Gull Cottage HorrorbyA_Little_Show©
This is a 2013 Halloween contest entry. Please vote.
This story contains dark supernatural events. If you are turned off by scenes of danger, memories of loss, references to the occult, or depictions of acute embarrassment - this story is not for you.
Scene 1: Post Office
"Gull Cottage? We've had a box he-ah fo-ah ages. Old Doc Strong cancelled home deliv-ah-ry before my time. I'll check the box in the back."
"I appreciate it," Mrs. Bloom replied to the handsome young man's back.
"Ah-yup, Here's ah stack fo-ah ya. Do ya want it deliv-ahed from now on?"
Excessively tight uniform pants accentuated the man's buttocks when he bent to reach under the counter. He produced a ledger and flipped through the pages. "I'll make ah note and fill out ah change slip."
"Thanks," she answered by reflex while sifting through ads and bills.
"Sign he-ah please."
Mrs. Bloom accepted an offered pen still warm from the worker's breast pocket. She scrawled her signature, Iris Bloom, on the indicated line.
A large hand touched her gently at the wrist as she dropped the pen. "Iris is it? I'm Ian Lawson - pleased ta meet ya."
The man-boy's silly grin forced a matching expression onto her lips.
"You know, it's strange," Ian mused as he subconsciously touched his face. "Someone's been paying for the box all this time or it would-ha been rented ta someone else by now."
"Since Dr. Strong died? How does someone pay for a post office box without leaving a paper trail?"
"It's a good question - It is. See he-ah in the book?" A thick finger tapped on a yellowed page. "It's mawked paid every month - going back years - paid in cash too, or there'd be check numbahs in the notes field."
"What about this?" Mrs. Bloom held a flimsy air-mail envelope addressed to "Resident."
"T'was in ya box, and it says resident - looks ta be for ya."
"OK," she shrugged and dropped the pile into her purse. "Did you know Dr. Strong?"
"Yup - Everyone round he-ah did. He delivered half us. He set ma ahm after mah accident."
"I'm sorry I never met him. My parents rented the cottage down on the beach every summer. I'd see lights in the windows and smoke from the chimney, but we never spotted him."
"There's a beach house over there?"
"The old place washed away with the storm back in '93. We didn't hear about it until the next summer."
"Folks say t'was a sad time." The postal worker shook his head. "Course, the town's all built back since then."
"I hardly recognized it when I came back," Iris agreed.
"Times change for good or naught."
"Yeah," Mrs. Bloom sighed and looked at her feet.
"What bah-rings ya back?"
"Oh, I needed a change of scenery. My husband died a couple of years ago. I kept thinking about happy times on the beach. I needed an excuse to return, I guess. When I spotted the listing for Gull Cottage, I thought, why not?"
"I'm sorry a-boot ya husband. Been a couple-a years ya say?"
"Yeah. He built a claptrap airplane to reenact the Wright Brothers' and survived the crash long enough to apologize. He had a good heart."
"How long wah ya married?"
"Five years," Iris admitted wistfully. "We were trying to start a family."
"That sucks," he cursed shaking his head and making a whirl of hair bounce.
"Yeah - sucks."
A young couple with children banged into the Post Office to distract Ian before he asked any more uncomfortable questions. Iris exhaled relief and used the commotion to slip away.
Scene 2: Foreign Business
The air-mail envelope contained a single sheet of onion paper bearing an international phone number and a long sequence of digits labeled "account." Guessing the phone number reached someone sound asleep in Europe, Iris Bloom set the mystery on a bedside table before turning out her reading lamp. She tossed all night dreaming of a storm breaking windows and waves crashing on the beach. When she woke, the light of dawn cast a solitary ray through a crack between curtains.
Iris rinsed her face and sipped a cup of coffee before succumbing to curiosity and dialing the phone.
"I'm calling regarding a letter I received."
"One moment please," the clatter of a keyboard filled the void until a woman's voice returned. "Please state your name and address."
"Iris Bloom - 300 Cove Road, Marietta Maine, U.S.A."
"Just another moment Ms. Bloom. Yes, I have it. Please read the account number."
"Can you tell me what this is about?" Mrs. Bloom asked with more patience than she felt.
"I have some legal notices, and it looks like we have items entailed to your residence as well. If you provide the account numbers and security code, I'll have everything delivered within a couple of weeks."
"Ah, OK," Mrs. Bloom stammered before reading the numbers. "Do I need a lawyer?"
"I can't say Ms. Bloom, but instructions for the account suggest our business is concluded once you receive the items."
"What should I expect?"
"It doesn't say here. I'm sorry."
"Well, thank you anyway."
"You're welcome." The phone clicked leaving Iris unenlightened.
Scene 3: Masturbation
A chill zephyr straightened the short hairs on her neck. Iris lay above the blankets in the otherwise cozy bedroom. Thick curtains as old as the house blocked enough morning light to preserve a gloom matching the widow's mood. Shame surged when the buzzing purple wand touched her.
"I'm a grown woman," she exclaimed into the dark.
Her body never abandoned its cravings - even when her mind refused to acknowledge. A supposedly interminable frost thawed when Iris discovered herself daydreaming about young Ian. His cheery outlook reminded her of lighthearted times.
Embarrassment joined shame as Iris recalled the effort needed to find her old toys amongst still-packed boxes. Of course, the batteries were dead. She blushed while paying for the fresh 20-count pack of AAs, and the drugstore cashier smirked in response.
A light touch communicated the buzz to folds neighboring her clitoris. Iris teased herself ferrying moisture from her depths to her humming button. "I've been masturbating for almost two decades. What's got into me now?" she wondered.
Breath accelerated, and the wand pressed harder to her protective hood. Juices danced between her lips and shivers traveled from her core to her knees. She looked around the darkened room expecting to see someone. She felt watched, but it was impossible. The tingles spread along her spine, and she abandoned rationality for a time. She concentrated on sensations alone, but flashbacks of Ian's tight bottom and sparkling eyes and wavy blonde bangs invaded. "ah-ah-oh-ee-an," she sputtered when the long overdue orgasm crashed.
The magic wand flopped from her fingers dragging a slippery trail and tickling her thigh. Her chest heaved and sweat beaded between her breasts. "It was good," she confessed to herself, and scanned the room one more time.
"Who's here?" she asked and received the expected silence as answer.
Over the next week, her period came and went, but Iris masturbated right through. Her libido's thaw bloomed into full heat while the weather outside turned cold. Unshakable paranoia about being watched morphed into illicit exhibitionist thrill. She came in every room of the house because she could. She shouted, "Like that, did you?" after a rousing session with the hand held shower massager.
Between bouts of lust, Iris unpacked and found time to shop. The small village provided ample opportunities to spy Ian. She chatted with him over coffee one day and purchased stamps she didn't need another. He flirted capably, and she relished the attention. Her coquettish social muscles ached from exertion, but it was a "good burn." Flattery strengthened and toughened a tender part of her soul.
On a lazy Saturday morning, Iris grunted her frustrations. A realistic veined dildo refused to cooperate. Her husband, Martin, gave it to her early in their relationship while they still dated. The couple browsed in a Spencer's novelty store when he said, "This one is so similar to mine ... someone must have made a mold while I wasn't looking." He teased her until she blushed and whispered, "get use to it, so you'll feel comfortable when I give you the real thing." She accepted the copy and the original later that night.
The precious reminder of her husband wasn't a very good toy in the final analysis. A bulky suction cup at the base made it cumbersome to hold yet didn't stick very well to surfaces. After several fruitless trials walking naked from room to room, Iris found success with the thing affixed to ceramic wall tile near the floor in the kitchen. She triumphed on her hands and knees backing onto the rod doggy style.
By the time Iris settled onto the lifelike knob, she no longer cared where, when or how it happened. It wobbled and penetrated and dredged up forgotten sensations. She imagined Martin taking her while she rocked her hips and savored the in/out stretching and clenching. Her forehead brushed the floor as she guided the cock with one hand and savaged her clit with the other. She wanted it rough.
Iris closed her eyes to indulge curiosity wondering what kind of meat swung between Ian's legs. Her imagination conflated the shape of Martin's cock with the youthful zeal of Ian mounting her. Her reverie broke when a shadow fell across her body. She opened her eyes to see nothing unusual. "Damnit, I know somebody's watching me," she yelled and ground against the wall. Tears streaked her face when the stupid toy broke free, but she was too close to stop. "Ahhhhhh," she screamed, and a disappointing orgasm left her drained. She splayed like a corpse on the kitchen floor and cried while her vagina clutched the invader still dangling from her crotch.
Time moved at a dreary pace, but eternal moments later, Iris heard a sharp rapping on the leaded glass of the front door.
She scrambled to her feet to fetch her robe from the nearby bathroom and nearly tripped from the chaffing suction cup still between her thighs. A guttural moan escaped when she bent at the waist to yank the infernal rubber booby prize and toss it against the far wall.
Scene 4: Voyeurism and Delivery
"How long have you been here?" she asked.
"A few minutes," Ian admitted.
"I don't suppose you tried the kitchen door a few minutes ago?"
"Yeah. I though so," Iris sighed making plans to die from terminal embarrassment later. "What can I do for you?" She tugged the terry cloth belt of her robe tighter.
"I have a Priority Mail delivery. I, ah, need your signature."
"Well, where is it?" Iris sounded more angry than she intended.
"Um. I ah - dropped it around back. You ah, surprised me."
"Come on in," she offered and stepped aside to clear the portal. As he passed, Iris brushed a couple of ladybugs from Ian's shoulder and tossed them outside. The unkempt grass in the yard harbored a population explosion. They often rode into the house on clothing.
He followed her sheepishly through the house to the kitchen and the back door. He glanced at the glistening rubber penis for an instant. Iris unbolted the back door and tiptoed onto the freezing flagstone path to retrieve her package.
"There's a letter, too," Ian remembered. He dug through the bag slung over his shoulder and selected a large cardboard envelope.
"I wonder what's in it," Iris voiced mostly to herself. "It's the right size to contain a human head."
Ian paled and regarded the miniature wooden crate. "Maybe the ra-ght size ta contain a basketball," he hazarded.
"Would you like some tea or coffee?" Iris realized she was lonely and dreaded the emotion kept at bay by the brave face she showed her visitor. Mortal humiliation awaited the moment he allowed time for her to admit the truth of the situation to herself.
"Ah'd love ta - really Iris," he blushed, "but, ah," he gestured to the full bag over his shoulder. "I, ha, came here first."
"OK, Ian. You go do your job."
They both glanced at the forlorn toy.
"Ah'd love to come back late-ah." he forced a smile.
"If I'm still here, that'll be lovely." Her smile convinced nobody.
Scene 5: Coffee Shop with Ian
"You know," he said, "I sing show-tunes while I mast-ah-bate."
Iris looked over her shoulder in the crowded coffee shop to find Ian grinning behind her. She set her mug on the table with a shaky hand.
"Tell me that isn't true."
"Well, maybe not show-tunes. It's TV theme songs."
Iris gestured for the younger man to sit across from her.
"Which theme songs?"
"You got me. I thought of the most embah-wassing confession ah could make."
They stared into each other's eyes.
"Twas the sexiest thing ev-ah," he said and pulled her folded hands to the center of the table where he covered them with his own. His rock steady warmth stilled the tremors in her arms.
"Ah'd like ta see it again," he winked.
Iris pulled her hands away and settled them in her lap. Color drained from her face and surged back in a brighter shade of red.
The bubbly blonde Adonis opened his mouth to comment but changed his mind. The couple sat in silence. He started again and stopped. The contortion of emotions crossing his face made Iris want to smile in spite of herself.
"Yah'll have ta watch me sing the tunes. Ya know - even the scales."
Iris smiled. "Are you offering me a visual treat or threatening?"
"I ah, um - will ya go out with me? Ya know - on ah date."
"What do you have in mind?"
"How aboot dinnah and ah movie?"
"I'll cook the dinner. You bring the movie."
"Sure." Iris Bloom studied her suitor's face watching it light with obvious delight. His authentic unguarded response reassured her. Voicing the thought as it popped into her head, she wondered, "You don't play poker - do you?"
"Ah-nope. Why do ya ask?"
"Don't start," she replied with conviction.
"What was in the crate?" Ian asked to change the subject.
"It was an urn with Dr. Strong's ashes. He didn't have any family, and his lawyers sent a letter asking me to keep the urn in the house."
"Are yah going ta do it?"
"I guess so. It was the guy's last wish. It can stay with the house until it's someone else's problem."
"What happens if yah don't keep it?"
"Probably nothing. The letter said to spread the ashes in the woods around the cottage if I didn't want them inside. I doubt the attorneys would ever know if I tossed the old doctor in the trash."
"Huh. Was that it?"
"No. There was a key too."
"What's it ta?"
"I don't know. It's one of those big old keys."
"Do ya have a cell-ah?"
"Yah know - fo-ah shelt-ah in sto-ahms."
"Most old houses have some-ting."
"I haven't see anything like that. Could it be outside?"
"Yah'd see ah bulkhead if twas. Maybe a doo-ah in the floo-ah?"
"I haven't seen any trap doors either."
"Look und-ah the floo-ah cove-ah."
Scene 6: Sexy Times with Ian
Iris cracked the oven to check the chicken breasts. She made a simple white wine sauce with herbs. She reduced the recipe's garlic in case the evening evolved into kissing. As the oven snapped shut, rapping on the glass of the kitchen door announced Ian's arrival.
"You hoped to get another show?" she accused when her guest crossed the threshold.
"Ah-yup," he said around gleaming teeth and glanced at the invisible monument marking the last resting place of the infernal toy.
"What's the movie?"
"'Devil's Advocate' with Al Pacino."
"Weren't you about five years old when that came out?"
"Ah like old movies almost as much as ah like old-ah women."
"I was too young to see it when it came out, too - thank you very much."
"A wine sauce. Are you old enough to drink?"
"Ah am since last June."
"Whew, I dodged a bullet there," Iris conceded with dripping sarcasm and stirred green beans in a pot.
Ian stepped close enough for a whiff of clean man to reach Iris. He peered over her shoulder at the pot.
"Anything ah can do ta help?"
"Just have a seat. It'll come out of the oven in a jiffy."
"It does," she agreed, but they may have been describing different scents.
Dinner passed in a whirl leaving a pile of dishes in the sink and leftovers in the refrigerator. The couple retreated to a couch in front of the TV. As the movie started, Iris propped her head on Ian's shoulder. It felt right. He held her hand against his leg.
While distracted by the movie, Iris noticed Ian lightly touching her captive hand with his free one. He held her palm out and explored the tips of her fingers. Feather light caresses across her palm to her wrist created the oddest sensation. Over the next half hour, Ian worked his way to her elbow. He remained engrossed by the movie, but Iris lost track of the plot. Every stroke started a tingle.
"I missed being touched," she whispered and blew a little ladybug off his ear.
Above the elbow, Ian's methodical quest halted at the barrier of her rolled-up sweater sleeve. Iris wanted to take the sweater off but resisted the urge out of some indistinct concern for propriety. Ian solved the problem by rolling the stretchy sweater down her arm and then wriggling his hand inside the sleeve.
Tingles transformed into lingering streaks of pleasure when exploration reached the inside of an upper arm. "Who guessed my upper arm was an erogenous zone?" Iris marveled.
Ian's hand reached under a bra strap behind her shoulder. Iris twisted until she almost straddled his lap so he could reach further. After a delicate finessing massage, lover-boy floundered unclasping the bra. He tugged and pinched with one hand fruitlessly.
Iris let the fumbling continue and enjoyed Ian's growing frustration. She gave up pretense and climbed into his lap positioning her knees on either side of him. From her kneeling position, she sat up straight until her breasts reached the level of his eyes.
"Try two hands," she teased.
Ian thrust a second hand up the back of her sweater from her waist. He tugged and twisted with two hands to no avail. Ian's efforts pulled Iris closer until his chin pressed against her sternum.
"Take your hands out a moment."
Ian slumped backward in exasperation. He indelicately extracted his hands further stretching and misshaping the garment.
Iris looked into his pleading eyes and wriggled her bottom in his lap to feel his hardness press on her thigh. Her hands clapped the hem of her sweater and peeled it up over her head. She tossed it onto the floor and watched obvious delight wash over his face.
"Ah, you could-ah said something," he growled.
She answered by unsnapping the front clasp one handed and let the cups of her silky black brassiere fall away. The smooth breasts of a 30 year old widow produced the desired effect in the younger man. Ian reached with both hands to gently slide fingers from her collar bones over her swell to the areola, around the nipples, and then to the sides. Trimmed nails passed untouched skin below her armpits to resume exploring behind the bra straps.
Back massage combined with thrilling exposure lead Iris to grind herself into Ian's lap. He pulled her close again and rested his head against her. His arms wrapped around completing the embrace. He kissed and nuzzled soft flesh.
Neither noticed the movie ended. Ian dipped below the waist of Iris' jeans and under the elastic of her black panties. He kneaded the upper half of her buttocks revealing strength contrasting with earlier subtlety. His lips reached a nipple and sucked it into his mouth. Iris rocked with slow motions hypnotizing herself and forgetting any world beyond sensual human contact.