It wasn't the best of neighborhoods, though clearly it used to be, perhaps a century ago. The narrow street was crowded with lovely brick Victorian era homes, all with high, peaked roofs. There was room in each small front yard for a single tree, and someone, long ago, had placed on precisely in the center of each. Those trees, mostly oaks, were now a century old. So it could have been a very genteel community.

But it wasn't. Many, even most of the houses had not been well-maintained. There had been a rezoning, and many were now either occupied by small businesses, or subdivided into rooming houses. But I had examined the surrounding neighborhoods, and the way prices were moving, and I thought the house was a bargain which could only appreciate as the surrounding areas got more expensive.

Besides, it was, apart from being a fixer-upper, perfect for my needs. It had a living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a den and a library on the first floor. I could convert the living room, in front, to an office for visitors, and make the den my living room. As for the library, well, I'd always had tons of books in need of storage. Now at least, they could come out of their boxes.

It was also terrifically priced, and close to downtown, so customers could find me, those few who insisted on coming to see me. Most of my work was done over the phone and by computer, or when I visited the work sites and potential work sites before preparing architectural plans. You see, I'm an architect who hates to work. I love architecture, mind you, but don't consider that work. No, work was going into an office and reporting to managers, and taking orders and criticism and corrections.

I'd never been very good at any of that. Never been good at putting up with fools, either. I'd graduated high school at sixteen. By twenty one I already had my masters under my belt and was working for an upscale architectural firm downtown. But I'd found my own esthetic sensibilities given short shrift by the bean counters who cared only about money, and after five years, with a little help from an inheritance from my grandfather, I had decided to get out on my own.

I'd had more than my share of difficulties hiring people to fix the place up. That had surprised me given the connections I'd made over the previous five years. Otherwise reliable workmen had quit early on me several times, several even before starting, and none with adequate explanations. I'd had to do some of the work myself. I was up to it, thankfully, given me father's insistence on teaching me basic carpentry and home care as a teenager. But I found it frustrating as it took me away from more important things.

I am a firm believer in specialization. I believed in spending my time on what I do best and enjoy most, and leaving other tasks to those better suited to them. I could drill holes, cut wood and hammer nails but it wasn't what I liked, nor the most profitable use of my time.

“Through here, and up those stairs,” I said, guiding the movers with my bed.

They nodded. The two men were carrying one of the upright pillars on a sling between them as they moved into the house. The one in the rear looked up doubtfully at the roof. “Creepy place,” he muttered as he headed for the stairs.

Creepy? I frowned and looked up at the lovely crown molding, very old and beautifully carved, and the old brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There was nothing creepy about it, to me. It had style. Wait till they saw the bathroom, I thought with a grin.

The bed came in multiple pieces. There was the large backboard, complete with shelf and mirror, the two seven foot pillars which bordered it, then the long wooden rails and foot-board, the box spring and then the mattress. It took a number of trips, but one that was in place I could start to unpack the boxes of clothes I had already brought over myself. The pillars both had multiple drawers and shelves, and by the time I had filled them the two dressers were in place so I could continue.

I didn't consider myself to be a clotheshorse, but I did believe in being prepared, and in being comfortable. I had clothes for any occasion, in any number of colors and styles. Then there were the boots. I had always liked boots, and had almost two dozen pair. I had a dozen jackets for various situations and temperatures, and of course, business suits, though I hoped to not need those so much anymore. After all, I was the one setting the dress codes now!

I checked on the men from time to time, helping place my exercise machine in the next bedroom over, the one that was going to be a gym. I'd had all the floors refinished, and while they weren't polished yet – I was waiting until the move was done – I didn't want them scratched up by having heavy equipment dragged across them.

The house had had four bedrooms but I'd knocked down a wall to make the master bedroom bigger, and to put in a walk-in closet. I had intended on adding an en-suite, but once I had a look at the main bathroom up the hall I knew I could never match it. It was truly an amazing room, especially for its time.

The floor and walls were covered in alternating shades of very small blue tiles. The tub was actually in the floor, not raised, but sunken below floor level. It was enormous, a good five feet wide and long, and easily three feet deep. There was also a separate shower in the corner. Instead of an enclosure, five foot high walls had been built out from either side of the corner, partly enclosing it, leaving a space to walk through. I'd replaced the old fashioned overhead shower-head with a modern multi-head system, but otherwise had left it alone.

The four foot long counter was of polished marble, and the mirror over it was practically a work of art, with Victorian era wall sconces on either side for lights. Not enough lights, in my opinion, and so I'd had overhead pot lights installed, but the effect was gorgeous, and unique. The toilet had one of the original overhead tanks, with a lever to pull to flush, and a mahogany seat. It was not your typical Victorian bathroom, and was surprisingly large.

What could I design which would compare?

It took very little time. The movers were impressively efficient in getting everything offloaded, as if they were in a hurry to get away, and I didn't question their rush, glad to finally close the door behind them and be alone to finish up all the thousand and one little details. I could also finally get out of the jeans and top I was wearing – for the benefit of the movers, and put on a pair of comfortable shorts and a tank top.

There was only so much work I could have done to the electrical system within my budget, and that didn't leave enough for central air. I'd had to settle on upgrading the wiring sufficiently to put a small window box in my bedroom, and another in what would be my office. The rest of the house would just have to make do with whatever temperature was outside, and right now that temperature was hot and humid.

That meant I was going to sweat, but that didn't bother me, so long as no one was around to watch. I pulled my dark brown hair up and back, clipping the sides behind my head, then pulling the top back into a loose tail. The tank top was old, short and threadbare, something I wouldn't wear in public, but was fine for around the house, and the short shorts were stretchy and comfortable for moving around and doing a lot of bending and squatting.

I had my bedroom fixed up quickly, as well as the exercise room. The guest bedroom could wait as I worked on the living room and kitchen. I had simply shoved the boxes of books into the library for later.

Turning on the TV caused the lights to go out in the room, and, cursing, I went through the kitchen, picked up a flashlight and a box of fuses I'd bought, then opened the basement door.

The basement was a dubious proposition. It too was 'unique' in its own way. The staircase was very steep and narrow, and the basement itself was long and dark and, well, creepy. The walls were of mortared stones, not cinder-block or cement. There were bare bulbs hanging along the main aisle, and walls projecting out from the sides to divide the place up. Into what, I had no idea. All they succeeded in doing was casting shadows everywhere. The furnace was in one 'room', and the big oil tank in another. The water heater was in a third, along with the sinks and the washer and dryer someone had at some point arranged to have installed.

They were at least ten years old, maybe more, but they seemed to work – after a fashion. The washer leaked a little, and the dryer wasn't ventilated as well as it ought to be. The electrical panel wasn't modern, but I'd seen worse. It still took screw-in plug fuses, and I'd bought a number of them in different voltages in order to be prepared.

The front of the basement was full of boxes and assorted other things I'd had put down here temporarily. I picked my way through the mess, and froze for a moment at what I thought was movement in front of me. I aimed the flash up that way but saw nothing. It could have been just the way my shadow was moving with the bare bulb overhead, I thought, a bit nervously. I'd found no signs of rodents or other infestations. In fact the place seemed wonderfully free of even insects.

I moved forward slowly, heart beating a little faster as I flashed the light into all the shadowed corners. The furnace ticked softly as I passed it. It was off, but the pilot light was, of course, still on. I heard the soft creak of the house above. There were no windows down here, but it was very warm and dry. I thought I caught another movement out of the corner of my eye and swung around, but again there was nothing, and I cursed softly at my own silly nervousness.

Being alone in a big old house was going to take some getting used to, that was all.

I found the fuse box and the fuse which had blown, then replaced it. I walked briskly up the aisle, refusing to be deterred by moving shadows, and purposefully walked carefully up the stairs rather than trotting as I'd have preferred. At the top, I closed and locked the door gratefully, then went back upstairs to finish off there.

I carried the toilet paper holder into the bathroom and put it down next to the toilet, then frowned at the upright seat. I was sure that had been down. I put it down and left the room, then returned to the dining room to finish setting up there.

The toilet seat, though, was the first of the odd things which happened, all of them small, inconsequential, and yet, as they kept happening, I began to feel confused and uncertain. A dozen times I found things I'd put down were not where I'd left them. Doors I'd left open were closed, or vice versa. Windows I'd closed were open, and drapes I'd opened were closed. It wasn't all at once, but spaced out over several hours, and I wondered if I was simply far more tired than I had thought.

Finding my dildo sitting on my night table, though, was a shock. I'd put it away, along with my vibrator, of course. Could I have been searching for something in that drawer, taken it out to look, then forgotten to put it back?! I didn't remember looking for anything in that drawer...

I picked up the dildo, examining it. I felt a soft sense of heat as I wrapped my fingers around its shaft. Size didn't matter, or so they said. It mattered to me, though. The brain is the most important erogenous zone, and I'd always been aroused by the concept of deep, thick penetration. It was a failing of some sort, I thought, when I bothered to analyze it. It wasn't that I was a particularly highly sexed person, just that, when I did think about sex, about men, I thought about big cocks.

So sue me!

And the dildo was big. It was long, and it was thick, and it had a delicious texture to it so I could feel every inch as it slid into me.

Me and Big Al, as I had privately, and jokingly called the dildo, had enjoyed many fine times together over the past few years. I put it back into the drawer, now, shaking my head and heading back downstairs.

I was startled to see the back door swinging open, and hurried to it. The house had a small back yard overgrown with weeds and brush, and a separate garage which gave into a narrow lane-way behind the yard. I peered out at the yard doubtfully, then stepped out into the yard. The walls on fences on either side of the yard were rotted and would soon have to be replaced, I thought. I picked my way slowly through the weeds.

“Should have brought a machete,” I muttered to myself, as I reached the garage.

I opened it and stepped inside, then reached up and pulled on the light switch. The garage was small, wood, and spare, but clean and seemed ready for occupancy. I walked across it and reached down to unlock the big garage door, then pulled it up, gasping as it shot up more quickly than I'd expected.

An old woman walking in the lane turned and gaped at me as the door suddenly banged open.

“Oh uhm, sorry,” I said. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

The woman scowled. She looked ancient, and not particularly friendly.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I uhm, my name is Caitlin. I just moved in here,” I said, keeping my voice neutral and not reacting to the hostility.

“You moved in here?” the woman asked incredulously. “Are you crazy?”

“It seems like a nice enough neighborhood,” I said in surprise.

The woman scowled and shook her head, then looked past me at the house.

“The gray ones live there,” she whispered.

“The who?”

“Ghosts, woman! The dead!”

Crazzyyyyy, I thought.

“Uhm, well, as long as they don't bother me I won't bother them,” I said with a tolerant smile.

The woman scowled at me and hurried on.

I reached up to pull the garage door back down, caught the handle, and tugged, but it stuck hard. Muttering, I grabbed it with both hands, trying to pull it down.

How he got so close to me without my even seeing him was beyond me. Suddenly the man was standing right before me. He was handsome and tall, lithe, with long dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a dark shirt and jeans. And he was inches in front of me, looking at me with a very odd, curious gaze.

And there I was in my midriff baring top, so thin my bra was visible through the thin fabric, arms stretched overhead, in my short shorts. I yelped and dropped my arms, backing into the garage.

“Caitlin is a lovely name,” he said, “Irish, isn't it?”

I gaped at him for a long moment, but when he made no attempt to move forward I felt my sudden fear receding, and felt a sense of embarrassment at being caught out like that, especially wearing so little.

“Uhm, yes,” I said.

“I'm ,” he said, a slow, lazy smile appearing on his face. “New to the neighborhood, are you?”

“Yes, I uhm, just moved in today,” I said. “I was just putting things away.”

He glanced past me at the house. “Interesting house,” he said. “Has an interesting history.”

“I-It does?”

“Indeed. This entire neighborhood has an interesting history, in fact. Odd place, odd goings on, odd people.”

He smiled disarmingly.

“Well then I'm sure I'll fit right in,” I said with false cheer.

Again he moved so suddenly I was startled to find him right in front of me.

“Indeed,” he said softly. “After all, it's quite the wild place. There are predators.”

He slid his finger along his own chest.

“And then there are prey.”

And just like that his finger was sliding ever so lightly down my chest, from just below my throat, his finger rough and soft at the same time, sliding down to a small bare spot right between my breasts, where the old tank top had dipped low. It was a shockingly intimate touch, though he touched neither of my breasts, and before I could slap his hand away he had stepped back with a grin, and disappeared. I stared after him, moved to the mouth of the garage, and peered down the narrow, hedge lined lane, but he was already out of sight.

“Wow,” I whispered. Two crazies in as many minutes.

I hung briefly from the handle, before the door jerked free and came down. Then I turned out the light and left, going back into the house and making sure it was latched and locked firmly behind me.

I worked for another couple of hours, then decided to call it a day. I stripped off my sweaty clothes and tossed them into the hamper, then padded naked into the bathroom for a shower. I undid my hair and shook it out, letting it spill down past my shoulders, then turned on the shower and watched the water gush out of four separate shower heads with anticipation.

I stepped under the water and sighed in delight as it struck my body and flowed around me. There was no need to turn and turn to get wet under this shower! Water poured down from above and behind me, and from the wall before me. And a single pull on a lever stopped them all as I soaped up.

My slippery hands moved over the warm flesh of my body, kneading my breasts casually, sliding down my firm belly, pausing a bit in narcissistic pleasure as I caressed my firm abdominal muscles. I could take no credit for my breasts, really, for though they were a decent size and quite high and firm that was nature's generosity. My own exercise had produced the flat, strong belly and abdomen, though, not to mention – .

I slid my hands back over my bottom. I did take pride in my body, though I was not the kind of woman to show it off. I saw the women who were, in their tight outfits, their low cut blouses, their high skirts, saw them with disapproval and something like contempt. I guess I'm kind of conservative, myself, and showing off my body did not get me the kind of respect and attention I desired in life.

I insisted on being thought of and treated with respect, as an equal, not some sort of sex object.

Prey? I snorted as I remembered the man's word. As if! Did he think himself some sort of ladies’ man who was going to seduce the meek little woman? He was in for a surprise! I was cynical and independent, and not the type be falling for smart mouthed bad-boys.

He was handsome, of course, with a lean body. And as I thought of him I let my hand slide down between my legs, still soaping myself, let my fingers trace up the narrow opening of my sex.

I'd had laser hair removal for my legs as my eighteenth birthday present from my mother. After a number of visits, I'd developed sufficient trust in the girl who did it to have the treatment extended, at my own cost, upwards, to, as the brochure called it, my bikini line. Silly to have any hair in this day and age, lingerie and bathing suits being what they were. And I found the hairless look much cleaner.

Now as my fingers rubbed softly against myself I felt the rise of sensation from there, felt the quickening of interest and sense of spiraling excitement. Alone in my own house, at last. No family, no roommates, no neighbors in the next apartment. I had always had to repress my sexual reactions. It isn't the kind of thing I had ever really felt comfortable talking with people about, with my friends. I wasn't sure if I reacted more strongly than other women, or if I was simply more vocal, but I'd had to be very careful over the years since I'd hit adolescence.

You see, when the heat came over me, not always, but when it got really bad, I just kind of … lost it. I could be very vocal, embarrassingly so.

And now I didn't have to worry.

I turned the water on and rinsed off, then turned it off again, my heat rising. I wasn't sure why I was feeling this sudden intense arousal, but didn't put a lot of thought into it either. I padded naked across the floor, water trickling down the length of my body. That didn't bother me for some reason. I felt fixated on something, and walked out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, going straight for the night table. I opened the drawer and pulled out the dildo, staring at it hotly, then turned and walked back to the bathroom.

This room. There was something about the old bathroom and its tiles and mirror. I went to the mirror and stared at myself, arching, posing, then reached for the cabinet and pulled open a drawer. I took out a bottle of baby oil and then, as if entranced, squirted it over my body, covering my chest with it. My breaths quickened rapidly, and I let my hands squeeze my breast, and mash them together around the baby oil oozing and trickling down my body.

It felt so... goood! I mean, my breasts had always been sensitive, of course, but my hands felt so wonderful now! And it was almost like... almost like they weren't my hands at all, as if a stranger's hands were kneading and caressing my breasts! And of course, that redoubled the sensations. I could feel the tightness in my chest as I watched my hands in the mirror, almost as if they weren't my hands, as if they were someone else's hands, watched and felt them kneading my breasts.

I stared, my breaths quickening, my chest rising and falling with a fluttering eagerness as my hands stroked across the surface of my breasts, as my fingers caught rigid nipples between them, and rolled them between thumbs and forefingers. They felt like a stranger's fingers, harder, rougher somehow, and I whimpered helplessly as they pinched and then plucked and stretched out my aching, throbbing nipples.

One hand slid slowly down my slick, soft body, down my trembling belly and flat, smooth abdomen until it cupped my sex and squeezed lightly. I felt two fingers easing in, rubbing softly across my clit. I moaned and rolled my head back, my eyes pulling free of the sight of myself so that I could pretend even more easily that it was someone else caressing me, someone else with their hands massaging and stroking my overheated flesh.

I had done that for years, of course, but never before had my imagination been so vivid. Never before had the feel of my own hands felt so – foreign! I felt a sweltering heat settle over my mind as my hips rolled and ground against my stroking, caressing fingers.

I stumbled, off balance, then reached for the dildo. I stared at it, as if it were the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen, brought it to my mouth and moaned softly as I let the head rub back and forth across my lips. I'd never done that before, but now it felt so exotic, so erotic, so sensual as I let it caress my lips, as I parted them and mouthed the head. My breasts still throbbed, almost with an after echo of the hands upon me. I almost imagined I could still feel them there, though lightly.

I fed the dildo slowly into my mouth, moaning sensuously as it spread my lips wide, as it moved smoothly over my teeth and along my tongue. I sucked lightly, rolling my head, and let myself imagine it was real.

I don't remember sinking to my knees, but I found myself upon them, staring at the cock... I mean, the dildo... rapturously as I pumped it slowly in and out of my mouth. My hips ground slowly against nothing, but my clit throbbed with growing pressure as I fed the dildo deeper into my mouth. My head pulled up and back and I pushed it forward, gurgling only slightly as it pushed into my throat.

I knelt, sitting on my buttocks, knees spread, back arched, head back as I slid the dildo deep into my throat. I should have gagged more. Deep throating was something I could do, but had not exactly mastered. I had to be pretty hot to force myself to it. But I was desperately hot just then. I didn't understand why, but I wasn't thinking about why. I didn't care about why.

There was something below me. I didn't remember what it was. Was it the toilet brush, or, or the toilet paper holder or... or some sort of... I didn't care. I didn't think. I felt the pressure against my sex and began to grind myself against it, still sucking on the dildo, still pushing it deep, rolling my head in sensual fever as I stared at my own fingers disappearing into my mouth, fingers which held the very base of that huge cock... I mean dildo.

My hips worked faster, and whatever it was, it was soft, sensual, smooth, almost like skin, but hard underneath. I couldn't breathe, and after a moment I realized it was because of the dildo. I slowly drew it back and out, gasping, light-headed by the time it came free. I swayed weakly, almost fell, but gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself.

I stared down at the floor, then at my groin. There was nothing there to rub against. But then... then what had I been rubbing against? I was bewildered for a moment, but couldn't dwell on it. I needed the dildo inside me, needed to be penetrated – hard – deep.

I climbed up, clutching the edge of the counter, then eagerly turned my back to it, my head twisting around as far as it could. I put the flat base against the edge of the marble counter and bent forward and pushed back.

I groaned at the feel of the pressure against the hot, quivering mouth of my sex, and as I bent my breasts hung below me, feeling immensely heavy, swollen, sore, aching, the nipples tingling and burning, wanting to be touched.

I backed myself onto the dildo, crying out softly as it pushed slowly into me, and I moaned and gasped aloud, my right hand thrust between my legs, fingering my clit. I could hear soft little gasps and cries of pleasure, but didn't really identify them as mine as I forced myself back harder, taking the dildo up deeper into my throbbing belly.

I felt … dazed, as my hands moved over my body. And again, it was almost as if they weren't my hands at all, and that was so arousing, so exciting, because I felt their touch as though they were the touch of another person. My clit was throbbing powerfully, though I wasn't even touching it! And the dildo ached as I sank back on it, but ached in a delicious fashion which set the sexual fever burning even hotter inside me.

My nipples ached suddenly, not all at once, but repeatedly, throbbing and swelling and burning as if small mouths were attached to them. They flared with sensations!. My rubbery legs could no longer support me, and I felt myself sinking to my knees, then collapsing slowly forward onto my chest and shoulders. My knees remained bent, my bottom raised up. Shuddering, chest heaving, I reached beneath me, thrust my hands in under my abdomen, up between my legs, gripping the dildo, shuddering as I pumped it in and out, in and out, harder, faster, deeper.

Panting, gasping, I rose on all fours, then backed against the counter, and the base of the dildo caught there somehow, on the door... or... I didn't really question it. I didn't think. I whimpered in delight, releasing it, dropping one hand to my breast beneath me, thrusting the other arm down below my belly so my fingers could rise and caress my clit.

I rocked back against the dildo. It was deep now, painfully deep, achingly deep. And I loved it! I rolled my hips and drove myself back and forth on it until it was almost as if the dildo was moving and not I. I grunted and gasped and moaned as the sweltering heat swirled and churned inside me, my mind overcome by the waves of sensations which kept sweeping over me. It was intoxicating, and my mind swam as my eyes grew glassy.

I yelped and gasped again and again as the cock thrust into me, hard and fast and deep, taking me, using me, fucking me like I was an animal! My breaths came in ragged, impassioned gasps as I was pounded by the mighty cock of... of whoever. I didn't care. I was on the edge of a monster orgasm, and my mind was feverish with hunger.

The dildo thrust into me so hard, so deep I screamed, driven forward, right off my knees to land momentarily on my belly, gasping. Then my legs flung themselves out as if of their own accord and I rolled, flipped onto my back, suddenly conscious at last, that this was just not right, not normal.

But I didn't really care. The intensity of the sexual fever was so great, it was like a firestorm inside me. I sprawled back on the cool tiled floor, my overheated body writhing and twisting in sexual hunger. I arched my back, crying out softly, repeatedly, reaching down for the dildo. I rarely pushed it so deep, but now it was almost buried within me, and I ached inside.

My hips bucked and rolled and my head pulled back on the floor as I stared up at the ceiling. I felt another little ripple of concern, of uneasiness, but it was swept away in the heat. My nipples sparkled and my breasts swelled with heat. Raw wild sensations rolled up from my clit with every beat of my heart, as if a strong tongue was licking at it. I felt the tautness of my abdominal muscles as my hips thrust up violently, felt the ache and strain of pressure as convulsions wracked my body.

I cried out, loudly, arching back, my spine bowing painfully, my arms thrusting up and back behind me. And then, somehow, they were caught there, even as my knees were splayed and forced up and back locked down by nothing. Nothing held me, nothing … I could see, or sense, and yet I felt locked down, I felt bound in some way, or perhaps pretended I was.

Another rippling sense of uneasiness swept over me and was burned away by the raging torrent of heat flowing through my body. Again I cried out, hips undulating. My breasts burned and throbbed, and I cried out at sharp little stabbing pains to the nipples. But those little pains, little intense pins and needles sensations were mere counterpoints to the lush intensity of the raw pleasure burning into me.

I screamed. I didn't realize it at first. I didn't know it was me. I wondered who was screaming, and then realized it was me. As I said, I could get embarrassingly vocal during sex, even during masturbation, but I'd never outright screamed before. Then again, I could now, and get away with it. No one was to hear. And the fever swept over me, making me scream again as my hips bucked and writhed and my wrists and ankles pulled against something unseen which held me tightly.

The orgasm was like a raging storm of sensations tearing through my body, shattering my mind as I screamed again and again. The heat was unbearable, as I arched and twisted and writhed in sobbing, gasping, dazed incomprehension. My legs dropped to the floor, jerking spastically, my wet, bare buttocks slapped against the tiled floor again and again as my head rolled and my back arched. And as they slapped the dildo was jarred inside me, as if it moved, as if it jerked in and out, or pumped...

It felt as though mouths were on my nipples, sucking, chewing, small hands kneading my breasts. My knees were raised, my thighs spread painfully wide. I felt another hot mouth at my sex, and what felt like … well, I'd never felt it but... felt like a tongue circling and dipping into the wrinkled opening of my bottom!

It was all impossible, a wild, dark feverish hallucination of sensations amid the storm-wave of pleasure. I screamed again, arching and twisting, writhing as paroxysms of pleasure tore through my mind and body.

And then I woke up.