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Amber Quill Press
www.amberquill.com
Copyright ©2005 by Shannon Leigh
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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GREENWOOD MANOR
by
SHANNON LEIGH
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ISBN 1-59279-433-5
Amber Quill Press, LLC
www.amberquill.com
Also By Shannon Leigh
Chinatown Buffet
More Than Prophecy
Stairway To Heaven
DEDICATION
For all my family and friends who support my writing.
CHAPTER 1
Laura pulled her yellow Volkswagen onto the gravel driveway at her tiny, two-bedroom house. After cutting the engine and setting the parking break, she snatched her purse from the passenger seat and opened the door. The heels of her black pumps sank into the loose rock, marring their pleather exterior.
"Shit!” She'd just bought these shoes. One of these days she'd have her driveway paved. That, or remember to put her house-slippers in the car.
"And another pair bites the dust,” she chimed wryly.
Laura slammed the car door shut and started for the mailbox, wobbling and cursing along the way as her shoes slipped on the rock. Thank God it's Friday!
She'd just extracted her mail when a familiar voice called to her from next door. “Hello there, young lady."
"Hello, Ms. Waterby,” Laura returned, quietly muttering another curse when she dropped several envelopes on the ground. “How are you today?” She stooped to retrieve her fallen mail.
"Oh, I'm fine, dear. Just fine. You on vacation this week?"
Laura rolled her eyes. She wondered what the woman wanted now. Seemed every time she had a few days off, the elderly widow found something for her to do.
Her last vacation was spent watering plants and taking care of Ms. Waterby's five cats. It wouldn't have been so bad except for one, Laura definitely didn't have a green thumb—the only green leafy stuff in her house that wasn't edible was a fake ficus tree, which only needed an occasional dusting—and two, she was allergic to cats. She'd spent the entire week afterward looped on antihistamines and sleeping with tissue stuffed up her nose.
Enough was enough. By golly, she was on vacation, and for the first time in a long while, she was going to do something for herself. Although she had no idea what it would be, Ms. Waterby didn't need to know that.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm officially on vacation as of today,” Laura announced. “And I leave in the morning for..."
Now what? Where was she going? Laura started to panic. She had to come up with somewhere quick or the old woman would surely call her bluff.
She glanced at the stack of mail in her hands. The corner of a postcard stuck out from the pile, its powder blue background instantly calling her attention. Laura shifted the letters, bringing the card to the surface. It looked like an advertisement for a bed-n-breakfast.
"I'm going to Greenwood Manor, in...” Her eyes quickly scanned the advertisement, looking for an address. “In New Orleans."
New Orleans?
Ms. Waterby stared at her a long moment, her wrinkled face contorting into a frown of disbelief. “You've never gone anywhere on vacation before.” The skepticism in her voice was apparent. “You going alone?"
"Um ... yes, actually, I am. I figured I'd worked hard all year, I deserved a trip for once.” Even as the words left her lips, Laura felt something flower within.
Why not? I do deserve a vacation. She glanced back down at the card in her hand. Even if she just went for a day or two. Surely it wouldn't cost too much.
"Well, Ms. Waterby, I've got to pack. You have a nice week.” With that, Laura closed the mailbox and started for the front door, vaguely aware of the old woman's watchful scowl.
She didn't care what Ms. Waterby thought. I am going on vacation. Even if she didn't make it to New Orleans, Laura decided she would go somewhere.
She fumbled with her purse, the mail, and a handful of keys before finally unlocking the door. Once inside, she gratefully deposited everything on the living room table in a scattered heap, then headed for the kitchen. She could already taste the ice-cold beverage waiting in the refrigerator.
Laura stood at the open fridge, downing the diet cola in long, unrelenting gulps. She didn't care if it burned the back of her throat, it was nearly ninety degrees outside and she was sweating like a pig in her office attire. The first thing on her agenda for the afternoon was a long shower, then she'd look into making a reservation at the bed-n-breakfast.
She wondered how long it would take to get to New Orleans. If she drove, it would certainly save money on airfare. Laura shut the refrigerator door and turned toward the sink, intending to throw away her empty can in the trash located beneath.
But flying would certainly save ti—
Her gaze instantly focused on the blue postcard sitting on the counter's ledge. A strange chill work its way up her spine, leaving the hair on her neck standing at attention. She knew she'd left the mail on the coffee table. So how did this get in here?
Sitting the can on the counter next to the fridge, she approached the card. Sure enough, it was the same mansion with the faux marble exterior painted in rich ochre and surrounded by grand whitewashed columns—each with an uninterrupted span from ground level to roofline—that stared back up at her. There was no mistaking the antebellum style home.
Her eyes focused on the belvedere crowning the manor's peak. She imagined one could easily take in a spectacular view of the surrounding property. How magnificent it would be to stand at eye-level with the impressive ancient oaks. They lined each side of the mansion's lot, hovering like protective guardians around a priceless gem. Or perhaps, one might even glimpse the mighty Mississippi River from such a commanding perch.
The only thing marring the picture's alluring scene were the words GRAND OPENING, scrawled across the top in huge, red letters. Laura hesitantly reached for the card. Her hand hung above it, indecisive.
This is stupid! She snatched it off the counter, finally deciding she must have dropped it there before getting her drink.
As she turned it over to read the back, she noticed a strange aroma hanging in the air. At first, Laura thought perhaps the trash needed to go out. But when she opened the door under the sink and pulled out the can, it was nearly empty. The pleasant smell of flower-scented garbage bags greeted her nose.
She grabbed her drained soda can and tossed it inside, then shoved the trash back under the sink and closed the door. Taking the card with her, she walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch. The stench lingered.
Laura wrinkled her nose. “What is that?” she asked aloud, leaning over to sniff the afghan throw draped behind her.
It didn't smell like anything. Snorting yarn filaments up her nose, she sneezed, then rubbed her itching nostrils with the side of her index finger. Sometimes, she hated having a sensitive snout.
"Maybe it's me,” she mumbled, turning the glossy postcard over once again.
The musty smell intensified. It reminded her of Grandma's windowless attic, where leaky shingles and moldy crevices gave birth to the ever present aroma of dry-rotted wood and stale air. Laura shuddered. She'd hated that room.
The words on the card were slightly blurred, as though either water-stained or printed on less than quality paper. Wit
hout her glasses, it was difficult to read. Laura held it closer, determined to ignore the mocking voice in her head that screamed, “You're getting old!"
Truly, she was only thirty-five—hardly old by any sense of the word. But she had to admit her vision wasn't what it used to be.
When she held the card directly under her nose, she realized the decayed smell came from it. “Oh, yuck!” Laura jumped up from the couch and rushed back to the kitchen, where she deftly deposited the nasty smelling postcard into the trash.
So much for New Orleans, she mused wryly, then headed for the bathroom and a much anticipated shower.
CHAPTER 2
Laura stepped out of the shower and wrapped a lavender towel around herself, tucking it between her breasts. Then she leaned over and dried her hair with a second one, squeezing as much water out of her long tresses as she could. Satisfied she'd absorbed an ample amount of moisture, she flung her head up and back, tossing her wet locks away from her face.
A layer of steam clung to the mirror hanging over the sink. Once again, she'd forgotten to turn on the fan. Laura glanced up at her recently painted bathroom ceiling. She'd just paid a hefty sum to have years of accumulated mold removed and a ceiling fan installed to prevent future buildup. It certainly did little good if she didn't turn the darn thing on!
Muttering a curse, she snapped the “on” switch. The overhead box responded with a low-pitched hum. Maybe she should put a note on the glass shower door: “Turn on the fan!"
She rolled her eyes, then swiped her hand across the mirror, clearing a path big enough to see herself, not that she was much to look at. With her waist-length, flaming red locks, pale skin, and plain features, she was by no standards a beauty queen. About the only positive thing Laura could find in her appearance were her eyes. They were a striking cornflower blue and surrounded with thick, brown lashes, nearly a half-inch long.
She supposed her pert nose could be considered favorable, if it weren't for the light sprinkling of cinnamon freckles marring its narrow length. Her small mouth and thin upper lip certainly weren't appealing. And with her bottom one being so full, she always looked as though she were pouting.
The mirror began to clear as the fan circulated fresh air through the tiny room. Laura let her towel fall unheeded to the floor, exposing her reflection from the thighs up. She was tall; nearly five-foot-seven, and her lean build and narrow waist made her look almost lanky. She supposed she had years of gymnastics to thank for that. Of course, having never had any children likely helped keep her form trim as well.
Moisture clung to her pale skin in tear-shaped droplets. They gathered across her chest in clusters, formed into beads, then raced down between her breasts. Laura stared at her reflection in silence.
She traced a line down her side to her hipbone with the back of her fingers. As she brushed against the swell of her breast, her rosy nipple hardened into a tight peak. She bit her bottom lip; it had been so long since ... She yearned for a man's touch.
Lightly pinching one erect bud, she rolled it between her thumb and index finger. Arousal centered in the pit of her stomach, then crept down to the juncture of her thighs. Her gaze lingered on her heaving chest; her breaths quickened.
It would take little more than stimulation of her nipples to bring her to climax. Already, she could feel her juices pooling between her feminine folds. Her other hand slid down to cup the brassy curls there. Did she dare?
Condensation blurred the mirror, her own body heat outdoing the efforts of the ceiling fan. Laura's finger teased the outside of her pussy lips, spreading her glossy sap all along their creases like melted butter on hot toast. Unable to resist, she spread her legs a little farther and slipped one digit inside.
Her sheath was slick and hot, the muscles velvety smooth and spongy. At the first contact of her finger, her walls clenched. Laura exhaled soundly.
As she felt the preorgasmic tremors working their way down to where her palm rubbed against her clit, she increased the stimulation to her nipple. Suddenly, one finger wasn't enough. She slipped in another.
Her hips rocked forward in time with the motion of her hand. Her insides pulled at her fingers, creating suction each time she slid them free only to push them back in up to the knuckles. Laura released her breast and gripped the edge of the sink, steadying herself as she raced toward an explosive culmination.
As soon as it hit, her body convulsed. Unable to stop the cry of release that tore from her lips, she squeezed her eyes shut and let the dizzying sensation overtake her. Legs tight, pelvis curled forward, back hunched down, she was frozen in ecstasy. When the muscles in her thighs began to quiver from fatigue, she slowed the circular motion of her hand down to a gentle stroke.
Her breathing came in great gasps as she rode her orgasm to its finality. Exhausted, she leaned forward, placing both palms on the sink. When the trembling in her limbs had ceased, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Guilt stared back out at her.
"I've got to find me a man.” How long had it been since she'd had a steady? Six months? Nine? A year?
Too long. It was time to get over dickhead and move on with her life. She snickered. That was the nickname she'd given her ex. Somehow, it made forgetting him a little easier.
Laura's gaze fastened on the spotty blush flaming her chest and throat. Evidence. She never could hide her arousals.
"That was bad,” she scolded, shaking a finger at her reflection in mock reprimand.
No ... that was good, she corrected. But it merely left her wanting more.
She made a face at the mirror, then stuck out her tongue and gave a haughty toss of her hair as she turned to leave. Good, bad, right, or wrong, she was horny. And neither self-stimulation nor the use of her full-sized purple dildo hidden in the nightstand by her bed would suffice.
Hump Me Harvey. That was her toy's name. She hadn't picked it; rather, it had been printed on the box when it arrived, safe, sealed, and discreetly camouflaged.
Thank God the outer package had been unmarked. Ms. Waterby would likely have had a stroke if she'd known what was in there. Laura giggled, thinking about the nosy old bat pulling Harvey out of his box and having a coronary. Not that it'd be funny, but she shouldn't snoop through other people's mail.
Nobody knew about Harvey, and Laura intended to keep it that way. He was neatly tucked beneath a layer of satin nightgowns in the bottom drawer, along with the catalog from which he came. Should she ever wish to further her collection, say, add an Atomic Alec or perhaps a Super Sonic Scott, she knew exactly where to get it.
Still naked, Laura plopped down on the bed, then collapsed onto her back. “Now what?” she asked the empty room. She'd told her meddling neighbor she was going out of town. It had sounded like a good plan at the time, but now she was stuck with nowhere to go!
She thought about the postcard in the trash. Where had the smell come from? Perhaps it had gotten wet, then sat at the bottom of the mailbag. The words on the back had been blurry...
Laura flung her arms out to the sides, stretching them from one edge of the bed to the other. Maybe she could just stay inside all week. Sneak out at night. Ms. Waterby would never even know she was home.
Yeah, right. And do what? Play with Harvey?
That would likely only entertain her for a day or so. No, she refused to waste her vacation fucking herself with a silicone penis just because she had no boyfriend, no life, and nowhere to go. She'd come up with something.
Laura sighed, then glanced over at her nightstand. Of course, Harvey didn't complain, he didn't belittle her, and he was always hard. In some ways, he was almost better than the real thing. Almost.
Feeling mischievous, Laura rolled toward the small chest of drawers. Anatomically correct from the bulbous head of his eight-inch long, two-inch wide shaft, to his simulated hairy ball sack, Harvey was perfect. Sure, there was nothing but a suction cup beyond his nuts, but it allowed for perfect positioning—either in the middle of her bed if she wanted a litt
le bounce, or firmly on the floor for when she really wanted to get down to business. And right now, he was as close to getting laid as she was going to get.
CHAPTER 3
Lying on her stomach, she stretched to reach the knob. “Oh, Harvey,” she mocked. “You've got such a hard—"
As the drawer slid open, revealing something unexpected inside, Laura let out a shriek of alarm and jumped from the bed. For a long moment, she stared in disbelief. Hands clenched at her sides, she slowly approached.
The postcard from the trash lay nestled in the center of her folded gowns, the words GRAND OPENING boldly glaring back up at her. There was no mistaking it.
How in the hell did that get in there?
Laura's breath hitched in her chest as she felt an eerie chill creep up her spine. Was someone in the house? Had they seen her toss the card in the trash, then put it in her drawer as a joke? Did they watch her even now?
She noticed the closet door from the corner of her eye. It stood slightly ajar. Sheer black fright swept through her insides. Here she was, completely naked, with no weapon.
The closest object she had to protect herself with was Harvey. And that was unlikely to defend her from anyone. In fact, it might give her attacker a whole new set of ideas.
Think, Laura!
Her robe hung only a few feet away on the shower door. Without taking her eyes from the closet, she inched toward bathroom. Grabbing the robe, she quickly donned it, then snatched a metal nail file from the catch-all cup on the sink.
Eyes glued on the two-inch crack in the doorjamb, stomach clenched in knots, she moved along the wall, steadily closing in. From this angle, if someone were inside the closet, they wouldn't be able to see her.
Halfway to her destination, Laura paused. What would she do if someone were in there? Stab them with her nail file?
She contemplated the bedroom door. It was directly across from where she was now. Maybe she could make a run for it.
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