Erotic Obsession

by Iona Blair

  Our erotic rendezvous took place in my private bedchamber. Where, after I had raised my dress and stripped off my pink pantaloons, I called in the trusty Agnes. She had accompanied me when I left Mrs. Beecham's, and now she would horse me for the birching that was to follow.

  My tender bottom trembled in nervous anticipation, and my naughty little rosebud twitched, as this most vigorous of gentlemen began to thrash me exceedingly sound with his wicked looking bunch of twigs.

  I clung to Agnes for dear life, the power of the blows threatening to unseat me from the safety of her back.

  Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack. The strokes fell firmly and in excellent fine tempo until my quivering behind was lacerated with wide and livid stripes.

  "Pray Sir, I believe Madam has had enough chastisement for one day,” Agnes protested, in her concern for my painful suffering which was of a considerable nature.

  "I'll be the judge of that,” came the stern reply, which was followed by a brisk stroke across Agnes’ thin behind to teach her, “good manners".

  My poor bottom smarted and burned from the ferocity of the thrashing, but my cunny dripped with excitement.

  I was quite delirious with pain and passion, willing the birching to stop yet desperate for it to continue. My excitement increased with each powerful stroke, and finally just before the punishment ended, I spent in a thundering crescendo of howls and twitchings and rapturous convulsions.

  The gentleman who had birched my bottom so soundly now undid the buttons on his trousers and entered my treasure box. Then he rammed it with his rigid member to a thundering and must satisfactory conclusion.

  After a short intermission, during which time Agnes served refreshments in the form of brandywine and capers, we positioned ourselves once again for another lusty frolic.

  This time it was my back passage that drew all the attention. I bent over the bed with it well exposed, to take one of the most thorough buggerings of my life. It was indeed, with a great deal of gusto and relish, that this most energetic of gentlemen waged an unflagging assault on my back passage with his great rigid ramrod of a prick. I gasped and sought to steady myself as I was jiggered right handily by this most able of tools, while a magnificent pair of hairy bollocks slapped with a vengeance against my badly damaged thighs. When he reached the highest peak of his rapture, a great and heated flood of cum washed over my tingling bowels like high tide over a beach.

  After we'd washed up, it was time to honour the last part of our agreement. And, this I undertook with zest, considering the ravishings my poor flesh had been heretofore subjected to. Kneeling before this sturdy giant, I took his mighty member in my mouth and gamahuched it thoroughly from tip to belly and back again, while my excited fingers probed the nooks and crannies of his fat bollocks and hairy bum.

  "Harder, harder, nibble him,” my client instructed, as the entire chamber seemed to shake from the intensity of his gyrations. I did as I was bidden, gagging slightly as my throat withstood one of the most vigorous fuckings ever delivered. Before the dam finally burst, this most diverse of gentleman attempted to cram his bollocks into my already full to capacity mouth, and I accommodated this added intruder to the best of my ability.

  'It's coming, oh ... it's coming,” he yelled, in a paroxysm of bliss that vibrated through me like the jolting of a carriage across a rough road. I increased the tempo of my ministrations accordingly, and he grasped my head firmly in his two beefy hands. In this position I was compelled to drink deeply of his abundant love philtre when it squirted out in great creamy globules down my willing throat...

  This latest account of Emma's torrid adventures whipped Jay into a frenzy of white-hot desire. He rubbed his throbbing cock feverishly then banged it like one demented against the mattress.

  He had to read on. Had to find out what had happened to this passionate and remarkable woman. There were only a few pages remaining, and Jay primed himself with nerve jangling anticipation for whatever the ending might prove to be. But when he picked up the pigskin bound journal, carefully removed his bookmark and turned the page, he saw to his utter horror that it was blank.

  So were the other three pages.

  Jay felt cheated and devastated. Panic held him in its grip. He had been so counting on finding out what had happened to Emma. Now he had to somehow adjust himself to accepting that this priceless knowledge would be cruelly denied him for an agonising eternity.

  Dawn slowly signalled the arrival of a new day, and the adjacent wood came alive with birdsong. Perhaps Emma would appear to him again, as she had done at dawn on the previous morning. But although he watched intently from the same window with desperately seeking eyes, nothing stirred in the garden below, except for a family of gilded flickers hunting for ants.

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  Chapter Nine

  The silver bell days of June glided by unnoticed by Jay, who was mired in his own black pit of loneliness and despair, throbbing with unrequited passion for a woman who had lived more than a century ago. He filled his idle hours with searing thoughts of the sultry Emma, and reread her shocking diary so often, that he was able to recite it from memory, word by word. When his anguish became unbearable, he drank copious amounts of white wine and forgot to eat. He had to find out more about this Victorian era femme fatale. Had to make a connection of some sort, no matter how minute, with this seductive thief of his heart.

  "You'd better pull yourself together,” Gladys had advised, her mouth tight with disapproval. She had nagged at him so incessantly about his drinking that he had told her not to come back.

  "I already owe you two weeks salary,” he had added somewhat shamefacedly. “And I just can't afford you any longer ... at least for a while."

  "I'm not concerned about that,” she had responded angrily, setting a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him and making sure he ate them. “I'm the only friend you have, and you're pushing me away."

  Gladys was tempted to tell him she knew his obsession with Emma Sloane was behind his present travails. But to do so would be to admit she had unlocked his desk drawer and snooped in that shocking diary, so she held her tongue.

  "When did you last have sexual relief?” she suddenly asked, leaning over him to pick up the empty plate. She would have liked to have added angrily, “Was that torrid encounter in the stables with those two cheap-looking women your last hurrah?” But of course, she did not.

  Jay blinked at her rapidly, with a surprised expression. “I...” he began, but she cut him short with a disdainful snort.

  "Just what I thought,” she interjected, and asked him if he would like to go to bed with her.

  "I ... don't know if I'm up to it,” he replied honestly, but Gladys was not so easily put off. With deft fingers she undid his fly and knelt between his legs. His cock was flaccid but soon began to rise to the occasion under the determined ministrations of her talented mouth.

  "Oh ... that feels good,” he murmured, arching his buttocks then crying out as the excitement mounted in his veins. He grabbed Gladys’ head and fucked her mouth vigorously, his cock rigid as a flagpole.

  She gasped at the ferocity of his movements, relaxing her throat to accommodate as much of his cock as she could. In and out it went, while his taut nuts slapped rhythmically against her chin.

  "I'm coming,” he gasped and his gyrations intensified with a rapidity that astounded her. She felt as if her head would implode.

  Gladys feared that she would not be able to withstand this degree of vigour for long. But just as she was about to register her discomfiture, Jay erupted in a planet-moving climax that sent great spurts of creamy cum exploding down her throat.

  He immediately lost his erection and made no move to satisfy her. “Hey, remember me?” she asked angrily. Then before he could reply, handed him a banana from the fruit bowl on top of the refrigerator and bent over the kitchen table.

  Jay took the hint and fucked her with the rigid piece of fruit, working it in and out her drippin
g cunt and tapping it maddeningly against her G-Spot. Gladys moaned and bucked, heaving her voluptuous bottom around until she spurted out a great swoosh of hot, clear liquid.

  * * * *

  The Fenner Memorial Library was housed in a red brick building covered with ivy. Some late blooming columbine and ladies mantle graced the courtyard.

  "I'm looking for historical records about an old house on the Island,” Jay explained. It was early afternoon on a sultry day, and apart from an elderly man reading a newspaper, he was the only patron.

  The librarian led him to a fairly detailed clipping file that covered local properties of interest. And also suggested that he might like to check the property deeds and census records that were available in the basement archives.

  Jay rummaged his way impatiently through the stack of old newspaper articles, scanning the faded print desperately, for any mention of the Manse. His mouth felt dry as sawdust, and his head ached dully at the temples.

  Towards the end of the file, he found a Halloween piece about local haunted houses, in which the Manse was included. A brief history of the house was provided, but Jay knew most of this already. It had been built by the Reverend Filamore Day, a widower, who had lived in the house alone, up until his death in 1935. Jay ached with disappointment. There was no mention at all about a housekeeper. But then why should there be, he acknowledged cynically? Who, after all, would be interested in a mere domestic servant?

  The reported ghostly sightings were all of the same spectral figure, an attractive young woman who usually appeared in the garden. So there was nothing new here either.

  Jay closed the file in disgust and went downstairs to the basement archives. He didn't expect to find anything new in the property deeds, which were recorded on microfiche and difficult to read. He knew that the house had been sold in 1935, but subsequent owners were of no interest to him. It was the period when the Reverend Filamore Day had been in residence that concerned him.

  The property file turned out as he had expected, dry and dusty with nothing of interest to recommend it. Nevertheless, he did take a photocopy of the relevant documents. After all they did concern his house.

  The census records were something else again. They would have to include the names of everyone living in the house, servants and all. And there had been a census taken in 1910, just two years after Emma arrived at the Manse.

  These dusty old remnants of a bygone age had not yet been recorded on microfilm or fiche. They were kept in a large cardboard crate that had seen better days. Undaunted, Jay began the long tiring search through a mountain of withered old paper until he found the one he had been looking for.

  The Reverend Filamore Day had filled out the questionnaire in a small spidery hand. He had been sixty-eight years old at the time and described himself as a widower. The only other person living in the Manse at the time was a Mrs. Jessie Forbes, housekeeper.

  So by 1910, just two years before the Titanic had sunk, Emma no longer worked for the Reverend Day. But, where had she gone, and how could he find out?

  "You could look up death records, but you would have to go to the city for that,” the librarian suggested. “Of course, if you have no idea of the year, or even the decade, searching would be almost impossible."

  There was a tall frosted glass of sweet briar on her desk, and Jay noticed their distinctively sweet fragrance.

  "Who is it you're trying to trace?” she asked him.

  Jay hesitated slightly before responding. It was the first time he had ever discussed “his” Emma with anyone. “Her name is ... was ... Sloane ... Emma Sloane,” he responded somewhat grudgingly.

  "From the Manse?” she queried sharply, and Jay noticed how the name had piqued her interest.

  Hope and excitement surged through his tired body like some miraculous tonic. “Have you heard of her?” he questioned, leaning forward and almost knocking over the sweet briar in his agitation.

  "Well, I don't know much about her myself,” the woman admitted, carefully moving the flowers out of harms way. “But I do know someone who does."

  Jay trembled so much he could scarcely restrain himself from yelling. Tell me, tell me, tell me...

  She raked through a card file she kept in the top right hand drawer of her desk. To the tormented Jay, it seemed that her movements were in slow motion.

  "Ah, here it is,” she replied at last, waving a card triumphantly. “Her name is Bridget Musgrove and she's a local historian."

  "Great,” Jay responded eagerly, his hands shaking with excitement. “So she should know what happened to ... Emma ... Sloane, if anyone does."

  He telephoned Bridget Musgrove as soon as he walked in the door of the Manse, navigating his way around a friendly Morag intent on catching his attention. He waited impatiently as the phone rang four times before it was picked up by an answering machine. Bridget Musgrove had a low, cultured voice with a just a trace of a British accent.

  "Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He wanted so much to talk to this woman who knew Emma's fate.

  He left a brief message, asking her to return his call as soon as possible then hung up.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  When the telephone finally rang at about seven o'clock that evening, Jay grabbed it eagerly, his heart thumping with anticipation.

  Bridget seemed surprised when he told her that he was living at the Manse, and he was interested in Emma Sloane. But maddeningly, refused to answer any questions, saying that she was already late for a dinner engagement.

  "Look, I'll be over on Fenner Island at the weekend. I could drop over and see you then?"

  But that's four days from now, Jay thought desperately. Five, if she intended to visit on Sunday and not Saturday.

  "It's a long time since I've been inside the Manse,” Bridget continued, her voice rising slightly with enthusiasm. “I look forward to it."

  Her voice had a pleasantly hypnotic quality that made Jay reluctant to end the call. Not at all what he imagined a historian would sound like. He tried to put a face to the voice, even though he realised that was virtually impossible to do.

  "Saturday at three,” she suggested and waited for his response.

  "Yes ... yes ... of course,” Jay replied irritated with himself for delaying then stammering so clumsily.

  * * * *

  Saturday was a muggy humid day and by early afternoon a storm rolled in. Seagulls congregated on the shore en masse.

  Jay was antsy with anticipation and unable to remain still. He took one small shot of vodka to steady his nerves, then remembering that he hadn't eaten all day, forced down a hastily prepared sandwich.

  By three o'clock, lightning streaked across the granite sky like a primitive firework display. Thunder crashed directly overhead, and rain hammered down in straight heavy torrents.

  Morag mewed in alarm and scrambled under the bed, knocking over a lamp in her panicky dash for cover.

  Bridget would not come. Jay resigned himself to the bitter taste of crushing disappointment. She wouldn't come out in a storm like this.

  But he was wrong.

  At first, he almost missed the sound of the doorbell because of the clamour of the storm. But when it chimed again, he jumped up like one possessed and charged towards the door to answer it.

  The figure on the front porch was so muffled up in rain gear; it was impossible to identify it as either man or woman. the person's back was turned to Jay, blocked by a large black umbrella.

  "Ms. Musgrove?” Jay asked tentatively. “How brave of you to come out in this."

  A vivid flash of lightning exploded across the sky and was immediately followed by a massive thunderbolt that seemed to rock the old house to its very foundations.

  "Ms. Musgrove...” Jay repeated. “Please come in, this is not a storm you want to be out in."

  The figure slowly turned, lowered the enormous umbrella and smiled.

  "My God,” Jay gasped aloud as lightning forked to the soggy groun
d and rain hammered all around him. His visitor was not Bridget Musgrove after all...

  It was Emma.

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  Chapter Ten

  The blood drained from Jay's head in a dizzying rush. He stood transfixed in a state of involuntary paralysis. He tried to speak, but his parched lips were unable to form a word.

  This frozen moment in time—that would be etched on his memory forever—stretched on interminably, as Emma stared back at him with as much surprise and confusion in her eyes as he felt.

  A brilliant streak of lightning zigzagged to the ground and struck perilously close to the walnut tree. It was followed by a peal of thunder so loud, that it seemed as if the tree had indeed been hit and had fallen on the roof.

  This unnerving demonstration of nature's powerful pyrotechnics broke the spell which had held Jay so enthralled in its grasp. He blinked rapidly, struggling to regain his composure, and drew his visitor inside.

  Once he saw her under the harsh light of the hall chandelier, he realised that although this woman bore a strong resemblance to “his” Emma, she was not the nineteenth century temptress miraculously brought back to life.

  "Bridget Musgrove?” Jay finally managed to choke out, as he battled to regain his equilibrium.

  The dripping wet historian nodded, and he helped her divest herself of her soggy raincoat, hanging it up in the hall closet to dry.

  As she dried herself off in the bathroom, Jay made a pot of coffee.

  "I'm sorry if I stared at you,” she apologised. They sat down at the kitchen table, and she fished out a hefty stack of papers from her attaché case.

  "There's no need for that,” Jay assured her. He was surprised that she thought the awkward impasse on the front door step had been her fault, when he knew, without a doubt, it had been his.

  He was about to elucidate this, explaining her disconcerting likeness to Emma Sloane, but before he had a chance, Bridget told him she had noticed at once, the striking similarity between himself and one of her ancestors.