The Haunted Dungeon Ch. 01

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Saffron and Anthony meet and the house's mysterious past.
3k words
4.47
13.8k
14

Part 1 of the 4 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 04/02/2016
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This is the start of a new story that is the result of a dare from the Truth or Dare Room on the Literotica chat. All characters are older than 18 years of age. This is probably going to be a long-running series, with the "sexy fun" happening primarily in later chapters!

***********

Fuck! I thought inwardly. Old Blue had once again bitten the dust and stalled at the bottom of the hill topped by the scariest haunted house of this town or any other. Old Blue, my grandfather's old car, had seen me through college and six years of my life of being a librarian. I loved the old Ford Mustang and felt closer to Gramps whenever I drove it.

But Old Blue was unreliable at best. And, now, he had stalled and died outside of cell phone reception. Yup! I checked again. No service at the top left of the screen instead of the name of my service provider. Well, shit!

My Southern gentility, hammered home by 18 years spent living with my grandparents after my mom died giving birth to me and my dad—well, my dad was a sperm donor, eschewed such language. But I had spent the last ten years away from home and in the Yankee big city of Boston. Even ten years away, I spoke out loud and in my mind with a Southern accent. So, the "fuck" and "shit" were spoken with my trademark Southern drawl.

There was no option, really. Gram and Gramps were on their way to celebrate their anniversary in Branson, Missouri, and I was house-sitting this weekend. The only house for a couple of miles was the one that rested at the top of the hill.

I started the half-mile trek uphill. I was thankful that I grew up in the Ozarks and not the Rockies at that moment. With another muttered curse, I slid out of my shoes and started carefully mincing myself up the road to the mansion.

At the top of the hill, I stopped and stared. The house had given me nightmares as a child. Once a grand mansion, it had fallen into disrepair from years of neglect. Squaring my shoulders and slipping my shoes back on, I walked to the door of the old, seemingly abandoned, house.

I still could not believe that Old Blue had stalled so close to my goal, but, for once, I did not seem to be lost. Unfortunately. I had heard stories as a child to stay away from the house, that people had vanished from there, but now I was desperate.

I was back in my hometown, the town of my birth, with another purpose in mind: to win the guy of my high-school dreams at my ten year high school reunion. Painfully shy and awkward—even more than I was now—I was never able to approach Brad Jones. But he was the fuel for my adolescent fantasies—and my adult ones, as well.

He was the quintessential bad boy, and every girl wanted to be debauched by him. I loved that word, debauched, and it featured quite often in my (bad) poetry about him. He had the dark hair and eyes that gave new meaning to the words tall, dark, and handsome. And, my best friend Pammy, who was head of the reunion committee, swore that he would be attending.

For once, I was dressed to kill. Sheer black stockings capped with lace at mid-thigh ended in a pair of black platform fuck-me heels that were open-toed to give the impression of a flawless scarlet pedicure underneath.

My bounteous breasts spilled creamily out of my black lace demi-bra, covered only by the stretchy, super short little black dress. How short? My garters attaching my thigh-highs to my pussy lips were clearly visible beneath the hem.

I felt eyes on me, staring at me, probing me in the gloom. With a gulp and a futile, discreet tug at the bottom hem of my dress, I rang the doorbell and heard it echo cavernously though the house of my nightmares.

Suddenly chilled, I was surprised as the door slid slowly open to reveal someone nearly my age, a 30-something-year-old man with dark hair and a compactly muscled body barely concealed by slightly old-fashioned jeans and a white tee with rolled up sleeves. He looked like an older version of James Dean, but hotter than the late Hollywood heartthrob could ever have hoped to be.

In that instant, Brad ceased to exist. I swallowed hard again, this time not from fear, but from arousal. Never had I been so aware of the skimpiness of my chosen attire as he looked me up and down like a steak he wished to devour.

"H-hi," I whispered, stuttering.

He nodded silently in response and stepped back to allow me to enter. His gaze was dark, hungry, eating me up in a way my body had never been visually feasted upon before.

My breasts threatened to spill out the top of my dress, my panting breaths were so heavy. Impudently, he reached out to trace the low neckline of my dress. "Wh-what are you doing?" I asked, aghast, even as my juices threatened to drip down on the floor, unfettered by my spread-open pussy lips.

I watched, almost outside of myself, as he reached for a letter opener on the entryway table. Deftly, masterfully capturing my hands behind me at the wrists with one capable hand, he traced my cleavage, neckline, and the valley between my breasts with the letter opener. He bent to my ear and growled, "Lost, little girl?"

Something about his voice, the chill of the dagger-like letter opener, and his control over me caused my heart to skip a beat. I had long read erotica based on BDSM, and, even though he was a stranger, even though he scared the bejesus out of me, part of my submissive nature began to respond. A part of me remembered his question to me and nodded absently, my tongue darting out to trace my unexpectedly dry lips.

The innocent flicker of my lips aroused him, and he groaned. I barely had time to revel in my newfound feminine power, for he slid the letter opener down the front of my dress, shearing it, renting it in two until I stood before him in only a bra, garters, stockings, and heels.

He seemed fascinated with my solution for a missing garter belt as he fingered my clit almost wonderingly. His mouth, compressed in a hard line, opened with parted lips and settled over mine, silencing any protests I could make.

His kiss deepened, turning voracious. I had been kissed before, had even fucked before, but his lips, hands, and arms betrayed an expertise I had never before been the recipient of. Fingers twined in my rumpled golden-brown locks, twisting the soft threads in his hands until he revealed my neck to his lips and tongue.

I melted into him as his starving mouth pressed kisses, nibbling, then biting against the pulse at my neck. Never before had I experienced such caresses. Breathing in, I smelled his scent, raw musky male mixed with the sweat of strenuous work.

He pulled back slowly, almost regretfully, with a tender, gentlemanly stroke of my breasts as he stepped away. Taking my slack right hand in his and putting it up to his lips, he introduced himself. "My name is Anthony Damon." His lips brushed the back of my hand as his breath warmed my fingers with his words. "This is my home. I inherited it from my great-uncle."

For a few moments, I was speechless, a natural state for me. When it appeared that he would remain motionless and silent until I managed to do the pretty and introduce myself, I blurted out, "Saffron. Gray." Awkward. "Saffy," I continued, sounding utterly ridiculous and childish. And tongue tied.

"Call me Tony," he said, and he smiled, his teeth blindingly white.

Somehow, it did not seem incongruous until that moment that I stood before him, a good three inches shorter than he even in my heels, that he was fully clothed and I was...not. He seemed to find my resulting blush amusing. My hands curled at my sides as I struggled not to cover myself.

"And where were you going in such a state of...dress?" he asked, again grinning blindingly.

"Um, the country club. My ten-year high school reunion begins tonight."

"Ah," he responded, and that one syllable held a whole dictionary of meaning. "Now that we have been properly introduced," he trailed off as his lips slanted over mine.

This time there was no mistaking the heat, the urgency, in his kiss. I was swept up in a maelstrom of need and desire, fitting my body to his.

I tore myself away, babbling. "I'm not like this. I know it sounds cliché, but I don't do this." I waved my hand. "I know it looks like I do from how I was dressed, but I don't—dress like that."

His amused grin widened. "Do you mean you don't live up to your spicy and exotic name?" He tsked.

I snorted. "Not hardly. My best friend Pammy talked me into wearing one of her creations, which you ruined, I don't need to mention." I nudged the toe of Pammy's designer special, the dress that propelled her to fame last year in New York. Pammy told me that even the Paris fashion houses were demanding a Pamela original.

Deceptively simple, even the harshest critics had to admit that it would make the wearer absolutely irresistible. With Brad, irresistible was what I had been going for. No, seeing Tony's reaction—and feeling the sensations said reaction invoked—I wondered if I could handle being "irresistible."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, sounding anything but. The heat in his gaze made me flush anew.

I needed to change the subject, to distract his regard from me. "Are you from around here originally?" I questioned, hoping to seem casual.

"No," he exhaled, and the tension his melting stare created evaporated into friendliness. "My granddad was from here. He and my great-uncle were twins, but granddad moved to California after the war. Did some farming, sold the farm to one of those big corporations. My dad stayed in California to take care of him and profess at UC Berkley in history."

"And you?" I asked.

He sighed, shrugging. "I tinkered a bit, here and there. Went to UCLA, got my business degree. Became interested in techie stuff. Started a business. And sold out, as my dad says."

"Sold out?" I echoed, prompting him when he appeared to go no further.

"Well, it had stopped being fun. And had become a huge headache of bureaucratic red tape from the FCC. So, I sold it."

I could not resist my next question. "What type of company was it?"

"A video streaming service," he explained. When he told me the name of the company, my jaw fell open. The name of one of the largest video companies rolled off his tongue effortlessly.

"Shortly after that, Great-Uncle Andrew died and left this money pit to me. I've been restoring it—incrementally—for the past six months. I hope to eventually rent parts out as a bed and breakfast and as an event center."

Tony looked down at me. "Now, you know all about me. What about you?" Those dark eyes scorched me.

"Me?" I hated talking about myself, hated being the center of attention. It had taken WEEKS for Pammy to convince me to wear the dress. "I'm nothing special."

"You? You are an enigma cloaked in intriguing fog. A puzzle that I cannot wait to learn the memories of. So spill."

If anything, I blushed an even deeper shade of crimson, my cheeks suddenly feverish. "I was born here. My mom, who died giving birth to me, was born here. When I graduated, I saw an opportunity to flee. I fled as far as I could go from here, to Bah-ston College, hoping to never come back, other than to visit."

I paused to catch my breath. My mouth had been moving a mile a minute to stave off any awkwardness. "My grandparents still live there. Oh, shoot! I'm supposed to housesit for them this weekend, and Old Blue is down the hill dead as a doornail."

"Old Blue? Dead as a doornail?" He echoed, looking at me with the head tilt indicating confusion. Pammy looked at me like that often.

I rushed to explain. "Old Blue is my Gramps's old blue Mustang that he gave me. He conked out—Old Blue, not Gramps—at the bottom of your hill."

Another pause to breathe in. "Anyway. I became a research librarian at a local library, specializing in—" Here I again paused, realized that I had just met this guy only minutes before, was all but naked in his vestibule or foyer or whatever it was, and was revealing to him increasingly intimate details about my life.

I wrapped my arms around me, shivering. At least the air conditioning seemed to be working. It was a sweltering 95 degrees outside, and at least thirty degrees colder inside the decrepit mansion.

"I'm sorry," he again said, his manners returning. "It's cold in here; I know." Taking my hand, he walked me into what could only be the formal living room. Oddly enough, a huge fire burned in the massive stone fireplace. What made it even more unusual was that the inferno did nothing to ward off the chill.

I looked up at him, and his expression was remote. "Your air conditioner works wonders," I ventured gamely.

He paled slightly. "It's not the AC. It's from the ghosts."

"The ghosts?" I laughed uproariously. Surely, he had heard the rumors, and he definitely had seen the mansion at its haunted-house worst.

When he said nothing in jest to contradict his statement, my laughter faded away. "You are joking, right?"

"My great-uncle was—peculiar," he stated cryptically. "In many ways. He would have these parties here. Not even close to mundane parties. I'm sure you've heard stories of them."

I nodded before I could stop myself. As a child, I did not understand the cautionary tales of those parties. In total, five women disappeared, over a period of nearly twenty years, never to be heard from again.

"It wasn't as horrible as the look on your face would make it out to be. The ghosts that are here were here long before Uncle Andrew purchased the house. He simply used their—proclivities—to his advantage."

"Proclivities?" For some reason, I repeated much of what he said.

He took a deep breath as he sat me down on a plush sofa, mindless of my nudity and my wet pussy. A soft blanket of a forest green hue was draped across the back, and he used this to cover me, tucking it in around me.

"I'm not sure how much of this you know about, so I'm just going to say it. My uncle was a Dominant, a Sadist, actually. As is the male ghost that haunts this place. As I am. Uncle Andrew actually trained me, once he discovered my interest in BDSM."

Tony broke off and looked at me. I could not speak for some moments. A ghost who was a Dom? Tony was a Dom? This seemed too fantastical. "You said that there was a male ghost. Does that mean there is also a female ghost?"

"Several," Tony nodded. At my fearful look, he clarified. "No, not the five women who disappeared. They left with gentlemen, all Doms, in each case, at the end of the respective parties they attended. I was actually here the last night one 'disappeared.'"

"You were?" I breathed.

He nodded again. "She left of her own free will, consensually. Safe. Sane. Consensual. Those three points had been drummed into my brain by Andrew from the time I was eighteen. To be able to attend one of his parties, you had to sign a nondisclosure agreement as well as a document of consent. No alcohol or drugs were allowed at his parties, for the safety of the participants."

"Who were the ghosts, then?"

"One night, in the 1920s, shortly after the house was built, Auguste Chenier was hosting one of his coveted BDSM parties. He had invited his submissive Michelle Grant and several of her uncollared friends. It was intended to be a party to celebrate the completion of his dungeon located in the basement. Instead, before any guests could arrive, a bolt of lightning struck the east wing of the house where Auguste, Michelle, and her friends were—enjoying each other. No one made it out alive."

He took my cold fingers in his, warming them. "Uncle Andrew made a deal with the police. It isn't easy being a practitioner of BDSM in the local community. In all five cases, the women were submissives yearning to be free of the stifling local society. The police quietly closed the cases once provided proof that the women in question were okay. Uncle Andrew's home received a murderous notoriety that kept away the local nosey bodies, and little girls knew to stay away or risk disappearance." One calloused finger tapped my nose.

"I-I really must be going," I said, standing up with the blanket falling to the floor.

A flash of disappointment darkened his eyes further. "I...see," he said with an air of finality. "Please allow me to replace your dress, then. You have your reunion to go to. I will drive you there."

"You really don't have to—" I whispered.

The hand that covered mine stopped my argument. "I insist." He pulled me up until my breasts brushed his white tee shirt. "Mustn't let Cinderella be late for her date with Prince Charming at the ball. Such a shame," he added almost wistfully.

"I am nowhere close to being a princess," I retorted.

He reached around and sharply smacked my ass. I winced from the sharp sting, even as my pussy flooded. "I have a feeling that you have no idea who you are."

********

To be continued...

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3 Comments
JudyLeeJudyLeealmost 8 years ago
Eerie!

Wow! Cut her dress as she walked in the door. Almost scary beginning. JudyLee

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 8 years ago
more

I really enjoyed your story. Can't wait for the next chapter

NIceShawnNIceShawnalmost 8 years ago
Great start

I can't wait to see what happens now. There is so much potential. I love how detailed of a author you are.

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