her so gently after bruising her – surely there were bruises – she didn’t know what to make of him anymore.
His hands reached down the backs of her thighs, to the back of her knees, and then back up more slowly. She was worried that he was coming again for her ass and she tensed – then felt him push his way between her thighs, still involuntarily clenched to protect her pussy from his prior onslaught. Nervous yet hoping, even if she couldn’t have put that hope into words – she opened her legs slightly and let him in.
Hot fingers pushed inside of her ever so easily. She was wet again, even after having washed herself off in the shower, the rain of blows he’d landed on her ass had turned her on in spite of herself. His fingers moved inside of her, sliding in and out, and she moaned.
The pain was over now. She knew somehow she’d tolerated it – ridden it, like it was an animal – and come out the other side. Which meant now it was time for pleasure.
He brought his wet fingers out and circled her clit, before pushing them into her again. He made a game of it, of teasing her like this, stirring his heat against her pussy’s walls, until it felt maddeningly good, only to pull out and pay attention to her clit. And then he’d rub her own wetness over her, pushing on her slow and hard, too hard almost, until she was too sensitive to stand it and needed things faster and more light, then plunging his fingers into her pussy again.
She had no idea how long they were there, the blood rushing to her breasts and head, her slung across his lap, dizzy from the pain and hope. She reached a hand up to pull at one of her nipples and moaned, feeling the electricity jolt down to where his fingers were once again teasing her clit.
She rolled her nipples between her fingers, holding the heavy weight of her breasts, letting his lap completely support her – feeling the heat of his hard cock stroke against her belly. She moved a hand awkwardly up, trying to reach for him, and got one swift strike on her already raw bottom in return for it. She whimpered and she would’ve sworn she could feel him move as though he were chuckling.
He wanted control – and so she let him have it. She rubbed her own breasts, feeling the delicious softness of her own skin, as he manipulated her at his leisure. She whined and she moaned and – over everything else – she gave in. Her hips thrust against his lap and back into his hand and his fingers lazily circled her clit then sped faster as she moaned anew.
She was going to come soon and both of them knew it. Hot fingers pressed faster, pushed deeper inside, and she panted, suspended, breasts in her hands, nipples pinched hard.
“Oh – oh – oh –“ she began, searching for a word to call him, to name him for what he’d done – she lit on Arthur’s term and before she could think twice shouted, “Master – I’m coming – I’m coming!” at the top of her lungs.
His hand didn’t stop until she did, collapsed across his lap like a cat. He pulled his fingers out of her, and one more time he stroked her back. Then he moved beneath her and she slid to the ground, leaning against the bed for strength. Heat brushed her face, her thighs, and then disappeared, leaving her alone again.
Daphne woke to the ringing of the house’s landline phone at five AM. She rolled back onto the bed, stiff from sleeping on her side all night, and discovered why she had done so – her bottom was raw.
The phone wasn’t a figment of her imagination though. She stumbled up to standing like a fawn, between the heat of her ass and the soreness of her pussy, and staggered down the hall.
“Hello?” It had to be Richard, he was the only one who had the number.
“Daphne!”
“Who else would it be?” she said, a subtle dig.
“I’m sorry to wake you, pet, I’ve gone and forgotten what time it is there.”
“I think it’s five.”
“Never too soon to let you know I’m coming home early – the cancelled the extra days.”
“Really? Why?” She leaned carefully against the wall behind the phone. It was cold, it felt good on her bottom.
“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you doing all that unpacking without me.”
Daphne licked her lips in thought – she wished she could believe him. “Do you know when?”
“Tomorrow. I want to see everything you’ve done. Especially the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”
“I always do, Richard, don’t I?” she said.
“I love you, pet.”
“I love you, Richard,” she said back, out of habit, and hung up the phone.
One more day, and he’d be home. All because she’d caught him with that woman, and he had a guilty conscience. Guilty because it was his first time? Or guilty because he’d finally gotten caught? Daphne supposed she’d never know – even if he told her the truth, she’d have to assume he was lying to her.
As for her side of things – she slunk into the nearest bathroom, which had a much lower vanity than hers, and twisted to look at her ass in the mirror. All of her bottom was a bright cherry red. She put an experimental hand on it, and it stung – it was even still warm.
What was she going to do? She couldn’t tell Richard – he didn’t deserve to know. But she did need him – she needed to stay here now, this was her home. If they got divorced, he’d sell this place for sure.
And what was more, was that she did still want a child. Richard…might not be a good husband, or father, but he did have a lot of funds. Private schools weren’t cheap, and neither were ivy league colleges.
If she could manage to lead Richard on, to make him think they were happy, at least until she got pregnant…then things might be okay, mightn’t they? There was no way he’d stay home, he’d go away again on a business trip, philandering – and when he was gone, she would have the baby and the ghost. The best of all possible worlds, right?
She stroked the curve of her ass, watching her hand in the mirror. Yes. If she could keep her wits about her, it just might be possible to juggle it all.
She unpacked with a vengeance that day, no flouncing or posing. She wanted Richard to feel bad when he got home, when he saw how much she’d done, toiling aw
ay without him. Arthur brought up boxes and they shoved furniture around as a team, until all the bedrooms on her wing were done. She’d already picked out one of them to be her nursery – all they had to do was get one of the dressers the locusts had left behind out the door.
It was heavy wood, an ancient piece, she could understand why the locusts had left it behind. It was far too grim for a nursery though – it had to be moved.
“Let’s put our backs into it, Arthur –“
“Ma’am, my back may not have much more left to give!” Arthur said with a laugh.
But the felt beneath the dresser’s feet suddenly glided across the floor and they slid it out the door and down the hall to the spare room Daphne was using to hide all the furniture she didn’t want or need.
They both walked back up the hall slowly, hands to backs, congratulating each other on a job well done, returning to the newly empty room. The walls were the wrong color – mint green, whereas she’d want pink or blue, child depending – but the windows were shaded by tall trees outside, letting in the perfect amount of light.
Her eyes scanned the room, imagining her future life, when she lit on a dusty photo tilted against the wall where the dresser had been. She walked over and picked it up.
It was of a woman holding up a trophy in front of a giant black horse.
“Who’s this?”
Arthur came over to look over her shoulder. “I believe that was one of the prior tenant’s children.”
Children? She wasn’t a child. Daphne squinted, and saw it, the innocence around the eyes – but the curves of her body, shown off by the tight breeches and top she wore, were all woman.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Indeed. It was a shame.”
She turned towards him, a question in her eyes.
“She’s the one that died,” he explained.
“So -- this was her room?”
The Haunted (Sleeping with Monsters Book 1) Page 5
