Chapter 1: Ghosts and Demons - an Introduction

My name is Alicia. If two years ago someone would have told me I am a slut and a whore, I might have sued them or at least threatened with it. I was a well-behaved girl, conscious of other people's opinions and very well able to keep my darker fantasies a secret. I was a well-respected businesswoman with my own graphic design studio. I also was a self-proclaimed lesbian after my husband of seven years divorced me to live with his secretary. Since that day I decided all men are pigs. So how come that by now I'd welcome any man with a functioning cock to ravage my ass-hole or send his spunk down my throat — even in that sequence?

The reason is that I am a whore and a slut — I always was. There have been times when I thought differently, but I guess I was fooling myself. You see, if two years ago someone would have walked up to me and pointed out an anonymous man telling me to suck him off, I would have turned crimson and would have yelled at him to piss off. Today my little heart surges at the mere thought — and my pussy starts flowing. Or rather my cunt, as I call it now.

One might say I have come a long way, or fallen deep, depending on one's outlook. But I know that isn't true. I have always been like this. I just didn't admit to it until someone pointed it out to me. That someone owns me now, I am her property. She made me her slave and in doing so, set me free. Yes, you'd call that a contradiction. I would too, but right now I know better. It set me free to do whatever she asked me to do. It pleases me to obey. No, it more than pleases me — I would die if she left me.

Before we go on, let me first invite you to the house where I was born and where I lived the biggest part of my life. It was mine, I'd inherited it, but I wonder if it was a house at all. In the darkest hour of the night it felt more like a tall, huge skeleton of shadows — the belly of a crouching dragon. I stumbled through it on bare feet, feeling my way through velvet darkness, sensing the cool shrouds of familiar ghosts grazing my face. Don't be afraid, to you they would have been perfectly harmless — I'd be surprised if you'd even have felt their presence. You see, they were entirely mine; they were the demons of my youth.

My house was old. It stood near a lake at the outskirts of a sprawling town in the foothills of a northeastern state where winters are cruel and autumns spectacular. The house creaked with the smallest breeze and there was always a corner where water would seep in when it rained. Sometimes the basement flooded. During daytime it echoed with the sounds of emptiness, only occasionally interrupted by the murmurs of a lonely voice. But at night the ghosts rushed in to fill the void — and to rob me of my sleep.

Firstly, there was the silent ghost of my father. It was as cold in death as he was in life — an ambitious immigrant who never allowed his warmth to show through need to climb socially and be accepted in the country of his dreams. But he was gone. And all he left behind for his neglected youngest daughter was this skeleton of a house — plus the eternal certainty that she was inadequate.

Then there was the ghost of my mother, who always knew how to behave — outwardly. And more specifically, who knew how her daughter should behave. There was never a question about what I might have wanted, or even what I might have been able to do or be. My small fingers were trained and molded to conquer the piano during endless afternoons with cruel taskmasters who were more interested in my flirting mother than my limited talents. They taught me how to play. I even started teaching others. But after my mother died, I never touched a key again. Yet, her ghost wailed in there every night to keep me feeling guilty of wasting a talent I never had.