Mum died when I was 11. I can't say it was especially traumatic, just the normal, standard trauma of a young girl losing her mother. I lost about 6 months schooling and my weight see-sawed; unable to eat one month, unable to stop another. Things settled back down and I guess now I'm about the right weight, right height, right IQ, right everything. Little miss average (apart from having no mum). That's largely down to Dad.
Dad was great, he was a high flier, no question. As soon as you met him you knew he was a good few IQ points higher than you; but not in an intimidating way. Most of my friends parents seemed to like him when we had parties. He could talk about "the match last night" (even though he rarely watched football) or England's chances against India in the 3rd Test now Ravi Balti SenCurry (or some such name – sorry I think cricket is up there with paint drying and French in the interest stakes) has been ruled fit to play. Or he could discuss the relevancy of transubstantiation as a block on the re-unification of Catholics and Anglicans with Rev. Joe – father of Bev, my bestest, bestest friend at 10. We drifted apart after Mum died, according to her since God must be right, it must be okay for her to die. All I knew was my mum was dead. I digress (I can do that).
Dad was away a lot before Mum died; we'd get postcards from Singapore or Denver. Usually after he'd got back already and we'd laugh about it. He sold or developed or demonstrated software, I never really understood what it was he did but he loved it and it apparently loved him. He was going places. Then Mum died. He changed jobs to a desk job, was home at 5:30 almost every day, came to the parents' evenings, the school concerts, even my last sports day before I left Joseph Conrad Primary. He cooked cakes for the Christmas Party and helped out at the Summer Fair. My girlfriends all said that their mums said he was great for being so involved and supportive and stuff. I was proud of my dad, he was there for me and I got through it all with not too many hangups and only one visit to the Head for smoking; and yes it was behind the bike sheds; which was stupid because the staffroom overlooked them and they must have seen the smoke even if we were too small to be seen where we were. And I didn't tell on my friends, I was let off with a caution because of "well, we know it's been tough but we'll have to write to your parents ... I mean your father".
Dad read it, laughed and said "don't be so stupid, if you're going to waste your money at least buy something that makes you high, not sick". He could have gone crazy and shouted at me – Mum died of lung cancer (I called it lunch cancer for a long time, how embarrassing THAT was) – but he didn't, he knew that would be more likely to make me do it again. I heard him crying later that night. I've never smoked, or taken any other drugs since. I've only been drunk twice. Why waste a load of money producing vomit?
He must have taken a drop in salary, a big drop. We didn't go to The Seychelles or Bahamas anymore, but we went away every summer. Sailing on the Norfolk Broads on a wooden boat that didn't like changing direction; or camping in Scotland. Roughing it, cold sometimes. And we got to know each other. And one year I asked about something to do with sex or babies. I knew the basics, that got done in school and again with my friends in more lurid (and inaccurate) detail. But, I can't remember what it was, I saw him take a breath and then we talked. Like it was the most natural thing for a Dad to talk to his daughter about periods and contraception and, yes, even about the different 'bases' and what boys might want to do. I realised it was dangerous territory for him. "There be dragons" he'd say when we strayed off the normal tracks in Scotland; he was in amongst the dragons now. But I wanted to know, from an adult, not from a girlfriend who made up stuff about taking it in the mouth or wherever. And because he was so open I learnt a lot and made my own mind up. When a boy first tried to touch me up I knew what he was doing and I knew if I wanted to or not. This isn't about that. So I'm not saying.
On my fifteenth birthday I reciprocated. I took a deep breath and told him that I could see he didn't really enjoy the job, that he was better than it (the job) was and it was time to start getting back in the race. I could stay with friends for the odd night, they'd often said so, and their parents had said so too. Because he'd kept me on the rails I had good friends with kind parents and that paid off – even if he hadn't done it for that it all worked for good. I loved having him around but it was time to grow up and let him start to leave a bit more – I understood a bit what parents must feel when the children leave. He looked surprised, then relieved, then poured us both a glass of wine.
It didn't take long. A demonstration in Corby, an exhibition in Edinburgh. A night or two away. Mostly I stayed with friends, sometimes Sophie came to stay. Sophie is Dad's sister. She hates being called Aunt Sophie as that makes her seem to be 107 she says. I don't think she and Mum got on. Mum the cigarette smoking career lawyer. Sophie the laid back reefer puffing hippy – Dad's description, and he loved (loves) them both. So if it was a half term or something or ran into a weekend Sophie came to stay. We went to stay with her occasionally; but it was out of the way, off the beaten track and out of phone signal range.
Then Dad came home. He was worried, I could see that. I'd had the opportunity to study him more than most daughters do. I waited and then, when he said nothing, I asked. At first he denied anything was wrong but eventually I got it out of him. A three week project in India in the summer. He'd already said no but the company weren't happy. The customer had asked for him specifically. The project was big, the revenues were huge, the profits would be fantastic, and the bonus would be several 0s long. I said I'd be fine. He said he wasn't going. I said he didn't trust me, I was 16 after all. He said he didn't believe I'd trash the house and have toga parties (toga parties? I didn't even know what that was – I do now though - LOL ) but he wasn't going. I gave up on him and went and rang Sophie and she said yes I could come and stay for three weeks.
So Dad was off to India and I was off to Shrewsbury. I could see he was relishing the prospect whilst trying to hide his excitement. I was pretty keen to go to Shrewsbury actually, Let me tell you a bit more about Sophie.
Sophie once told me she was an after-thought. She's quite a few years younger than Dad, near enough to my age to be a friend. Being the youngest she was still around when Grandpa got sick, she nursed him, Grandma being, well a little odd. Grandpa used to call her Grandmad when she wasn't around, and we'd laugh, she was a bit more than eccenteric (if not odd enough to be committed). Meals Grandma made could be steak and custard or beans and cornflakes. Some meals were wonderful, especially when you are 8, and even more especially when you see "the adults" looking uncomfortable. Some meals were inedible, even the dog would walk off.
So Sophie didn't go to University, didn't get married, didn't move out. She nursed Grandpa for 5 years and then she nursed Grandma for 3 more years and she opened her "Alternative Shop" and that was that. It was accepted that she'd stay in the house. It's been in the family for generations and no-one wanted to sell it and split it up. Since she'd been there for long enough she had a right of domicile and so that was okay. Dad got the writing desk; it has never looked right in our modern house. I got Grandma's pendant. Sophie got the house and contents. The taxman got NOTHING (so definitely a good result).
The house isn't some huge mansion, it is a largish half-timbered house of the type they had stopped building in the cities but still were building in the sticks in the 1600 or 1700s. It has floors that demonstrate the principles of bending space by curving in multiple directions. They creak and the windows open sometimes and won't close at others. The kitchen is a large stone flagged room with a Rayburn range, installed new in November 1914 (life just went on as usual out here, until people started noticing families in mourning). It is about 2 miles from Shrewsbury, off the Kirby Misspenterton road. There is a shorter footpath straight to the church, through the wood – which I wouldn't use when I was 10, and still wouldn't use at night now.
Sophie's shop has done quite well. Josh sticks and incense burners, hookah pipes and ethnic rugs. When I was 14 Sophie would see me looking 'casually' through the books at the ones with titles like "The All-Day Orgasm" or "Free-Sex: Free-Mind". She'd tut and say "don't believe it all" and walk off. I didn't get past the title of "Sex and Sexuality; a Feminist Issue – an explanation of why heterosexual sex will always betray the woman". In one corner of the shop was a poster of Donny Osmond. It had been there when she took the premises and she would explain to bemused and confused, long-haired, slightly smelly, mumbling, kaftan wearing 40-year olds from the failing commune at Banstaple Down that it would be bad karma to take it down as it was there before she was. I think she just liked taking the piss out of them.
She put me in the front bedroom. It had been bigger but Grandpa had split it into two bedrooms for their two children. Now Sophie slept at the back, down the corridor, down 3 steps, then up 5 steps to the right. One step had been added when the right wing sank in the flood of 1815. It was that kind of house. There was a bathroom at the front too. First evening I felt someone was watching me as I laid in the bath, but I thought it was just the mirror which needed resilvering. There were shapes in the mirror that weren't in the room.
That night as I slept, I woke and thought again. "I'm not alone".
The following night I awoke with a start and there was a figure. I shrieked. No-one heard; big house, thick walls. But when I turned on the light it was only an old cape which was hanging on the door. I wondered who it belonged to. When I gave it to Sophie next day she looked surprised, took it and said nothing. It was back hanging up that night. "Maybe she thinks since I'm a guest I shouldn't complain" I thought. So I left it. It looked old but in perfect condition.
The next night I heard the voice.
"Fear me not"
"What? Who said that?"
"Fear me not, damsel. I shan't harm thee"
"Oh, Okay. Goodnight"
I wasn't being really, really laid back. I was nearly asleep and convinced I was dreaming.
Next night I knew I heard it. It wasn't scary. It was the sound of a rich purple velvet cloth or a creamy golden syrup. What more can I say. It was there, so was I. Goodnight.
Next day I asked Sophie if the place was haunted.
"Why do you ask?" she said
"I heard a voice, I think"
"Yes! So you've heard it too?"
She explained that she had heard it a long time ago but she thought it had gone. She assured me if I was frightened we could swap rooms.
"No, I'm sure there is nothing to be worried about"
Two nights went past in peace and then I heard, or felt, a breath. The lightest of sounds or the mildest of touches. As I reached for the light the voice said "Fear me not, damsel. But let us not flood the room with witches light".
"Who are you?"
"Roger DeCourcey at your service"
"And you dislike the light?"
"I distrust a light that emanates not from a candle, yet bathes the whole room in the sun's rays"
"We'll leave it off"
I felt a tickle on my lip and the gentle caress of a kiss that no 16-year old boy has ever managed to give to a girl. Like a butterfly alighting. My heart began to race. A hand like a feather passed over my right breast and I nearly fainted with surprise.
And then it was morning
"Sophie, tell me more about the history of the house"
"He came again?"
"Yes. Roger DeCourcey he said he was called"
"He was a well-known philanderer; none of the serving girls and maids, if they were pretty, were safe. But by all accounts he was generous and kind. The local history society wrote an article and sent me a copy"
She went to where the writing desk had been. In its place was a modern piece of Ikea furniture doing the same job, a place for letters, bills, accounts and assorted stuff that needs to be looked at sometime, but not today. Every home has one. Halfway or more down the pile was a stapled booklet with a green cover; the proceedings of the Shrewsbury and District Local History Society (founded 1927). Page 9 had a two page article entitled "Sir Roger. Jolly Roger the Pirate or Roger the Gay Cavalier?"
It explained how no fewer than 15 local girls claimed he was the father of their child. There was a rumour about one of his sisters too. At least one – Gwendolline Parsim – appeared to get with child whilst Roger was fighting 85 miles away at Naseby; but give a dog a bad name ... Luckily his sister married a puritan and so the house stayed in the family under Cromwell. Roger was shipped off to farm an estate in Virginia a year before The Restoration. It appeared the choice was that or being branded after he "coupled" with the wife of Brandsby Dupont, a captain in the New Model Army. How, why or if Roger returned was unknown but there was no record of his burial in Corceyville, Virginia and the stories of the ghost have continued since 1710 – the first sighting.
In his favour this lecher appears to have always settled money on the offended family and ensured the child got some education. The result being that Catherine Wite (granddaughter of the gamekeeper) became a personal maid to the Duchess of Blandford Tower on account of being able to read, Roger (clue in the name?) Brown (grandson of a pigman) became a midshipman and Reginald Thomas Smith (grandson of the blacksmith) became a teacher!
Sophie explained that Roger never married and once the puritans had the house they kept it. It followed their line down to her and Dad. So although not directly related, she was in the same family. Since it was the sister who married Peter Grone that explained how our name wasn't DeCourcey but Green – the name had mutated over the years.
She also explained that all I had to do tonight was say "No" once and he would go and not trouble me anymore. It seems he is cursed to take women at their word now rather than use his blandishments to work round them.
Perhaps if I hadn't read the article, perhaps if Sophie hadn't told me about him, perhaps I might have put a stop to it. But I resolved that he wasn't scary, I wasn't frightened and what could happen anyway? How little I knew.
The voice, that soft mellifluous voice; it got the body ready before ever he appeared. His appearance, a cavalier with ruffs and lace and velvet and long flowing curls and that luxurious moustache. What was there not to entice you in? Truly he was the ultimate seduction machine. But could he deliver on the promise?
He came to me and looked down; his temporal powers were fascinating. He could pull back the bedclothes but also walk through walls. It was all down to thinking he said. And the same applied to me if I chose to understand. More of that later. And after pulling back the bedclothes he looked at my nightdress, hiding my young body but showing every slope and curve. Gently, so gently that sometimes I was hardly aware of it, he stroked my feet, my legs, my knees. My knees! I never knew knees were so sexy but his light touches and soft damp kisses said "your knees are the sexiest thing I know, until I know you better". Then, as his hand travelled up my leg, as my blood began to boil inside me, his lips touched my forehead, then each eyelid in turn. A soft breath in my ear, a tongue tracing my earlobe. He must have known that by now I would have been powerless to resist anything he wanted; but there was no rush, no storming of the castle. The defences were all down, the gates wide open (literally for my legs, demurely crossed at the ankles at the start now found themselves voluntarily open for his charge), yet the attack did not come. An hour of such infinitely dextrous and dolorous caressing left me as a shipwrecked survivor on the beach, completely washed out and incapable of anything save acquiescence. Then his fingers made that final journey, soft feelings fluttered into my loins as he stroked and caressed; inserted and poked; and rubbed. Yes, at last, as the waves of emotional energy crashed through me, as I felt a scream of ecstasy building in my loins up, up towards my mouth; his lips found mine and stopped the sound from escaping; his fingers rubbed with a frenzy of passion yet without the roughness that men are usually incapable of avoiding. And I exploded. That's what it felt like. My body became totally sensitised, every nerve pulsed with pleasure and even the touch of my nightdress on my shoulder was the touch of an erotic dream. How long I was in this state I don't know, seemed like hours, seemed like seconds. Somehow the feeling was outside time. Then I crashed back to the bed and his gentle, kind face beside mine.
I offered him myself, all of me, nothing held back. And he refused. The time will come he assured me, but to rush to that ultimate surrender is to lose the pleasure of the walk through the garden of delights. This guy should run training sessions on seduction; he was fantastic. He'd given me the best orgasm in the world and assured me better was to come and that he was fine for tonight thanks.
The following night I took off the nightdress. As I said before, my body is nothing special. Miss Average 2002, that was me. But he looked at me like I was a second Helen of Troy, His eyes alone made my nipples stand up like hard peanuts, which he sucked. Then he poured some honey on them (where had that come from?) warmed to body heat it flowed over the nipples and down the breast towards my stomach. His tongue eagerly licked up the flows and then transferred the taste to my mouth. I can't even smell honey now without starting to get damp in my pants. One flow he allowed to continue past my stomach into my bush. I wondered if I should have shaved it; but when I said that he looked confused and then responded that exploring a woman's garden was the greatest pleasure and honour. A shaved bush would be like a bald lawn he said. Of no use or attraction to anyone but a horse rider wanting to get to the finish. It isn't the finish line of a race that matters but the vistas of the walk along the way that makes a journey special. Oh yes! Tell me more! He trickled a little more honey and then set to work to collect it. Travelling from my right breast down across my ribs to my stomach, into my pubic hair, his tongue lapped and licked and I was into seventh heaven. Then he reached my clitoris and eighth, ninth and tenth heaven slipped past. There were times I thought "I can't take this, I'm going to faint", and other times I thought "bring me to climax now, now, NOW!" But he carried on at his own pace his tongue was more dextrous that many a finger I've had down there (including mine). It stuck in the honey and then collected it and coated my button with the viscous liquid. I could feel my own viscous liquid flowing like a river and I thought about the stain on the bed but his tongue brought me back to the immediate pleasure at hand. A finger collected some of my juices and travelled up to my mouth. I've never liked the smell or taste of a woman but his finger must have had honey on it too for I felt like I was sucking ambrosia from his digit. Later, as a calming way to bring me off the precipice he showed me how to collect the honey and juice so it mixes and becomes a delight to lick. It's my party trick when I'm with a girl now.
His other hand started to caress my buttocks, and then the space between my bottom and vagina, That took me over. He was too far away to stop my shout but the walls are very thick. If anyone – well, there was only Sophie - heard they did not respond. A long, incoherent word escaped me. It started as "Yeeesss" and went into "Ohhhhh" and ended as just a sound like "mmmmmmmm". Not like the explosive overwhelming orgasm of the previous night, this was like being bathed in warm baby oil. Like finding the ultimate luxury handbag. Like, well, like a long, relaxing fuck.
When I woke up it was daylight and he'd gone and sure enough the stain made it look like I'd wet myself.
He taught me how to relive the feelings, how to explore what wasn't there. He said I was a quick learner, but I think that was flattery; he was a good teacher. One day out shopping I tried the tricks, I looked at a pair of shoes and started to re-experience the feeling of the night before. Not the memory of what had gone on, just the excitement, the intangible part. And I had to go into a changing room to try something on before I was overwhelmed and doubled up there in the middle of the shop. Like Harry Met Sally but without the fake orgasm. This was real. I can make any man (or woman) think he is Liberace. Liberace? No, I mean Cassanova. Trouble is it spoils it for any other woman, the men can see when they are faking it after that (though many don't care), it spoils it for the men too. They'll never turn on a woman like they think they've turned me on. Men are arrogant bastards, they always take all the credit for themselves. Women will tell me usually how sensuous I am and how that makes them feel, men will just assume they are gods.
Each night we explored more sensuous, more personal spaces. You think we've got as personal is it is possible to get? No. His tongue around my anus as he stroked my clitoris. His fingers delving into both my orifices as he made me squeeze pee into his delighted mouth. His hands guiding me to frig myself while his tongue explored further into my mouth than I thought possible without retching. He made me sit astride him (how to sit astride a partially transparent being?) and force out pee while he satisfied me with his mouth. He told me my wee was like finest wine, my vaginal juices the fruit of the gods. And yet still he held himself back. At last I asked why, was I not attractive enough? Was I just a plaything? He looked at me with those smouldering, lustful eyes and said. "tomorrow, go to bed early and take little exercise in the day, you shall be awake all night and shall give me all the pleasure I have given you".
I gave overly dramatic yawns and stretches.
"Bit tired tonight"
"But you've done nothing all day! It's not like we were rushed in the shop" I helped in the shop, though wasn't allowed to sell the bong pipes.
"I know, I'll be better tomorrow" "or perhaps even more tired" I thought.
I couldn't wait to go to bed.
I was excited before he arrived. The thing I wanted most in the world was to excite him, to repay him for his pleasuring of me. His semi-translucent form drifted in. By now I could see him quite well; had he become more solid or had I become more acute? I didn't know and had nothing to compare to.
Naked under the sheets I felt my juices start to flow and my mouth go dry as I watched him undress. He said nothing but watched me all the time. His eyes bored into me and I felt they were undressing me even more, divesting me of any last covering of resistance to any and every experience he might offer. Naked he was impressive. Not in a Mr Universe, muscles in his brain, way. He was in proportion. No bulging muscles or teeny tiny waist. He had a smooth body with just some sculpting indicating a fit rather than a fanatic attitude to health.
"Is this how you looked when you lived here?"
"Yes, I took the form of when I was last able to pleasure ladies in this house"
I could see why his sister might have accepted his advances so readily – especially if she had the same libido as him.
His cock was neither impressive like a donkey, nor particularly thick. I felt a twang of disappointment but then remembered that he obviously knew how to make the most use of what he had. It stood proud and straight with an impressive ball of hair round the base. "A man's forest should complement a woman's garden he whispered as he slid in beside me.
"How do you know when to just pass through things and when to treat them as solid?"
His arm went under my back and then progressed through my body so his hand caressed my left breast while he lay beside me. There was a feeling of ice and pins and needles and tingling where the arm came through me and a feeling of huge pleasure as he stroked my breast from outside and inside the skin.
"Practice" he replied
I couldn't help myself and let out a long, low moan of infinite pleasure. Two weeks ago feeling him so totally inside me would have made me scream, now I wanted him to possess me totally.
"You wouldn't be able to take it" he said "you can die of pleasure you know". I had the feeling he knew this for a fact.