by Ray Gordon
'I was in a chair and... I must have fallen asleep.'
'Sam, I have no idea what you're talking about. Now that you're here, would you like a drink?'
'Er... vodka, please.'
Waking with a start, Samantha leaped out of the chair and looked around the basement. It was a dream, she was sure. But it had been so real. Zak, laughter drifting around the bar, the chink of glasses... She'd never had a dream where she'd known that she was dreaming. Finally retaking her seat, she thought that she must be tired. The anxiety of being trapped, fear gripping her, weariness and the heat of the day overwhelming her... Recalling the time she'd been locked in a cupboard at school, her thoughts turned to those heady days. Her best friend, Angela, had come to her rescue after one of the boys had thought it fun to lock her in the cupboard. In the dark of the cupboard Samantha had panicked, believing that everyone would go home and she'd be stuck there all night.
'Sam,' Angela called from the classroom doorway. 'Aren't you going to join us?'
'Er... yes, yes,' Samantha breathed, looking about the classroom. This was another strange dream, she was sure as she walked up to her friend. 'Where are we going?'
'To the party, of course,' the girl replied, frowning. 'Are you feeling all right?'
'Yes, I... I'll be with you in a minute.'
'We're going to be late as it is. By the time we've got home and changed...'
'I'll only be a minute, Angela.'
Half opening her eyes, Samantha stared at the computer standing on the desk. She was in the basement, there was no doubt about that. But her dreams had been so real, she thought, closing her eyes again. Wondering whether she could choose what she wanted to dream about, she recalled her bedroom at her parents' house. The bay window opened out onto the beautiful garden where the lawn seemed to stretch for miles down to the huge rockery and pond. She'd always loved the garden, and her bedroom, and had been sad to have to leave home to get a job on the outskirts of London.
'This is it,' Samantha breathed, finding herself lying on her bed in her room. Lifting her head off the pillow, she looked down at her naked body. Her fingers toying between the firm hillocks of her warm love-lips, she immediately knew what she was doing. Very often, when her parents were out, she'd strip off and lie on her bed with her slender thighs parted. Having discovered the delights of her clitoris she'd masturbated regularly, sometimes twice a day. And now, in her strange dream, she was young and carefree and masturbating again.
Her fingertip rubbing the solid nub of her erect clitoris, she breathed deeply as her womb contracted and her juices of passion flowed from the virginal hole of her pussy. Massaging her pleasure spot faster, the smooth plateau of her stomach rising and falling, the petite mounds of her breasts heaving, she finally reached the apex of her self-loving. Her naked body shuddering uncontrollably, she gasped and whimpered as her orgasm rocked her very soul. The brown teats of her sensitive nipples painfully hard, she squeezed and pinched and tossed her head back as her orgasm peaked.
Reaching beneath her thigh and slipping a finger into the tight sheath of her sex-wet vagina, Samantha massaged the creamy walls of her pussy, adding to her incredible pleasure. She remembered this well, the illicit massaging, the heavenly sensations, the immense relief her orgasms had brought her. Her discovery of masturbation had taken her a step further along the path to womanhood. Her clitoris had taken over, demanding appeasement at every opportunity. She'd watched her breasts develop, and she'd massaged her nipples whenever she lay in her bed, delighting in the new and wondrous sensations of sex. And now, in her peculiar dream, she was there once again.
Her orgasm finally receding, she lay quivering on her bed, recalling again her younger days and her sessions of self-loving as she ran her hands over the mounds and curves of her naked body. She'd toyed with a candle one evening as she'd lain in her bed. Slipping the waxen shaft deep into the sheath of her virgin pussy, she'd gasped and squirmed as the sensations had permeated her womb. Her candle had become her friend, her lover. Wondering where the wax dildo was, she looked around her.
'This is my bedroom,' she breathed, slipping her cunny-wet finger out of her hot vagina. Looking around the room at her school uniform hanging over the back of the pink armchair, her books piled on the windowsill, she propped herself up on her elbows and caught her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She was sixteen, her hair in those silly plaits. Was this a dream? She mused on the possibility, running her hands over her breasts, her inquisitive fingers examining the sensitive teats of her nipples. She could feel her body, hear the birds singing in the garden... This couldn't be a dream. This was real.
At sixteen she hadn't known that she'd eventually live in a London flat with the boy across the road. Zak was a silly teenager in those days, shouting out daft comments about sex as he passed Samantha in the street.
Her fingertip again massaging the solid nub of her clitoris, Samantha breathed deeply. As she'd got to know Zak she'd allowed him to touch her, to massage her ripening clitoris and—
'We're home, Samantha,' her mother called. Leaping off the bed, Samantha smiled. Her mother's voice was comforting, and she wanted to go downstairs and meet the woman...
But her thoughts turned to the mansion, the basement. Suddenly finding herself sitting in the armchair and gazing across the dimly lit basement, she looked down at her red miniskirt. Confused as she tried again to convince herself that she'd been dreaming, she jumped as a creaking sound echoed through the room. It was just gone eight o'clock, and the prospect of spending the night in the basement wasn't at all appealing. Whether or not the sinister sounds were electronically produced, she wasn't going to stay in the dungeon all night.
'Fucking hell,' she breathed, futilely trying her mobile phone again. Dave must have wondered where she'd got to, she mused. He'd probably tried to call her mobile and thought that she'd switched it off. Wishing she'd not ventured down to the basement, she wondered where Gerry Andrews was. He lived in the mansion, she knew that much. But it was such a huge place that he wouldn't hear her if she shouted. This was Dave's fault, she thought angrily. The idea of exposing Andrews as a charlatan was a waste of time. Everyone locally knew that the place wasn't haunted. Why tell them what they already knew? Picturing Dave sitting behind his desk, she wished she'd told him that she wasn't going to...
'Dave,' she breathed, wondering what the hell was going on as she found herself standing in front of his desk.
'Ah, Sammy baby,' he said, looking up and grinning at her. 'How did you get on?'
'The mansion...'
'What mansion?'
'Gerry Andrews. I went to his mansion and...'
'That eccentric nutter? What the hell did you go there for?'
'You sent me there this afternoon.'
'What are you talking about? You've been to the meeting at the town hall, right?'
'Meeting?'
'The bypass discussion. You were supposed to be—'
'That was years ago, Dave.'
'Years ago? Sam, the meeting was this afternoon. You were supposed to be covering it, if you remember.'
'I... I don't know what's happening. The meeting was in nineteen ninety-eight.'
'It is nineteen ninety-eight, for fuck's sake. Look, I know you've only been here for a few months, but...'
'I've been here for four years, Dave. This is two thousand and two.'
'Two thousand and... Have you been drinking?'
'No, of course not.'
'I think you'd better go home and have a rest.'
'Yes, yes I'll do that,' she breathed, eyeing the calendar on the filing cabinet. July, nineteen ninety-eight.
'I take it you didn't go to the meeting?'
'I... No, I suppose I didn't.'
'You suppose? What is it, Sam? What's wrong with you?'
'The mansion... I'm locked in the basement.'
'What? Fucking hell, I haven't got time to play games. Go home, for Christ's sake. Perhaps you'll make more sense in
the morning.'
'Dave, I need help.'
'You're telling me you do. Perhaps it's the heat. Go home and we'll talk about this tomorrow.'
Back in the basement, Samantha gazed at her trembling hands. These weren't dreams, she knew. But it wasn't possible to go back in time and... No, of course it wasn't. Time travel was the stuff of movies. Shaking her head, she recalled starting at the newspaper back in ninety-eight. She had been to a meeting at the town hall about the controversial bypass plans. 'That was four years ago,' she breathed shakily, wondering whether it was the basement that was a dream. 'Perhaps I'm dead,' she murmured, trying the door again. Looking round for something to smash the door with, she noticed a hefty wooden pole leaning against a cardboard box.
'Fuck it,' she cursed, realizing that the oak door wasn't going to splinter even as she repeatedly hit it with the wooden pole. This was a crazy situation, she mused. Andrews must have been upstairs somewhere. Surely he'd come down to check the computer equipment at some stage. But perhaps not until the following day, she thought fearfully. Deciding to try to dream about the man, she wondered whether it would be possible to tell him that she was trapped in the basement. Sitting in the chair, she closed her eyes and concentrated. But her thoughts turned to Zak.
Finding herself in the bar, standing several feet behind Zak, Samantha stared in disbelief at him. His arm around Angela's waist, he whispered in the giggling girl's ear, kissing her neck and moving his hand down over the pert cheeks of her bottom. Samantha couldn't believe that her best friend would behave like this, let alone her boyfriend. Moving closer, she stood behind the couple. They'd both had too much to drink, that was obvious. But that was no excuse for their underhand behaviour.
'With any luck, she won't be back for ages,' Zak said.
'Where did she go?' Angela asked.
'God knows. She was here one minute, and then... Let's not talk about her. Did you enjoy the other night?'
'You know I did,' Angela giggled.
'You like it up your bum, don't you?'
'Yes, but keep your voice down. I don't want the world to know about us.'
'If Sam doesn't come back, how about—'
'Why don't you dump her, Zak? You know how good we are together. We could fuck every night if you dumped Sam.'
'We do fuck every night,' he laughed. 'Almost every night, anyway. She doesn't seem to mind me going out. As long as she thinks I'm meeting the lads, there's no problem.'
'Yes, but...'
'Her dad's got money, Ange.'
'Are you really going to marry her?'
'Yes, but that won't affect us. Once I've married the daft bitch and got my hands on her old man's cash, we'll take off to some Greek island or other and fuck all day and all night.'
Slipping into a shadowy corner of the bar, Samantha knew that this had to be a dream as she watched Zak kissing Angela's full mouth. Returning to her classroom, her bedroom, the office, the wine bar... These were all dreams. There was no way that Zak and Angela were fucking behind her back - was there? Her shoulders slumping, Samantha let out a sigh. She wanted to confront Zak, but if this was a dream... There was one way to discover whether these were strange dreams or... or something sinister.
Thinking of the basement, Samantha again found herself sitting in the armchair. Perhaps the whole thing was a dream, she thought, looking around the dimly lit dungeon. Perhaps, after visiting the mansion, she'd gone home and was now in bed dreaming. She'd been tired, and might have fallen asleep on the sofa. Dreams, or reality? She had to discover what was going on. Concentrating her thoughts on an event that had taken place during her schooldays, she wondered whether she could change the future by changing history. If she was travelling back in time, then surely by changing events...
'You're a very pretty girl, Samantha,' the vicar said, his deep voice echoing around the church as he grinned at her. 'I asked you to stay behind because I wanted to talk to you. You enjoy coming to church on Sundays, don't you?'
'Yes,' Samantha replied, sitting on a pew.
'You've grown up, Samantha. Grown to be a fine young lady. As you know, I take photographs for the church magazine. I'm looking for a model, Samantha. Not for the magazine, but for my own private collection of photographs.'
'A model?' she echoed, cocking her head to one side.
'How would you like to be my model?'
'Yes, all right,' she replied eagerly in her naivety.
'Let's have a look at your legs. Lift your dress up and show me your legs.'
Slipping off the pew, Samantha pulled her skirt up over her stomach, revealing not only her legs but the tight material of her panties hugging the swell of her sex lips. This was no dream she knew as the vicar knelt in front of her and ran his fingers up and down the firm flesh of her inner thighs. She'd gone back in time and had returned to the church where she'd stayed on after the others had gone home that fateful Sunday afternoon. At the time, she'd not known what it was that the cleric had really wanted. Taking photographs had seemed innocent enough. But now she knew the truth. If only I knew then what I know now, she thought, watching the vicar's glazed eyes as he focused on her tight panties. But it was then, and she did know.
'You'd like me to take some photographs, wouldn't you?' the vicar asked, his fingertip dangerously close to the triangular patch of her white panties.
'Of my legs?' she queried, feigning puzzlement.
'Yes, and your... My camera is in the office, Samantha. Would you like me to take a couple of photographs now?'
'All right,' she replied, following the man.
This was exactly how it had happened, she recalled, watching the priest close the office door behind her. He'd coaxed her gently, telling her that she was going to be a famous model and he was going to help her. He'd taken several shots of her legs, asked her to sit on his desk and part her thighs so that he could take real modelling photographs. But things were different now, she mused, watching him fiddling with his camera. By changing what had happened, could she change history? She pondered the question.
'Why don't you sit on the desk?' the vicar asked, just as he'd asked all those years ago. 'That's it,' he said, kneeling on the floor. 'Now lift your skirt up and I'll take a couple of photos of your legs.' Holding her skirt up, Samantha listened to the click of the camera as she had on that fateful afternoon. The vicar moved in, ordering her to part her thighs and focusing on her tight panties as she obediently complied. Samantha remembered clearly what had happened next, but she was going to try to change that. Could she change the course of events?
'Why don't you lie on the desk with your dress pulled up?' the vicar asked, rising to his feet. 'That way, I'll be able to take some good photographs of your legs.'
'All right,' Samantha murmured, slipping off the desk. Discreetly pulling her panties to one side, she climbed onto the desk and lay with her dress pulled high over her stomach. 'Like this?' she asked, wondering at his reaction.
'Er... yes, yes,' he replied shakily, eyeing the smooth lips of her vulva. 'That's absolutely... That's perfect, Samantha.'
Samantha was enjoying playing her wicked games as the vicar repeatedly clicked the camera shutter, but she was determined to discover whether she was dreaming or not, and whether she could change history. If she returned to the day Zak had asked her out and she'd declined his offer, would she have still shared a flat with him? This was nonsense, she mused. The concept of travelling back in time was ridiculous. She had to be dreaming. The basement, the school classroom, the vicar... She must have gone home to bed after leaving the mansion and...
'What I'd really like is to take some photographs of you without your dress,' the priest said, his hands visibly trembling as he licked his lips.
'What? You want me to take all my clothes off?' Samantha asked, surprised.
'That's what real models do. Would you like to be a real model?'
'That would please my dad,' Samantha said, clambering off the desk and unbuttoning her dress. 'He'll
be pleased when I tell him that—'
'Yes, but... Samantha, it's... it's best not to mention this to anyone,' the vicar stammered. 'You see...'
'There we are,' she trilled, allowing her dress to slip down her body to her ankles.
'You, er... you don't wear a bra?' he asked, gazing longingly at her fresh breasts.
She shook her head, blushing prettily.
'Right, well... I'll just go and lock the main doors, Samantha,' he said, again licking his lips as he left the office. 'I won't be a minute.'
This was what had happened before, she recalled. He'd gone to lock the doors just as someone had walked into the church. He'd got talking to them and said goodbye to Samantha as she'd walked past him and left the church. He'd not got a glimpse of the smooth lips of her vagina on that occasion but, apart from that, this was exactly what had happened. Hearing voices, she pulled her dress up and buttoned the garment before leaving the office. It was happening as before. Talking to an elderly lady, the vicar smiled at Samantha and said goodbye as she left the building. He'd cornered her again the following Sunday, she recalled. Many times he'd lured her into his office after church and the day had inevitably come when he'd—
'This is crazy,' Samantha breathed, finding herself sitting in the armchair, her wide eyes looking around the basement. Experimenting with her dreams or whatever they were was getting her nowhere, she knew. Feeling hungry, she knew that she was going to have to do something to escape the basement before long. 'That's it,' she murmured, having an idea. Closing her eyes and thinking back to when she'd arrived at the mansion, she imagined herself walking up the stone steps to be greeted by Gerry Andrews. Miraculously finding herself standing on the steps, she gazed at Andrews as he raised his cap and greeted her.