We are the Guest
Copyright© 2025 by The Dexter
Chapter 1
Supernatural Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A remote house. Four friends seeking shelter from the storm and a stranger hiding something beneath the floor. What begins with romance and playful moments soon turns into a night none of them will ever forget.
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa NonConsensual Cuckold BDSM Interracial Black Male Voyeurism Cannibalism AI Generated
The clock on the dashboard read 5:42. Over the past hour, most of the spots along the library curb had cleared out. Across the lane, a groundskeeper was hauling a big plastic trash bin toward the maintenance shed, its wheels rattling loudly over the seams in the asphalt.
Ethan jabbed the back of my seat with the toe of his sneaker. “Call her again.”
“Her phone is buried in her bag,” I said, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. “She never checks it when she’s in the stacks.”
“It’s been twenty minutes. The campus is pretty much shut down.”
Jennifer shifted in the back seat, glancing up from her phone. “She’s fine, Ethan. She probably got stuck waiting for the printer on the second floor. That thing always jams on Fridays.”
“She isn’t printing,” Ethan said. “She’s looking at books she doesn’t have time to read.”
The library’s heavy glass doors swung open before Ethan could start up again.
Patricia came down the granite steps with four thick hardcovers pressed against her ribs and her canvas tote sliding down to her wrist. She walked fast, her chin tucked into the collar of her jacket to keep the wind off her neck.
She opened the passenger door, dropped the books onto the floorboard between her boots, and slid into the seat.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling the door shut. She brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. “The line at the reserve desk took forever.”
“Four books?” I asked, resting my hand on the gearshift.
“One of them is for Jennifer,” Patricia said, looking back over the headrest. “They had the third edition of the Norton anthology. It’s got markings all over it, but the poems are all there.”
Jennifer leaned forward and pulled it off the top of the pile. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Great,” Ethan said. “Can we get out of here now before it starts raining?”
Just as I was about to shift into reverse, someone rapped two knuckles on the driver’s side glass.
I stepped on the brakes and rolled the window down halfway.
It was Victor, one of the clerks from the library basement. He was in his fifties, with thin gray hair combed flat and small, round glasses that already had water droplets on the lenses. His brown canvas coat was buttoned all the way up to his chin.
“Sorry to hold you folks up,” Victor said, leaning down a little so his voice carried through the gap. “Are you heading out toward the bypass?”
“Eventually,” I said. “We were going to drop Ethan and Jennifer off first. Is everything okay?”
Victor used his thumb to brush a water droplet off the bridge of his nose. “My starter quit working around noon, and the local transit authority canceled the evening route because of the long weekend. The last bus came through at five.” He looked back at the empty faculty lot. “I wouldn’t be asking, but the storm is coming in fast, and my place is past the creek.”
A big raindrop splattered against the windshield, spreading flat on the glass, and then another followed.
“Where past the creek?” Ethan asked from behind me.
“Just beyond the old quarry turnoff,” Victor replied. “If you could drop me at the bridge on Old Mill Road, I can walk the gravel lane. It’s ten minutes from the main asphalt.”
I glanced over at Patricia. She gave a small, easy nod. It wasn’t much out of the way, maybe five or six miles along the back route.
“Get in the back,” I told him, unlocking the doors. “Slide over, Ethan.”
Victor opened the door and got in beside Ethan, pulling his coat tight around his knees. He smelled like cold air, damp wool, and old paper. “I really appreciate it. My hip starts bothering me whenever it gets this damp.”
We drove out through the university gates just as the rain began settling into a steady rhythm. In five minutes, the streetlights and the commercial strip were behind us. The road got narrower, losing its painted center line as it wound into the scrub oak and pines along the township border.
“Take the left fork up ahead,” Victor said after a few miles.
I slowed down and turned. The asphalt ran out right at the bend, becoming packed gravel and red dirt. The tires kicked up loose stones that pinged against the floorboards.
“You live out here by yourself?” Jennifer asked, gazing out her window at the dark wall of trees.
“Since my brother moved out to Ohio,” Victor said. “About twenty years now. It gets quiet, but you get used to the space.”
The rain came down harder, drumming on the metal roof. The dirt road sank into a low patch between two ridges, and the ruts started filling with muddy water. I had to grip the wheel with both hands to keep the tires from sliding in the grease.
Then the road evened out, and I saw the water.
A ditch on the right side had backed up against a clogged pipe. A sheet of brown runoff was washing straight across the lane, about ten feet wide and deep enough that the rocks beneath were invisible. Small tree limbs were caught against the mud on the shoulder.
I brought the car to a stop six feet from the edge and shifted it into park.
“I can’t take this through there,” I said, keeping my foot on the brake. “The front bumper is too low. We’ll sink right into the muck.”
Ethan leaned between the two front seats to look. “Can you back it out?”
“It’s a quarter-mile of narrow dirt with ditches on both sides,” I said. “The back glass is completely fogged up. If a wheel slips off the edge, we’re stuck out here until Monday.”
Victor leaned forward, pointing past the sweep of the wipers toward the left side of the road. “My house is right through those hemlocks. There’s a footbridge over the ditch that stays above the high water.”
“How far?” Patricia asked.
“A hundred yards,” Victor said. “Look, this runoff usually drains down twenty minutes after the hard rain slows up. You can come inside, get out of the cold, and wait it out. It’s better than sitting in a car with the battery draining and the windows frosted.”
Jennifer looked at the black trees, pulling her jacket closer. “Is there a path?”
“A gravel one,” Victor said. “It’s dry enough as long as you watch your step.”
Patricia looked my way. “He’s right about the car. If we turn the engine off, it’ll be freezing in here within five minutes.”
“All right,” I said. I switched the headlights off and shut down the engine.
The silence inside the car came at once, broken only by the heavy, hollow drumming of rain on the roof.
We opened the doors and climbed out into the mud. After the warm heater, the cold air felt sharp. Victor took a small metal flashlight from his pocket and cast a thin, yellow beam over the weeds. He led the way down a narrow track that stayed along the high bank, skirting the flooded ditch.
The hemlocks above blocked some of the downpour, but whenever the wind shook them, the branches dumped cold water down in sheets. We walked single file, holding our collars shut, our boots squelching in the wet needles.
After two minutes, the path opened onto crushed stone.
Victor’s house stood in the middle of a small clearing. It was a tall, plain two-story building with weathered gray siding and a steep tin roof. Most of the windows were dark, but an old porcelain fixture above the front porch held a bare yellow bulb that lit the wet floorboards of the steps.
Victor walked up to the door, took a single brass key from his pocket, and turned the lock.
The door opened with a dull click, letting out a faint smell of dry pine boards, old books, and wood smoke.
“Come on in,” Victor said, using his arm to hold the screen door open. “Keep your boots on the rubber mat against the wall so we don’t track the red clay inside.”
Patricia walked in first, clutching her canvas bag against her stomach. Ethan and Jennifer came in right after her, their shoulders soaked dark with water.
I climbed up onto the porch, shook the rain out of my hair, and went inside, pulling the heavy wood door closed behind us. We pulled our boots off by the front door and set them on a wide black rubber tray, which already had a worn pair of garden clogs sitting on it. The floorboards were bare pine, and they felt so cold under my socks that I kept to the woven runner stretching down the hall.
Victor put his canvas coat on a cast-iron hook beside the door, pushed his hair back with both hands, and pointed toward the archway on the left.
“Make yourselves at home,” he said. “The register under the window gives off decent heat. I’ll put some water on the stove.”
The living room had low ceilings and smelled of dry firewood and dust. It seemed smaller than it did from outside, mainly because two of the walls were filled floor-to-ceiling with pine bookshelves packed with paperbacks, trade journals, and old National Geographics piled sideways. An upright floor lamp with a pleated parchment shade threw a dim, butter-colored circle over a brown corduroy sofa and two mismatched armchairs.
Patricia placed her stack of library books on the corner of a low coffee table, being careful not to tip over a ceramic dish full of matchbooks. She rubbed her upper arms through her cardigan. “I forgot how heavy four hardcovers get when you’re jogging through the mud.”
“I told you to leave two of them in the trunk,” Ethan said, dropping heavily into the corner of the sofa. He leaned his head back against the cushion with a dull thud. “Now they’re stuck out here with the car.”
“They’re fine on the table,” Patricia said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and tucking her feet beneath her. She looked at Jennifer, who had taken the smaller armchair by the radiator. “You’re still borrowing the Norton, right?”
“If we ever make it back to town, yeah,” Jennifer said. She was resting her chin on her hand, looking at an old black-and-white framed print of a railway bridge on the far wall. “My paper is due Tuesday morning.”
Ethan stole a quick look at her from the corner of his eye. “I figured you’d be writing that tomorrow afternoon.”
“I was going to,” Jennifer replied, keeping her eyes off him. “Before we got stuck out here in the woods.”
“We’re not stuck,” Ethan mumbled, pressing his thumbs into the denim of his jeans. “The rain will stop, the puddle will dry up, and we’ll grab tacos just like we planned.”
“You never planned tacos,” Jennifer pointed out. “You only mentioned you were hungry three minutes before we left the parking lot.”