by Ray Gordon
'The ghosts are rampant today,' he said. 'Kept me up all night, they did. Moaning and groaning, banging and humping around—'
'You must listen to me,' Samantha interrupted him. 'I was here earlier and...'
'I'll do you a discount if it's a repeat visit,' he offered, eyeing her naked thighs.
'No, no - you don't understand. In your basement, there's a computer and video equipment.'
'Who told you that?'
'I've peen down there. I mean, I am down there. The door's locked and I can't get out. Please, go to the basement and...'
'You're down there?' he chuckled. 'Are there two of you? You're not a clone, are you?'
'Listen, this is serious. Go down to the basement and unlock the door.'
'That door is to be kept locked at all times.'
'I'm... There's someone locked in the basement. You must let them out.'
'All right, as you wish,' he sighed. 'You stay here and man my post.'
'What post?'
'The punters - you stay here and take their money.'
'Oh, yes. Please, go and unlock the door. And leave it unlocked.'
Sitting on the low wall as the man wandered into the building, Samantha tried not to think about Zak canoodling in the bar with Angela or about anything else that might whisk her away to another time and place. There'd be an opportunity to confront Zak and her so-called best friend once she'd escaped from the basement. And time enough to try to work out exactly what had been going on. Dreams? She thought about the matter for the umpteenth time. This was no dream she knew as she turned and saw Andrews approaching.
'I've unlocked the door,' he said, smiling at her. 'But there's no one down there.'
'Did you leave the door open?'
'Yes, I did. The basement is out of bounds to visitors, young lady. I don't understand why you—'
'Thanks,' she broke in, moving towards the door. 'I'll explain everything later.'
'Hey, you can't go in without paying.'
'I'm not going in yet. I... I have to get something from my car.'
Trotting down the steps and walking to her car, Samantha thought again about the basement and once more miraculously found herself sitting in the armchair. There were so many unanswered questions, she mused. What would happen if she went on one of her trips and never returned to the basement? Had her body remained in the armchair when she'd visited her parents' house?
Deciding to make her escape before it was too late, she bounded up the steps and tried the door. 'Shit,' she breathed, finding it locked. Andrews had opened it before she'd originally ventured into the basement. Realizing that she had to get him to open the door at a later time, after she'd gone down to the basement, she returned to the armchair and sat down.
Closing her eyes she did her best to concentrate on Gerry Andrews. Not knowing where he was, what he was doing, she couldn't picture his surroundings. Come on, come on, she urged mentally, trying to imagine him in the local pub. What did the pub look like? What was Andrews wearing? She couldn't go to him in her dream unless she knew where he was. For some reason, her thoughts turned to the vicar. She'd tried to blot out the memory of the evil man and his church as she'd grown. Keeping away from him, she'd told no one of her Sunday afternoons in his office.
She recalled one particular afternoon when she'd been to church as usual. The others had left, the vicar had hovered... And Samantha had hovered. She'd not known why she'd stayed behind. Perhaps she was intrigued by the man of God, his peculiar interest in her. Was it his attention she'd craved all those ago? Her parents were usually too busy to spend time with her, take an interest in what she was doing. The vicar had always given her his undivided attention, taken a great interest in her. And now she knew why...
Samantha remembered the incident well. She'd followed the vicar to his office to look at the photographs he'd taken of her. Gazing at pictures of her legs, her thighs, her exposed panties, she'd asked him why her face wasn't in any of the shots. He'd stammered some reply or other, mumbled his excuses, and then suggested that she pose naked for him. Growing up in the country village with fairly strict parents and no brothers or sisters, Samantha was gullible, far more naive than most girls of her age. And the vicar was a man of God, a man to be trusted. Wasn't he?
'Slip your clothes off and I'll get the camera ready,' he said as Samantha found herself going back in time and standing in his office.
'All my clothes?' she asked. Now she knew then what she knew now. 'Even my panties?'
'Well, er... yes, yes - of course. You do want to be a model, don't you?'
'Yes, I do,' she replied, unbuttoning her dress and allowing the garment to tumble down her slender body to her feet.
'Very good,' he praised her, his dark-eyed gaze glued to her breasts. 'And now your... your panties.'
'No one's ever seen me naked,' she breathed, slipping her thumbs between the tight elastic of her panties and her slender hips.
'Samantha, I think it would be best if you didn't tell anyone about our modelling work,' he said, obviously desperate to gaze at the fleshy swell of her love lips.
'You don't think I should tell my parents that I'm going to be a model?'
'No, no. For goodness sake... Er... take your panties off and we'll get started.'
Deliberately hesitating, Samantha teased him. She was old enough back then, she mused, tugging her panties down an inch or so. Old enough, but still too naive. Things were different now, she reflected. She was an adult in a girl's body. An adult who understood men, what they wanted. His pathetic lies about modelling had worked back then, but now? Now he just came across as pathetic. Was this the time for her long-awaited retribution? Finally tugging her panties down, she stepped out of her clothes and stood naked in front of the trembling man.
'Yes,' he breathed, kneeling on the floor and gazing longingly at the sparse blonde fleece of her vulva. 'You'll make a fine model.'
'You like my pussy?' she asked, concealing a grin.
'Is that what you call it?'
'I don't like the word cunt. That's what my friends call it.'
'I see,' he murmured, adjusting his solid cock through his cassock. 'Do you and your friends talk about your pussies?'
'Yes, all the time.'
'Do you touch yourself there?'
'Well, I... I'd better not say anything.'
'You can tell me, Samantha.'
'Well... yes, I do touch myself. I rub myself there in bed at night. It feels nice.'
'Has anyone else ever rubbed you there?'
'No, no, they haven't.'
She remembered this Sunday afternoon well. The forbidden event indelibly etched in her memory, she knew that she'd never forget the vicar's intimate attention. But she was about to change history. The vicar wasn't going to touch her, massage her budding clitoris to orgasm, as he'd done all those years previously. Grabbing her clothes, she told him that she'd just remembered that her father was due to meet her at the church. The cleric panicked, holding his hand to his lined forehead and urging her to dress quickly.
'Why didn't you say so earlier?' he asked. 'If your father—'
'I've only just remembered,' she broke in. 'You can still look at my cunt, if you want to.'
'Yes, I... no, Samantha. Dress and get out of here.'
'You can look at my cunt next Sunday,' she said, smiling at him.
Leaving the man with his rampant erection, Samantha skipped up the aisle to the main doors. He was watching her, she knew, as she left the cold building and emerged into the bright sunshine. He'd not had his wicked way with her that time. Maybe the next time she dreamed of visiting him she'd allow him to rub her clitoris, perhaps let him run his wet tongue up and down the virginal valley of her pussy. Thinking about wanking his cock, she opened her eyes and gazed around the basement. The dreams, or whatever they were, were fun. But Samantha had to grasp the stark reality of her imprisonment and escape the basement. Feeling increasingly hungry, she wondered whether she'd ever see th
e light of day again. Was this death? she mused. Had she slipped and fallen down the basement steps? Perhaps this was heaven. Or hell.
Chapter 2
Waking with a start, Samantha looked at her watch. Eight-thirty. The morning had come, she thought, hauling her aching body out of the armchair. Gerry Andrews would be around soon she was sure as she climbed the steps and tried the basement door. He'd come down and check the computer and video equipment before opening for business - he had to. Her stomach rumbling, her head spinning, she knew that she should eat something before long.
'This is turning into a nightmare,' she breathed, checking the monitor and gazing at the entrance hall. There was no sign of Andrews, and she began to imagine that he'd gone away for a week or more. She'd die in the basement, she thought fearfully, flopping back onto the armchair. Unless she was already dead. Shaking her head, she realized that she had to be sensible. She was only in the basement, she reflected. There were daily visitors to the mansion, and Gerry Andrews would have to check the equipment at some stage. It was just a matter of time she knew as her stomach rumbled and she thought about the small café in the shopping precinct that did all-day breakfasts...
'Yes, miss?' a waitress asked, walking up to Samantha's table.
'Oh, er... a full English, please,' Samantha replied, the smell of food making her mouth water as she looked around the café.
'Tea or coffee?'
'Coffee, please.'
Looking around the café again, Samantha wondered whether her body was still in the basement, sleeping in the armchair. She couldn't be in two places at once, she mused, pressing her fingertips into the smooth flesh of her naked thigh to make sure she was real. Had she somehow transported her body to the café? she pondered. This was all too confusing she decided as the waitress placed a cup of coffee on the table. No matter how much she thought about it, she knew that she'd never discover exactly how she was flitting from one place to another - from one time to another.
Sipping her coffee, she looked at an old man sitting in the far corner. She scrutinized him, deflecting her thoughts from the vicar for fear of finding herself in his office once again. After she'd eaten, she could go where she liked, she mused. She had to eat before doing anything. She was pleased when her breakfast arrived. Eating would take her mind off everything else, she knew, as she thanked the waitress. Wondering whether she'd still feel hungry once she was back in the basement, she thought again about being in two places at the same time. If she really was travelling through time, then it would be possible to be in two places at once, she decided.
After her breakfast, Samantha left the café and slipped into an alleyway between the shops. When returning to the basement, she didn't want anyone to see her vanish into thin air. She thought about it. Anyone looking at her would... She had no idea what they'd think when she suddenly disappeared. Concentrating on the basement, she found herself sitting in the chair. Her hunger gone, she hoped that Andrews would check the computer and video equipment before long. He must have noticed that her car was still outside, she mused. After a day or two, he'd call the police.
All Samantha could do was wait. But she'd spend some time experimenting, she decided. Rather than sit around doing nothing while she waited for Andrews, she thought that she might as well try a few dreams, visit places in the past and... A fresh thought struck her. Could she travel forward in time? Before attempting to move into the future, she thought it best to practise travelling back in time, to discover more about her new-found gift.
Closing her eyes, she thought about the vicar and his office. He was an evil man, she reflected. It was too late now to tell people about his wickedness and expose him as a sad pervert. He'd deny everything, claiming to be a man of God and... Unless she could change history, she mused again. If she arranged for someone to visit the church and discover the younger Samantha naked in the vicar's office... It was worth trying, she decided.
'Oh, hello, Samantha,' the vicar said, smiling as he walked up the aisle towards her. 'I haven't seen you in a long time.'
'No, I...' Samantha began, realizing that she was still in her twenties. Something had gone wrong with her timing. 'I was just passing and thought I'd pop in.'
'I'm pleased you did.'
'I wanted to ask you about when I used to come to church here,' she said, deciding to worry him.
'Church... here?'
'After church, to be precise. The times you took me into your office.'
'Oh, er,' he stammered, rubbing his chin. 'I don't remember...'
'I remember everything. Do you still have the photographs?'
'Samantha, that was a long time ago. I'm not into photography any more.'
'No, but you're still into girls.'
'No, I...'
'I know everything, vicar.'
'You... you work for the local paper, don't you?'
'Indeed, I do.'
'That all finished years ago, Samantha. There was no harm done, was there? All I did was take a few photographs.'
'No harm done?'
'Nothing happened, did it?'
'You tell me.'
'All I did was—'
'I know what you did, vicar. Do you remember when I lay on your desk with my knickers pulled to one side?'
'No, no, I don't.'
'Where are the photographs?'
'Gone - thrown away years ago. Don't forget that I know something about you, Samantha.'
'Me?' she breathed, frowning at the man. 'What do you mean?'
'I'm not going to say anything but... I would suggest that you forget about my taking photographs of you. The words altar and sixteen years old might jog your memory.'
Sitting on a pew as the priest went into his office to answer the phone, Samantha knew what he was talking about but pushed all thoughts of the event to the back of her mind. That was a long time ago and... The vicar knew nothing about it - he couldn't have known. She was innocent, she mused, and decided to test her theory about changing history. If she went back in time and changed one particular event, she could then move to the present and ask the vicar about it. The event would have to be memorable, she thought, a plan coming to mind. An event so shocking, so wicked, that the vicar would remember it for the rest of his days...
'Ah, there you are,' he said as Samantha slipped back in time and wandered into his office in her Sunday dress. 'I've got the camera ready.'
'What is it you really want to do?' she asked, her long blonde hair framing her angelic face.
'Um... what do you mean?'
'You take photographs of my legs, and my panties...'
'Your panties?' he echoed, frowning at her.
'My panties are in the pictures, aren't they?' she asked, wondering at what stage of his games she was. Was this the first time he'd taken photographs?
'It's your legs, Samantha. You have the legs of a model. Perhaps your panties were in some of the pictures, but...'
'You'd like to take photographs of me with nothing on, wouldn't you?' she asked, knowing that, one Sunday afternoon in the near future, he'd suggest that she should slip out of her dress. 'That's what you'd really like, isn't it?'
'Well, I...'
'That's what you're working towards, isn't it?'
'Samantha, you're a lovely girl. You're very pretty and... If you want to get into modelling, then I can help you. I have a friend in the business. He's seen some of the photographs I've taken and he's very interested in you.'
'So, you want me to take all my clothes off?'
'Yes, yes, I do. If you're serious about modelling, then...'
'All right,' she breathed, unbuttoning her dress.
'There's nothing wrong with taking photographs, Samantha,' he muttered, clearly trying to convince himself as he dabbed his sweating brow with a big white hanky.
He was right, there was nothing wrong with taking photographs, she thought, tugging her dress down and stepping out of the garment. But the vicar wanted to do far more than that, she knew.
Wondering whether he'd lured other girls into his office, she looked down at the firm mounds of her breasts, her budding nipples. He was going to have to remember this, she mused, recalling her thoughts. An event so shocking, so wicked, that the vicar would remember it for the rest of his days.
'Do I look like a model?' she asked, slipping her panties down and revealing the fleshy swell of her vulval lips to his wide eyes. 'Do you think I've got what it takes?'
'God, yes,' he breathed, staring at her feminine intimacy.
'Do you think I'm all right, down there?'
'Down there?' he murmured, gazing at her ripening nipples.
'My pussy. I've often wondered whether it looks right.'
'Let me see,' he said shakily, dropping to his knees. 'You look... It's perfect, Samantha.'
'No, I mean inside my crack,' she coaxed him, sure that he'd not be able to control his base male desires. 'I'm not sure that it's right.'
'Stand with your feet apart and I'll take a look,' the priest instructed her, his face flushing, his hands trembling.
Allowing him to part the soft pads of her outer labia, exposing the intricate inner folds of her sex, Samantha knew that she was leading him on. This had happened, she reflected. But it had taken many, many visits to his office before he'd gained her confidence, before he'd dared to touch her there. The incidents in the vicar's office hadn't left her psychologically scarred or disturbed in any way. He'd not raped her or forced her to do anything. His interest had been in the beauty of her body. He'd touched her, even slipped his finger into the hugging sheath of her wet vagina. He had eventually taken things further, masturbating her, bringing her intense orgasms and even lifting his cassock and getting her to...
'Is that nice?' he asked, his fingertip massaging the pink funnel of flesh surrounding her virginal sex duct.
'Yes, it is,' she replied. 'Although I usually rub myself higher up. That's where it feels really nice.'
'Do you mean there?' he asked, his trembling finger massaging the swelling protuberance of her sensitive clitoris.'