by Ashlee Price
Without forming words, I let her know of my enjoyment by the sounds from my throat. She had dropped the whip and was now holding a riding crop, as I learned when she slapped my flank, her index finger separating the cheeks of my ass. I began rocking back and forth, encouraging her. She laid flat onto me then, her nipples skimming my back.
Slowly she crept forward, each scooting motion requiring her to raise and lower that delicious pussy against my skin. She came closer, her breasts finally hanging over my face where I could almost fasten onto her nipples and suck. I began to rock, forcing her pendulum breasts to rock so I could fasten on. She moaned as I bit a nipple. She loved the pain. I felt her relax atop me and I quickly bent my knees and gained enough momentum to launch her over my head. It was the equivalent of a takedown, and her mouth opened in surprise. She jerked the collar, but I tensed the muscles of my neck and ignored it. I spun her around and pushed her legs apart, sinking into the dark flesh that had been tempting me to insanity.
As I pounded into her, she lost the upper hand and instead wrapped her arms around me, holding me inside her. Her nails raked my back and her head was thrown back and gently rocking from side to side as ecstasy seemed to take over. Her hips rose to meet mine and I knew her orgasm was rising by her increasing gasps. “Ah!” she cried, telling me she was on the cusp.
I pulled out and rolled onto my hip. Her eyes snapped open, amazement written over her face. She grabbed the leash and tugged me toward herself. “Finish what you started!” she screamed.
It was my turn to laugh. “It’s all about the anticipation, remember?” I reminded her.
Her face twisted in anger, but then it moved again, and this time she threw her head back and laughed. “You are a quick student, Mr. Badass Riker. You kept the Butterfly from spreading her wings. Put on your clothes, we are done.” She reached into a small drawer in the table near her and handed back my money. “Tonight, it is the Butterfly who has learned.”
She stood, reached a finger into her wet pussy and drew a moist swath across my lips. “Remember me,” she said and then disappeared back through the curtained wall.
I came, I learned, I conquered.
Chapter 1 - Lacy
I took advantage of the stoplight to check my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Do I look different? The Lacy in the mirror looked pretty much like the old Lacy, which was a little disappointing. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but some fairy glitter or a spotlight on my face wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Nor would fifty pounds have been missed. All my life I’d felt as though the best parts of living, the things that went on the top shelf, were reserved for the people who fit a marketing stereotype. Oh, I’d tried to be one of them—I’d tried endless diets and joining the gym and all the things you were supposed to do to achieve that perfect number. They were ideals that always seemed just out of my reach, tantalizing me to buy diet pills, gym memberships, and ugly clothes that cost considerably more than they should have. I’d done it because I had no other choice. I’d been preyed upon my entire life by those “perfect number” people, and I was scarred from that battle.
But now I was done with school, I was leaving the city and headed toward my own little cottage on Lake Michigan. Grandma had bought it not long before she died, and she’d left it to me. Busy with classes, I’d never gotten a chance to see it. Anyone would be excited to have their own cottage on the lakeshore, but for me, it was a dream come true. Chesterton represented a whole new life—as well as, I hoped, a career. I was determined to found my own interior design firm, and Chesterton was the sort of elite, exclusive small town that could spell the beginning of what I wanted so badly.
My little Chevy was a hand-me-down from Grandma, too, and it had hardly been loaded with options when it rolled off the line fifteen years earlier. There was no GPS, so I had to rely on the old-fashioned paper map in the seat next to me. If they thought it was hard to text and drive, they had no idea how hard it was to keep the car out of a ditch while scrutinizing a huge map. For some reason it never occurred to me to pull over; I kept looking for street signs to compare to the names on the map. South was behind me; that much I could figure out. To the west was Michigan, so I figured I’d recognize that. That narrowed things considerably.
I could hardly believe it when I found the Chesterton sign. I was high on success and feeling empowered. A good thing, too, because the reality of opening the door to the cottage was more of a shock than it should have been.
Had Grandma actually lived here? When the door handle came off in my hand, I should have been clued in, but no… I was forever the optimist. Someone must have tried to break in, I told myself and ventured further. Well, as far as the hole in the floor. Yes, there was a hole the size of a softball in the floor, and I could see the sand of the crawl space below. I gingerly stepped around it, hoping the rest of the floor would hold. The door opened into the kitchen because the living area was saved for the view.
“Wow!” I said aloud as I threw open the French doors that led to the deck overlooking the lake. One door was a little warped and wouldn’t open the entire width, but that was okay. I only needed one side. I turned a little sideways to walk out, making a mental note that I was going to have to find a local gym and finally do something about the numbers on my scale. But, my god, this was a beautiful view.
The sun was on its way down, throwing golden highlights over the waves that rolled toward me. Silhouetted against the sun was a sailboat, headed for port in the dwindling winds. I fell in love then and there.
You know what happens to a woman in love—everything she sees from that point on is no longer a problem, but just part of the charm. So, as someone who looks on the bright side, I decided I’d just inherited the most charming cottage imaginable.
The sun hunkered down before I was quite done enjoying the view, so I retreated with a sigh to the kitchen and flipped on the light. The only problem was, the light didn’t actually come on. In fact, nothing turned on. The power’s off, you idiot, I thought to myself. I hope I’ve still got that flashlight in the glove box.
There was no flashlight, naturally, so I needed to make a trip to town for provisions. Now that the kitchen door wouldn’t latch, I dragged the splintered wooden bench over the doorway, hoping that if someone decided to break in, they wouldn’t sue if they fell through the kitchen hole.
Chesterton was totally unlike the big city I’d just left. As a matter of fact, it couldn’t be described as a city at all, as noted on the sign at the village limits, population 587. More charm. Darn if I wasn’t just surrounded with it.
I’d save the grand tour for another time. I pulled into the angled parking place in front of the only business that still had a light on. Chesterton General Store was the epitome of the stereotypical little-bit-of-everything general store you’d expect from Little House on the Prairie. I pushed open the door and, of course, a bell tinkled overhead.
“Help you?”
My God, is that Mr. Drucker behind the counter? I’d obviously been watching too many reruns.
“Hi. Just moved in and need a few things to get me through the next couple of days, beginning with a couple of flashlights and batteries.”
He nodded, pulled two flashlights from beneath the counter, and slapped down a large package of D batteries next to them. “And what else?”
“Oh, well, maybe some bread, multi-grain, please, and a half pound of Gruyere cheese, sliced sandwich thick?”
“Lady, we’ve got Butternut and Kraft cheese slices, that’s it.”
I looked up to see if he was serious. He was. “Oh, okay, that will be fine. I don’t suppose you have toilet paper?”
“You trying to be sarcastic? ‘Cause if you are, I closed five minutes ago and can shut off the lights.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. It’s my wacky sense of humor. Toilet paper and maybe a couple of 2-liter pops, please?”
“What flavor?”
“The pop?”
“You’re
looking for flavors of toilet paper?” He was getting irritated, and I could picture myself sleeping over the hole without a flashlight to pick out whatever creatures might surface in the night.
“No, no, a cola of any kind is fine. That’s all, thank you.”
He plopped the items into two paper bags. “That’ll be twenty-two dollars and ten cents.”
I was surprised, but I hadn’t kept track of the prices, so I handed him a debit card. He laid it back on the counter. “Don’t take those.”
“Oh. Well, let me see, do you take a check?”
“You bank in town?”
“Not yet.”
“Then nope.”
“Okay, well, how about cash? You do take that, right?”
“You getting’ smart again?”
“No, no…” I muttered, pulling out my wallet. I had two ten-dollar bills. I laid these on the counter.
“You still need two dollars and ten cents,” he informed me.
I pushed down to the very bottom of my Vera Bradley bag and began pulling out coins, mixed in with peppermint wrappers and old crumpled gas station receipts.
“Just money, ma’am.”
I was a little hurt that he called me “ma’am” instead of “miss,” but I needed to get this and get out. I fished out a dollar and three quarters, but then I hit rock bottom. I looked up. “I don’t suppose…”
“No credit. Don’t know you.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. Well, can we substitute something for a cheaper brand?”
He frowned. “I’ll sell you the single roll of toilet paper instead of the four-pack.”
I hesitated. I was rather attached to being clean. Still, I had no choice; I could tell I was walking the edge of being escorted out with empty hands. “That would be fine.”
The storekeeper, who never introduced himself, ushered me to the door and handed me the two bags to carry to the car.
“Oh, okay, well, thank you for staying open a few minutes. Goodnight now.”
I turned to smile at him, but he’d already gone inside, flipped off the light and lowered a shade over the “Closed” sign. I was on my own. I fumbled with the bags and opened the car door, shoving them in where I could between my luggage and possessions piled to the roof of the car. I climbed in and headed back to the cottage.
I missed the drive the first time in the dark but found another drive to turn around in and pulled up to find the bench was exactly as I’d left it. I reached through the bags to find a flashlight and the batteries. These were sealed in one of those clamshell packs, and I couldn’t get it open. I tried tearing it with my teeth, punching it with my car keys, and finally throwing it out the window onto the rocky drive. It was unbreakable, and I decided that from now on I would only buy chocolate that came in clamshell. That way, I’d never eat chocolate again.
I finally located a screwdriver in the glove box and stabbed at the pack until I forged a hole big enough to slide out a battery. That seemed to break the package’s courage, and it suddenly opened flat of its own accord. Was there some secret? It didn’t matter. I loaded the flashlight and went inside to find my bed for the night.
As the house was devoid of furniture, this was going to be a pallet made of clothing. I decided the bathroom was the safest room in the cottage—just like in the case of a tornado. I made a pile of my heavy velour robe, sweatshirts and pants and pulled on a heavy jacket before lying down. I’d wedged the screwdriver to hold the door shut; it closed just enough that I could convince myself I was safe. There were just some things in life you had to get through on faith, and my first night in the cottage was one of those.
Pain was the first thing that filled my consciousness the next morning. It didn’t take long to discover that it was caused by the floor heating vent poking into the flesh of my cheek. Somewhere in the night, I’d rolled off Mt. Bathrobe and was sleeping directly on the scummy vinyl. Sunlight did little to cheer me up as I scrambled to my feet and began feverishly sloshing water over my face. There were no towels, so the bathrobe did double duty.
I stepped out onto the deck, deciding to make the best of things before I began my to-do list of necessary improvements. The air was fresh and only lightly scented by the dead fish washed up before me. Rolling up my pant legs, I took a couple of meaty steps into the wet sand, but it began sucking me downward so I made a hasty retreat. I hoped things picked up before too long—I only had so much optimism stored up to get me through the ordeal.
There was a plastic Adirondack chair on the deck and I settled into it, pulling out my cell phone to make a preliminary list of things to be purchased and done. It was a much bigger job than a phone could handle, but it was the best I could do without electricity. That went to the top of the list. A quick search and I was tapping the number for the power company. They were really nice, a small local company with a power plant in one of the remote harbors. They said they’d put the account in my name and hopefully get someone out there later in the afternoon.
“Well, that’s one thing done,” I murmured and got up long enough to dig into the bag and pull out the Butternut bread and the cheese. A warm cheese sandwich was just what I loved for breakfast—not. I would have given my new Vera Bradley purse for a cup of hot coffee and a croissant with jam. Well, maybe at least the matching cosmetic bag. I loved the colorful, quilted products she made. They made me feel like I was Linus, carting around my comfy blanket.
I walked around inside the cottage, chewing my warm cheese sandwich and inspecting the place. There were two bedrooms, which was perfect for me. I would sleep in one and use the second as my office. “Lacy Chatte Design” I intended to call it. I added business cards to my to-do list.
There was only the one bathroom, and it badly needed updating. The living area spanned the back of the building, and while the windows didn’t look to be in too bad of a shape, there was that door to be dealt with—and the deck was an accident waiting to happen. That brought me to the kitchen. Just for the heck of it, I tried the burner on the gas stove and was delighted when it lit! I guessed it was propane, which meant there was a tank buried somewhere outside that would need to be filled.
I wanted to maintain the charm of the cottage as much as possible. However, there were some things that could never pass for charm; they were disrepair, plain and simple. It wouldn’t do to live in a hovel while offering design services. My concept was to repurpose older furniture as much as possible, only adding quality pieces here and there as needed. Looking around, there was no question that my cottage “needed” a great deal.
At the end of the hallway there was a door to what I assumed was a closet. I opened it and was amazed to see a very narrow staircase headed upward. I hadn’t realized the building was tall enough for a second floor. I started up, and six stairs later it opened into a single room that spanned the entire house. It had a very low ceiling, but the room was usable if you weren’t too tall. Lucky for me, I still at head clearance at five feet, seven inches. I decided to make this my crafting workshop—much of what I did was a trash-to-treasure upcycling of pieces I came across. I also sewed and did various other crafts. If I added some broad windows, the view of the lake would be spectacular. It might also be possible to add a dormer, which would make it taller. Either way, it would be my private getaway.
Heading back downstairs, I knew this was a bigger job than I could handle alone. If I had lots of time and income, it wouldn’t be a problem, but I had neither. I needed someone to work on the cottage, and I needed an assistant to answer the phone and help me when my business began to take off. With resolve, I washed up as best I could, dressed and headed into town. I found a cafe, Millie’s Munchies, and went inside.
I flung myself into a booth and began spreading out my necessaries: my phone, a notepad, a pen, my wallet and a bottle of aspirin. A portly lady with hips that swept the edges of the booths shuffled in my direction, her hand holding a decanter of brown liquid gold. I turned over the cup on the saucer and pushed it in
her direction. “God bless you,” I smiled, and she began to pour.
“Cream? Sugar?
“Both. And could I get a glass of water?”
“Sure. Know what you want for breakfast?”
I didn’t need a menu. “I’ll have a platter—you know, eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns… the works. It has to last me all day.” I picked up my phone to transfer my to-do list.
“That some special kind of diet?”
I looked up and smiled. “Not really. It’s what happens when you make a life change and are unprepared.”
She contemplated me for a few seconds and then pulled out a chair from the nearby table and sat down. “Damn! Need to get off my feet for a minute. So, the name’s Millie—and you are?”
“Lacy, Lacy Chatte,” I responded, holding out my hand. Millie set down the decanter, wiped her hand on her apron and shook mine.
“So, Ms. Lacy Chatte, what kind of life change did you make?”
I had things to do, but one of them was getting to know people in town, so I was happy to spend a moment talking with Millie. “Well, to tell you the truth, I just finished college in the city and moved up here to a cottage my grandmother left me. I’m also starting an interior design business.”
“Geez, you don’t do anything half-ass, do you?” Millie pushed her long gray hair back behind her ears and leaned forward. “Which cottage?”
I told her the address and she sat back, nodding and crossing her arms over her ample bosom. “Nobody’s lived there for a long time. That place can’t be in very good shape.”
“You’re right, it needs work. Know anyone who’s handy with electric, drywall, refinishing floors and so forth?”
“I’d have to give it some thought. Stop back in and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“I’m also looking for an assistant. Someone young, full of energy, nice personality—preferably someone local who knows people who might be potential customers.”
“Now, that I can help you with.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
