Trick or Trope Ch. 02

Story Info
Every imaginable trope gathers on All Hallows’ Eve.
7.6k words
4.42
9.2k
3
0

Part 2 of the 2 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 08/20/2015
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

Abstract: Every few decades every imaginable trope of All Hallow's Eve gather at a special haunted house for one and only one mysterious purpose, but first the staff must be assembled.

*

As Francette's hands pushed away from the stone bannisters, she feared having been caught listening in on her mistress. Somewhere below in the great hall, the witch continued to gab and banter with the guest, the female vampire -- inamorata -- then again maybe they weren't lovers at all. The fake pleasant conversational tones indicated either that they didn't like each other or that they needed to patch up after a lovers' quarrel. Without stretching herself over the railing, straining to hear, the voices jumbled, lost in echoes bouncing up the dark main stairwell to be quelched by the shuddering of a large mullioned window pelted with rain.

Crouched down on the floor above the two women, Francette could only discern the existence of flitting laughs and gossiping chitchat. It seemed best to slink off, so the French maid quickly slipped away from the museum-like marble posts of the handrail. Pressing her body back against a wall, she prayed the vampire would not chasten her. Vamps clearly heard the single blood droplet hit the floor. There would be no escape if Vamps pounced. In a second, a sudden flashing movement would be followed by fangs sinking deep into the flesh.

Bending over the railing to eavesdrop had been an amateurish mistake. Francette's fingers felt her bleeding neck and the two punctures she had received a few minutes ago. Her mistress witch and the mysterious female vampire were both certainly deadly creatures to avoid.

But were they lovers? The maid wondered how Wicky, in her full length corset dress, could be anyone's lover. Francette remembered dressing the woman once. It was morning and the witch had just fucked a female elf.

Knowing Wicky's gown, Francette wondered how even an eager sexual sweetheart could keep interested after plucking the hundreds of dress buttons that pinned a line down the witch's spine, over the curve of the derrière, and bridged a taunt seam stretched by the bounded legs. Opening the gown would still leave any amorous lover with the task of safe cracking the next layer of exposed endless corseting lacings of the leather underdress. And once that corset shell cracked open -- honestly -- Wicky just didn't seem the type to show a wild unconstrained tenderness. In short, was it worth the work to get in there?

It was difficult imagining Vamps being so patient as to pull and pluck and tug and peal. The stunning undead woman seemed the type capable of taming any creature, but not with patience and empathy -- no -- not Vamps. Whips and chains maybe -- then again, maybe the cruel woman secretly liked being submissive in bed. Wicky could demand her fetish dress be undone slowly and properly. It would be part of the game. She would give orders on how to do it too. But Vamps as a sub seemed impossible.

Francette's mind stuck on that for a moment: hmmm, Vamps as a sub or, more alluring, as someone's sexual pet. A nice little dog collar and leash, maybe? A mistress slapping Vamps with a paddle. Hmm? Never.

The maid continued to slide against the wall towards a darker corner to hide and recoup. Tucked around a corridor, adjacent the great stairs, Francette's isolation helped diminish her anxiety. All her snooping senses returned. Her legs stopped shaking, her stance recovered, and her mind, finally calm, could no longer ignore a door a few feet away, labeled 'servants' all in lowercase -- as any good maid knew a serf's status deserved.

The door creaked as she peered inside afraid to intrude. Her hand found a tiny wall switch, shaped like a Frankenstein lever with exposed copper bars and wires. It zapped her. The electrical work looked like Edison himself installed it. She tried again, finding some remaining rubber covering at the lever's tip. Connecting the flat metal rod to its copper pincher, a tiny bulb overhead glowed. Not much help. She sighed.

She had been in this wing of the manor years ago when she was first captured and trained. Daring to enter, she proceeded down a long narrow corridor. Rain hit the fenestrations to her left. The glass panes were more like waist high portholes, requiring a deep servant's bow to see out. A series of doors to servant rooms were on her right. The hallway was only shoulder width, forcing the puff of her skirts to dust the walls and windowsills as she guardedly crept forward. The narrow hall tapered, becoming more claustrophobic but she knew mere servants did not deserve more.

The bastard architect was obviously a Dom. His dead spirit probably watched her even now, laughing at all the poor women shifting their way inside his misogynistic design.

But where was the staff? A large party needed a staff. Wicky had planned over a hundred guests easily, maybe more, maybe twice or thrice that. Francette's former master had indicated so, plus he warned how Wicky's event would be fraught with dangers for a pretty young woman. Francette remembered climbing into the coffin for shipment. He had smirked at his troubling comment, implying her. His eyes checked her out one last time. He enjoyed seeing the fear his words added to his blood maid's imagination just before he shut the coffin door to send her off to Wicky. The maid remembered almost hyperventilating as the chains went around the pine box, with her inside.

In the gloom of the hallway, the maid stepped forward, pressing her skirts down to keep them clean from the dusty walls rubbing her shoulders. She hesitated. She wanted to keep her hands raised and ready, not busy fussing about her costume. Could someone sneak in from behind? Were wild animals lost in this abandoned wing? She shivered and proceeded a bit more. What good would free agile hands do her anyway? Did she actually think she had some kung fu talent against a monster? She missed her former master because she knew what to expect from him; draining her of blood night after night -- enjoying her like a human aperitif.

Lightning flashed from the windows, dimming the one overhead electric bulb for a second as wind and rain rattled the glass panes. Her muscles tensed waiting for the storm's rumbling thunder. It didn't come. She relaxed. Then it hit hard, shaking the house and her nerves. The rolling noise subsided, yet the house shook again as if enjoying her anxiety.

It seemed like she was being watched.

Forcing herself onward, she checked the first room with its built-in linen cabinets and a large wood worktable. Chains hung from the corners as if a prisoner had once been laid out, limbs splayed, wrists and ankles clamped in metal. At the head of the table, a rack holding dust covered rolls of giftwrap paper, faded Holiday prints of red, green and gold, seemed out of place, flat out odd. Inside the room, she brushed off her petticoats and sorted through the puff to wipe off her ruffled panties and check her garters. Cobwebs from the sills stuck to every frill. Sticky strands clung to her fingers as she extracted them from her costume. Everything surface around her was dust and webs -- except the portion of the hallway she had already traversed. That was clean now. Looking around, the space was empty cold and drafty. Checking behind the door muffled the rain. Nothing. Dead quiet.

She continued further down the passage. The one light bulb, now behind her, forced her shadow to block the view. She raised her hands to be on guard. Her fingertips lightly caressed the walls that sandwiched her body as she probed further and further down the tapering hall. The location just needed a floating lamp or a pair of twins saying, "Play with us," or a -- she turned her head over her shoulder. Maybe an axe murderer sneaking up from behind would be good horror movie casting. She pushed forward, hearing the rain and feeling the window handles tug at her costume. Her skirts helplessly cleaned the rest of the gossamers away.

The next door displayed a corroded brass plate labeled "chauffeur." Inside, she saw a thin uncomfortable looking mattress rolled-up and left sitting on a metal spring frame. Nothing else. She moved onto the adjacent room, which was labeled 'maids.' It was larger than the chauffeur's room and done to accommodate two racks of bunk beds and more mattress rolls. It felt unpleasant with its unvarnished wood floors and walls. A broken wood frame on the floor encased an oil painting of a naked women wrapped in a serpent. Behind her, a forest with owls eyes leered at her body.

"Creepy," said Francette, "so many eyes doing the watching. No? But kind of a turn on. Mmm. Oui?" She decided to come back for the picture later.

Hopefully the next room was better.

Her long lashes batted several times as she squinted to see in the bleak shadows ahead. There was only one more room at the end. As she approached the door of the last room, a bright gold embossed nametag became readable with a few convenient strikes of lighting: 'francette' -- spelled in lowercase -- and a title underneath 'head maid,' of course, lowercase too.

How did Wicky arrange the brass plate so fast? She was a witch. She probably just 'willed' it to be so. Francette's fingertips stroked her name pressed in metal. The house shivered. Perhaps thunder? Her eyes glanced around. She felt like a voyeuristic victim of some hidden spirit.

Shrugging her shoulders in dismissal of obvious danger, as all women alone in a haunted house inevitably do before stripping themselves naked, she focused again on the title of head maid. Maybe this was some kind of an offer to make her stay on after the party, remain forever as a servant for dark spirits. Her long nails tapped the name. No, she would leave, but she felt excited and honored to be given the title of 'head maid' -- even without capital letters.

She entered the bedroom. It was luxurious unlike the cold emptiness of the other rooms. It was warm. A cast iron wood stove burned orange inside. The bedroom was flat-out grand. Someone had taken care of every detail from a spacious four-post bed to a lovely set of window curtains with gilded ropes holding them open. Red flowery wallpaper climbed the tall walls. She opened an armoire door almost as tall as the room. Inside was everything she needed, a dozen neatly hung maid costumes and several black high heels. A stack of drawers contained the frilliest of ruffled panties, the smoothest of silk stockings, and to cover the shear hosiery with a little kinkiness, mesh stockings for texture. She felt giddy and sashayed passed the bed and into her own bathroom.

She was in heaven.

In the bathroom, she pressed her apron and flouncy skirts against a porcelain sink with its retro ceramic centered stand. Her heels clicked on the tiny hexagon floor tiles. A hard toggle of a brass switch, a remnant from the 1920's, turned on some dim lights over the sink's mirror. She started the water and hummed to herself as she dowsed a washcloth. Her reflection showed her neck's deep puncture marks and dried splattered drips that she wiped off her pillowy breasts. She even washed down into her cleavage under the dress's material, rubbing across her nipples. Her short skirts pushed over the sink's rim. She could feel the cold porcelain against the tops of her thighs. She felt a little horny. Maybe it was a relief getting away from her master vampire -- he was beyond cruel -- or the idea of being free in one week -- or the fabulous bedroom or being a head maid. But somehow she knew it was something else.

Actually, when she thought about it, she was enjoying the idea of being watched. She felt a presence, something innate to the house. She looked into the mirror, held her double D-cups and leaned forward, knees straight, performing a bow at her hips. She liked the view in the mirror. She was a hottie after all. Why not have someone watch her? She pursed her lips and kissed her reflection, leaving perfect red lipstick marks on the glass. Her boobs jiggled as the house shook. What was that?

The running faucet water sputtered when she reached out and touched the lipstick marks. She looked down at the spout, gave it a gentle caress and felt the whole room shake again. The surrounding tiled walls changed to match the mirror. Her reflection showed crystal clear in every surface -- even the painted wood trim mirrored back her image. The painted radiator pipes were perfect chrome reflectors. Spots of rust on a steam pipe also shined like chrome. The floor's white tiles morphed to reflect a clear view up her ruffled skirts. She felt like the whole room studied her thoroughly. She stroked the faucet again. It moved. In fact it grew. She rubbed the shiny nozzle knob once more, griping it firmly this time. The flowing water stopped as the tap transformed. Its metal animated and stretched, altering itself from a curve aimed down at a drain to being an upward erect arch, pointing straight at her.

An irresistible compulsion built inside her. It was shameful. She thought, 'Nobody was here though. Why not?' She stooped and gave the faucet's tip a lick. She had learned that the center ripple on the underside of a man's penis tip to the shaft was extra sensitive. Special attention there always led to a strong reaction, one she had seen from her vampire master, who had taught her that "tip."

She gave the faucet's matching location a good side-to-side lick. The room violently shook. She took the chrome metal into her mouth, her boobs dipped into the sink, and her hands grabbed the porcelain side rims. The whole house shivered as she pushed forward taking the metal shaft deep into her mouth, while swirling her tongue around its underside, letting her lips rub the shaft's circumference, as she moved her head closer towards the base.

The room jolted, maybe the whole house. She could see her wide smoky-shadowed eyes mirrored back in every bathroom tile of the backsplash. Thousands of her surprised eyes stared her down from the walls and ceiling, all shaming her so wonderfully, egging her on. She blinked. The army of her mirrored eyes waited and then blinked too. They all stared so intently at her. Eyes, watching from to the furthest glass panes, strained to their corners to get a glimpse. She was the center of attention. Just her.

She slid the phallic faucet in and out of her mouth, faster and faster. The small bath chamber turned steamy. The mirrors fogged as her tongue slid across the smooth metal rod. She felt an urgency to think of what to do next. How should she keep this spirit, this house, interested? Thinking of an inanimate house as being a real person caught her by surprise, but she continued her act of fellatio. She thought she was doing quite well until the lights dimmed. Was she being critiqued? Was that a good or bad sign? She continued to suck the metal inwards even harder till it touched her throat and then she squeezed her lungs, building a slow slurpy pressure to slide the metal out. She returned to gradually increasing her speed and, as she kept the sink entertained, she reached under her skirts and pulled down her ruffled satin panties.

The house probably assumed what might be next since the faucet reacted by angling upwards. It wanted her as much as she wanted to know what it would be like.

She dropped her panties, pulled her mouth away, and climbed up onto the porcelain sink, straddling its basin and mounting its faucet. Colors flashed across the bathroom tiles like a light show in sync with the maid's eager moaning motions going up and down. She wasn't concerned with getting off for herself. Her deepest apprehension was to be good enough to get the house off, to give it a happy ending. It turned her on. Being used, conquered -- all the fantasies -- burned and pounded in her mind. Her heart raced, her imagination too. Her chest and hands squeaked against the steamy mirrored wall. Drips formed and fell in streaks. She tried to hold back. She worried doing so might appear mechanical. Still the passion built. Her thrusting became too fast now to stop, her whole being lost in the moment of joy.

More nagging mental distractions started to interfere with her pleasure. Was she too fast or too slow? She tried to set worries aside and ignore her insecurities. Still, they returned like A.D.D. -- wilder questions came to mind as she pumped the rod: would she be magically transformed? Roman mythology had people turned into objects. One woman became a weeping willow tree. The danger that this might be the end actually thrilled her. She wanted some one to love and protect her. She loved handing control over to them. Let them decide her fate. She pressed her hands down into the basin to take some weight off her tiring thighs. She truly loved giving herself over to someone or something. But nagging logic kicked-in again. She didn't want anything serious just now. She wasn't looking for a relationship. But why worry about this? She opened her eyes as she continued to drive the faucet home. She wanted to ask if a short fling was OK. Should she ask?

"Oh, oh," she huffed, still gyrating her hips. "I don't want the long term thing -- thingy. Oui?" There was no answer as she squeezed the faucet with her vaginal walls. Her body and soul wanted nothing but to be of service -- to please. No one ever appreciated that part of her. She grabbed a nearby towel rack to switch her weight to her shoulder muscles.

Was she getting somewhere? She wasn't going to be able to hold this pace forever. She also needed her own release soon. Holding back was becoming impossible, but the relationship thing was still bothering her. Her mind was so muddled. The worries were so absurd -- was she actually worried about having a long-term relationship with a house?

The lights over the mirror flashed faster and faster. She moved her hips to keep pace, which also built her pending climax. She held back until she felt the faucet starting to pulsate inside her. Warmth flowed into her body. Now she could finally let herself go. The bathroom door slammed shut behind her. She turned to look and then assumed the house just wanted to assure some privacy. Did she do it right? Was she good? Should she move or would that disturb the house's orgasm?

She decided to slowly rock and rotate just a bit to keep things interesting, but she never let up on firmly squeezing the phallic metal inside her body and pressing it as deep as she could to let the faucet fill her full of warm liquid. She wasn't certain what was entering her body. The lack of knowledge was a rush in itself. Was all this good, bad or just sinful? She didn't know.

All the noisy thoughts turned her on. Her vaginal walls palpitated in waves, warming her whole body, making her stretch back and scream till she felt her ribs vibrate. She stopped, realizing that she was sitting centered over a basin with her puffy skirts covering the surrounding virgin white porcelain, now not so pure. She couldn't see what was occurring under her. It was a mystery what had just happened and how the parts fit together. The room stopped reflecting her image. The only reflection of her now was in the mirror where she could see her long hair disheveled in a mess covering her eyes, her hair's updo completely undone.

It was so quiet. She gathered her thoughts, stroked a hand through her hair, lifting strands off her face and sticky lips. Her shoes had fallen to the floor. Her skirts felt wet from the water all around the sink. The metal in her pussy suddenly turned cold and retreated, leaving her spread eagle on top of the sink with her hands pressed against the wall, her breasts heaving, and her body exhausted.

The room felt empty.

"Where are you? Comeback," she pleaded. She weakly gave the wall a gentle couple knocks of a fist and pressed her ear to the wall. "Maison?" She returned to her non-existent knowledge of French and her exaggerated porno accent. "Merci, maison." Trying to think in French, she added "Es-ce-se -- um?" She didn't know why she even tried to speak French. She took a towel from a rack within reach and wiped sweat off her face and across her exposed cleavage. She reached under the costume's puff and did a quick finger probe. She felt shame that she actually liked finding some stickiness to the warmth pumped inside her.