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Phantom

By: Many Feathers



It was for Crystal one of the most daring things she'd ever considered doing in her entire life. Her very best friend and confidant, a tall almost too skinny woman named Lacy, had convinced her to attend a masquerade party. It wasn't the party so much that she was worried about, though she was anyway. But she knew that Lacy was considerably more liberal and open when it came to being uninhibited and explorative. Normally, Crystal would shy away from many of her dear friends suggestions, but not this time. She had broken things off with her long-time boyfriend, so it had been several months since she'd even considered dating, let alone anything else.

"I can't believe you talked me into doing this!" Crystal told her friend over the phone as she hurriedly finished dressing. Lacy laughed.

"And I can't believe you actually agreed to come!" she replied. "Hey, maybe you will!" she added with a devilish wicked giggle.

"You're really incorrigible Lacy! You know that?" Crystal shot back, still surprised at herself as she finished slipping into the almost too tight fitting leopard outfit that Lacy had talked her into wearing. She glanced into the mirror still holding onto her cell-phone and gasped. "Shit Lacy! I can't wear this!" she exclaimed in alarm. Once again, she heard Lacy laugh over the phone.

"Why not? I bet you look absolutely purrrrrfect!" she giggled purposely, then adding a sultry cats meow.

"What I look like is almost obscene!" Crystal returned, once again seriously having second thoughts about going. Crystal had large firm breasts. Throughout her entire life she'd had to deal with a majority of men looking at her chest first before glancing into her face. With the skin-tight body-stocking she was wearing with a multitude of spots barely concealing her breasts beneath, it was a given that her breasts would be the focal point of her outfit, thus assuring she'd be stared at most of the evening. "Thank God for the mask!" she thought to herself, already feeling a flush spreading across her cheeks. She could only hope that Lacy would at least draw some attention away from her. Her best friend had chosen ironically to go as Cat Woman, in an equally suggestive outfit of skin-tight leather showing more flesh than not.

"Almost there. You ready yet?" Lacy asked over her cell-phone as she drove over to pick Crystal up.

"Well, I'm dressed if that's what you mean. But I'm not sure I'm exactly 'ready' for this!" she said emphasizing the word. Minutes later, Crystal slid into the seat of the car next to her friend as they drove off together towards what she hoped to be a fun-filled night rather than an apprehensive one.

Early on Lacy had explained to her about the place they were going. It was an enormous mansion, still owned, but not lived in by the eccentric billionaire whom no one had actually seen now for several years. The house was still fully staffed, maintained, and rented out for special occasions, such as this one, and particularly at this time of year. Halloween. An hour later they pulled up into the ghostly looking almost castle like structure that was backlit with natural lighting only. Obviously, the electricity had been shut off just for the occasion, as there were no outside lights, and just the flickering in the windows that had to have come from simple candlelight or turn of the century lanterns.

"This place is rather spooky looking don't you think?" Crystal asked nervously, yet surprised to find an air of excitement coursing through her as well.

"That's the whole point sweetie!" Lacy said with obvious excitement as they handed over the keys to the butler who looked a lot like something from out of one of those old nightmare theatre movies she used to watch as a kid.

Moments later they were escorted into the Grande Ballroom where the majority of guests having already arrived, stood mingling in half-whispered nervous conversations. The room, dimly lit with a few burning candelabras, was supported by the only other light source, and that being from an enormous fireplace that stood off to one side covering a goodly portion of one entire wall. And though the heat it gave off was sufficient to ward off the autumn nights chill, Crystal once again found herself grateful for the latex mask she was wearing as she glanced down at herself, discovering her thick hard nipples pressing almost painfully against the thin fabric of her leopard suit.

"I think I need a drink," she announced, spotting the open bar where for the first time, she took control, grabbing Lacy's hand in hers, leading her quickly towards the bar. By the looks of things, everyone else had had the same inclination, most standing in quiet conversations sipping their cocktails in eager expectation of the nights activities, drinking to either bolster their courage, or further lessen their inhibitions. Crystal would definitely be drinking to bolster her courage.

She was glad that everyone there was also required to wear a mask, thus assuring anonymity. Lacy had told her that there would no doubt be some high-ranking politicians in attendance, as well as a hand-full of well known celebrities. All of which for differing reasons she could only guess at, would remain anonymous throughout the entire evening. How Lacy had managed to get them invited was still a mystery to her, something about the well-known realtor she worked for no doubt, who had somehow managed to finagle them both an exclusive invitation.

Crystal noticed that Lacy was already busily scanning the room. "Who are you looking for?" she asked curiously.

"Jack," she replied with a wicked grin. Jack was Lacy's boss. "He said he'd be here wearing a Batman costume," she giggled suggestively.

"Figures," Crystal responded. "Now I know why you chose to wear the Cat Woman outfit," she responded knowingly. "Plan on tangling with Batman later are we?" Crystal teased.

Lacy shot her a wicked grin. "You know it," she added slyly. Crystal had long suspected that the two of them had been involved from time to time, on the side away from the office. But up until now, Lacy hadn't come right out and admitted it before. "Don't worry honey," Lacy assured her. "I'm sure some handsome young tiger or lion will spot you and sweep you away off to his lair." 

"That's what I'm worried about," Crystal said seriously, not at all looking forward to the myriad of unwanted advances she was almost positive she'd be receiving in this almost too revealing outfit she'd been talked into wearing.

And...as she'd expected, Batman finally showed up whisking away Cat Woman off to the dance floor. Though by the way things looked, those who were out there hardly appeared to be dancing. Had they not been wearing their costumes, skimpy and revealing as most of them were, it would have appeared to be more like out and out coupling instead. Crystal watched for a time, shook off several obvious advances, all of which had been overtly suggestive in nature, and began to nervously look for some way of escape, at least for a while. She'd spotted several women coming and going in pairs up the enormous stairway, figuring as she'd watched them that no doubt one of several restrooms had to be upstairs. Deciding that was as good a choice as any to escape for a bit, Crystal wandered up the stairs in search of the ladies room.

To her surprise, the hallway was long, dark and strangely eerie looking. Whoever had decorated this place for the party had gone to great lengths to make it so, complete with a few clingy cob-webs (which she hoped weren't real) with only the faintest of lighting from a few flickering candles situated in sconces high along the wall. Even then, she had to literally feel her way along the wall with her hand in searching for any doors as she walked. She found several, tried them, but found each one was locked. She'd even stopped putting her ear to one door and was sure she had heard the faint sound of laughter coming from inside. She moved on. Trailing her hand along the cold damp rock wall, she heard what appeared to be a faint 'click' then much to her surprise, she found that indeed a portion of the wall seemed to open. She stood looking at it, ensuring that it wasn't merely a door not locked. Sure enough, it appeared to be apart of the very wall itself! Now curious, she pressed on it further, swinging the wall inward and found herself staring at a very narrow steep flight of steps.

"Well, this is interesting!" she thought silently to herself. She stepped in, placing her foot on the first of several stone steps leading upwards and heard the faint 'click' once again as the wall closed securely behind her. A pair of solitary soft glowing lamps stood atop of the landing just above her. Cautiously, somewhat nervously yet still curious, Crystal made her way up the stairs towards them. She found herself standing on some sort of mezzanine, with several criss-crossing walkways, and immediately understood why. Below her, it was obvious she could see down into several rooms as she passed. All of which must have had mirrored ceilings from inside as she could walk by looking down, completely un-noticed. Not too surprisingly, many of the rooms were indeed occupied. Several couples had been coming and going all evening long up and down the stairs. Obviously these rooms had been prepared well in advance for such intimate liaisons as she was now seeing. And just as obvious to her, someone had designed them in just such a way so that he, or she...just like she herself was now doing, could walk above them peering down into each and every one for whatever voyeuristic amusement that might be had to see.

She was half tempted to turn around and head back downstairs. But she found herself guiltily mesmerized as she peeked down into one of the rooms, aware she was totally unobserved, and stood watching two women and a man as they frolicked around in bed together. She had often wondered, admittedly fantasized about a threesome herself, but with two men. Even so...watching now as she stood there, she found herself becoming curiously aroused, nervously glancing about to ensure that she was indeed all alone, and then turned her attention to peer down back inside the room. She laughed, and then hushed herself worriedly, though she was equally sure the area she was in was well soundproofed as no one below even took notice or appeared to have heard her. The reason for her laughter was that the guy was dressed as Superman, his tight red briefs bulging obscenely as one of the now naked women with him sat off to one side of him happily rubbing his satin crotch, making his obvious erection become even more prominent beneath his costume. The second woman with dark hair had appeared to be originally costumed as Xenia, the warrior princess. In seconds however, she was as nude as the day she was born, and with help from the blonde had managed to successfully free Superman's super hard dick, and were now taking turns with what Crystal once again giggled thinking over as the "Man of Steel".

Glancing about once again, ensuring she was indeed all alone, she moved on, peering down into several rooms, many of which were like-wise occupied in one form or another. She made her way along the catwalk towards the far wall where the area was even darker, though the rooms lit well enough below to see in without straining her eyes. Just as she arrived, she looked down and gasped as both Batman, as well as her dear friend Lacy entered one of the rooms. Once again, she nearly turned away, but then stood feeling the naughty side of her curiosity taking over. She watched as they quickly disrobed, climbing atop the spacious bed and began to perform a mutual oral '69' upon one another.

"Fuck!" she actually said aloud. It had been a long, long time since she'd done that. "Too fucking long!" she thought this time to herself quietly. And to her total and complete surprise, she felt the first signs of arousal begin to liquefy, and manifest itself deep within the recess of her rapidly awakening pussy. Before she'd even realized it, she found herself standing there watching them, her hand having dropped towards her crotch where she pressed it, gently rubbing the surface through the thin material of her body stocking. Crystal hadn't worn any panties, she hadn't wanted any lines marring the look or appearance of her leopard suit. And now she was glad for it, as the material was just thin enough to allow the gentle press of her fingers to expertly tease and caress her rapidly swelling clitoris. She continued to watch as Lacy finally swung herself around, now impaling herself upon Jack's rigid, swollen looking member. She heard herself audibly sigh, wishing that it was her with a nice hard cock buried deeply inside her cunt, unabashedly now rubbing the outer folds of her own lips, seeking for, but not quite finding the relief that she was now becoming desperately in need of. So engrossed in watching her dearest friend, she did not see or hear anything until it was too late to do so, and certainly too late to hide what it was she'd been doing even if she had.

"Erotic isn't it?"

Crystal nearly jumped out of her skin, crying out in fact both in surprise as well as alarm. Not three feet away stood a tall man, partially obscured due to the lighting, but obviously costumed as the Phantom of the Opera.

"You scared the hell out of me!" she exclaimed feeling horribly embarrassed and ashamed at having been caught doing what she'd obviously been doing. She immediately looked for a quick escape route, but found that as she'd reached the end of the catwalk looking down into this last room where Jack and Lacy were now busily fucking away like crazy, that she actually had no place to go except forward, and then around where the Phantom stood, somewhat blocking her way.

"I'm sorry," he said soothingly. "I really didn't mean to. I discovered this place quite by accident, and then saw you standing over here watching. Thought I might come over, introduce myself, and perhaps...watch with you." He let that suggestion hang for a moment expectantly, letting her know in the process that he had been well aware of what she'd been doing. He spoke before Crystal could find her own voice in response. "Sometimes, it is just erotic, if not more so, to watch someone else without their knowledge as opposed to actually being involved yourself wouldn't you agree?" He glanced down into the room once again, drawing Crystal's attention back down towards her friend. Seeing Lacy who now stood at the foot of the bed, holding on to one of the bedposts as Jack stood behind, thrusting himself wickedly into her was indeed hypnotic, and yes...she had to admit even to herself, intoxicatingly erotic.

In a way, Crystal did feel hypnotized, unable to pull her eyes away from the spectacle taking place below her, even as she sensed, more than heard the Phantom as he approached, closing the distance between them. She felt his breath on the back of her neck, his hands as they came around cupping her twin firm globes. But she also felt the press of his firm stiff erection through the thin layer of clothing covering her well rounded ass.

She realized at that moment that she still hadn't gotten a very good look at him as even the exposed part of his face had been mostly concealed in shadow. But the sound of his voice, deep, husky...virile sounding had somehow assured her that he wasn't some weird creep that she had anything to be afraid of. Why, she didn't know. But even as his hands caressed her and began gingerly teasing her extended nipples to even greater firmness, she felt no fear, only a heightened sense of awareness and arousal as she began to more fully succumb to his manipulations.

"Come with me," he coaxed soothingly. Taking her hand, which she allowed, and followed, willingly, almost as though floating on a cushion of air as she did.

Ahead, they approached what first appeared to look like just another wall. Stepping up to it however, her "Phantom" as she now considered him, pushed against it with the simple touch of his hand. The wall parted just as it had done below in the corridor. Stepping inside, the first thing she noticed was the deep red glow of light permeating the entire room. Several lanterns stood burning, the aroma of incense or some sort of scented oil perhaps, invaded her senses, making her feel almost intoxicated. The glass, which surrounded and covered each, was a deep blood red that disallowed the natural normal brightness to shine through. Ahead of her, an enormous bed, black sheets, either satin or silk had already been turned down in preparation.

"Preparation for what?" she asked herself almost drowsily. She felt herself being led towards the bed, yet felt no fear, no panic as he closed the door behind them, effectively sealing them inside the soundproofed chamber. She stood, watching as he removed his black cape, draping it casually over the back of one chair.

"Take off your clothes," he instructed her softly. Once again, Crystal surprised herself, reaching up to begin the process of worming out of her skin-tight body stocking. She felt the neck of it rip however as she struggled to remove it, uncaring as she did, wanting only to be free of the garment and allow the touch of the sheets to caress her exposed flesh. In moments, she stood before him entirely naked, unashamed, and more than a little aroused by his comforting, almost hypnotic words.

As he'd asked, she moved onto the bed, wearing nothing more than her leopard faced mask which she was grateful for, seeing as she did, he too soon was as naked as she, though still wearing his own Phantom of the Opera face mask. Her eyes took him in, as he stood at the end of the bed taking her in, his prick turgid, almost angry looking, the thick bulbous head of his shaft glistening with lubrication. She felt moisture gathering, then pooling within the confines of her own sex, surprised at her wantonness, even more surprised that she could find herself as aroused as she was, about to be taken by a complete and total stranger.

He moved towards her, then upon her easily pinning her down on the bed, but without malice, without intention of harming her. Somehow she knew this even as he reached for pinning her arms up and above her head within his strong hands, kissing her, then kissing the nape of her neck, allowing his flicking tongue to tenderly trace an imaginary line down between her exposed, hard-nippled breasts.

Crystal felt amazingly calm, incredibly aroused, until...the feel of a soft clamp suddenly surrounding her wrist brought her through the fugue of relaxed caution. For the first time since allowing herself to even entertain the notion of being seduced by this man...this stranger, Crystal felt the first signs of panic setting in.

"What? What are you doing?" She cried out. "No! Please! No!" She begged. "Release me!"

Instead, this Phantom, this stranger, this now somewhat fearful individual who had imprisoned her easily reached over securing her free hand, likewise capturing it in yet another binding cuff so that Crystal lay with both hands stretched up over her head, entirely powerless to do anything but squirm uselessly upon the bed.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he finally told her. "In fact, just the opposite. I am going to pleasure you, pleasure you beyond your wildest dreams, beyond your most secret fantasies and desires!"

Hearing the words, Crystal relaxed slightly, though she felt her body quivering. "Was it desire? Fear? Which?" She wondered.

The Phantom then pulled on a braided cord hanging next to the bed, the sound of rusty gears were then heard. Crystal felt tension upon her wrists and arms as they suddenly began to lift, she...moving with them, scrambling with them up into a sitting position, then unavoidably, standing upon the bed. He stood...watching her until she was, then pulled on the braided cord once again, silencing the hidden rusty winch from continuing to pull her up any further. Secured as she was, she wasn't in any pain, nor was she really uncomfortable. Nervous yes, apprehensive even, certainly vulnerable to both his gazing eyes as well as his now roaming hands as they took liberty with her flesh, caressing her, running up and down the entire length of her body like a soft stroking feather.


Phantom



Though bound, her legs were still free. She could have kicked him, hurting him, perhaps even knocking him out. But what would be the point? She had no way of releasing her wrists, even the braided cord well out of reach. She knew there was no point in screaming, no one would hear her cry. But somehow, she knew even as he touched her that she truly had nothing to fear. The pungent aroma of the scented air once again assailing her senses, the almost hypnotic sound of his voice as he continually reassured her between gentle kisses, soft stroking flicks of his tongue as he aroused her sensitive flesh.

Placing his hands at the apex of her sex, Crystal parted her legs involuntarily, giving him access. She felt the first gentle searching flick of his tongue as it speared her now hardened clitoris. She shuddered, felt a wave of tingling ecstasy surge through her entire being, her clit suddenly throbbing in excited expectation, needing...no, wanting more of it. Lots more. And he granted her desire. His tongue became a whirlwind of orgasmic delight, deflowering the tiny bud of her soul, kissing, caressing, gently sucking then chewing it until she was maddened with unbridled joy the likes of which she hadn't known or felt in a long, long time.

Crystal felt the gentle probe of one finger, then two. Her silky passage becoming even more so with each slippery, sliding thrust of his fingers, his tongue still busily devouring her beyond sensitive clitoris.

She heard a woman's cry of pleasure, realizing it to be her own, like a voice in the fog, far away. The intensity of her orgasm overwhelming, seizing her, capturing her entire being in one instant, frozen in time as she succumbed to the mind-numbing obliteration of her soul.

She knew she must have passed out, at least momentarily. For though she still stood suspended, hung by her wrists, limp as she stood dangling there like a caught fish on a hook, she opened her eyes to find him standing with her, somewhat supporting her as his arms surrounded her, his lips gently kissing, suckling her still hardened nipples. Once again, the desire renewed itself, even faster as his lips sensed her recovery, now sucking urgently at her taut flesh. Crystal moaned. "Oh fuck...fuck!" she breathed in a half-whispering acceptance of pleasure. In response, she heard his mewling sigh of delight, and then felt him lower himself beneath her. Crystal dared to look, seeing at once his massive erection beckoning to her from below, just as he reached over once again seizing the braided cord.

"Oh fuck!" she said again. It was the only word she could think of to say. Somewhat bewildered, trance-like as she felt herself being slowly lowered, once again automatically spreading her legs as she found herself slowly, inch by inch coming to rest upon him, his staff now nestled comfortably, softly against the folds of her wet glistening sex.

"Tell me you want me," he said in his soothing melodic sounding voice.

"I want you," she said without hesitation.

"Tell me you want to feel my thick hard cock deep inside your cunt!"

"I...I..."

"Tell me!" he demanded of her this time, more forcefully, though non-threateningly.

"I want to feel your cock deep inside my cunt," she responded willingly.

"Then put it in!" he told her.

The only way she could do that was to move against him, sliding up the length of his shaft. As she did, she felt the softness of her silken lips bathing his prick in her essence, coating the length of him with her female lubrications. She felt the tip of his bulbous head, capturing it with her lips, then slipping backwards, effectively seizing it. She smiled inwardly, feeling along as she continued the motion, his cock now standing, held as it entered her. She impaled him. Crystal felt the full length of his shaft now enter her fully, the entry of her womb suddenly tickled as his prick threatened to press through. And then...she felt herself rising once more.

"No!" she cried out unexpectedly, feeling his massive prick suddenly being withdrawn as she heard the sound of the rusty mechanism once again raising her upwards. Then it stopped, stopped just with the tip of his prick still nestled inside her. She fought, found that she could gain just enough leverage by bringing both links of the chain imprisoning her arms together, pulling up on them, effectively allowing herself to lower. She did so, once again impaling herself. Yet...the tension was too great, she couldn't hold it. Crystal felt herself forcefully yanked back up again, but yet again, his cock remained just barely inside her. She took a breath, steeling herself, and pulled down once again on the chains, once again capturing his prick within the recess of her inflamed pussy.

"Very good," she heard him say lustfully. "Fuck yourself Crystal," he said using her name for the first time. "Fuck your pussy with my cock."

And so she did. Straining with exertion every inch of the way, up and down, pulling hard upon the chains that restrained her, losing the battle each and every time as the tension became greater than her own strength, lifting her away though she fought with all she had to keep him inside her. Just when the last of her strength gave out, she felt the tension finally relax, his prick slipping deeply inside her this time, staying there. Crystal swooned in delight, limp as a rag doll as his prick entered, staying there unmoving.

This time he thrust inside her, his hands covering her breasts. She felt the welcomed, gentle kneading of her flesh, the tickling, thrilling pull of her nipples as he rolled them between his fingers in perfect harmony with each and every thrust of his prick deep inside her pussy. She felt her moisture once again gathering, already the telltale signs of her climax's approach, crying out to him unabashedly, unashamedly as she did.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she wailed as the first wave of delight washed over her, once again robbing her of her senses.

Though she didn't quite pass out this time, she felt 'zoned' half in, half out of total consciousness. She felt herself being lowered fully, and then the release of one of her wrist restraints, wondering as her hand came free if her ordeal was over. Though instantly, she changed that, for it hadn't been an ordeal at all, but an experience beyond measure, beyond comprehension. As these thoughts tickled her awareness, bringing her more fully back to the present, she felt the capture of her ankle, and then the other as her second hand came free. Now her legs imprisoned, though the use of her hands unencumbered. Crystal chose not to fight however, for indeed, her pleasures had been supreme.

She felt, and then saw him as he moved behind her, the crank of the pulley from somewhere above, lifting her legs upward, spreading. Her ass came off the bed, she folded her arms using her elbows as support, her head gently pressed against the silky softness of the sheets. She felt the press of his slick shaft sliding against her, the coating of her essence now leaving a trail against the inflamed cheeks of her ass. "What?" she somehow managed to ask curiously, but his movement answered her as yet unfinished question.

Once again she felt his prick enter her, slipping easily inside her still sopping wet pussy. But rather than continuing to fuck her, he withdrew, now placing the tip at the entrance of her ass where he pressed ever so gently, rubbing the moisture of her own lubrications coating the opening. She gasped, worried to some degree, as she had never before been fucked in this fashion before. The thrust of his prick back inside her pussy however assuaged her concerns momentarily, "perhaps he is just teasing me," she considered, feeling his prick delightfully sliding in and out of her wantonness. But then, again, withdrawing, back towards her ass, this time a deeper firmer probe as she felt herself slowly open herself to him allowing the briefest, faintest acceptance, then again the withdrawal, back inside her cunt where he fucked her smoothly, softly once again.

Crystal had no idea how long they continued this explorative probing, but each and every time he pressed against her, more and more of his massive cock found acceptance and then entry inside her ass. Finally, she felt the fullness of him enter, and then slip inside just as easily as he'd done to her pussy. She smiled, welcoming the intrusion, surprised at the pleasure she felt from it, especially when she felt the touch of his hand beneath her, his fingers now toying with the fullness of her lips and the hardness of her sensitive nubbin of flesh as he again moved in and out of her wanting ass.

The Phantom soon after clasped the twin cheeks of her ass, driving more forcefully, deeply inside her. With her hands now free, Crystal reached beneath herself, replacing her hand where his had once been. The touch of her own fingers upon her clit, decadent, wickedly erotic as she twirled her clit, rubbing, stroking it with wild abandon as his prick slipped in and out of her tightly clenching ass. Together they moved towards the penultimate of explosions, just by the build up alone, she knew this orgasmic trip would be cosmic in nature, and she welcomed it, crying out vulgarly in some effort to expedite its arrival.

"Oh yes, fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck my ass, hard...fast, fuck me!" She wailed losing all inhibitions of thought in the process.

As her own climax began, she felt the surge, then the explosion of hot frothy semen bathing the insides of her passage in copious spurts, adding too, then enhancing the ecstasy she then felt. A thousand tiny pinpricks of light imploded within her mind, and then blackness consumed her.

#

She woke. Perplexed, confused. Sitting up, she found herself sitting upon a plush couch within some sort of sitting room. Across from her stood a door. Standing, as yet on unsteady legs, she made her way towards it, realizing only then that she was again dressed. She opened the door stepping out, the hallway familiar, the sounds of laughter and music wafting down the hallway towards her. Gradually her senses returned, her legs again steady, and she soon found herself descending the same stairway she'd climbed earlier. She paused, glancing downwards into the room, spotting Lacy almost immediately, Lacy spotting her at nearly the same moment, pushing through the throng of half-dressed, some actually nude men and women who continued to mingle or come and go into differing areas of the mansion.

"Where the hell have you been?" Lacy asked worriedly. "I thought for a while there that you'd left until someone told me they'd seen you go up the stairs earlier." Lacy paused, a sly smile spreading across her lips. Crystal was disheveled, her short sassy blonde hair even wilder looking than it had been earlier. "Oh...I see," she said with a knowing grin. "My shy innocent little girl friend isn't quite so shy or innocent after all now is she?"

Before she could respond however, Jack...or rather "Batman" sauntered up beside them drinks in hand.

"Here, why don't you take this?" he offered Crystal. "Looks like you could use it even more than I could."

Crystal gratefully accepted the drink, began to swallow and nearly choked. Across the way, above the enormous hearth, hung a portrait. "Who's that?" she asked excitedly. Jack turned looking where she'd indicated.

"That dear Crystal, is our reclusive billionaire, though I have it on good authority, that he is in fact dead now, and has been for quite some time. Apparently, it was written into his will that this place was to be maintained and kept up just as though he were alive, and presumably will be."

Crystal barely listened to him however, already crossing the room to stand just below the painting. "His face!" she stammered suddenly.

"Yeah...gruesome isn't it?" Jack agreed looking at it with her. "You'd have thought that the artist would have at least talked into painting him without the disfigurement, but then again, the guy really was eccentric, and obviously decided that it might be a sadistic little kick to actually let people see him just as he really was."

"This can't be!" Crystal stammered excitedly. "He was younger, much, much younger!"

Not understanding her line of reasoning, Jack interrupted her. "Well yes, he was younger when the accident happened, and funny too, today with the marvels of modern science and all his money, you'd have thought he'd elect to have plastic surgery to at least correct some of that hideousness!"

"No, you don't understand!" Crystal shot back. "I was with him tonight!"

"Him? This old guy?" Jack laughed. "Not possible!"

"Honey? You ok?" Lacy finally asked now worried.

"Well not him, him. But yes, a younger version of him. Something about those eyes, I know it's his eyes!" Crystal confirmed to herself. "In fact, I'm positive!"

"You were with him?" Jack questioned again, once again glancing up towards the portrait.

"Yes...just after I stood watching the two of you after you entered the room."

"Oh really," Lacy interjected, now wondering if Crystal wasn't indeed pulling both of their legs by way of some sort of practical joke. "And just exactly what was it we were doing if you were actually watching us?" she asked.

Crystal felt her face flush with the memory, but she was still too excited to care about being found out. "I watched the two of you perform a sixty-nine together," she said openly. Just before the Phantom approached me.

"The Phantom?" Jack asked now scanning the room. "As in The Phantom of the Opera?"

"Yes!" Crystal exclaimed. 

"Honestly honey, I haven't seen anyone dressed in costume like that here tonight. And trust me, if he'd been here, I'd have noticed him. But we can ask around if you'd like."

They did so, but everyone they asked said the same thing. No one had been there this night anyway, appearing costumed as the Phantom of the Opera.

"But I tell you..."

"Maybe you should," Lacy interjected. "Why don't you start at the beginning, tell us everything that happened, don't leave anything out."

Embarrassed, she did so anyway, beginning with her initial search for a bathroom, then the discovery of a secret hidden doorway and the mezzanine above that allowed her to see down inside all the various rooms below.

"Hell...maybe she really did Jack!" Lacy stated once they'd heard the entire story, which Lacy admittedly had left her flush with renewed arousal. "Fuck honey...I'd like to see that particular little room for myself!"

"Hey! I know!" Jack said jumping in. "The caretaker! If anyone knows all the little secrets to this place, he certainly would!"

It didn't take Jack long to locate him, and once they'd spoken to him about a secret passage way leading upstairs from the upper corridor, he cheerfully led them back upstairs and down the hall a short distance before stopping in front of what appeared to be a full wall. 

"This look like the right place?" Lacy asked Crystal. Crystal nodded her head yes, even as they all heard the faint click as the caretaker pressed a specific spot, revealing in fact that the wall had a narrow staircase leading upwards. There were no lights above however as there had been earlier, the caretaker obviously familiar with the place, quickly procuring a stowed lantern from within a small wall niche, lighting it, and then leading them up. 

Crystal was the first to follow him, the stairs familiar to her as she did. As they reached the top of the landing however, all of that changed. Holding the lantern high enough to cast as much light as he could, they all stood staring at a vast open area that was cluttered and filled with various pieces of antique furniture, boxes. Dusty, musty, and this area genuinely filled with real cob-webs, the only thing that looked even remotely the same to her was the planked walk-way that appeared to be positioned in the same way as had been the mezzanine catwalks. Without waiting or with any explanation, Crystal grabbed the lantern away from the caretaker and made her way forward deeper into the room.

"It was here, right here!" she stated assuredly to herself more than anyone else. The wall she indicated was cluttered with several stacked boxes and one or two small pieces of furniture. She pushed several away, revealing as she did a tall standing mirror. An old worn sheet had been covering it, which now fell away. She caught her reflection for a moment, glanced away, and then glanced back once again. Automatically her hand came up to the neck of her body suit. The tear she had caused earlier wasn't there. She gawked at her reflection in disbelief. "Damn it! I know what happened! And I distinctly remember tearing a hole in this!" She said fingering the undamaged area.

"Maybe we should get you home," Jack informed everyone, tossing a quick sign Lacy's way to indicate that maybe Crystal had had a wee bit too much to drink.

"Maybe we should," Lacy agreed. Though something told her that what Crystal had been telling them was more truth than not.

Crystal stood shaking her head in confused frustration, glanced once more towards the mirror and froze, wanting to scream, but no words would come out. Behind her, standing directly behind her stood the Phantom. She spun, but only the sound of a distant haunting laughter filled her ears, that...and nothing more. 



Phantom



It was the first project of which Trish had been in charge. The Consortium was bidding for the Lorne Park site to be used for luxury apartments and on Monday morning Trish would meet the contractors and surveyors at the site to decide if they could convert the old building or if they needed to demolish and build from scratch.

She had collected the keys from the agent on Friday afternoon and now, on Saturday morning, she could not resist the chance to go to the site alone and do a tour so that when the meeting happened on Monday everyone would be impressed by how well she knew the project. That was why she was here with her shiny black Audi idling behind her as she unlocked the huge rusty padlock on the high iron gates. The thick chain fell away noisily and Trish returned to her car and purred up the winding drive. There was grass growing up through the tarmac and trees and greenery were intruding into the drive. When the building came into view it was like the setting for a horror film. To make things worse heavy dark clouds hung overhead and the feeling of neglect and decay was deepened by the tangled mass of out of control vegetation which seemed to be creeping up the front steps like a monster which was gradually dragging the place back to complete jungle.

The building itself was two storeys with windows set into the sloping roof showing that there were rooms in the attics. The chimneys were tall and one of them had collapsed. The whole thing was grim Victorian red brick. It had been built as a reformatory for girls and then later it had been a girl's boarding school which had been shut down after some trouble. The details were unclear.

As Trish locked her car and slowly walked to the oak front door she wondered what had run through the minds of those unfortunate Victorian girls who had been brought here. Being set in its own grounds the place was completely isolated from the outside world and the thought came into Trish's mind that any indignity and horror could have been imposed on the inmates of this place and no-one outside would ever know.

The front door key was huge and made of black iron like the key to an old church and it took some effort to turn the key in the long disused lock. Trish deliberately left the door open as she slowly made her way into the musty smelling entrance hall and a pigeon flapped somewhere overhead disturbed at the sound of the door being opened. Of course the electricity had been cut off long ago but daylight came into the place through the tall, dirty windows. 

In the course of her work Trish had been into many abandoned buildings but in this one she had to make a concentrated effort to think like a professional instead of a frightened little girl. She had crossed the entrance hall now and passed through a wide doorway under heavy wood carving into another high and wide space. Perhaps this had been a dining room or an assembly hall. The floor was dusty bare boards and the windows were all at first floor level. It had been Trish's intention to make a detailed study of the place with a view to deciding whether to favour conversion or demolition but she was disappointed in herself that she had already, intuitively, formed the very strong impression that this place was evil and must be totally destroyed. 

By this time she was in the centre of the large space and suddenly the whole building was filled with the sound of a huge crash like a cannon shot which caused Trish's heart to stop for a second. However as the squawking of the birds died down she told herself that the wind had caught the front door which she had left open and blown it shut. Just as she was recovering her breath she heard a door slam somewhere else nearby then what could only be male footsteps very close to her.

Now she was uneasy and verging on scared and she called out asking if anyone was there. She was slowly turning around trying to locate the sounds although now all was silent again. Then she caught a movement out of the corner of one eye and she spun in that direction but saw nothing. Completely without warning Trish felt something hot clamp over her mouth and nose and she was gasping for air but it was being denied her. She saw only the huge empty room but something invisible was covering her face and dragging her backwards so that she lost her balance and ended up on her back still struggling to breathe as she thrashed her arms around uselessly. Things were beginning to go dark as she came near to the end of her oxygen then she felt four distinct fingers pressing into her left breast and suddenly she could breathe again. She looked down and actually saw four small indents on her breast but no sign of whatever it was which was pressing into her.

She screamed and tried to squirm free but she could not move. She exerted her muscles but her body did not obey and all the terrified woman could do was to watch as her blouse burst open to reveal her brief white bra. Something dragged the blouse down her arms so that it was clear of the front of her body and she felt something rough brush her breasts as her bra was ripped from her to hang by one strap from her right shoulder.

Trish was becoming hysterical and she was thumping her feet on the floorboards and thrashing about with her legs as she had a distinct feeling of hot breath in her ears and she heard a loud rasping panting. Now a hand pressed into her left breast as another tore open the front of her jeans leaving the belt still buckled around her waist. She was writhing helplessly as her jeans were dragged down to around her knees so that she was hobbled and she desperately tried to fight her unseen attacker.

She cried out as she felt sharp pain just below her left nipple and she watched in fascinated horror as an angry red bite mark appeared at the spot just before her pink cotton briefs moved of their own accord down to join her jeans at her knees. She could move her arms now but she was beating at empty air as her legs were violently jerked upwards and something dragged her jeans and underwear off her feet and flung the mass of inside out clothing a full four feet from her. The floorboards were rough against her buttocks and she found that she could not close her legs; some force was in between her knees forcing her legs wide apart.

More phantom bite marks began to cover her breasts, belly and her neck and her mind became full of the word "Vampire". The force between her knees had now moved upwards and her whole body was being forced down against the floorboards.

Whatever the evidence of her eyes Trish now knew that she was being attacked by some entity and she channelled her fear into anger as she swore at it and commanded it to let her go but she froze when the large weight which held her body down was joined by a much smaller and more focussed weight pressing into the soft feminine flesh between her thighs.

"Don't you f..ing dare to rape me you pervert. Get away from here right now."

Her shout was cut off as she experienced a repeat of that mass pressing into her face once again cutting off her air at the same time as the invader at her pussylips began to force inwards causing her back to arch and her legs to splay obscenely wide. As the helpless woman fought for air she felt her intimate channel being forced wide open by something with a terrifyingly huge length and girth. Her back and buttocks were writhing and collecting splinters from the floorboards and she found that the weight was no longer across her face and she was able to scream in absolute terror. The anger was gone now to be replaced by mindless terror as she heard herself begging to be left alone.

Her hips were bucking and her whole body was slick with her sweat as she felt the invader moving within her intimate parts. Just on the edge of hearing was the suggestion of a voice in a harsh whisper but it was not words which she heard so much as a sort of chattering much as might be made by a pack of hyenas as they devoured their prey.

All her nerve endings were firing at 200% and every muscle was tensing and untensing. Trish was incapable of speech but the whole building seemed to be echoing with her orgiastic shouts and moans. She knew that if this lasted for just another minute her head would explode and she would never recover but it did continue so it seemed that for an eternity she hung on the edge between ultimate pleasure and total destruction. It was as if she were floating in a place outside of the known universe where the laws of physics were suspended or irrelevant.

Suddenly she was hit by an all-enveloping stillness; it was so still that she was sure this was death. Gradually the real world began to seep back in the way that the sea slowly sweeps away the sand barriers built by children on the shore. Once again she was aware of her own body as she lay there with her arms outstretched and her hands palm upwards. Her legs were bent at the knee so that anyone looking down at her would have seen her legs in a diamond shape with her black pubic hair dripping with her shining juices and her thighs wide open. Her neck was bent backwards so that she could see an upside down view of the wall behind her and she could not move a muscle. She was aware of every muscle aching and was certain that the slightest movement would cause agony. All she could do was to lie there aware of her heart pumping and her breasts rising and falling. She was very cold. Trish had no idea of how long she lay there but eventually she began to make tiny movements. She moved her legs very carefully because when she began to move she felt a crippling ache deep within her belly like the very worst period cramps which anyone could imagine. She found that she could move her arms and her body and then the tears came and she could not stop sobbing. Trish was weeping at the effects of her violation but, underneath that, there was a totally irrational sense of loss for the spectral lover who had so brought her body alive and then just left her alone. She felt abandoned as one feels when dumped by a very special lover; just for a moment she had something indescribable and now it was gone and all she had was the pain and the sore, bloody bite marks on her flesh.

It was much later when she made herself begin to pull herself together and try to gather up her clothing and she discovered to her horror that her brassiere and knickers had been viciously shredded. It was not simply that they had been torn from her body but the garments had been reduced to a few narrow strips of fabric unrecognisable as clothing. The really frightening thing was that Trish had no memory of this happening; she recalled being stripped and taken but at some point the attacker had deliberately destroyed her underwear and if she had forgotten this detail what else might he have done of which she had no memory? While she was slowly and painfully pulling on her jeans she noticed her small gold wristwatch a few feet away on the floor; the narrow gold wristband had been pulled apart as if it were paper by someone obviously very strong and in a fit of frenzied violence. This was something else of which Trish had no memory.

Her blouse was virtually useless and she had to do the best she could to hold it closed as she made her way out of the building to her car. While she was driving the garment flapped open revealing her naked, scarred breasts and she was grateful for the car's smoked glass windows. She had to make a mad dash for the door of her flat and, once inside, she discarded the remains of her clothing and ran a hot foamy bath. The violated young woman still felt tearful as she soaked in the bath and then she became aware of the voice. 

It seemed to be in her head rather than her ears and it was very faint but it sounded like wire wool rubbing across sandpaper as it spoke slowly and deliberately.

"We shall play again."



Phantom



"I hope you'll be happy with us, Jane," the housekeeper said. "Before I let you have a room, I really should ask you if you're afraid of ghosts."

"Ghosts, ma'am?" asked Jane, puzzled. The staid looking housekeeper didn't look the sort of woman who'd even believe in, let alone be afraid, of ghosts.

"Yes, Jane," said Mrs. Simmons. "We currently have two beds available in the maid's quarters. One is in a room that you would have to share with Sally and Agnes, but the other is a small single bedroom. The trouble with the single room, of cause, is the ghost."

"The ghost, ma'am?" asked Jane, suspicion plain in her voice.

"Yes, Jane. The reason the room is empty is because the other maids don't like the way the ghost insists on having everything just so. They say if you move the bed, the ghost moves it back. If you leave things on the dresser, the ghost puts them in a drawer. They don't like it and won't stay in that room. So, do ghosts worry you or not?"

"Ah, no, ma'am. I'm not sure that I even believe in ghosts," said Jane.

"That's the spirit," said Mrs. Simmons cheerfully. "In that case just move your things into this room here, and you'll be fine."

Mrs. Simmons opened the door to a small but neatly presented room.

Looking over the room, Jane was quite pleased with it. She'd have some privacy and probably a lot more room than in a bedroom with two other girls. Looking over the room she was surprised to see a sturdy little bolt on the door.

She mentioned it to Mrs. Simmons, who sniffed disparagingly.

"One maid who had this room insisted someone was sneaking in at night and touching her," she said. "Such goings on don't occur in any house I run, I assure you, but she complained so much that Master had a bolt put on. Didn't help of course. She left soon after. Claimed that the ghost was touching her."

"I see," said Jane faintly. Apparently she was moving in with a neat ghost who like to touch girls. It would be a new experience, but she suspected that she'd survive.

"Just leave your things here for now and you can come and meet the other girls. You can unpack later."

Subsequently, Jane met the other maids and started work. At tea that night, one of the maids turned to her.

"I suppose you've been put in with Sally and me. Just remember, we were there first and we've got the room the way we like it."

"Actually, no," said Jane. "Mrs. Simmons had given me the empty single bedroom."

There were gasps from the other maids. 

"She's put you in with the Phantom Fucker?" asked Agnes aghast. "You'd be a lot better off in with Sally and me, you know. You can always ask to change."

"Put me in with who?" asked Jane, surprised at the crude description.

"What did Mrs. Simmons tell you about the room," hedged Agnes.

"She said that's there's supposed to be a ghost who haunts it and insists on a tidy room."

"She say anything else?" pressed Agnes.

"Um, let's see. She mentioned a previous maid who insisted that the ghost touched her. That's all."

"Ooh, she's a cunning one," snorted Agnes. "Did she tell you why Mary left?"

Jane shook her head. "Not really. Mrs. Simmons just said the maid didn't like the ghost touching her."

There was some sniggering from the other maids. 

"What happened," said Agnes, "was this. We heard squealing in the middle of the night from Mary's room. Squealing and yelling up a storm she was. We tried to get in to see what was going on, but the door was bolted. We was hanging round the door, wondering if we should force it open, when the squealing stopped on a bit of a scream. We thought she'd had a nightmare and were about to go back to bed when we heard the bolt pulled and Mary came barging out in the nuddy, crying and saying he fucked her.

We tried to get her to calm down but she wouldn't even go back into the room to get clothes. I had to go and get them, and there wasn't anyone in the room when I went in and the window was closed. I don't think you can open that window.

Anyway, Mary quit on the spot. Said she wasn't staying in any house where ghosts creep into an innocent girl's room and has their way with her. Not that she was so innocent, according to a couple of the footmen. 

Mrs. Simmons and the Master both say that Mary just had a nightmare and panicked, but none of the other maids are willing to spend a night in that room. They think the Phantom Fucker might strike again.

Good luck to you if you do."

Jane was appalled. "No," she thought. "It has to be a story to frighten the newcomer." 

"I'm sure I'll be fine," she said, smiling hesitantly.

After supper, Jane retired, allowed to leave early as she still had to unpack. Arriving in her room Jane was startled to find her things already unpacked, with her case stowed on top of the wardrobe. She'd have to find who'd been kind enough to help her out and thank them.

Hearing the other maids coming up later, Jane stuck her head out the door. 

"Who do I thank for helping me unpack," she asked them, smiling, to be met by an array of blank looks.

Agnes, the apparent spokeswoman for the maids, stepped forward.

"What are you on about?" she asked.

"When I came up to unpack my things, someone had already done it, and stored my cases on top of the wardrobe. I just wanted to say thank you."

A couple of maids paled and moved hastily away, while the others just looked at each other.

"We wouldn't have time for that," said one. "You'd better thank your ghost."

Jane gave them an odd look. They were carrying this just a bit too far, in her opinion, but at least she did have her things unpacked.

Jane retired to her room. She looked at the door for a moment and then slipped the bolt. If they thought to sneak in for some practical jokes while she was asleep, they could think again.

Some time spent reading and a little more bringing her diary up to date, and Jane was ready to sleep. She checked the drawers to see where her nightie had been stored, extracted it, and put it on the bed.

She quickly stripped off her gown and spent a few minutes brushing it down before hanging it up. She turned and reached for her nightie, and the candle went put. 

Jane shrugged. Not worth relighting it just to get her nightie on, she thought, but tomorrow she'd check where the draft came from. She hadn't actually noticed one before, but she'd better find it and stop it. She didn't want the candle blowing out at odd times.

Turning and moving slowly towards the bed, hands outstretched to find the bed and her nightie, Jane was taken by surprise when something pushed her in the back.

She stumbled forward, catching her knees on the side of the bed and toppling onto it. She felt someone behind her, standing between her thighs, and then a hand was holding her pressed firmly against the bed, her head in the pillows preventing her from calling out while another hand was moving between her thighs and touching her.

Jane wasn't a virgin, and she knew damned well what that second touch meant. She tried to heave herself upward, only to find that she apparently lifted her bottom into a more advantageous position for the midnight marauder. The hand between her thighs slipped further round and was now fondling her pussy, rubbing back and forth and gently squeezing it.

Jane tried to close her legs, but found she was far too late for this. The stranger was firmly between them, wedging them open, while his hand was stroking little jolts of excitement out of her.

Now her lips were being eased apart and fingers were creeping inside her slit, rubbing and coaxing, generating both heat and damp.

Jane squirmed, struggling against both the stranger and the commands her own body was sending her.

Taking his time, the stranger was playing with her, drawing a response that she didn't want to give. She gave a sob of fury as she felt her bottom lifting to give him easier access.

Taking the offering as though it were deliberate, her assailant now pulled his hand away, replacing it with the head of what felt like a very large and hard erection. Jane again tried to scream, but was muffled by the pillow her face was pressing into. She gave a gasp of horror as she realised that her pussy was pushing firmly itself against that cock that was teasing her, trying to settle onto it.

Then the intruder was really intruding on her, his cock easing past her lips and gently making its way deeper. Jane groaned. It would be easier to take, she thought if he was brutal, but this firm but gentle pressure was something else.

As she found herself being taken, Jane yielded. There wasn't much else she could do except go along with it, but once this swine was finished, she'd kill him.

Once fully inside Jane, her visitor started to move more vigorously, encouraging Jane to move with him. He was not in a hurry, just taking nice long strokes that made a mush of Jane's insides. Her participation was now complete, and her body happily met all the demands he made upon it.

Jane good feel both his hands on her hips now, holding her firmly while he pounded her. She could probably scream now she idly thought, but dismissed the idea to concentrate on the pleasure that was starting to course through her.

The Phantom Fucker, if this was he, seemed to have a lot of experience with maids. He seemed to know just how she felt and when to increase his activity. Now he was thrusting hard, driving her along and at the same time coaxing an orgasm from her.

Now Jane did scream, jamming her face hard against the pillows as she did so, feeling herself twisting and writhing as pleasure flooded her.

Coming down from the heights, Jane found herself relaxing, and then felt the intruder withdrawing. Quickly groping for a match, she lit her candle and looked around, at an empty room.

Jane stared. Nobody there. Nobody anywhere. The door was still bolted. She glanced under the bed. No-one there. Cautiously she opened the wardrobe. Empty apart from her clothes gently swinging.

She was quite alone. Jane picked up her nightie and slipped it on and then got into bed. If this ghost came past every night, she was going to have quite a time here.

She blew out her candle.

Seeing the candle light vanish, Hector, the butler, moved quietly away along the hidden passage. It seemed that he had a new playmate. He wondered how long she'd last.



Phantom: A Love Story.



"There is nothing more desolate in all the abodes of men than an unfurnished house dimly lit, silent, and forsaken, and yet tenanted by the memories of evil and violent histories."

-Algernon Blackwood, "The Empty House"

***

"I guess no one mentioned that Devereux Manor is supposed to be haunted?"

Amelia paused with trowel in hand, bent on hands knees in the flowerbed, considering Ms. Price's question. The older woman sat forward a little, anxious for a reply, so Amelia took her time formulating one. Eventually she settled on: "What's Devereux Manor?"

Ms. Price blinked. "Why, that's this house, dear. Your house."

Amelia sat up a bit, looking sideways at the house. It was still hard to think of it as hers. Since her father had never really lived here she supposed it hadn't been his house either. In her mind it was just "the house", an entity unto itself. "Didn't you know about the Devereux family?" said Ms. Price.

"Never heard of them," said Amelia. She was pulling up the weeds that overran the lot and Ms. Price, who had stopped by to "welcome her to the neighborhood" after the moving trucks left, sat on the low stone wall that marked the edge of the property, chatting while Amelia worked.

"Well, I guess folks keep quiet about that kind of thing," said Ms. Price. "But it's a fascinating story, about the Devereuxs, and the fire. And of course, the Phantom. Sounds silly, I know, but it's been the story for as long as I've been around," said Ms. Price. "I bet you'd love to hear it, you being a writer and all."

The word "Phantom", divorced of all context, did seem silly, but for some reason Amelia didn't feel like laughing. She pushed her trowel back into the dirt, frowning with the effort of it. It was a hot day, a Louisiana summer, and she was wearing one of those wide-brimmed straw hats that made her feel like an old lady, older even than Ms. Price. She rubbed her dirt-caked hands on her overalls and grunted.

"I'm not that kind of writer," said Amelia. "I write technical manuals."

"Oh? Well how did you afford a house like this? Never mind, don't tell me, I'm being nosy again." 

Amelia stood up. "Plastics," she said.

"What's that dear?" 

"I invested in a plastics company when I was younger. They make computer parts now. That's how I could afford the house."

"Oh," said Ms. Price. "Well. It's good that someone is fixing this old place up." 

"Mmm," was all Amelia said. She knew that the only reason it hadn't fallen down in the last hundred years was because of a local trust dedicated to preserving antique houses in the state. She also knew how hard the trust had worked to keep the deed from transferring to her after her father died. And she knew that Ms. Price was a founding member of that trust and knew perfectly well how Amelia came into it.

But she didn't see any reason for Ms. Price to know that she knew.

"This was a plantation house back then, of course," said Ms. Price. "Isn't it funny, you owning it now?"

"What's funny about that?"

"Just because you're a neg—well, I mean, because of your, you know, background."

"Funny," said Amelia.

Ms. Price made small talk (very small talk) for another half an hour, then excused herself to "check on her stew." Probably really going to go call one of the other board members, Amelia thought. She shrugged and enjoyed the quiet. Almost half the lot was weeded by the time it got dark. She should have gone in a long time ago, as there was plenty more work to do with cleaning and unpacking, but something made her want to stay outside as long as possible.

She was just about to stand again when a gleam caught her eye; her trowel had overturned something in the dirt. Frowning, she brushed the loose soil from it and was surprised to find a lump of gold. It looked like old jewelry, a locket or a pendant, that had been crushed somehow, but she couldn't make out its original shape. It was heavy in her hand, and cold. She turned it over and over, rapt for a moment. Then, without thinking about it, she slipped the gold lump into the pocket of her gardening apron, and almost immediately forgot she'd found it. 

It was getting very dark now. She heard crickets chirping, real crickets, and was delighted. Reluctantly, she gathered her tools and turned toward the house. Devereux Manor was a fossil of the true Antebellum fashion, a great, looming, brooding pile of a house. Those old southern planters had perfected a style of ostentatious neoclassicalism that was now rarely seen, but Devereux Manor persisted, its peaked roofs and stout columns and blackened windows refusing to fade into the past where they belonged. The dingy whiteness of its walls made it look like an old skull, or a corpse that had just sat up out of its grave. Amelia reached one of the back doors and was about to knock, then felt foolish. The knocker, in the shape of two-faced Janus, stared at her out the corner of its eye as she entered.

Devereux Manor was always dark, no matter what time it was or how many lights she turned on (the electrical work had been done during her father's stewardship of the house, and was one of the things the historical trust objected to the most). Amelia went to where most of the boxes of her things were still stacked and changed out of her dirty work clothes, rummaging until she found a clean bathrobe. Once she was dressed (more or less), she poured herself a glass of wine in the kitchen and thought about what she wanted to do tomorrow. Get the furniture arranged, she supposed. 

She watched the day's last light stream through the paneled windows, making spider web patterns on the walls of the foyer. She thought about her father. He'd owned Devereux Manor for decades, but for some reason never lived in it or rented it out. Why he spent year after year living in that hovel in Richmond instead she could not imagine. Maybe he didn't like the idea of living with ghosts? She laughed, and it echoed through the whole house.

Amelia went to the upstairs bathroom for a hot shower. The plumbing was another of her father's additions. The old staircase creaked under her weight. Devereux Manor was a house of long corridors and narrow rooms and high ceilings, a house full of strange figures in banisters and wall panels, a house that watched and moved of its own accord, or so it seemed to Amelia. She would not let herself admit that she was afraid of this place. But she knew she was anyway. Before showering she locked the bathroom door, though she was the only one here, and she stayed in longer than she meant to, using up all the hot water. Drying her hair with a towel, she went to the first floor bedroom she'd set up as an office and worked for a few hours, translating software demos into Portuguese. 

A set of French doors here overlooked what was now the garden but had been the slave quarters when the house was built. She'd heard some story or such about what had happened there, but had forgotten by now. Moonlight cast its glow over the lot. She watched the old trees sway in the wind and suddenly remembered the misshapen lump of gold she'd found. Without quite knowing why she went and got it, rubbing her fingers over it again and again. She thought about her father more. The image of him in the hospital bed, face obscured by an oxygen mask and a forest of tubes, gaunt as a corpse already, lurked in her memory. He had been trying to talk to her at the very end but his voice gurgled, like he was speaking underwater. For a long time she assumed she'd misunderstood his last words, but now she realized she'd heard him correctly and simply not recognized the name: "Devereux." He'd said, "Devereux."

But whatever he tried to tell her about the house in those last minutes, it was a secret he took out of this world.

She lay on the couch, clutching the gold piece, intending just to relax for a moment, but soon was slipping off to sleep. The last thing she saw, or thought she saw, was a figure at the French doors, a thin man in an old-fashioned cape, looking in, one hand pressed against the glass. Was he really there? No. It's my imagination, Amelia thought. And she slept.

***

Penelope sat at the night table, brushing out her hair. In the east wing, Phillip was at the piano, playing some sonata or another (she could never keep them straight). She counted her brushstrokes in time to his music. Outside, the wind was blowing, and the French doors rattled. She took a moment to fasten them, pushing the red velvet curtains aside. There was a terrible racket coming from the slave quarters. She sighed and fretted. What were they up to over there? What would it take for Phillip to keep them in line? Penelope thought about her father. She would never have to endure this if he were still around.

The music stopped. She heard footsteps down the hall. Phillip knocked once and entered. She saw his reflection in the window glass as he stood in the doorway, seemingly hesitating before closing it behind him. He was dressed in a typically unfashionable burgundy frock coat, the cravat at his throat arranged with too-deliberate neatness. He looked tired but pleased, as he always did after an evening of playing. He put a hand on her shoulder. She was wearing only her shift. He kissed her behind her ear and whispered, "Good evening, darling."

"Phillip," said Penelope. "I have to talk to you."

"Can it wait?" he said, and kissed her again.

"Important things should never wait." 

"All right," he said, "what is it?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Penelope said, leaving the doors and sitting on the bed. She went to turn the lamps up, but saw that they were already as high as they could go. It still seemed so dark in here. It was always dark in the house. She rubbed her bare arms, though she wasn't cold. Phillip looked at her, and she looked at the mirror. He sat next to her, putting his hand on her leg. 

"Stop that," she said.

"Why?"

"It's not proper."

"But we're man and wife?"

"This is my father's house," said Penelope.

"Not anymore. Now it's our house."

"Your house you mean," said Penelope.

"Darling, what's wrong?" said Phillip. 

He put his arms around her. She resisted, but he did not let her go, and eventually she gave in, leaning against him. He stroked her hair.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've felt awful all day."

"Were you thinking about your father again?"

"No. I mean, yes, but that's not what it is. I was thinking about the Marshall estate, about how the slaves murdered the family and burned the orchards."

Phillip looked baffled. "But why? You were all of a child when that happened?"

"Evey Marshall was the age I am now. Imagine dying now, when you've hardly even lived?"

"Penelope, don't talk this way," said Phillip, stroking her hair more. "I know it's hard to accept that your father is gone, but nothing terrible will happen to us."

"Won't it?" said Penelope. "Something terrible happens to all of us, eventually. Why not today, or tomorrow, or the next?" 

She went to the French doors. She saw the lights, heard the tumult of noise. "What if they're out there right now, plotting to scalp and skin us all, like a pack of wild Indians? Or what if they're breeding some plague that will kill us, and get into the fields, and infect the new cotton, and kill everyone who touches it? What if —"

Phillip took her and kissed her. At first she did not respond, but he kissed her harder and soon she kissed him back. They sat on the bed, and she allowed him to run his fingers through her hair, and to kiss her lips, and the bridge of her nose, and the hollow at the base of her throat. She turned her face away from his and he turned it back, cupping her chin in his hand, and before long she gave up her halfhearted resistance, letting him lay her down and run his hands over her body, pulling her shift away. She looked up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed, barely responding to his kisses, but still enjoying the intimate feeling of his lips brushing hers, like the soft touch of silk on her bare skin. 

Phillip's awkward, ungainly way of undressing himself gave her time to look over his body. She was always fascinated by the lily-white smoothness of his hands, those delicate fingers that worked such wonders at the piano, and the contrast with his rough, somehow half-finished features. He was an awkward creature in everything but in those hands, and his attempts to compensate through wardrobe only accentuated that awkwardness. Still, she could not help but admire the lines of his chest and abdomen, and the prominent strength of his forearms, or even the strange, dark purple color of the nipples on his bare chest. Phillip was beautiful, in his way; it was when these parts were animated that the ungainliness of his figure became apparent, as though he were built only for display, never meant to be move.

Automatically, Penelope opened her legs as Phillip lay on top of her. She winced as their bodies tried to settle in, his struggling for purchase on hers. He tried to kiss her mouth but she ducked out of the way, instead gliding her wet lips over the wiry musculature of his shoulders and chest. She felt his heart beating against the inside of his ribs and watched the spastic jumping of his throat under the pressure of his heavy breathing. Phillip was constantly livid with pent-up energy that his body could barely contain. When he played, he rocked back and forth in a kind of religious ecstasy. Evidently it was not enough to exorcise everything that was trapped inside of him.

Phillip's fingers stroked Penelope's hair as she continued kissing his naked body. He was being gentle out of consideration for what he perceived as her disconsolate state. Penelope was certain it wouldn't last. She would be relieved when he gave up the pretense, though she dared not even intimate this more directly. Instead she arched her back, pressing her naked breasts against him, watching his eyes roll under closed lids as perspiration dotted his bare skin. The manic energy pent up inside of him increased visibly; he would only need a little push to let it boil over. Penelope raked her fingernails across his bare chest, scoring a trail of red lines. Phillip's half-grunt, half-growl in reply told her she had judged his disposition accurately.

Moving so fast it took her breath away, Philip seized her, gathering Penelope up in his arms and bending her body against his; she gasped, the smallest of smiles flickering over her face for just a second, and then she cried out as he pushed against her, splaying her already-parted thighs even wider to accommodate him. She bit her lip and winced (though it was mostly for show) as he pushed inside of her, and she felt the reverberations of his trembling all through the core of her.

Penelope turned to the mirror to watch Phillip's reflection as he moved inside of her. She liked to follow the lines of his body, to break him down to just a series of lines and the repetitive motions they made; there were the lines of his arms, positioned just to each side of her shoulders, pushing himself back and forth. There was the curve of his thick thighs, turning up into the smoothness of his buttocks, rising up and down, up and down. The axis of his shoulders remained level, but it, too, rose and fell, and she watched it, enthralled. Phillip's body was akin to a reliable machine, his movements modeled, consciously or not, after the metronome that held such a prominent place in his affections.

But of course, Phillip was no machine, or if he was he was living one; Penelope was aware of the sticky, salty taste of the sweat dappling his skin, the hotness of his ragged breaths against her own bare flesh, the electric sensitivity of the tiny hairs standing upright all over him, and of course, the turgid, swollen pulse of his cock, gorging itself on the lurid wetness of her own too-human body. Most animal-like of all were the guttural grunts and moans coming from his mouth (and, she realized with a start, her own), the discordant melody of his writhing, thrusting, squirming body, too full of flesh to suit the mechanical longings of his spirit. Phillip was a mismatched suite of contradictions, always; beautiful ugliness, awkward grace, stilted passion, animalistic automation, wet heat. 

Penelope wondered if she was the spoiler, if the careless, wanton decadence of her body or the detached, jaded stance of her mind was what threw Phillip off center and left him scrambling back and forth between these extremes. She considered how she took him in, enclosed him, encapsulated him, even. She was not well-suited for his ministrations. Fucking me is like playing a piano that's out of tune, she thought, and laughed. She had reduced Phillip now to his least dignified state, that of the grunting, rutting, almost helpless creature experiencing the climax, and she felt a perversely satisfying gush somewhere inside of her. The act of release, the very notion of spilling, seemed remarkably unlike Phillip, and Penelope took depraved joy in having driven him to that point, though when she looked at her own reflection again she saw only boredom looking back at her.

Although it was late Phillip dressed himself fully again. Penelope put on only her robe and then resumed her vigil at the French doors. She put one hand against the panes of glass. Her shoulders were tense. "Phillip," she said, taking a deep breath, "there's something I want to talk to you about."

"As you've already said," said Phillip. 

"Tomorrow I want you to turn out Jeremiah and the other house slaves, and hire back the old staff."

Philip sighed. "We've discussed this, darling."

"No we haven't. You just decided it on your own."

"Is it not my house?" said Phillip, a note of real anger in his voice. He stood at her night table, looking over her combs and perfumes, his delicate pianist's fingers touching them, as if curious to test whether they were solid.

"Yes," said Penelope, her voice dull. "It is. But what if —"

She screamed and Phillip jumped and she ran from the window into his arms. He caught her and she buried her face against his chest. 

"Penelope, what is it, what's wrong?"

"There's someone out here!" said Penelope. "Someone outside, staring into my window, I saw him!"

Phillip frowned. "Probably your imagination."

"It wasn't!" said Penelope, pulling back, actually striking him on the chest. "There was a man out there. But he wasn't a man, really. He looked strange...horrible." She shuddered. Phillip was about to say something more, but there came a bump and a crash from just outside. "You see!" said Penelope. Phillip went to the French doors and unfastened them. Penelope backed away. "Phillip, don't go out there. Phillip, no, it could be dangerous. You didn't see him, he was —"

"Wait here," said Phillip. The night air was limp and humid as he stepped out. Across the way, in the slave quarters, there was a terrible commotion, the sound of voices yelling, almost shrieking, and underneath it all the constant sound of — drums? Phillip frowned. What in the name of God were they doing? 

The light of the moon showed him that the patio was empty but that the trellis was fallen. He stopped to right it. Had it blown over, somehow? But there had been no wind blowing a moment ago. Perhaps it had just collapsed?

Something caught his eye. At first he thought it was an ordinary burlap sack lying on the ground, but when he turned it over he almost cried out; a crude but ghastly face was painted onto it, and two holes gouged out in the center of the eyes. It was a kind of mask, he realized. It grinned at him, and he felt a chill run up his spine. The face of that mask was a face that knew things, things that Phillip did not want to know himself. It was a face that could haunt a man.

He went back inside, locking the doors behind him. He took a moment to regain his composure before turning to Penelope. She sat on the bed, tugging her hair with worry. "What was it?" she said. Phillip held up the mask and was about to make some joke, but Penelope screamed again. "That's it, that's the face I saw! I knew I saw someone out there, I knew it!"




Phantom: A Love Story.



He shushed her. "All you heard was the wind blowing down the trellis."

"There was no wind!"

"There might have been."

"And I suppose the wind made that horrible mask?" She turned to the wall and refused to look at him. He put a hand on her back, surprised as always by how strong and muscular her seemingly small frame really was. 

"It looks like some farmer's scarecrow," said Phillip. "Probably nothing. Might have been lying out there for days without us noticing."

"Someone was out there," said Penelope. Her voice was flat. "Someone wearing that mask. It was probably one of your precious house niggers. They're probably planning to kill us all in our sleep. All because you fired the staff and brought a bunch of god damned niggers to sleep in our —"

"That's enough," said Phillip. He stood, stiff, and marched to the door, slamming it behind him. Penelope did not look at him even as he left, but he heard her sobbing as soon as the door was closed. He looked at the mask, with its ugly black paint face, crumpled in his hands. He looked at the door of his own room, then back at Penelope's, caught between the two for a moment, unsure where to go, or what to do. Although he tried to dismiss it in front of Penelope, the racket from the slaves worried him too. Whatever they were doing, it was new. He went to his bed and tried to turn the sound out but the drums were beating, beating, beating, all through the night. They beat like the rhythm of his heart.

***

Amelia woke to piano music. From somewhere in the house, somewhere nearby, came the strains of a song she did not recognize (some sonata or another, she thought). It took a moment for her to wake up entirely, another to realize that she was hearing music, and a third to realize that she shouldn't be. 

She stood (her back and shoulders groaned; she'd been on the couch all night). It was the grey-blue time just before dawn, and long shadows from the windows slithered across the floor. Amelia stood in the hallway, looking one way and then the other, trying to pinpoint the direction of the melody. It sounded like it was coming from the storage room? She followed it. Still sluggish from sleep, it did not occur to her to be frightened. At most she felt impersonal curiosity. 

She came to an old, warped door, one that lead to what she remembered as a room crammed with (ruined) antique furniture, draped in sheets. Yes, the music was definitely coming from in there. She put her ear to the door; what was that tune? She should know it, she was sure, but she could not place it in her memory. Without really thinking about what she was doing she pushed on the door, and it stuck for a second before popping out of the frame. Draped sheets fluttered in the draft. Amelia was surprised by how dark it was inside. Someone had painted over the windows long ago, and the wiring was no longer functional. 

As she fumbled for a light switch that she knew would do nothing, she realized that the music had stopped, and only then did it occur to her what it might mean that there had been music in the first place. Swallowing the sudden tightness in her throat, she opened her mouth to call out but then thought better of it. She got a flashlight from the kitchen and shone it around. The room was empty except for dusty old furniture, and cobwebs, and the smell of things long unused.

She found the piano against the back wall: ancient, falling apart, its frame warped on every side. She looked closely; there were marks on the keys, marks in the decades of dust, as if from playing fingers. She tapped a key; no note sounded. She tried another and heard nothing. She wouldn't be surprised to find all the strings were rotted. Whatever she'd heard, it wasn't this. But she saw the fingerprints in the dust, and the spot on the bench where it looked for all the world like someone had just sat, and she shivered.

Amelia ate breakfast in an automatic fashion, thinking about the music, and the dream of the previous night. Had it been a dream, really? Odd to have a dream that was not about her. It had been a dream of this house though, a dream of the very room she slept in, in fact, the room as it might have appeared just after it was built. "Phillip," she said out loud, between sips of coffee, and "Penelope," drawing the vowels out. Who were they?

She dumped the rest of her coffee down the sink. The sound of it gurgling around the drain made her think about her father, and that awful gurgling, rattling noise in his lungs as he tried to speak to her in the last moments; "Devereux. Devereux."

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the front door. She found Ms. Price on the porch, smiling like the Cheshire cat with a basket full of baked goods thrust out in front of her. 

"Welcome to the neighborhood!" she said. 

Amelia affected a smile. "Well, how thoughtful," she said. "But I thought we had our welcome yesterday?"

"Oh, that was just me being a busybody," said Ms. Price, winking. "This is from everyone. They thought we ought to welcome you properly, and I volunteered to bring it on over, since we had such a nice chat." She leaned in, as if to get as much of her body through the doorway as possible. And I bet you volunteered to get a look at the interior of the house too, thought Amelia, opening the door wider and letting her pass. 

They sat in what Amelia thought of as the living room (but what Philip and Penelope would probably have called the parlor). Other than the wall of unpacked boxes, the only things visible were Amelia's old sofa and the ancient stone (not brick, but whole stones) fireplace. Ms. Price looked the room over as if she were planning on moving in herself (which Amelia supposed she very well might be), leaning as far as she could to peer down hallways and up staircases visible through open doors. They talked about nothing at all before Amelia finally came to what was her mind.

"Ms. Price," she said, "what was the name of that family who built this house?"

"You mean the Devereuxs?"

"That's right, but do you remember any of their first names? Or anything about them?"

Ms. Price was very quiet for a moment, pretending to think hard, although Amelia was sure she knew the entire family tree from top to bottom. "It's hard to say," said Ms. Price. "I learned the whole story so many years ago. Mainly ghost stories, you know. They're supposed to haunt the house now. But evidently it was already haunted even when they lived here. Haunted since the day it was built, if that makes any sense?"

"But their names, Ms. Price," said Amelia. "You don't remember anything?"

Ms. Price made an ambiguous gesture. "I'm sure I have a book somewhere —"

Amelia put her hand on Ms. Price's arm. "Could you lend it to me, just for a day or two? I'm very interested in finding out the house's story, now that you've whetted my curiosity. I mean, it's important that I understand its historic value, isn't it?"

Ms. Price couldn't very well argue with that. The book she brought looked like a high school text book, filled with lengthy treatises on county figures from the 19th century. The section on the Devereuxs was marked, and the pages were particularly worn. Amelia went to the bedroom (where she involuntarily looked toward the French doors, imagining the red velvet curtains affixed to them, as they were in Penelope's bedroom) and sat down to read: 

"Archibald Devereux, the son of a tanner who made a fortune in cotton, built Devereux Manor in 1840 as a gift to his wife, who died just a week before they completed construction. That left Archibald alone to raise their son, Andrew, and their daughter —"

Amelia paused, and then read the name out loud. "Penelope." Her fingers shook a little as she turned the page. 

"Penelope Devereux married Phillip Rich, a concert pianist and protégé of her father, in 1851. Phillip took the Devereux name rather than confer 'Rich' on Penelope, supposedly as a token of respect for her father but perhaps really because local gossip held that the Rich family line was the product of miscegenation. When Archibald Devereux died a year later, he surprised everyone by leaving the house and most of the estate to Philip rather than to his own son and daughter."

Amelia's lips moved, outlining the last words in the chapter: "Phillip, Penelope, and most of the slaves and house staff died when a fire broke out in the slave's quarters in the late hours of June 16th, 1852." That was all. No cause of the conflagration was recorded. Amelia knew, in the pit of her stomach, that if she turned the page she would find a photograph of the Devereuxs. So it came as small surprise when she saw Phillip and Penelope staring up at her/ Their faces were bleached and expressionless, as they so often were in pictures from those days, but still recognizable as the couple from her dream. 

She closed the book and tapped the binding with one finger, lost in thought. It was possible, of course, that she had heard of the Devereuxs in the past, maybe even seen pictures of them, and not remembered. Those old recollections, jarred to the surface by her habitation in the house and her conversation with Ms. Price, could have manifested in her dreams. Yes, that made sense, more or less, and it explained everything. Everything but the music this morning, and why worry about a little thing like that?

But Amelia could not help thinking about one of the last things Ms. Price had said (or at least, one of the last things Amelia had paid attention to): "It was already haunted even when they lived here. Haunted since the day it was built." And she remembered Ms. Price's mention of "the Phantom", and the figure lurking at Penelope's window, and the almost-forgotten recollection of a man at the same window as Amelia drifted off to sleep in the very same room. 

Haunted since the day it was built.

From somewhere in the house, distinctly, Amelia heard the sound of a piano note.

***

Phillip stared into the fire, prodding the smoldering logs with the tip of a wrought iron poker. "You have no idea what it's been like around here," he said. "We're living in a kind of hell. Penelope is at her wit's end. She refuses to even leave her room. Strange, since that was where it all started, at least for us, but you know how she is."

"She's not the only one, from what I hear tell," said Andrew. "The slaves are in an uproar. I've never seen them so agitated, not even when father died." He was dressed in his best white silk suit and somehow managed to appear as if he were reclining while standing.

Phillip looked lean and tired, his flesh gone sallow, his clothes a little rumpled. He stared at the mantle, where the painting of Archibald Devereux and the twin busts of Janus stared back at him. "It's no wonder if they are," said Phillip. "Whoever the man is, he's a perfect terror to them. They complained of him first, you see, and I didn't pay attention. But who would believe that some specter was lurking around, peering in their windows and accosting their children while they slept? 

"That's what all this damn drumming is about," he continued. "They think it keeps him away. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but I don't blame them. If I thought it would work, I'd be out there banging a cowhide right along with them." He made a particularly violent jab at a log and then set the poker aside. 

"But you think he's real?" said Andrew.

"I know he's real. Penelope has seen him. And the damage he's doing is certainly real enough." Phillip stared into the fire without flinching. "That's why I asked you to come here. This is your house too, Andrew." Andrew put up a hand to protest, but Philip waved him down. "You grew up here, and you helped your father put the estate in order. Whatever's going on, you have a stake in it too."

"I'll do anything I can for you," said Andrew.

"Not for me," said Phillip, turning. "For Penelope. We have one more guest coming, and then —"

They stopped when they realized that someone was standing in the door, a broad, red-faced man with gray whiskers, dressed in a crisp army uniform and leaning on a cane. Behind him, a slave stood, looking awkward, obviously wanting to prevent the newcomer from barging into the room but not daring to say so. "Phillip," said the man in the uniform. He limped as he came in. "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in. I helped build this damn house, I wasn't about to sit around waiting to be shown through it by some ignorant darkie."

Phillip smiled without humor. "Captain Sidney. Thank you for coming." He nodded to the slave, who departed with obvious relief, shooting an unreadable look at the captain's back as he went. The captain nodded to Phillip but declined a handshake. He broke into a grin when he saw Andrew, though, pumping his hand several times while sitting down in the room's most comfortable chair. 

"M'boy, how good to see you again." 

"Of course," was all Andrew could think to say. He sat, rather tentatively, in a second chair while Phillip remained standing. They all three let the silence stretch on for a moment and then as one, they looked at the portrait, as if deferring to the dead man's authority before beginning. 

"Well Phillip," said the captain, "I would guess, judging from all that racket outside, that the local gossips have got it right for a change. They say you have a kind of...ghost, on the premises?" He allowed himself the tiniest sneer.

"Not a ghost," said Phillip, still smiling in an unfriendly way. "A man. A man intent on ruining me, and my business, and my marriage."

The captain turned his cane over and over in his hand. "Is it true that your slaves are calling this man 'le Fantome'?" Phillip nodded, and the captain grunted. "And that he menaces the grounds in some ridiculous cape and mask?" Another nod. "Hmm. And what exactly has he been doing?"

"He's been doing all he can to drive me mad," said Phillip. He moved from the fireplace to the window, pulling open the curtains and looking into the pitch black outside. "This 'Phantom', as they insist on calling him, accosts my slaves, destroys my property, leaves threatening messages for me and my wife, and steals whatever isn't nailed down. This week he killed the horses, all of them, every horse in the stable! The slaves say they saw him making his escape, but no one saw how he got in. Worst of all, he torments Penelope. Every night for three weeks she says she's seen him at her window, peering in, sometimes even trying to enter."

"Why haven't you just shot him and been done with it?" said the captain.

"I've never seen him," said Phillip. The drums beat louder and faster outside. "If not for Penelope, I might not even believe he exists."

"Why haven't you notified the police?" said Andrew.

"Those frauds and grifters?" said the captain, snorting. "No, for this kind of problem you need the help of real men. That's why — I say Phillip, I wouldn't object to a cigar." Phillip opened the humidor to both Andrew and the captain, but took none for himself. "Penelope writes and tells me that she thinks this is all the slaves' doing," the captain continued.

"I'm sure she does," said Phillip. "She's suspected them from the start. Do you know what she did? She almost killed Jeremiah. Beat him half to death."

Andrew choked. "But he was just here? Is he all right?"

Phillip nodded, but appeared grave. "As he can be. She nearly whipped the hide right off of him. You know how strong she is when she loses her temper."

"But surely she couldn't think that Jeremiah is the Phantom?" said Andrew, shaking his head. "He's the gentlest creature on the face of the earth. Why, father brought him up by hand!"

"Try telling that to Penelope," said Phillip. "She's sure that if Jeremiah isn't the Phantom then he's protecting whoever is. Somehow she thinks this is all happening because I've let Jeremiah and some of the others tend to the house."

"And she's quite right," said the captain, interrupting. He settled further back in his chair. "All this sounds like a bunch of nigger witchcraft to me. Just listen to them out there! Andrew, have you heard about the mask this Phantom fellow wears? Tell me that doesn't sound like nigger devilry?"

"Well I don't see how —" said Andrew.

"When you let niggers live under your roof they get uppity," continued the captain. "Breeding uppity niggers will be the death of us all. Andrew, you're old enough to remember the Marshalls? If you'd kept the old indentured Irish servants instead of letting your pet Sambos into the house, Phillip, none of this would have happened. I'll grant you, an Irishman isn't much more than a white nigger, but at least they don't invite the devil under your roof."

Phillip's smile grew wider and more brittle as the captain talked. Andrew jumped in. "Do you have any idea what this person wants?" he said. "A reason he's doing all of this, whoever he is?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," said Phillip, producing something from his pocket. "Do you see this? It's a threatening letter I received the other day, purportedly from the Phantom." 

The captain snatched the letter out of Phillip's hand and began to read it. Philip went on as if nothing had happened. 

"It says that until I vacate Devereux Manor things will get worse. Notice that it singles me out, specifically; only I am to leave. The Phantom means for Penelope to stay."

Andrew shuddered. "Good God, what a horrible thought, to be left alone in this house with that monster prowling about!"

"Terrible," muttered the captain, reading the letter to himself again. "What do you think it means?"

"What does it mean?" said Phillip. "It means that I know who the Phantom is."

Andrew sat forward in his chair. "You do?"

"Of course!" Phillip spread his arms. "Doesn't it seem a strange request that I and I alone go? Doesn't that right there tell us who's behind all this?"

Andrew looked confused. The captain made an impatient gesture. "If you think you know something, just spit it out."

Phillip stood directly in front of the captain's chair. "It's a little funny that you should say that, captain. Because we both know who the Phantom is. Because he's you."

Phillip was not smiling anymore. Andrew's jaw dropped. The captain, baffled, dropped his cigar and had to catch it before it burned a hole in his coat. When he'd composed himself, he harrumphed as loudly as he could and said, "Me? What's in your head, boy?"

"Don't play stupid, Captain Sidney," said Phillip. "I brought you here because your game is up. You gave yourself away with the letter." He snatched the paper from the captain's hand and threw it into the fire. "I should go, but Penelope should stay, hmm? I find that interesting, in light of the fact that no one pursued Penelope's hand more aggressively than you did."

The captain shrugged. "What of it? Archibald was my best friend, his daughter grew into a fine young woman, and when the time came I asked for her hand. Archibald preferred you, and he convinced Penelope to go along with his preference. I've never held any ill will over it. I wish you both the best of happiness."

"Do you?" said Phillip. His voice was ice cold.

"Phillip, honestly, I don't think the captain would do something like this," said Andrew, half standing.

"He's counting on your good opinion, Andrew," said Phillip. "That's the captain for you, everyone has a good word to say about him. It's the perfect cover, isn't it?"

"Now see here," said the captain, his face turning purple, "maybe you haven't noticed, but I very nearly lost this leg to Santa Anna." He thumped his cane against his knee. "How do you think I could manage to be out all night prowling around your grounds and peeking into your wife's window with a hobble like this?"

Phillip glared. "I don't know. I don't know how you're doing it, but I'm sure you're the one doing it, and I've brought you here to ask you, man to man, if you have any honor at all, to put a stop to this nonsense."




Phantom: A Love Story.



Captain Sidney's face was now the color of a plum. He stood, and his words came hard as he struggled to breathe around his indignation. "The only reason," he said, pausing to mop the sweat from his brow, "the ONLY reason, that I don't take you outside and shoot you through the damned head right now is out of respect for the memory of that man." He pointed to the painting. "And because of the grief that it would cause Penelope. If you were anyone else —"

Before Phillip could reply Andrew stepped between them. "Wait a minute," he said. "There's no reason why, between the three of us, we can't —" He paused, and turned his head a little. The other men watched him, curious. "Phillip," said Andrew, "no one else in the house plays piano, do they?"

Phillip looked confused. "Why in the hell should that matter now?"

"Because someone is playing your piano." 

They all stopped to listen, and, faintly, from another room, they heard it; the soft, ghostly strains of music. "My sonata," said Phillip.

All three men left the parlor, following the sound of a discordant tune to the music room. When they arrived they found every lamp but one extinguished, that one illuminating a ghastly figure with his hands on the keys, the thick, padded fingers of his gloves accounting for the clumsy, tuneless nature of his playing. The Phantom was draped in a grey riding cape with a high collar, ragged at the hem. His mask was painted like a grimacing jack-o-lantern and his shirt and trousers were baggy, so that his limbs angled sharply against the fabric, giving him the look of a scarecrow made up of tattered hand-me-downs. Behind the slits of his crude mask his eyes reflected the lamplight. He did not stop playing as the men entered, except to nod at them, once, in silent acknowledgment, and then went right back to his music, each jarring, clanging note falling on their nerves as he went on.

Phillip managed to speak first. "Who the hell are you?" he said. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Sir!" said the captain, stepping forward. "You should leave these premises immediately. Whoever you are, whatever the nature of your complaint, it should be resolved according to the customs of men of honor."

Phillip looked sideways at the captain. Andrew lingered by the door. The Phantom said nothing.

"Sir —" said Phillip again, stepping forward, and as he did the Phantom leapt to his feet, producing a pistol from the hidden folds of his cape. Andrew shouted a warning but it was too late: a flash and a deafening bang filled the small room, and Phillip fell back, the captain failing to catch him. Andrew ran to Phillip's side and the Phantom spun around, sprinting out the northernmost door, cape swirling behind him. The captain tried to give chase but could only limp along in the creature's wake.

Andrew warned Phillip not to move, but Philip sat up anyway. Andrew tried to talk him down, but Phillip waved him away and said, "I'm all right. Look, I'm not shot; there was no bullet, only powder. He just meant to scare us."

Andrew's sigh of relief rattled his whole body. He was white as a sheet. "But why?"

"So that he can get away!" said the captain. 

"Not that way," said Phillip, standing. "That only leads to an old pantry. Penelope and Andrew's father used it as a wine cellar. He'll be trapped in there."

The door was stuck when they pushed on it, barricaded from the other side, and it took all three of them together to break it down. But inside were dusty, unused wine racks; there was not a soul in sight. Andrew gaped, and even the captain looked surprised. Phillip turned around and around in the tiny space. "But he ran in here. We all saw him, didn't we?"

Andrew nodded, and the captain crossed himself. "He can't have just vanished," said Phillip, clawing at the wall. "He can't have!" Andrew tried to calm him, but he continued scrabbling at the wall, repeating the words over and over. It wasn't until Jeremiah, cowed by the presence of the captain but too panicked to stay away, appeared in the music room waving both hands that Phillip stopped.

"Sir," said Jeremiah, mumbling, as was his fashion, but still with an unmistakable note of urgency, "it's Mrs. Devereux, sir. She's in her room, and she's screaming, and we can't get the door open."

"Penelope?" said the captain. "Is she hurt?"

"We dunno, sir," said Jeremiah. "We can't get the door open."

"Useless!" said the captain, pushing Jeremiah down and angling his enormous bulk through the door. Andrew and Phillip followed, Phillip stopping for a second to help Jeremiah back to his feet.

When they came to Penelope's door there was, indeed, the sound of screaming from within, but it was faint and muffled. This time the door was secured only with a flimsy lock, and Phillip broke it down with one charge, almost splintering it in two. The room was in disarray, with the bed askew, the curtains pulled down, the mirror shattered, and Penelope's belongings strewn over the floor. 

There was no one in sight, and the source of the screams was not apparent at first, but then Andrew spotted the steamer trunk in the corner of the room. Heavy lead weights were piled on top of the lid, and the entire thing was shaking. Phillip ran to it, threw off the weights, opened the trunk, and caught a sobbing Penelope as she burst out, throwing her arms around his neck and falling against him, still screaming. It was a long time until she could speak. Andrew stood on one side of the trunk, speechless, and the captain stood on the other, face a furious red, his frame shaking and his knuckles white around the head of his cane, as if he might bash it over someone's head at any moment. Jeremiah fidgeted nearby, not daring to enter Penelope's private bedroom. 

Phillip rocked back and forth with Penelope in his arms, tears blurring his eyes. She was blanched and soaked with sweat, her clothes torn and her arms bruised. When she finally talked, the words welled up and burst out of her with little ragged sobs: "It was him, it was him, it was him!"

"The Phantom?" said the captain.

"He told me he was going to bury me alive," said Penelope. "He put me in there, and I could hear him laughing, and I couldn't open the lid, and, and..." she trailed off, voice hoarse.

"But how did he even get in here?" said Andrew. "We just saw him not five minutes ago in the music room? And then he vanished from inside a closet!"

"I don't know," said Penelope. "I just turned around and he was there. And he grabbed me, and he was so strong, and I tried to scream but he had his hand over my mouth and, and, and —"

Phillip soothed her again as she broke down completely. The captain looked away, wincing, tears stinging his own eyes. Andrew looked at the steamer trunk, brow furrowed. "There weren't that many weights piled on it," he said. "And there are more here in the corner. We must have interrupted him before he could finish. But wait a minute Penelope, this trunk isn't yours? He must have been hiding it. Where could he keep something like this in your room without you noticing?"

"What does it matter?" said the captain, voice grating.

"It matters if it tells us how he got in here," said Andrew. "Penelope, where were you right before you saw the Phantom?"

She pointed to the mirror, where the broken shards reflected a dozen versions of the scene. Andrew walked over to it, looked at his reflection, turned to the room, and then turned back to his reflection. Phillip gave him a questioning look. 

"Do you see?" said Andrew. "In this mirror you can see the entire room except for the southernmost wall, with the closet door. The closet door..."

He opened the closet and stepped in. After a moment he called out to them; his voice echoed curiously. Setting Penelope on the bed, Phillip followed him, the captain limping along too, and they were shocked to see that a panel at the back of the closet had slid open, revealing a long, dark corridor. Right next to the panel was a stack of lead weights like the ones piled on the trunk. Andrew grinned, clearly delighted by his discovery.

"Incredible," he said. "I bet it goes straight to that old wine closet. To think I never knew this passage existed. Did you, Phillip?" Phillip shook his head. "I bet there are more like it," said Andrew. "So now we know how the Phantom gets around the house without being seen."

"That means the Phantom is someone who knows the house very well," said the captain.

"Yes it does," said Phillip, his sardonic smile returning. "Someone who helped build it, for example?"

The captain's eyes went wide. "You must be insane? How can you even suggest that I'm the Phantom when you were standing right next to me when we all saw him?"

"It's clever, I'll grant you that," said Phillip. "You ask me how you can be the Phantom with your bad leg, well I ask you, how do we know the Phantom is just one man? What did you do, hire some actor, or some runaway slave perhaps, for the part? You are something of a patron of the theater, as I recall."

The captain gritted his teeth. "You miserable little bastard!"

"That's not a denial," said Phillip.

"Phillip, no, the captain would never do something like this to me!" said Penelope.

She stood and was about to say more, but then she saw Jeremiah lurking in the doorway and she pointed and shrieked. "It was him! I know it was him! Just look at his face, there's guilt written all over it!"

Jeremiah shrank back, hands up, speaking a denial, and Penelope actually ran at him, nails raised. Andrew caught her and the two struggled for a moment, Andrew unprepared for her burst of strength. He managed to push her back to the bed as she screamed all the while, "It was him, it was him, that black bastard, I know it! Don't you see how much he hated my father, how long he's been waiting for the chance to pay us all back? 'Oh, Massa so mean to me, oh, Massa's daughter gun pay now,' is that how it is? Is it? Is it?"

Even the captain looked astonished. Phillip stuck a finger in his face. "Will you still not admit it? Will you not even speak up to clear Jeremiah's name? I know you don't have any respect for him, but I thought at least your sense of honor meant something to you."

The captain shook a finger back. "Enough of this, damn it. I know that little Sambo isn't the Phantom and I sure as hell aren't him either, but I know exactly who is!"

"Then why don't you tell us?" said Phillip.

"Because I'm going to deal with this properly, like a real man would," said the captain, sneering.

"Now wait a minute," said Andrew, "let's think hard about this. We don't really have any idea —"

"It was Jeremiah!" said Penelope.

"It's the captain!" said Phillip.

"I know who's behind this, I know!" roared the captain.

"But we don't know, none of us know!" said Andrew.

Penelope collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Phillip went to comfort her, casting hateful glares at the captain. Captain Sidney stood square-shouldered, still as a statue. Andrew sat in the corner, head in his hands, helpless. Jeremiah inched away, a shadow in the doorway, half his face illuminated. All of them were reflected over and over again in the broken pieces of the mirror.

And outside, the drums were beating, beating, always, without stopping, until dawn.

***

Amelia's eyes opened. She sat up and looked around; was she in the attic? She rubbed her neck (sore again. Would she ever sleep in a real bed in this house?) Yes, she'd been putting away boxes up here and then sat down for just a second to rest. How did she fall asleep here of all places? But of course, she knew the answer; it was because she'd stayed up all night. Because she'd been afraid to go to sleep. She sighed. Am I losing my mind, she thought, or is this all really happening?

She chastised herself; there was nothing crazy about having dreams. True, they were vivid dreams, more vivid than she ever remembered having before, but so what? And she'd already explained to herself how she could dream about the Devereux's names and faces before knowing about them. She was jittery from the move, and still in mourning. It made sense. It all made sense.

As she went downstairs, she did not admit to herself that she was going to the bedroom to check the closet for evidence of a secret door. Such a door would, of course, spoil all of her neat explanations. She also did not acknowledge that piano music was audible and was obviously coming from the storage room, the room that was once the music room, the very room where Phillip confronted the Phantom in her dream. The house seemed tense as she moved through it. Wherever she went, it felt as if someone had just finished an argument there and left the lingering residue of their anger.

Amelia went to the bedroom (she could not really think of it as her bedroom, and dared not think of it as Penelope's. so it was simply "the bedroom", just as the house was just "the house"), comparing its dimensions to those in her dream. The closet was still in the same place. She hesitated before opening the door, then felt childish, but continued to hesitate, bracing herself for what might be waiting inside. But of course, it turned out to be empty, even of her own possessions, a bare space of floorboards and drywall. She ran her hands over the back wall. She would have to get some tools and break through the plaster, and then — 

Then what, she thought? What would she find even if she were right? If the secret passage ever really existed the Devereuxs doubtlessly would have boarded it up after finding it, and likely the various remodels over the years had gotten to any others they missed. Inspecting the closet told her nothing one way or the other. Amelia realized that her hand was hurting, and then realized it was because she was clenching something hard in her palm; the gold piece from the garden. Had she been carrying it the whole time? It felt cold, like always. 

What is this thing, she thought, holding it up? If it had ever once had a definite form, it was now just an ambiguous lump. She tried to drop it, but her fingers would not release. Let go, she thought, let go! But she could not. She stood with hand shaking, wrestling with herself. If she dropped it in here, she realized, it would be in the closet all the time. She would think about it whenever she looked at the door. It would be better to throw it away; yes, outside, or in the trash, where she would have no idea where it ended up. And then she had an even better idea; she would give it to Ms. Price, along with her book. Yes, Ms. Price would love to have a keepsake from Devereux Manor.

Amelia was about to leave, but that's when she heard it: the creaking of the hinge as the closet door swung a little, obstructing the light. She turned, and when she saw someone standing just inside closet, less than a foot away, between her and the door, she thought to scream, but the scream caught in her throat when she recognized the intruding figure: the billowing cape, the ill-fitting clothes, and the burlap mask, its leering goblin face just barely visible in the dark. The Phantom stood with a gloved hand on the doorknob, so still and silent that Amelia managed to convince herself, if only for a second, that he somehow was not real, and not there at all.

Then he pulled the door shut, plunging them both into total blackness, and Amelia knew that she was trapped. Her back was already against the wall, there was nowhere to go. She braced herself, jaw clenched, waiting to feel those gloved hands grab hold of her, but nothing happened. She held her breath, listening for the telltale rustle of the Phantom's baggy costume or his boots on the floor, but there was nothing. Perhaps he was waiting for her to make the first move? Amelia's heart pounded until she thought it would burst. She kept her jaw clenched to hold in her screams, convinced that a scream was what he was waiting for. She would not give in. A single icy bead of sweat traveled from her temple down her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw. She started to feel lightheaded. I can't just stand here forever, she thought. 

So instead she charged, rushing her attacker in the dark, expecting to collide with him, to tangle with him, to beat him with every ounce of her strength. Instead she hit the door full force and it sprang open, depositing her on the bedroom floor, shaking, in the long rectangle of grey light leaking through the panes of the French doors. Amelia whirled around, expecting the Phantom's ghastly image to be looming over her, but the closet was empty again. The bedroom was empty too, and the entire house was silent; even the piano music had stopped. 

Amelia shook her head, muttering "No, no, no," under her breath. The Phantom had been inside the closet with her, of that she was sure, and the door had not opened again. The closet was too small for him to move past her without touching her, even if there was any other way out. So where was he now? "Where the hell are you?" she said. No one answered.

She dialed 911, then hung up in the middle of the first ring. Who could she call? Ms. Price? Her father? No, of course not, she scolded herself, her father was dead; but even so, the urge to dial his old number and listen to the ring over and over was almost overwhelming. She had to put the phone down. She bit her fingernails, lost in thought. She realized she had bitten them down to nothing when she tasted blood. 

Finally she went to the dresser, the one she had only filled the day before, and began to empty it. Devereux Manor was not her house. Devereux Manor had never been her father's house either, and maybe had never even been the Devereux's. Whoever had claim to it now, she was happy to leave it to them. Her father's old suitcase was big enough to hold almost everything she had. She stopped to get a few essentials from the bathroom and grab her laptop, and then loaded everything into the car. 

She set the GPS to find the last motel she'd stayed at, the reverse course of her trip of a few day's past. She did not look at the mirrors as she pulled away, did not look at the house at all. She turned the radio on and up as loud as it would go, and thought about nothing. Failing that, she thought about her father. It was painful, and the tears made it harder to drive, but anything was better than thinking about the house. She would never think about that house again, she vowed. The house was not real, she told herself, the house did not exist, the house was merely another unreal figure from her dreams.

The house was a phantom.

Unbeknownst to Amelia, that flat, misshapen piece of gold was still in her pocket. She felt the coldness of it through her clothes the entire drive, but never realized that it was there.

***

There was no point in trying to work. There was no point in going out. There was no point in doing anything, it seemed, so Amelia just lay back on the bed, watching the blades of the ceiling fan go around and around. The motel room smelled faintly of cheap disinfectant; they must have cleaned it not long ago. The quiet was unnerving. She realized that she was straining to hear piano music. Maybe if she was still enough, and quiet enough, she could just faintly —

She sat up and ran her hands over her face. God, she thought, what am I doing here? She looked at the clock; not early enough to sleep, and she was afraid of sleep now anyway. She stripped her sweaty clothes off, leaving them in a trail on the way to the tiny, white-tiled bathroom. She turned the hot water up as far as it would go and stood in the shower, letting it run and run. Her skin turned bright pink, but she didn't mind; after twenty minutes, she was numb to the burn. Idly, she slid her hand down her stomach, over her hips, and between her legs, touching herself without thinking about it, a mechanical reflex more than anything.




Phantom: A Love Story.



Amelia slid one finger up and down the length of her sex, testing the smoothness and the pliancy of the skin. Droplets of water trailed down the line of her hips, and she wetted one fingertip with them, tracing the length of herself again, shivering as the heat tickled the sensitive spots. Casually, she flicked her clit with her thumb and leaned back against the tile, sighing, closing her eyes, letting go of everything except sensation. Steam fogged the shower glass, obscuring the room, giving her a pleasant sense of isolation.

Amelia slid her free hand over body, tracing the curved underside of each breast and then squeezing one, hard. She frowned, then tried again, but no matter how hard she tried it really wasn't as satisfying doing it herself, so instead she circled finger and thumb around one nipple, twisting it. A pleasant tingling heat radiated out from it, so she did it again, tweaking the tip. At the same time she slid one finger up inside herself, feeling her cunt clench tight. She didn't bother to move it, rather just enjoying the feeling of having something inside of her while her other fingers rubbed against the increasingly heated nub of her clit. She growled in her throat, so low that it was barely audible.

Amelia's back slid down the wall, until she was sitting on the floor of the shower, hot water pouring over her, burning. She licked her lips, enjoying the wet, sensual feel of it, and pushed against herself harder, grinding her palm against her cunt, grunting with exertion. A thousand overlapping images spun through her mind, many of them memories; late nights, dark places, cool sheets, sweating bodies, soft lips, soft whispers, and heated screams. She hunched over, the muscles of her abdomen rippling as she pushed, pushed, pushed, biting her own lip until it bled. The hard reverberations in the center of her were spreading out, sending waves up her spine, across her shoulders, down the curves of her figure, bathing her in ragged pleasure. 

Her eyes rolled back, and she felt herself becoming wetter and wetter. The pent-up pressure of so many sleepless nights in Richmond, so must anxiety and pain and uncertainty and grief, melted in the heat of raw physicality, draining away one bit at a time. She actually moaned, "Fuck!" to herself, then doubled over, free hand pulling her own wet hair as she shook all over, trembling from the core of her all the way to the outside, then left herself panting and stunned, almost unable to move, a miraculous feeling of lightness gathering just behind her eyes, the inverse of the fog of pain and stress that had taken up seemingly permanent residence there in the preceding months. She allowed herself one, small, barely audible sight of satisfaction, almost contentment, and then stood, trying to regain her bearings without completely spoiling the novelty of her mood.

She realized the water had gone cold. She turned it off and stood listening to the gurgle of the pipes. A mistake, of course; the sound reminded her of her father's dying words, his struggle to —

"Amelia."

She paused, still naked and wet in the shower. For a moment the plumbing noise almost really had sounded like her father's voice?

"Amelia."

She jumped. 

"Devereux."

She began to shake.

"Devereux," gasped the water as it swirled around the drain, a perfect imitation of her father's pained, choking final utterance, and then silence. She reached for the taps to turn them on again, but then thought better of it. This isn't real, she told herself. I'm tired and stressed out and grief-stricken. I'm hearing things. Even perfectly sane, rational people can hear things, and see things, that aren't real. Or maybe I'm not sane or rational at all. Maybe I am insane. But even that's okay. That's better than believing this is real.

She wrapped a motel towel around her body, not bothering to dry or fix her hair, not wanting to go anywhere near the mirror at all. The main room was dark and she stretched out on the bed, letting the cool air from the fan tickle her wet, naked skin. There was nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Just enjoy the silence. Just enjoy the dark. Just enjoy—

The dark?

She'd left the lights one when she went into the bathroom. Now they were off... 

Amelia bolted u, but before she could say or do anything a hand clapped over her mouth. The thick, padded fingers of the gloves nearly smothered her. A body wrapped around hers from behind, thin limbs invested with horrible strength and an awful coldness. Another arm circled her waist, and the grappling figure dragged her off the bed and onto the floor. 

She struggled, but having landed facedown on the carpet with her attacker on top of her she had little leverage. A hand gripped her wet hair and cracked her head against the floor, and she cried out from the pain, briefly dizzy. The unseen figure rolled her over and climbed on top. A small amount of light from the neon sign outside slipped through the blinds, and she recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Phantom's clothing.

His hand was still over her mouth, and he leaned against her, pinning her naked body down. Amelia flailed at him with clenched fists, but nothing connected; it seemed as if he was solid only when he touched her, but not when she touched him. He let her struggle a bit more before pinning her wrists together. Amelia could not move, could not fight back, could not cry out. The Phantom brought his face down to hers; she saw the wrinkled cloth of the mask sucking in and out with the panting labor of his breathing. A sour smell came off of him. Amelia closed her eyes as they began to water. She flinched as a cold, gloved hand touched her cheek. Oh God, she thought, please let it end fast...

She waited, but nothing happened. She held her breath, but felt nothing. She dared to open her eyes; the Phantom was gone. And in his place was...nothing? She sat up, or at least, she tried to sit up, only to realize that she did not seem to be able to move. No, that wasn't it; it was more that her body didn't seem to be anywhere at all. Am I dead, she wondered? But then realized that it was rather just like her dreams, and it was then that she recognized her surroundings: The motel room was gone, replaced by the house. Not her house, of course, but the Devereux's house. Am I asleep, she thought? No, probably unconscious...

It was night and the lamps were out, but a single, flickering candle flame appeared at the end of the hall, cupped between fingers to stifle its light. It was Jeremiah. He stopped, as if listening for something, and then nodded to himself, and continued on. His footsteps fell very softly on the thick rug. He reached the door at the end of the hall, turning the knob slowly so that it wouldn't make noise. The well-oiled hinge did not betray him. But when the door opened Penelope was there, ghostly white in her evening dress, as if waiting for him. He dropped the candle and backed away, stuffing his hand in his mouth to stop from screaming. 

Penelope did not react at all, except to pick up the candle before too much wax spilled. She cupped it in her hands and held if in such a way as to cast a flickering glow on her face. She looked at Jeremiah and he blanched. He backed against the wall, face dotted with sweat, eyes downcast. His mouth moved, but no words came. 

Penelope ran her tongue over her lips, as if tasting his fear. "It's late, Jeremiah," she said. The slave only nodded and looked at the floor. She came up to him, holding the candle between them, so that they both stood in the tiny halo of its flame. "It's very late, Jeremiah," said Penelope. With her free hand she touched his cheek. He bit his fingers. "What are you doing up so late?" 

He mumbled something. The corners of Penelope's mouth twitched. "Were you going to the parlor? Were you going to talk to my husband?" 

Jeremiah looked away. His eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared with his heavy, panicked breaths. "What were you going to tell them?" said Penelope. She pushed her body against his. He winced as if he'd been stabbed. She cupped his face, running her nails down his cheek. She moved her mouth right next to his and whispered, "What were you going to tell them, Jeremiah?" She kissed him, and he began to cry, quietly, his chest jumping with trapped sobs.

With a coy smile Penelope kissed the tears from his cheeks, then trailed her lips over the line of his jaw. Her caressing fingers ran over his mouth, which was pursed tight to keep from sobbing. "What were you going to tell them, Jeremiah?" she said again. "Were you going to tell them about this?" 

He shook his head. 

"Then what?" Jeremiah tried to hunch down, seemingly in an effort to shrink away, but Penelope stood him back up, kissing him again, smiling at his pain. She stuck a hand between them, sliding down the length of Jeremiah's body. He took on a look of resignation, eyes becoming glassy and face assuming a far-away quality. He did not react when Penelope unbuttoned his trousers, sliding her fingers (with their immaculately manicured nails, claw-like) down until she touched his member. 

She wrapped her hand around it, tugging it once or twice, trying to get him to react. His expression was dead, emotionless. She sighed, then pulled her hand up to slap him across the face. The crack of it sounded incredibly loud in the twilight atmosphere of the dark, empty hall. Jeremiah looked shocked, and before he could drift away again Penelope stuck her hand back down his pants, stroking the length of him. The mechanics of his body betrayed him, responding to the stimulation, swelling and growing, eliciting a smirk from Penelope's ruby-red lips.

Jeremiah continued to sob quietly as Penelope's hand jerked again and again, running her fingers over the fat head and testing the tiny dribble there. She pushed her body into his, pinning him against the wall. For a moment he resisted, but though the smaller of the two she was stronger, and he dared not exercise his full force against her anyway. She smiled, showing all her teeth, and in the flickering light of the candle he saw her eyes, wide and unblinking. 

She kept on, and he did not resist, though his muscles ached and he had to hold his hands behind his back in trembling fists. Penelope teased him with kisses and soft whispers about how many white men would kill to trade places with him now. Jeremiah bit his lip to keep from saying that he would kill to be out of it. Her touch was delicate but firm and she slid her hand up and down him expertly, aware of exactly how much pressure it took to make him squirm. When she tugged, his body obeyed, against his will, and she giggled, voice thick with perverse amusement. 

With a series of quick jerks she pushed him over the edge, and then wrapped her fingers around his shaft while the discharge flowed down and over them. She threw her head back, moaning in ghastly ecstasy, and Jeremiah hit his head against the wall. She bit his lip, though not hard enough to leave a telltale mark, and wiped her hand on his pants. She brought the candle close to their faces again.

"You'll never tell, will you, Jeremiah?"

He shook his head.

"You've never told, have you?"

A shake of the head, again.

"You know what would happen if anyone found out about us?"

Jeremiah swallowed. "You'd kill me," he said.

Penelope put the candle back in Jeremiah's hand. He stared at it, face slack. 

"Come on," said Penelope. "Come with me. I need you for something else."

Jeremiah looked unsure.

"Phillip and Andrew are in the parlor," said Penelope. "They can wait. I need you to come with me. We're meeting the captain. I can't find my way in the dark."

She moved down the hall, away from Jeremiah and the light, her long white dress trailing behind her, until she became a patch of white in the gloom. Jeremiah hesitated a moment more, wiping his eyes, and then followed.

In the parlor, Phillip and Andrew stood side by side at the window, looking out. It was black outside, like always, but it was a quiet night as well as dark; there were no drums. Phillip drank scotch from a thick-bottomed tumbler. Andrew's glass was still full. He pulled on the sleeve of Phillip's coat and all but shouted at him, but Phillip would not look at him.

"It's worse," said Phillip. "It's worse every damn night now."

"Phillip," said Andrew, "you have to listen to me."

"We had to lock them in their cabins," said Phillip. "Half of them have run away, and I can't blame them. I wish I could run away too." He looked at Andrew out the corner of his eye. "Do you think we'll ever find them, the slave children who disappeared? Or do you think they're just..." he made a vague gesture, "...gone? Like the Phantom in the locked room, just gone?"

"Phillip, they're dead. You know they're dead, whether we ever find them or not," said Andrew. "And more people are going to die unless you listen to me. That letter you got this morning, what did it say?" He leaned in. "Tell me Phillip, please."

Phillip's voice went flat. "It said that if I don't leave Devereux Manor tonight, by midnight...Penelope will die."

Andrew nodded. "That's what I thought. And that's why you have to listen to me when I say that I know who's behind all this."

Phillip said nothing, but raised an eyebrow, waiting. Andrew swallowed his entire drink in one go. His face turned red. He fussed with his cuff buttons, and Phillip made an impatient gesture again. Andrew sighed. 

"It's my father," he said.

Phillip looked at him fully for the first time. His face registered confusion but then, after a few seconds, he broke into a sick grin, and then he began to laugh.

"I'm not joking!" said Andrew, grabbing Phillip's sleeve again and shaking him. Phillip only kept laughing, peels and peels of diseased cackling. Andrew went to the mantle and pointed at the glowering painting of the elder Devereux. "Phillip, I've thought long and hard about it, and it's the only explanation that makes sense. He's angry, Phillip, that you're running the estate differently than he did. You know how he was, how set in his ways, how angry he could get over even the slightest challenge to his authority?"

Phillip poured himself another drink, snorting. Andrew grabbed the bottle out of his hand.

"You were wrong, Phillip," said Andrew. "The Phantom really is a ghost. And the angrier he gets, the more people will get hurt. Please listen to me."

"Even if I believed in ghosts," said Phillip, hoarse, "your father would never do this to us. Never."

Andrew sighed. "You knew him very well, Phillip, but you didn't know him completely. There was another side to him. Did you ever wonder about these?" He indicated the busts of Janus. "He loved the image. It suited him. You only ever saw one face, but there was another. He could be a tyrant when he wanted to. We were afraid of him."

Phillip looked incredulous.

"It's true," said Andrew. He could not meet Phillip's gaze. "Especially Penelope."

"That's a lie," said Phillip.

"Damn it, I didn't want to tell you this, but the first time she refused your proposal he beat her black and blue. I thought he would kill her with the way she was screaming."

"That's a lie!" said Phillip, his voice cracking. He stood with his hand in a fist, arm trembling. Andrew waited to see what he would do. Phillip said nothing for a long time. Andrew started to squirm. 

"You know Andrew," said Phillip, "a lesser man than me might accuse you of being the Phantom."

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight.

Andrew gaped. "Me? But —"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" said Phillip. "You know the house, no one would question it if they saw you prowling around the grounds, and it's only natural that you might resent me after your father willed you such a pittance and left the rest in my care." Phillip grabbed the bottle and took a drink straight from it. "Yes, a man in the grips of that kind of jealousy might do anything. And now you come to me with this cock and bull story about your father's ghost?"

"Phillip, no," said Andrew. "Phillip, I swear, I have nothing to do with it."

"You showed your hired man where the secret doors were," said Phillip, eyes glassy. "And then you pretended to discover them in front of us so that we wouldn't suspect you, right?"

Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but a voice from the doorway caused them both to start. "I'd be careful how you talked to him if I were you, Phillip" said Captain Sidney. "A man in your position needs all the friends he can get."

"Captain!" said Andrew.

"How did you get in here?" said Phillip.

The captain limped in, leaving his cane by the door. He had a black leather case tucked under one arm. Jeremiah lurked behind him, wringing his hands, looking queasy.

"Penelope let me in," said the captain. "And then she sent this to look after me, although I kept telling her I don't need it."

"Penelope?" said Phillip. "She's not supposed to leave her room!" He wheeled on Jeremiah. "You weren't supposed to leave her, you weren't supposed to leave her for a second!"

"And her room has been a safe place for her so far, has it?" said the captain. His face was ashen. "She's there again now, for all it matters. No Phillip, I'm not here for Penelope, I'm here for you. I think it's time we put this Phantom business to bed once and for all, don't you?"

Phillip looked at the darkened window again. "I suppose that means something?" he said. He slurred his words a bit.

"It means I know who the Phantom is," said the captain. "I've known for some time, but I wasn't sure what to do about it. Now I am." He opened the case and let everyone look inside; the red velvet interior held four antique pistols, polished to a shine.

"And what are you going to do with those?" said Phillip.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to take you outside and drill a hole in your skull," said the captain, jaw clenched. Andrew dropped his glass. Phillip did not react.

"Why would you do a thing like that?" said Phillip.

"Because you're the Phantom," said the captain, and spit. Now Andrew looked as though he'd laugh, but held it in.

Phillip sighed. "I suppose you have some sort of explanation for why that would make any sense at all?"

The captain took one of the pistols, turning it over in his hand. Jeremiah huddled in the corner, watching. "I admit, I didn't expect you to take it this far," said the captain. "I figured you would do just enough damage to your own interests to throw suspicion off of yourself. But you're certainly thorough, I'll give you that. And now that no one would possibly suspect you, it's time to do the deed, eh? Get rid of Penelope, and then you'll have the house and all of her affairs to yourself. Just like you always wanted, isn't that right?"

He hefted the gun. "I knew it was always about the money with you. I knew a callow little piano player wasn't capable of the kind of love that a real man feels for a woman like Penelope. But I didn't think you'd go this far. Well here," he put the gun in Phillip's hand. Phillip's arm dropped to his side, and the pistol hung from his fingers. "You can at least die like a real man."

Andrew stepped forward, ready to speak, but the captain thrust a pistol at him, too. "What do you say, Andrew, will you be my second? If you feel obligated to be his instead, I understand. Family ties and all that. I'll take the nigger for mine." He dragged Jeremiah by the sleeve and pushed a pistol into his hand. Jeremiah looked as if he'd been burned by it. 

Phillip's voice became very quiet. "Captain, I would like for you to leave my house."

"That I will," said the captain. "And you with me. Twenty paces on the front green, then we both fire. You'll have the advantage, being younger and fit in both legs. You can't say I'm not giving you a fair chance."




Phantom: A Love Story.



"Captain," said Phillip again, "you'll leave alone, and never come back."

"The hell I will!"

Andrew put his hand on the captain's arm, but the captain shook him off. He raised his pistol and pointed it at Phillip's face. Phillip didn't blink. "I'll count to three," said the captain, "and if you haven't taken it outside by then, then we'll settle it indoors. One!"

"Captain Sidney," said Phillip.

"Two!" 

"For God's sake!" said Andrew.

"Three!" 

Jeremiah recoiled from the scene.

The captain sneered. "So that's how it is? A coward to the end. Fine then. Penelope may hold this against me, but she's the better for it. Maybe Devereux Manor will have a real phantom now, eh?" 

Phillip dropped his gun. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking at the corners. The captain cocked the pistol. Andrew screamed "For God's sake!" again, and then the small room reverberated with the deafening crack of the shot. Phillip cried out, and Andrew ducked his head, and the captain stepped back, and the air was perfectly still, filled with the reeking scene of burning powder.

When the smoke cleared, Phillip opened his eyes. He put his hand to his chest and realized he hadn't been shot. The captain sank into one of the chairs, gasping, hand on his abdomen, a red stain already soaking his coat. 

Jeremiah's eyes were wide, but his hand was steady as he set the smoking pistol on an end table. 

Andrew ran to the captain's side. The captain tried to talk but a bubble of blood came out as soon as he opened his mouth. Phillip took a few seconds to register what had happened, and then he grabbed Jeremiah by the arm, pulling him to the door. Jeremiah nodded at him once and said, "Please sir, you do it."

Phillip blinked. 

"Please sir, you kill me," said Jeremiah. "Your wife, she's a cruel woman. If she finds out what I did..." He turned away. "It'll be better if you do it."

"Jeremiah, I want you to listen to me. You're a free man, as of this moment." Jeremiah's mouth fell open. "Take this key and go to my office, you'll find a letter of manumission in my desk, all ready for you. It was going to wait until Christmas, but as things are now..."

"But the captain?" said Jeremiah.

"That's nothing for you to worry about," said Phillip. "After all, I shot him. Didn't I?"

Jeremiah shook his head. "No sir, I can't let you —"

"I shot Captain Sidney," said Phillip. "To defend myself in my own home, I shot him. One white man to another. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Jeremiah clenched his jaw, but nodded.

"This other key on the ring opens the safe, there's cash inside. Take as much as you want, as much as you feel safe carrying, and then take whichever of the new horses you like from the stable, and then you ride, Jeremiah. You ride as far away from Devereux Manor as you can before the sun comes up, and you never look back." Phillip closed Jeremiah's fingers around the key ring. Jeremiah only stared at his closed fist for a moment, until Phillip said, "Go!" And Jeremiah ran.

"Phillip," said Andrew, from the others side of the room, "we'll need a doctor."

"I'll fetch one," said Phillip. "The nearest is —" He stopped as he turned around. The windowpane, black as ink all night, was now cast with an eerie orange glow. He ran to it. "Good God!" he said. Andrew joined him, and they both saw the fire raging.

"The cabins; the slaves!" said Andrew.

"We locked them in to keep them from running away," said Phillip. "Barricaded the doors, boarded the windows; my God, they'll burn alive!"

Before either man could say anything more they heard the scream. As one they turned, the captain included, and all at once they said, "Penelope!"

Phillip stood, torn by indecision. Andrew said, "You check on her, I'll go to the cabins."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to save as many as I can," said Andrew.

"But what about the captain?"

Captain Sidney gasped and gurgled out a few words: "Damn fool...'orry 'bout P—"

Phillip nodded, and Andrew ran for the back door while Phillip rushed to Penelope's bedroom. The door was wide open, and the French doors too, letting the night air in. Already Phillip smelled smoke on the wind. The bedspread was covered in blood, but there was no sign of Penelope. Phillip screamed her name, and when he saw a flutter of movement by the trellis outside he ran toward it, just catching sight of the tattered hem of a grey cape. It was only then that he realized he was holding Jeremiah's gun, still warm from being fired, and he raised the pistol now, shooting blindly at the retreating figure. Almost at the same time there was another pistol crack; the Phantom had returned fire!

Lips curled in a snarl, Phillip gave chase. The Phantom ran toward the burning cabins. The cavorting flames silhouetted the peaked roofs and, horrifyingly, the twisting bodies of those who had escaped their homes but were too badly burned to flee the area. The wind changed direction and blew smoke into Phillip's face, stinging his eyes. Fire was all around him now, fire and blackened things and a rain of cinders. Again, just at the periphery of his vision, he saw movement and fired, and again the Phantom fired back. Phillip shouted, "Come on you bastard, you think you can fool me twice with that trick pistol? Do you think —?"

There was another shot, and Phillip's body jerked, and the hot pain in his ribs told him that it was not a trick this time. And now Phillip could see him, outlined by the flames, arm raised, flickering light lapping at the barrel of the gun. The Phantom seemed ready to shoot again, but instead turned and ran. 

Phillip raised his own pistol and squeezed the trigger, a wild, blind, desperate shot, but he saw the Phantom stagger and collapse, like a felled tree. Had he been hit? Was Phillip really that lucky? He tried to walk, but pain burned every inch of him; blood soaked his shirt. He fell to his knees, and then to his hands and knees, and slowly, very slowly, he crawled, his hands turning up the loose earth as he inched toward his fallen nemesis. The screams from all around him mingled with the crackling flames. The fire was spreading, but there was nothing Phillip could do now. Blackness tinged his vision. If he could just make it a few more feet. He had to know. Had to see. He was dragging himself along the ground like a snake by the time he reached the prone figure of the Phantom. He saw a bloody, smoking hole in the back of the fiend's head; the fabric of the mask was singed. It had been a lucky shot indeed.

It took everything Phillip had left to roll the body over. He clawed at the mask, weak and feeble. "Come on...bastard..." he said. He rolled the mask up. With some effort, he pulled it off. Smoke obscured his vision, tears stinging his eyes. He wiped his hands over the Phantom's exposed face, clearing away the soot and blood. Who was it, damn it, who?

The wind fanned the flames, and sparks rained down on them, and in the hellish illumination Phillip finally saw the Phantom's face, and the sightless, unblinking eyes staring up at him, and then...

He collapsed, weak, helpless, fading. The flames spread around the two bodies, one lying atop the other, and slowly, very slowly, they closed in.

***

Amelia was awake. Or had she ever been dreaming at all? She realized how cold she was, and then she realized that she was standing outside, in her garden, naked except for the motel towel still. She jumped and ran, bare feet turning up loose garden soil. When she reached the outer wall of the house, she looked back at the spot she'd been standing; the same spot she'd seen Phillip collapse in her dream. Phillip and...

She was not surprised that the doors were all unlocked, though she'd locked them before leaving. She was also not surprised to find the lump of gold in her hand. Least surprising of all was the piano music, that same sonata, filling the whole house. She followed it to the music room. The door was open, and the room was full of light. Amelia almost paused in the doorway, but instead she walked right in. 

Phillip was waiting for her, of course.

He scooted over on the bench and she sat beside him, watching his fingers move over the old, dusty keys. She held the towel around herself, and paid attention to his face as he played. When the last note sounded, he opened his eyes and looked at her. She smiled a little.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"Thank you," said Phillip. His voice was a bit faint, just as his features were a little blurry. "I've been practicing it for a long time."

Amelia set the gold lump on the piano. "You gave this to me."

"Yes," said Phillip. "To help you see what I wanted to show you."

"The dreams?"

He nodded.

"Were they dreams, really?"

"Memories," said Phillip. "Memories of the house, mostly. And some of mine."

Amelia indicated the melted jewelry. "Your wedding rings. Both of them. Fused together in the fire."

Phillip nodded.

"Why did she do it?" said Amelia.

Phillip sighed. "To hurt me, maybe. To get back at me, for not loving her the way she wanted. Maybe just as a way to escape. I think she meant to run off with the captain, if she'd gotten away with it. I doubt he would have agreed. I don't think he had a thing to do with it really, now."

"How did she do it all? She was in her room the first night, when the trellis fell?"

"She planted the mask before I came in," said Phillip. "And she forced Jeremiah to wait outside and knock the trellis over at the right time. That's why she beat him so badly the next day; to make sure he kept quiet."

"But the trunk, and the weights?"

"She was always stronger than she looked," said Phillip. "There was not much weight on the trunk, remember? She ran to her room from the pantry and changed out of the costume while we were still breaking the door down. Then she put on just enough weight to still be able to open the lid halfway and squeeze inside. We assumed from the shoddiness of the setup that we'd caught 'le Fantome' in the act."

He sighed, and then put his face in his hands. Amelia wanted to put her arms around him, but somehow it seemed respectful to just let him cry instead. "God I loved her," said Phillip. "I loved her more than I even knew how."

"Did she love anything?"

"I don't know," said Phillip. His eyes were red. He tapped out a few empty notes on the keys. Amelia followed his fingers with hers, but when she touched a key it drew forth only silence. Phillip straightened up after a time, brushing the cuffs of his coat with both hands. "Well, what do you suppose we all shall do now?" he said.

"I have no idea," said Amelia. "What about the Phan — what about Penelope? She's still here. She brought me back."

"I know. I try to keep her pacified by playing. It helps sometimes, like the drums. But only sometimes. In truth, I don't know what to do about her. I can't leave, and neither can she, and now that you're here she probably won't let you leave either. That's why I thought you deserved to at least know why all this was happening to you. And also because..." he trailed off.

"Because?"

He smiled a little more. "Well, I guess I just wanted you to know. About me. I've been here a long time, and you are a very beautiful woman, after all..."

Amelia blushed, pulling the towel tighter around her. Phillip looked away, respectful of her modesty. Amelia shifted in her seat, unsure what to say for a second. Then: "Phillip?"

"Yes?"

"Will you play again?" She leaned against him a little, head on his shoulder; his touch was cold, but not unpleasant. "It's such a beautiful song."

Phillip smiled more. "If you like. It seems I've been playing requiems for so long now, I barely remember anything else. But I've never forgotten this."

And he played, and the music passed through the walls, and the floors, and the ceilings, and the eaves, and became a part of the house. Because the house never belonged to anyone, or anything; everything became a part of it. It was a house unto itself, and would remain that way. And the song went on and on, throughout the night. Always.



Phantom Blowjob



When I was born, I was supposed to be a boy. My father was counting on it, so I could carry on the family name. Plus, he was sure he wouldn't know the first thing to do with a girl, and his younger brother had three. He wanted to be the one to produce the family "heir," so to speak.

I, however, was not born with a penis.

This is not something I've ever regretted, though. I love being a woman, and everything that comes with it. I certainly wouldn't choose anything different. I have, however, wondered what it might be like to have a cock.

There's something so "out there" about a cock. It's insistent, demanding. It makes its presence known -- sometimes, according to the men I've known, at the most inopportune times. Still, I've wondered. Not wished, not wanted, not in the Freudian sense of envying a man his appendage, no... But I have wondered.

I recently had a dream that went a long way toward easing that curiosity...

I was making out with Cordelia. You Buffy fans will know who I'm talking about immediately. For those of you who aren't, Cordelia's real name is Charisma Carpenter. She's incredibly, stunningly beautiful. (Google is your friend!)

We were on a train, I think, something that rocked back and forth as we kissed on a mattress on the floor. At first, I was licking her through her panties (did you know Cordy's smooth? It was a wonderful discovery...) but she kept begging me to fuck her.

I thought she meant with my fingers, so I shoved her panties aside and began to finger her as I tongued her pussy. She moaned and thrust back, but she continued to beg, "God, please! Fuck me! I need your cock!"

Cock?

Me?

I actually looked down in my dream to check... and to my surprise, I had one! It wasn't real (at least, not at first.) It was a black dildo in a leather harness. Who was I to say no to Cordy? 

She sat up to tug her panties off, and she hungrily grabbed hold of my cock. (My cock?! It still felt strange to me...) I've never understood the point of watching a woman suck on a dildo. I imagine for men, it's the power of suggestion, but as a woman, it just does nothing for me.

This, however, was different. Watching her tongue the head, seeing it disappearing between her stretched lips, her eyes big and hungry as she looked up at me... oh. my. God. Suddenly, I understood on a visceral level what men love about blowjobs. And my "cock" didn't even have any nerve endings!

I felt like a God... as if she was worshipping at some altar, and I was her God. It turned me hungry, animal. I wanted her. I wanted to take her. This was a new feeling altogether, and it was overwhelming. All-consuming. She lapped at the cock between my legs, almost purring, like a cat, and I could barely contain the visions I was having of fucking her until she screamed.

"Fuck me!" She wasn't demanding, she was asking, begging, pleading. She turned around and turned her ass up to me, and that was all it took. The sight of her pussy, swollen and pink, was like some magnet drawing at the throbbing cock between my legs. And it was throbbing. I felt it, actually felt it sliding inside her.

I've asked men before, "What does that moment feel like?" Some have attempted to describe it. All of them have failed. Most of them say, "It's indescribable." And they're right. There are no words for that first moment of sliding inside, of being taken in, of taking. There are no words.

And there were none, between the fucking and the climax. Just low, guttural noises denoting pure, raw, animal pleasure. She came twice. I remember her coming twice, warning me, shuddering as I pounded her with the thick cock between my thighs, the flutter and twitch of her around me a delightful surprise.

There's only one other moment you just can't describe with words, and that's the moment of orgasm. Physiologically, we've been told it's a similar experience for men and women, and while this is true, if my dream is any indication, it's similar and yet... different. There was a great deal of force behind my climax, and Cordy wasn't going to waste a moment of it.

She turned around and grabbed for my cock, slick with her juiced, and swallowed my length with her mouth. Oh my god, the difference in sensation, the way her hand jerked and tugged, as if she could pull my orgasm out of me, and that's just what she did, urging me to come in her mouth.

I exploded -- I saw stars, everything went black for a moment as I pumped my hips and emptied my cock into her throat. Such a good girl, she swallowed every last drop and went looking for more along the ridge with her hot, pink tongue, making me shudder with pleasure.

"My turn," she said, kneeling up to kiss me -- I realized I could taste semen in her mouth, and understood it had to be from me. Stunning thought. I didn't understand, until she reached around the side of the harness and began to unstrap it, what she meant by "her turn," but I did now.

Unfortunately, that's when the alarm went off!

Don't you ever wish you could pause dreams and go back to them later? *sigh*

Well, clearly my psyche wanted to satisfy my curiosity about having a cock. 

I think it did a pretty good job. 

Don't you?