Lupin: re-redux (F+/F+) *25/03*
Press release.
The Studebaker group, in partnership with L.L.C construction and John Marlow are pleased to announce the grand opening of.
White Wolf Hotel.
Surrounded by gated parkland bringing the country to the city. Swimming pool. Journey's End restaurant and bar featuring the talents of Michelin starred chef Jordan Crowe. Penthouse suites available.
For booking enquires:
020 8444 2122
Or email:
bookings@whitewolf.com
The Studebaker group, in partnership with L.L.C construction and John Marlow are pleased to announce the grand opening of.
White Wolf Hotel.
Surrounded by gated parkland bringing the country to the city. Swimming pool. Journey's End restaurant and bar featuring the talents of Michelin starred chef Jordan Crowe. Penthouse suites available.
For booking enquires:
020 8444 2122
Or email:
bookings@whitewolf.com
001.
Bethany Black.
Manager, White Wolf Hotel.
"No no, Mr Hill. We're ready."
Pausing as my words bounce up, strike the satellite and fall back down on the other side of the pond. The response coming back faint, slight static.
It's windy on that golf course.
"Yes sir." Nodding despite he can't see but I'd be willing to bet the old shark would know if I wasn't. "Of course. And thank you."
Thank you. Which I'd meant.
Topper Hill, and I'd bet even his wife doesn't voice the obvious joke. Head of the Studebaker group and at seventy-one showing no signs of wanting to take his hands off the wheel. An old boy and, apparently, a traditionalist. And yet.
Here I sit. A woman picked from a male dominated pool to run this venture.
The good ship White Wolf, opening tomorrow.
Which is why, midnight approaching, I'm still here.
One last inspection.
Despite a sixteenth century, now spruced and cleaned, exterior, the hotel is state of the art. Modern. Every door, the old style lock is now electronic and worked by corresponding credit card style keys. Coded according to where each guest, or employee needs access to.
Only Elwood's team, my own, open everywhere.
Leaving my office, behind reception at the buildings heart I make security my first stop.
"Griffiths."
"Go home Miss Black." Yawning, stretching as he stands, mid fifties yet still trim, big rugby player looking arms stretched left and right. "We'll hold her steady until dawn."
Wandering across the small room to fetch coffee from the pot, giving up the desk as I step closer, peer at the raked banks of monitors a five by three layout each one shifting between cameras every half minute. The constantly changing view enough to induce a headache in some.
"Anything?"
"Camera's are still glitching downstairs." Back at the desk and we're either side of the plush fabric almost gamer like seat, Elwood Griffiths. Griffiths because we're all last names here, leans forwards to tap the open log book on the desks centre. "Other then that we're green across the board."
"Good."
Nobody, no guests, need to access the sub level anyway. So outages downstairs: power, lights, aren't an issue to tomorrow's grand opening.
"Good man Griffiths."
"Sleep well Miss Black."
On the way out I steal a torch from the rack, swapping my two-way radio out for a fully charged one too. Check it's correctly tuned- channel four for general broadcasting -as I walk through the arch separating the back offices from reception.
"Smith."
A half wave, not looking up from her phone. Lily Smith, on the plump not skinny side of curvy with a chest to match and dyed red hair tied into a loose tail. Tattoo all black and green angles escaping under her shirts short sleeve as it races down to tickle the wrist. She's stood leaning back against the counter, not facing the public.
Who aren't here, so I let it go.
"I'm doing a walkabout," stepping up to the counter as she grudgingly makes room, "final checks. Anything to report?"
"No." Flicked glance and yes I'm still stood here, waiting. A quiet huff- typical nineteen year old, was I really this full of attitude eight years ago -and her phone gets stowed.
"Here." Leaning in body suddenly very close her bulk near pressing against my slender frame. Tapping keys at speed, scrolling. Menus opening, closing. Showing me.
"All the new arrivals are allocated, we'll be at sixty-five percent room capacity by the weekend, post check in."
"Good." I nod. "Make sure and wear your tie tomorrow though okay."
"Yes Miss Black."
With just an added touch of fuck you in the tone, which I let slide too, it is late and there aren't any guests here. Yet. And it has been a slog of a fortnight setting everything up since handover.
We all wear variations on the same uniform: shirt the dark green of pine needles paired with black combat trousers for the males, and an above the knee skirt for the females. The combats and shirts are fitted, and the skirt, which laces closed from the top down three quarters on one side, only flares slightly. On the left bicep a crescent moon is picked out in white, inside of which WW in white gothic script. Black ties, and white lanyards to hold both ID and each employees key card.
I'm the only female here in combats, a nice managerial distinction.
The opposite of Lily. Smith I should say since it's- last names -my rule. I'm the skinny side of curvy. Toned though not excessively so, no abs. A natural brunette, haired styled longer at the back and a dyed white fringe grown out, brushed left and right as though framing. Breasts a sensible, average size and no ink.
"Channel four if I'm needed." Patting the two-way as I round the counter. Smith nods back attention already half swallowed back up by her phone. Whatever game they're playing this week.
I leave her to it.
Walk the main stairway up to the fourth floor: the penthouse suites.
Lupin House, which this old building once was, has a tall gently sweeping roof which has been converted, with numerous skylight windows into three large suite like rooms. With so many high end hotels in London, Studebaker went for every conceived advantage to make White Wolf stand out: less rooms but more opulence, all the mod cons- except a lift -combined with stunning five hundred odd year old architecture both inside and out.
From fourth I take the back stairs down to third and second, to first. Each door, room or storage closet opening with a quiet click as key card presses gently to lock.
Perfect.
And from first to ground. Journey's End dark and empty the space seeming to quietly breathe. Waiting. Kitchen spotless the stores full.
Making my way out back, the swimming pool water still and calm sleeping under it's vaulting glass roof, panes replaced and frame worked back to the original bare metals. Gleaming duly in the moonlight.
Finally the sub level.
Down here the furnace and electronics sit, down here the staff room and lockers. The bins and the huge industrial sized laundering machines.
It's a roughly circular path from back stairs- the main doesn't come down here -to back stairs. Except.
"The fuck?"
Someone's moved the stairs.
I've done a lap, the usual route corner corner corner corner, in rooms and back out, always turning right.
But here I am back at the beginning and.
"No fucking stairs?"
Confused because it doesn't make sense. The sub level definitely isn't complex or large enough to become lost.
So?
Turning around in time to see the brief afterglow as all the lights behind me power down plunging the corridor into darkness.
Reaching, instinctive for the torch which I don't have. Left it at reception, too much going on easy mistake. Stupid.
Gust of air passing on my left, from in front around behind. I spin.
Knowing on some level that I'm meant to spin, that I felt the gust on purpose, that it's all part of some bizarre game.
But I spin anyway. And, the corridor I had been facing is now a room: wide and empty, open, uneven stone walls and floor actual torches flickering real fire casting shadows everywhere.
Something unseen but felt behind me.
The rest of the impossible no longer a corridor now a room, room. No longer darkness and me stood in the middle with no stairs because of course there aren't.
Because I'm not back at the stairs.
"Come in this is Black." I'm not calling for help I'm just checking in.
Static. Of course, because if the radio worked we'd have actual overhead strip lighting down here instead of creepy fucking torches.
Faint laughter, female, behind me raising hairs.
Screw. This.
I begin walking. Forwards, towards the wide high arch separating this room from.
Another, exactly the same all stone and fire dancing off the walls.
Onwards, spine still tingling and I will not. Not. Turn around.
That quiet laugh.
Room leads to room, arches cut into one or more walls and each time room leads to identical room and once I go left but that creepy laugh sounds and I.
Panic.
Run.
Am lost when the torches suddenly extinguish as though blown out. Snuffed plunging me and everything into darkness.
And in the darkness something moves: contact on my shoulder like a caress trailing down over my breast and I stiffen just as a second contact. Soft press of lips against mine breath ice cold in my throat.
A kiss I respond to on autopilot in the dark can't even see who? Someone squeezing my breast pressure enough to elicit a moan.
Feeling my body unravel too focused on work no time for play I have missed the attention.
Already I've surrendered, that just the wrong side of sane laugh forgotten and is this her, now? I don't care. Pressure and gentle insistent push guiding and I lay down discovering bound wrists, pinned behind me the pinch of rope and when did that happen?
I don't care.
More pinching, ankles and knees. Chest. I feel expertly worked over down here in the dark. Made helpless and I'm lost anyway.
Please kiss me again.
Memories of a long ago girlfriend blurring, images filling my head replacing because I can't see. Remembering times spent bound and gagged in and on her bed. Back arching as she- invisible -kisses me again shirt yanked open a breast pulled roughly free of its bra prison.
Nipple sucked and my pussy throbs, remembering all the times she made me beg, gagged and trussed struggling forming nonsense words as she watched. Grinning and enjoying my state.
Her doing.
Pressure the weight of a body laid atop mine, one long kiss and.
Something invading, a sense of something leaking across the gap from this unknown to me. Filling me, pushing through body and mind.
But the kiss and I don't care.
Helpless, welcoming.
Feeling myself sink inside my own head, the invader rising taking over taking charge and control. And I let them because the kiss is everything. The kiss and the ropes and the memories of times past and I, control freak chasing wanting that top ladder rung but with her I'd loved surrendering being owned being hers.
I fall back. Willing. Drifting and eyes closing but only mine she can still see.
Darkness.
Waking up, awareness returning and the strip lights flickering intense almost blinding I blink. Waking up and did I fall asleep? On duty down here?
Why am I slumped against the back stairs down in the hotel sub level?
Bethany Black.
Manager, White Wolf Hotel.
"No no, Mr Hill. We're ready."
Pausing as my words bounce up, strike the satellite and fall back down on the other side of the pond. The response coming back faint, slight static.
It's windy on that golf course.
"Yes sir." Nodding despite he can't see but I'd be willing to bet the old shark would know if I wasn't. "Of course. And thank you."
Thank you. Which I'd meant.
Topper Hill, and I'd bet even his wife doesn't voice the obvious joke. Head of the Studebaker group and at seventy-one showing no signs of wanting to take his hands off the wheel. An old boy and, apparently, a traditionalist. And yet.
Here I sit. A woman picked from a male dominated pool to run this venture.
The good ship White Wolf, opening tomorrow.
Which is why, midnight approaching, I'm still here.
One last inspection.
Despite a sixteenth century, now spruced and cleaned, exterior, the hotel is state of the art. Modern. Every door, the old style lock is now electronic and worked by corresponding credit card style keys. Coded according to where each guest, or employee needs access to.
Only Elwood's team, my own, open everywhere.
Leaving my office, behind reception at the buildings heart I make security my first stop.
"Griffiths."
"Go home Miss Black." Yawning, stretching as he stands, mid fifties yet still trim, big rugby player looking arms stretched left and right. "We'll hold her steady until dawn."
Wandering across the small room to fetch coffee from the pot, giving up the desk as I step closer, peer at the raked banks of monitors a five by three layout each one shifting between cameras every half minute. The constantly changing view enough to induce a headache in some.
"Anything?"
"Camera's are still glitching downstairs." Back at the desk and we're either side of the plush fabric almost gamer like seat, Elwood Griffiths. Griffiths because we're all last names here, leans forwards to tap the open log book on the desks centre. "Other then that we're green across the board."
"Good."
Nobody, no guests, need to access the sub level anyway. So outages downstairs: power, lights, aren't an issue to tomorrow's grand opening.
"Good man Griffiths."
"Sleep well Miss Black."
On the way out I steal a torch from the rack, swapping my two-way radio out for a fully charged one too. Check it's correctly tuned- channel four for general broadcasting -as I walk through the arch separating the back offices from reception.
"Smith."
A half wave, not looking up from her phone. Lily Smith, on the plump not skinny side of curvy with a chest to match and dyed red hair tied into a loose tail. Tattoo all black and green angles escaping under her shirts short sleeve as it races down to tickle the wrist. She's stood leaning back against the counter, not facing the public.
Who aren't here, so I let it go.
"I'm doing a walkabout," stepping up to the counter as she grudgingly makes room, "final checks. Anything to report?"
"No." Flicked glance and yes I'm still stood here, waiting. A quiet huff- typical nineteen year old, was I really this full of attitude eight years ago -and her phone gets stowed.
"Here." Leaning in body suddenly very close her bulk near pressing against my slender frame. Tapping keys at speed, scrolling. Menus opening, closing. Showing me.
"All the new arrivals are allocated, we'll be at sixty-five percent room capacity by the weekend, post check in."
"Good." I nod. "Make sure and wear your tie tomorrow though okay."
"Yes Miss Black."
With just an added touch of fuck you in the tone, which I let slide too, it is late and there aren't any guests here. Yet. And it has been a slog of a fortnight setting everything up since handover.
We all wear variations on the same uniform: shirt the dark green of pine needles paired with black combat trousers for the males, and an above the knee skirt for the females. The combats and shirts are fitted, and the skirt, which laces closed from the top down three quarters on one side, only flares slightly. On the left bicep a crescent moon is picked out in white, inside of which WW in white gothic script. Black ties, and white lanyards to hold both ID and each employees key card.
I'm the only female here in combats, a nice managerial distinction.
The opposite of Lily. Smith I should say since it's- last names -my rule. I'm the skinny side of curvy. Toned though not excessively so, no abs. A natural brunette, haired styled longer at the back and a dyed white fringe grown out, brushed left and right as though framing. Breasts a sensible, average size and no ink.
"Channel four if I'm needed." Patting the two-way as I round the counter. Smith nods back attention already half swallowed back up by her phone. Whatever game they're playing this week.
I leave her to it.
Walk the main stairway up to the fourth floor: the penthouse suites.
Lupin House, which this old building once was, has a tall gently sweeping roof which has been converted, with numerous skylight windows into three large suite like rooms. With so many high end hotels in London, Studebaker went for every conceived advantage to make White Wolf stand out: less rooms but more opulence, all the mod cons- except a lift -combined with stunning five hundred odd year old architecture both inside and out.
From fourth I take the back stairs down to third and second, to first. Each door, room or storage closet opening with a quiet click as key card presses gently to lock.
Perfect.
And from first to ground. Journey's End dark and empty the space seeming to quietly breathe. Waiting. Kitchen spotless the stores full.
Making my way out back, the swimming pool water still and calm sleeping under it's vaulting glass roof, panes replaced and frame worked back to the original bare metals. Gleaming duly in the moonlight.
Finally the sub level.
Down here the furnace and electronics sit, down here the staff room and lockers. The bins and the huge industrial sized laundering machines.
It's a roughly circular path from back stairs- the main doesn't come down here -to back stairs. Except.
"The fuck?"
Someone's moved the stairs.
I've done a lap, the usual route corner corner corner corner, in rooms and back out, always turning right.
But here I am back at the beginning and.
"No fucking stairs?"
Confused because it doesn't make sense. The sub level definitely isn't complex or large enough to become lost.
So?
Turning around in time to see the brief afterglow as all the lights behind me power down plunging the corridor into darkness.
Reaching, instinctive for the torch which I don't have. Left it at reception, too much going on easy mistake. Stupid.
Gust of air passing on my left, from in front around behind. I spin.
Knowing on some level that I'm meant to spin, that I felt the gust on purpose, that it's all part of some bizarre game.
But I spin anyway. And, the corridor I had been facing is now a room: wide and empty, open, uneven stone walls and floor actual torches flickering real fire casting shadows everywhere.
Something unseen but felt behind me.
The rest of the impossible no longer a corridor now a room, room. No longer darkness and me stood in the middle with no stairs because of course there aren't.
Because I'm not back at the stairs.
"Come in this is Black." I'm not calling for help I'm just checking in.
Static. Of course, because if the radio worked we'd have actual overhead strip lighting down here instead of creepy fucking torches.
Faint laughter, female, behind me raising hairs.
Screw. This.
I begin walking. Forwards, towards the wide high arch separating this room from.
Another, exactly the same all stone and fire dancing off the walls.
Onwards, spine still tingling and I will not. Not. Turn around.
That quiet laugh.
Room leads to room, arches cut into one or more walls and each time room leads to identical room and once I go left but that creepy laugh sounds and I.
Panic.
Run.
Am lost when the torches suddenly extinguish as though blown out. Snuffed plunging me and everything into darkness.
And in the darkness something moves: contact on my shoulder like a caress trailing down over my breast and I stiffen just as a second contact. Soft press of lips against mine breath ice cold in my throat.
A kiss I respond to on autopilot in the dark can't even see who? Someone squeezing my breast pressure enough to elicit a moan.
Feeling my body unravel too focused on work no time for play I have missed the attention.
Already I've surrendered, that just the wrong side of sane laugh forgotten and is this her, now? I don't care. Pressure and gentle insistent push guiding and I lay down discovering bound wrists, pinned behind me the pinch of rope and when did that happen?
I don't care.
More pinching, ankles and knees. Chest. I feel expertly worked over down here in the dark. Made helpless and I'm lost anyway.
Please kiss me again.
Memories of a long ago girlfriend blurring, images filling my head replacing because I can't see. Remembering times spent bound and gagged in and on her bed. Back arching as she- invisible -kisses me again shirt yanked open a breast pulled roughly free of its bra prison.
Nipple sucked and my pussy throbs, remembering all the times she made me beg, gagged and trussed struggling forming nonsense words as she watched. Grinning and enjoying my state.
Her doing.
Pressure the weight of a body laid atop mine, one long kiss and.
Something invading, a sense of something leaking across the gap from this unknown to me. Filling me, pushing through body and mind.
But the kiss and I don't care.
Helpless, welcoming.
Feeling myself sink inside my own head, the invader rising taking over taking charge and control. And I let them because the kiss is everything. The kiss and the ropes and the memories of times past and I, control freak chasing wanting that top ladder rung but with her I'd loved surrendering being owned being hers.
I fall back. Willing. Drifting and eyes closing but only mine she can still see.
Darkness.
Waking up, awareness returning and the strip lights flickering intense almost blinding I blink. Waking up and did I fall asleep? On duty down here?
Why am I slumped against the back stairs down in the hotel sub level?
Extract taken from 'Here be Wolves, the fall and fall of the de Monteforts' 1988, by Kingston. E. Smith.
....our attentions now to the house. Lupin House. (see illustration iv)
Land newly acquired- gifted as such things are, an acknowledgement of loyalty -to the aging Count Ishmael de Montefort in 1563. Land in what is now Greenwich, central London, rolling hills and green a small estate but significantly placed.
Construction of the House began in 1568 with completion occurring nine years later.
Coincidentally, not entirely relevant to our subject and yet a point of interest all the same: Longleat, near Bath, was under construction during the same late 1500's period. Records of the time indicate the two projects were undertaken by rival architects, and whilst Lupin is indeed the smaller House it's noted that some great satisfaction was taken by it's being completed first.
Tragically though Ishmael died in 1573, his only living heir a daughter the young Countess Lucille. The last de Montefort. (more on the family line back in C2, family tree see illustration ii)
Lucille changed Lupin, there exists evidence of revised blueprints, alterations made to structural materials and layouts. The lady herself was said to be obsessed with the occult, somewhat of a shut in. And potentially quite mad.
Death came for Lucille in 1582. Did she fall or was she pushed you may ask, because the exact circumstances, so many things regarding those five years alone in Lupin House, are unknown. (more detail, what is known, can be found in C6)
Eventually, having been returned to the Crown following a protracted legal war attempting to make sense of the de Montefort titles and holdings, the estate was put up for sale.
But no buyer, be they Baron or Duke, English born or foreign, appeared to possess the stomach for Lupin. The estate changed hands multiple times throughout a hundred year period until finally the Crown stepped back in, making of the grounds a park with Lupin rising wraith like from the centre, the House by now nothing more then an old and uncared for shell.
Due to a clause in the estate, Lupin could not you see be dismantled. Ever.
-------
-------
Extract from 'Our Haunted Isle' 1972, by W. B. Hadley.
....Montefort estate before we leave the capital and head north.
Lupin House, Old ruins. A must see stop on any ghost hunting tour and located at the estates rough centre, a small fenced area of parkland within sight of but not bordering the Thames.
The House, locked of course. And prehaps for the best.
Lucille, the ghost in question, seems to behave as a typical 'grey lady' sighting confined exclusively within the walls of Lupin. Occasionally glimpsed according to eyewitness reports through upper story windows. The House though changes, somehow? It has been said. And Lucille is known to toy and tease with female trespassers specifically.
Of course as with all sightings, all we have is largely rumour and....
....our attentions now to the house. Lupin House. (see illustration iv)
Land newly acquired- gifted as such things are, an acknowledgement of loyalty -to the aging Count Ishmael de Montefort in 1563. Land in what is now Greenwich, central London, rolling hills and green a small estate but significantly placed.
Construction of the House began in 1568 with completion occurring nine years later.
Coincidentally, not entirely relevant to our subject and yet a point of interest all the same: Longleat, near Bath, was under construction during the same late 1500's period. Records of the time indicate the two projects were undertaken by rival architects, and whilst Lupin is indeed the smaller House it's noted that some great satisfaction was taken by it's being completed first.
Tragically though Ishmael died in 1573, his only living heir a daughter the young Countess Lucille. The last de Montefort. (more on the family line back in C2, family tree see illustration ii)
Lucille changed Lupin, there exists evidence of revised blueprints, alterations made to structural materials and layouts. The lady herself was said to be obsessed with the occult, somewhat of a shut in. And potentially quite mad.
Death came for Lucille in 1582. Did she fall or was she pushed you may ask, because the exact circumstances, so many things regarding those five years alone in Lupin House, are unknown. (more detail, what is known, can be found in C6)
Eventually, having been returned to the Crown following a protracted legal war attempting to make sense of the de Montefort titles and holdings, the estate was put up for sale.
But no buyer, be they Baron or Duke, English born or foreign, appeared to possess the stomach for Lupin. The estate changed hands multiple times throughout a hundred year period until finally the Crown stepped back in, making of the grounds a park with Lupin rising wraith like from the centre, the House by now nothing more then an old and uncared for shell.
Due to a clause in the estate, Lupin could not you see be dismantled. Ever.
-------
-------
Extract from 'Our Haunted Isle' 1972, by W. B. Hadley.
....Montefort estate before we leave the capital and head north.
Lupin House, Old ruins. A must see stop on any ghost hunting tour and located at the estates rough centre, a small fenced area of parkland within sight of but not bordering the Thames.
The House, locked of course. And prehaps for the best.
Lucille, the ghost in question, seems to behave as a typical 'grey lady' sighting confined exclusively within the walls of Lupin. Occasionally glimpsed according to eyewitness reports through upper story windows. The House though changes, somehow? It has been said. And Lucille is known to toy and tease with female trespassers specifically.
Of course as with all sightings, all we have is largely rumour and....
002.
Lily Smith.
Receptionist, White Wolf Hotel.
Week one, and only half a week at that since we opened officially on a Thursday, passes in a blur. A cavalcade of guests, all of them rich, some of them famous and others simply curious.
Wanting to experience this new place, to judge and compare the Wolf to the Ritz to the Savoy to the others.
And we're still technically understaffed, so I- the overtime, the bump in my paycheck will help -pull multiple double shifts.
Understaffed yet I'm somewhat surprised to of landed the role at all: dyed hair, ink the uniform doesn't cover, I don't exactly fit the aesthetic of White Wolf so maybe it's a box ticking exercise. Maybe they needed an extra female, or prehaps they think I'm a lesbian?
I- sometimes, when I feel like it -am.
Drinking coffee after coffee to stay alert as week one becomes week three bleeding into the start of week four, lest I slumber behind the curving desk above which hangs the old banner: the twin wolves and those words I don't care enough to look up.
Coffee and me become real good friends, lest I be discovered asleep by the formidable Miss Black.
Who, in these first crazy days as much a blur as me, and yet.
But.
She's somehow different too. Distant?
Not all the time. Her voice on the two-way checking and organising us all, her presence at reception backing us up.
But.
An argument: Tuesday morning check-out, a long weekend some great bear of a man, slender trophy wife and silent small girl in tow, following in his wake it seems. The bear speaks French, loudly. Is causing a scene and out comes Miss Black, to sooth and apologise.
Or not. She argues, wading in and French spat back with what I'd swear was a native accent from her British mouth, getting right up into his personal space both of them gesturing and despite being almost a foot shorter you'd swear they were eye to eye.
And, impossibly given at times he looks ready to start throwing haymakers, he backs down, bass like chuckle and a nod, a smile exchanged whilst the trophy looks pissed.
Other times, a handful I spot her staring into a mirror like someone lost, or with a fucking creepy smile spreading her mouth too wide.
Makes me shiver.
And then there's.
"Smith."
"Miss Black."
Something like two in the morning. Late, or really God damn early the hotel a ghost. Quiet. Reception empty and me wound too tight, day off tomorrow I might just sleep through if the coffee overdose sloshing inside me will allow it.
Waiting for a late check-in, a delayed flight. Sophie Lake back from the US with a scattering of awards, sell out hugely successful tour.
The next big thing in hip hop.
Cash enough in the bank to splash on the Wolf for an overnight before returning home to Edinburgh and a hero's welcome.
Already beside me, Black, too little sleep over too many days my proximity sense all shot to hell. Beside me and, I clock too late after she's already leaning in slender body pressed against mine arm brushing, blatantly squashing my breast as she reaches across and down. Tapping keys.
I'm rooted to the spot, some feeling that if I move she'll notice, realise the- of course it is -error of closeness and we'll both be embarrassed. So I stay.
Try to ignore the tingle as my nipple, getting rubbed pretty hard left/right against my bra as her arm moves and shifts, wakes up.
Which of course wakes a similar although less so tingle in my crotch. A base line.
"Just waiting on...?"
"Oh." Coming back to earth. Wake up Smith. I mean Lily. Or, Smith? Quick blink and for some reason she isn't working the system quite right.
And without thinking, and besides which she doesn't move anyway, I lean in over her. Winding up stepping so I'm basically behind Miss Black reaching around left and right my whole body pressed into hers now, both breasts squashed and I'm peering over her shoulder typing and clicking.
"Miss Lake." I nod. "Flight confirmed arrived at Heathrow fifty minutes ago she'll be here soon."
"Excellent."
Sudden realisation of Miss Black leaning, actively pushing herself back against me and both my breasts are awake now as I feel the barest brush of contact on my bare leg.
Her hand, stroking.
And now I'm rooted for a whole different set of reasons. Confusion, that tingle because the attention feels relaxing.
Lulling, vaguely aware of her turning inside the circle of my arms to face me her breasts, not anywhere the size of mine but still, pert, a good handful.
Her breasts pressing into mine and breath gentle on my lips.
What? I mean, something happening something feeling weird and almost dream like looking into her eyes. Gaze holding mine and they're growing.
Pulsing almost?
"Maybe." Tone all casual and is that a French accent leaking through? "Once we've dealt with Miss Lake you'd like to come downstairs with me and."
Tongue out and slowly, teasingly, gliding across her bright red lips
"Play."
"O." Some kind of alarm but small and quiet, of no consequence. "Kay."
Mouth open and words forming, interrupted by heavy bootfalls and a gust of wind. Sophie Lake striding across the space from doorway to desk, tall in chunky black boots, slim frame hugged by skinny fit torn in that designer way white jeans, slash of pale flat stomach above which a cut off pull over blue camouflage hoodie is stretched by enhanced E cups. Black baseball cap worn under the pulled up hood long blonde hair tumbling out all over.
Her appearance like a splash of cold water and I step back. Spell broken, and blinking as Miss Black frowns but I'm gone.
Escaping to the bathroom.
What the fuck was just happening?
Lily Smith.
Receptionist, White Wolf Hotel.
Week one, and only half a week at that since we opened officially on a Thursday, passes in a blur. A cavalcade of guests, all of them rich, some of them famous and others simply curious.
Wanting to experience this new place, to judge and compare the Wolf to the Ritz to the Savoy to the others.
And we're still technically understaffed, so I- the overtime, the bump in my paycheck will help -pull multiple double shifts.
Understaffed yet I'm somewhat surprised to of landed the role at all: dyed hair, ink the uniform doesn't cover, I don't exactly fit the aesthetic of White Wolf so maybe it's a box ticking exercise. Maybe they needed an extra female, or prehaps they think I'm a lesbian?
I- sometimes, when I feel like it -am.
Drinking coffee after coffee to stay alert as week one becomes week three bleeding into the start of week four, lest I slumber behind the curving desk above which hangs the old banner: the twin wolves and those words I don't care enough to look up.
Coffee and me become real good friends, lest I be discovered asleep by the formidable Miss Black.
Who, in these first crazy days as much a blur as me, and yet.
But.
She's somehow different too. Distant?
Not all the time. Her voice on the two-way checking and organising us all, her presence at reception backing us up.
But.
An argument: Tuesday morning check-out, a long weekend some great bear of a man, slender trophy wife and silent small girl in tow, following in his wake it seems. The bear speaks French, loudly. Is causing a scene and out comes Miss Black, to sooth and apologise.
Or not. She argues, wading in and French spat back with what I'd swear was a native accent from her British mouth, getting right up into his personal space both of them gesturing and despite being almost a foot shorter you'd swear they were eye to eye.
And, impossibly given at times he looks ready to start throwing haymakers, he backs down, bass like chuckle and a nod, a smile exchanged whilst the trophy looks pissed.
Other times, a handful I spot her staring into a mirror like someone lost, or with a fucking creepy smile spreading her mouth too wide.
Makes me shiver.
And then there's.
"Smith."
"Miss Black."
Something like two in the morning. Late, or really God damn early the hotel a ghost. Quiet. Reception empty and me wound too tight, day off tomorrow I might just sleep through if the coffee overdose sloshing inside me will allow it.
Waiting for a late check-in, a delayed flight. Sophie Lake back from the US with a scattering of awards, sell out hugely successful tour.
The next big thing in hip hop.
Cash enough in the bank to splash on the Wolf for an overnight before returning home to Edinburgh and a hero's welcome.
Already beside me, Black, too little sleep over too many days my proximity sense all shot to hell. Beside me and, I clock too late after she's already leaning in slender body pressed against mine arm brushing, blatantly squashing my breast as she reaches across and down. Tapping keys.
I'm rooted to the spot, some feeling that if I move she'll notice, realise the- of course it is -error of closeness and we'll both be embarrassed. So I stay.
Try to ignore the tingle as my nipple, getting rubbed pretty hard left/right against my bra as her arm moves and shifts, wakes up.
Which of course wakes a similar although less so tingle in my crotch. A base line.
"Just waiting on...?"
"Oh." Coming back to earth. Wake up Smith. I mean Lily. Or, Smith? Quick blink and for some reason she isn't working the system quite right.
And without thinking, and besides which she doesn't move anyway, I lean in over her. Winding up stepping so I'm basically behind Miss Black reaching around left and right my whole body pressed into hers now, both breasts squashed and I'm peering over her shoulder typing and clicking.
"Miss Lake." I nod. "Flight confirmed arrived at Heathrow fifty minutes ago she'll be here soon."
"Excellent."
Sudden realisation of Miss Black leaning, actively pushing herself back against me and both my breasts are awake now as I feel the barest brush of contact on my bare leg.
Her hand, stroking.
And now I'm rooted for a whole different set of reasons. Confusion, that tingle because the attention feels relaxing.
Lulling, vaguely aware of her turning inside the circle of my arms to face me her breasts, not anywhere the size of mine but still, pert, a good handful.
Her breasts pressing into mine and breath gentle on my lips.
What? I mean, something happening something feeling weird and almost dream like looking into her eyes. Gaze holding mine and they're growing.
Pulsing almost?
"Maybe." Tone all casual and is that a French accent leaking through? "Once we've dealt with Miss Lake you'd like to come downstairs with me and."
Tongue out and slowly, teasingly, gliding across her bright red lips
"Play."
"O." Some kind of alarm but small and quiet, of no consequence. "Kay."
Mouth open and words forming, interrupted by heavy bootfalls and a gust of wind. Sophie Lake striding across the space from doorway to desk, tall in chunky black boots, slim frame hugged by skinny fit torn in that designer way white jeans, slash of pale flat stomach above which a cut off pull over blue camouflage hoodie is stretched by enhanced E cups. Black baseball cap worn under the pulled up hood long blonde hair tumbling out all over.
Her appearance like a splash of cold water and I step back. Spell broken, and blinking as Miss Black frowns but I'm gone.
Escaping to the bathroom.
What the fuck was just happening?
From the blueprints, planning documents: Renovation and interior remodel of Lupin House, de Montefort estate, Greenwich, London.
....the roofspace into three (3) luxury suites, comprising kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms- both king sized master and separate twin. And lounge.
Floors one through three walls will be removed and/or erected (see plans iii through v) to create fifteen (15) ensuite rooms, numbered _01 through _15 where _ denotes the floor.
Further changes will be required to....
....the roofspace into three (3) luxury suites, comprising kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms- both king sized master and separate twin. And lounge.
Floors one through three walls will be removed and/or erected (see plans iii through v) to create fifteen (15) ensuite rooms, numbered _01 through _15 where _ denotes the floor.
Further changes will be required to....
003.
Sophie Lake.
Artist, singer/songwriter.
"Three."
Fucks sake.
"One."
Really? Stopping again, glaring at the blank featureless, door less, wall. Probably it's.
"Wanker."
Hiding. Invisible.
Does not exist.
So....
No lift, kinda funny in this- advertised -most modern and new of hotels, which means my wheeled suitcase might as well be a darlek: useless on the stairs.
I'll have to carry it, put those five days in seven gym muscles- need to stay trim for all the photo ops and promos -to use. I'm hardly weak, and it isn't heavy: clothes and shit, couple pairs of boots and Adidas.
My. Shush. Dildo.
All the big stuff, bulk of my outfits, are on air freight.
So back to the stairs. A nod, flip the door less wall off. And away.
I don't mind that the plump girl bolted, that the boss lady. I think she is? Gave me the creepiest fucking smile the whole way through check-in.
What I mind is clomping back down three flights of stairs to be reallocated a proper, real, room.
Please and thank you.
Three-zero-one through to three-one-five the rooms run, a scattering of unmarked doors, storage no doubt and yes, I have attempted swiping my key at them.
No room sixteen.
And I've done a couple of circuits, walked the corridor all the way left and all the way back then beyond to the furthest point right. And back and again walking left until I run out of corridor, and then right.
And you can't find what clearly isn't th-
Flicker passing through the lights like a brief power cut, and there aren't any windows up here, not in the corridor. Although, if the lights do fail it's a straight walk back to the stairs. Corners, but one path I mean.
Thinking which, almost like jinx, the lights flicker again.
Fail.
Plunging everything. Me into darkness and.
Somewhere in front of me a low, quiet laugh. Female.
And right behind me, instants later a little puff of air: someone blowing gently against my cheek.
I spin, fast to catch the bitch off guard hands coming up fists ready.
Nothing but darkness, all around as I turn a slow circle. Listening.
Nothing.
And now I can't work out, remember because of the spinning, which way the stairs are. Fucking great.
"Fine then I'll just...." Reaching beside me, the other side. "Just...?"
Reaching and searching, feeling all around, small steps finding each wall in turn, the width of the corridor and I haven't moved beyond spinning so can't of left it. So.
"Where the fucks my case?"
Another laugh, like answering and it's enough to send unexpected chills up my spine.
"Bonne soirèe." Comes the whisper, ghost like behind my left shoulder. Female, perfect French accent like a native.
I spin, hands up again and.
"Je suis Lucille." Behind my right shoulder now, accompanied by a feather like touch, a stroke across the exposed slash of stomach between jeans and hoodie.
"Allons-nous. Would you like, to. Jouer?"
"What?"
Coughed out, and moments later I'm pounced on. That's what it feels like anyway: a predator, having stalked it's prey now closing for the kill.
Pushed forwards body colliding with the wall, whoosh of expelled breath face saved from impact by my baseball cap, peak striking and flipping, being pushed up the cap pushed off. Tumbling down and away into the dark.
Limbs dragged out as though attached to pulleys someone just flipped the return switch on, legs spread just beyond shoulder width and arms horizontal, cruciform.
Somehow pinned. Locked. In place I try to push back, step back away and can't my ankles and wrists won't leave the wall which, given how I've been positioned means my whole body is pressed flush against the smooth hard surface.
Opening my mouth, to yell or curse and suddenly I'm being kissed. Groped. Impossibly because I'm facing the wall but there are soft lips pressed to mine, the phantom feel of hands reaching up inside my cut off hoodie.
Stroking and squeezing my enhanced E cups, waking them, and me up.
Thoughts of panic forgotten, as is the dark, my gone walkabout suitcase and stupid room three-something-whatever instead, breathless I'm kissing her back.
Moaning, hands balling into fists, relaxing and flexing because I can't move anything else.
"Tu aimes?" Whispered against my lips and how is she between my pinned body and the wall?
"Yes." I breathe back, understanding a question if not what she said. But. Yes, more and don't stop. Please.
"Plus? More?"
"Yes." Knees threatening to buckle were it not for the rigid fixing I'm somehow in as an unseen hand plunges down inside my jeans, rubbing a trail down then up my pussy slit before resting atop my throbbing clit. Rubbing.
"Yes." Feeling my hoodie lifted, breasts teased free of bra cups and nipples sucked. Breath catching. "Oui. Yes, yes."
Body beginning to buck and wriggle within the tight lock she's- somehow -placed me in, tingle of orgasm building as I'm worked over expertly. The world, my cares falling away and only the pleasure matters.
Building.
Kissing and licking, squeezing nipples small bite like nibbles driving me crazy and all the while keeping up the pressure on my clit.
Warm lips sealing atop mine as the screaming orgasm hits and honestly I've never experienced anything so intense.
Pleasure and helplessness.
Pulled forwards. Through the wall? And stumbling half floating still on that post climax high. Nothing matters.
Hoodie and bra, lifted and removed. Gone. Pinch and pressure at wrists and elbows, chest. Cord, rope? Digging in binding my limbs behind, pinned together the sensation new and uncomfortable but.
Still floating, don't care.
Breasts squeezed, by the rope I look down and can't see, in the dark but can feel the tingle, can feel how bound arms force my E cups forwards. Thrusting.
A kiss and contact, a finger felt but not seen trailing down from neck to crotch, nipple still on fire she traces a tingle down me that feels like goodbye.
"Wait." Voice quiet I take a half step forward. "Please stay."
An answering laugh and torches, real fire hung from stone walls. Old looking walls not the bland pastel shades of the painted corridor. And in the flickering light she appears: shades of grey like a special effect, a bad movie. Flickering too, seeming to dance, to float.
Is she touching the floor?
Vanishing only to stutter jump six foot closer only to vanish again and reappear five foot further back.
She's young, and slim even without the corset that thrusts large breasts up and out, a long flowing dress and slashed open neck. Cleavage framed by flowing curling hair. Smiling face.
Pretty.
"Please." Stumbling towards her and another jump. Contact she's kissing me, really there, here. I can see and feel her this grey lady.
Lucille?
Kissing me and as she pulls back something ball like filling my mouth, large and solid forcing my jaws wide teeth biting down and any panic I might've felt lost, gone as she bends down to lick and suck my nipple.
"Ffggggmmmmhhh." Fuck me again. Please. I'd beg if not for the gag but she grins.
Cheeky.
Shaking her head and stutter jumping back, away.
"Chasser moi."
Finger beckoning as she drifts back, towards and through a wide stone arch an identical stone room beyond.
Gone, she's vanished. Again, by the time I stumble through the arch legs still weak body spent and used.
Looking left and right and everything looks identical.
"Wwwdddgggfff mmmnngggpp."
Answering laugh from behind me, of course, lights, fires flickering dying and igniting, on and off and a girl could get lost down here.
I don't care. Turning and there she is, finger tracing a line down into dark cleavage and a blown kiss. Teasing, promising.
Vanishing.
I set off in pursuit.
Sophie Lake.
Artist, singer/songwriter.
"Three."
Fucks sake.
"One."
Really? Stopping again, glaring at the blank featureless, door less, wall. Probably it's.
"Wanker."
Hiding. Invisible.
Does not exist.
So....
No lift, kinda funny in this- advertised -most modern and new of hotels, which means my wheeled suitcase might as well be a darlek: useless on the stairs.
I'll have to carry it, put those five days in seven gym muscles- need to stay trim for all the photo ops and promos -to use. I'm hardly weak, and it isn't heavy: clothes and shit, couple pairs of boots and Adidas.
My. Shush. Dildo.
All the big stuff, bulk of my outfits, are on air freight.
So back to the stairs. A nod, flip the door less wall off. And away.
I don't mind that the plump girl bolted, that the boss lady. I think she is? Gave me the creepiest fucking smile the whole way through check-in.
What I mind is clomping back down three flights of stairs to be reallocated a proper, real, room.
Please and thank you.
Three-zero-one through to three-one-five the rooms run, a scattering of unmarked doors, storage no doubt and yes, I have attempted swiping my key at them.
No room sixteen.
And I've done a couple of circuits, walked the corridor all the way left and all the way back then beyond to the furthest point right. And back and again walking left until I run out of corridor, and then right.
And you can't find what clearly isn't th-
Flicker passing through the lights like a brief power cut, and there aren't any windows up here, not in the corridor. Although, if the lights do fail it's a straight walk back to the stairs. Corners, but one path I mean.
Thinking which, almost like jinx, the lights flicker again.
Fail.
Plunging everything. Me into darkness and.
Somewhere in front of me a low, quiet laugh. Female.
And right behind me, instants later a little puff of air: someone blowing gently against my cheek.
I spin, fast to catch the bitch off guard hands coming up fists ready.
Nothing but darkness, all around as I turn a slow circle. Listening.
Nothing.
And now I can't work out, remember because of the spinning, which way the stairs are. Fucking great.
"Fine then I'll just...." Reaching beside me, the other side. "Just...?"
Reaching and searching, feeling all around, small steps finding each wall in turn, the width of the corridor and I haven't moved beyond spinning so can't of left it. So.
"Where the fucks my case?"
Another laugh, like answering and it's enough to send unexpected chills up my spine.
"Bonne soirèe." Comes the whisper, ghost like behind my left shoulder. Female, perfect French accent like a native.
I spin, hands up again and.
"Je suis Lucille." Behind my right shoulder now, accompanied by a feather like touch, a stroke across the exposed slash of stomach between jeans and hoodie.
"Allons-nous. Would you like, to. Jouer?"
"What?"
Coughed out, and moments later I'm pounced on. That's what it feels like anyway: a predator, having stalked it's prey now closing for the kill.
Pushed forwards body colliding with the wall, whoosh of expelled breath face saved from impact by my baseball cap, peak striking and flipping, being pushed up the cap pushed off. Tumbling down and away into the dark.
Limbs dragged out as though attached to pulleys someone just flipped the return switch on, legs spread just beyond shoulder width and arms horizontal, cruciform.
Somehow pinned. Locked. In place I try to push back, step back away and can't my ankles and wrists won't leave the wall which, given how I've been positioned means my whole body is pressed flush against the smooth hard surface.
Opening my mouth, to yell or curse and suddenly I'm being kissed. Groped. Impossibly because I'm facing the wall but there are soft lips pressed to mine, the phantom feel of hands reaching up inside my cut off hoodie.
Stroking and squeezing my enhanced E cups, waking them, and me up.
Thoughts of panic forgotten, as is the dark, my gone walkabout suitcase and stupid room three-something-whatever instead, breathless I'm kissing her back.
Moaning, hands balling into fists, relaxing and flexing because I can't move anything else.
"Tu aimes?" Whispered against my lips and how is she between my pinned body and the wall?
"Yes." I breathe back, understanding a question if not what she said. But. Yes, more and don't stop. Please.
"Plus? More?"
"Yes." Knees threatening to buckle were it not for the rigid fixing I'm somehow in as an unseen hand plunges down inside my jeans, rubbing a trail down then up my pussy slit before resting atop my throbbing clit. Rubbing.
"Yes." Feeling my hoodie lifted, breasts teased free of bra cups and nipples sucked. Breath catching. "Oui. Yes, yes."
Body beginning to buck and wriggle within the tight lock she's- somehow -placed me in, tingle of orgasm building as I'm worked over expertly. The world, my cares falling away and only the pleasure matters.
Building.
Kissing and licking, squeezing nipples small bite like nibbles driving me crazy and all the while keeping up the pressure on my clit.
Warm lips sealing atop mine as the screaming orgasm hits and honestly I've never experienced anything so intense.
Pleasure and helplessness.
Pulled forwards. Through the wall? And stumbling half floating still on that post climax high. Nothing matters.
Hoodie and bra, lifted and removed. Gone. Pinch and pressure at wrists and elbows, chest. Cord, rope? Digging in binding my limbs behind, pinned together the sensation new and uncomfortable but.
Still floating, don't care.
Breasts squeezed, by the rope I look down and can't see, in the dark but can feel the tingle, can feel how bound arms force my E cups forwards. Thrusting.
A kiss and contact, a finger felt but not seen trailing down from neck to crotch, nipple still on fire she traces a tingle down me that feels like goodbye.
"Wait." Voice quiet I take a half step forward. "Please stay."
An answering laugh and torches, real fire hung from stone walls. Old looking walls not the bland pastel shades of the painted corridor. And in the flickering light she appears: shades of grey like a special effect, a bad movie. Flickering too, seeming to dance, to float.
Is she touching the floor?
Vanishing only to stutter jump six foot closer only to vanish again and reappear five foot further back.
She's young, and slim even without the corset that thrusts large breasts up and out, a long flowing dress and slashed open neck. Cleavage framed by flowing curling hair. Smiling face.
Pretty.
"Please." Stumbling towards her and another jump. Contact she's kissing me, really there, here. I can see and feel her this grey lady.
Lucille?
Kissing me and as she pulls back something ball like filling my mouth, large and solid forcing my jaws wide teeth biting down and any panic I might've felt lost, gone as she bends down to lick and suck my nipple.
"Ffggggmmmmhhh." Fuck me again. Please. I'd beg if not for the gag but she grins.
Cheeky.
Shaking her head and stutter jumping back, away.
"Chasser moi."
Finger beckoning as she drifts back, towards and through a wide stone arch an identical stone room beyond.
Gone, she's vanished. Again, by the time I stumble through the arch legs still weak body spent and used.
Looking left and right and everything looks identical.
"Wwwdddgggfff mmmnngggpp."
Answering laugh from behind me, of course, lights, fires flickering dying and igniting, on and off and a girl could get lost down here.
I don't care. Turning and there she is, finger tracing a line down into dark cleavage and a blown kiss. Teasing, promising.
Vanishing.
I set off in pursuit.
004.
Vanessa Bishop.
Security, White Wolf Hotel.
I've got to be the only security guard, anywhere, ever, who wears a skirt.
Those good old boys at Studebaker decreed, so I've been told, so I've researched, that female employees should wear a skirt. And with the exception of Miss Black, the manager we all do.
I feel like, really, I should be an exception too. I feel as though it's hard to take security seriously if I show up bare legged and worrying that: if I run the skirt will ride up and expose my thong.
So I asked, and of course she- Miss Black -said no.
It's fine. It'll have to be.
Working under Elwood we all do solo shifts, there aren't enough of us to double up and besides the risk of serious trouble occurring at White Wolf is minimal.
Serious trouble, like the rumoured ghost.
Ha.
It's early afternoon when the suitcase shows up, post check out but too early for check in. According to Elwood's log the third floor camera's have been glitching too. Overnight.
Too, because the camera's and lights in the basement are just one constant fail fest.
I'm in security. Monitoring the monitors when I spot it. A large suitcase in the third floor corridor, striped patterning that might- the black and white makes it hard to tell -be tartan? A four wheeled model parked close to the wall near but not outside three-one-three, handle extended.
I stare at it. Frown. The image changes cycling through to the next camera in sequence.
Right.
"Everyone check out?"
"Oh." Caught off guard, dropping a pen and spinning to face me as I step up behind Spencer, the thirty something manning reception.
Not as competent as that redhead. Smith, although Spencer is far less sullen, less prone to glaring when she thinks I'm not looking.
I'm always looking, it's my job.
"Um." Facing the counter, tap tapping away, scrolling and clicking. Windows opening. I wait.
"Yes." Pointing. "See?"
"Right." Stepping closer, seeing a list, names and reference numbers and beside each a green tick.
Check out. Complete.
Okay.
"Thanks Spencer."
"Okay."
Probably checking out my butt, my generally toned physique, as I walk away. I know, because people talk, that he likes me. Slim no muscles Spencer, maybe he's got a thing for being overpowered?
And I am quite strong. Only being a guy, having that added natural bulk makes Elwood stronger. It's a bonding thing between us, macho crap excepting I'm a girl but he doesn't care. We compete at all sorts of rubbish, friendly but keeping a points tally.
I play rugby semi professionally, point of the wedge lots of weights down the gym. No defined muscles because I'm not doing it for show. Blonde hair kept short and tied back. Chest not as large as the Smith girl, but a decent handful.
Too bad- for him, Spencer -I'm spoken for.
"What about anyone not checking in yesterday?" Sudden thought and I turn, unintentionally catching him at it.
Spencer blushes, bends down and attacks the keyboard by way of distraction.
"Miss Lake." Glancing up, another blush poor chap. "Sophie Lake. Booked but no check in logged."
"Right."
Interesting.
Torch and two-way, check. Another reason to want the combats is my skirt looks even smaller with the bulky utility belt strapped to my waist.
And, walking corridors and stairs, musing. About the ghost. The apparent actual, reported multiple times when Lupin was so much ruins and not shiny new White Wolf. The ghost of.
What was her name?
So many of the employees here don't even know about the stories and history of the place. They don't care.
And wouldn't it be funny, crazy but funny if this suitcase randomly turning up were her.
Luc.... Damn, I'll remember it eventually.
What if it's her. Teasing and playing, the prankster some books and reports say she is?
Ha. As if.
Up on third and the case is right where I saw it. One of those solid models. Tartan, red mostly, yellow and white stripes up and down, side to side. Some blue and black in the mix. Someone loves Scotland, is Scottish?
Travel tags, airport stuff on the handle: Lake. Miss S.
"Miss Black, this is Bishop come in."
Burst of static. I wait, finger the handle look around, and she's hardly likely to appear out of the air but.
"Bishop, Black here."
"Where are you boss?"
"Office."
"Are you free." Glancing down, frowning. "Got a situation."
"Boss?" Because she hadn't answered. Overhead the lights flicker, I glare at them.
"A." Pausing and I'd swear she's smiling, the tone sounds amused. Strange almost accent or is it just the static? "Situation."
"Confirmed."
"Boss." More silence. What? "Are you free?"
"Oui."
"Say again?"
"Yes. Come to the office, Bishop. Black out."
French?
Stowing the two-way radio back on the chunky belt, I set off back downstairs bringing Miss Lake's case.
"Boss?"
"Come in Bishop, please." Gesturing like a wave and a point: inside, and look here's a seat. But I'm paused in the open doorway.
Her name, title, made a question because she looks different.
Changed.
Yes I haven't seen Miss Black in prehaps ten days, she's in when I'm not and so on, plus there isn't a daily requirement to knock on the door, come in or check in.
But. Changes: still in uniform those damn combats and the shirt hugging her chest, hugging and a tighter fit due to the black corset cinched at the waist and stomach. And her hair looks different, still a brunette affecting that white fringe hair brushed to the sides, but it's. Longer? Grown more so then ten days would allow.
I'm sure.
And the accent too. French and definitely audible, like a native those soft lilting tones.
And- and and and -it might. Might? Be the corset but she looks thinner, her chest a cup size or two larger.
"Bishop?"
"Boss." Nodding and stepping forward, door swinging shut at my back. Brief bizarre feeling of being a small creature now trapped in the lair. Suitcase parked beside the chair and I sit, Black opposite the desk between us.
"Lost luggage?"
"Possibly something more, boss."
"I see." Favouring me with a quite creepy wide smile. "So you, the detective of this piece suspect foul play."
"Well..."
"And." Talking through my pause. "Here you are to conduct an investigation. Yes?"
"Well." She isn't entirely wrong, questions do need to be asked. "Yes."
"Then prehaps I must be detained," she actually winks like it's all a game, "pending proof of innocence."
The room lights flicker whilst I cough out a laugh at the absurdity of needing to lock the boss up. Like she's moments from bolting, escaping to never be seen again.
Like she's even guilty.
"Here." Heavy thud as my cuffs are placed on the desk. "You'll be using these I presume?"
Tone amused as my hand darts down to the belt, finding a space, the absence of heavy steel locking cuffs which of course are now on the desk. Between us.
Waiting.
"How did you...?"
Miss Black only shrugs.
Waiting.
"No." Shaking my head and reaching out, half expecting my cuffs to vanish, or shuffle across the desk towards her like some kind of cheap magic.
Silence whilst I fix the cuffs back in place, and then she gestures at the case.
"Miss Lake's?"
"Yes." Cautious, frowning. "How did you know, boss?"
"The design." After a pause spent smiling at me. "Miss Lake is relatively famous and I had taken note of her failure to check in."
"Right."
Except something isn't. Right, here. If Lake didn't check in then why the suitcase?
"Could it be the system glitched?"
"That she's here?" Leaning forwards fingers of her right hand walking across the desk. Still smiling. "Wandering. Lost maybe?"
"Is she?" Because there was a knowing tone just then, smugness leaking through, though I've no fucking clue why that should be the case.
"Prehaps you should go and look?" Now the fingers march left and right. "Take your torch and seek out the dark places."
Almost. The words thrust out like a challenge.
"I will." Standing, nodding down at my boss, who smiles back up hands now loosely clasped on her desk.
"Bon chance detective."
Flicker overhead, lights tripping and resetting. And, in that brief instant they power back on I get the weirdest after image: that of Miss Black's close twin, a young woman, standing, floating almost behind her sat down real self, hair blowing in an invisible wind and wearing a dress whose neckline plunges alarmingly low.
And then gone as I blink.
Nod.
Leave.
Vanessa Bishop.
Security, White Wolf Hotel.
I've got to be the only security guard, anywhere, ever, who wears a skirt.
Those good old boys at Studebaker decreed, so I've been told, so I've researched, that female employees should wear a skirt. And with the exception of Miss Black, the manager we all do.
I feel like, really, I should be an exception too. I feel as though it's hard to take security seriously if I show up bare legged and worrying that: if I run the skirt will ride up and expose my thong.
So I asked, and of course she- Miss Black -said no.
It's fine. It'll have to be.
Working under Elwood we all do solo shifts, there aren't enough of us to double up and besides the risk of serious trouble occurring at White Wolf is minimal.
Serious trouble, like the rumoured ghost.
Ha.
It's early afternoon when the suitcase shows up, post check out but too early for check in. According to Elwood's log the third floor camera's have been glitching too. Overnight.
Too, because the camera's and lights in the basement are just one constant fail fest.
I'm in security. Monitoring the monitors when I spot it. A large suitcase in the third floor corridor, striped patterning that might- the black and white makes it hard to tell -be tartan? A four wheeled model parked close to the wall near but not outside three-one-three, handle extended.
I stare at it. Frown. The image changes cycling through to the next camera in sequence.
Right.
"Everyone check out?"
"Oh." Caught off guard, dropping a pen and spinning to face me as I step up behind Spencer, the thirty something manning reception.
Not as competent as that redhead. Smith, although Spencer is far less sullen, less prone to glaring when she thinks I'm not looking.
I'm always looking, it's my job.
"Um." Facing the counter, tap tapping away, scrolling and clicking. Windows opening. I wait.
"Yes." Pointing. "See?"
"Right." Stepping closer, seeing a list, names and reference numbers and beside each a green tick.
Check out. Complete.
Okay.
"Thanks Spencer."
"Okay."
Probably checking out my butt, my generally toned physique, as I walk away. I know, because people talk, that he likes me. Slim no muscles Spencer, maybe he's got a thing for being overpowered?
And I am quite strong. Only being a guy, having that added natural bulk makes Elwood stronger. It's a bonding thing between us, macho crap excepting I'm a girl but he doesn't care. We compete at all sorts of rubbish, friendly but keeping a points tally.
I play rugby semi professionally, point of the wedge lots of weights down the gym. No defined muscles because I'm not doing it for show. Blonde hair kept short and tied back. Chest not as large as the Smith girl, but a decent handful.
Too bad- for him, Spencer -I'm spoken for.
"What about anyone not checking in yesterday?" Sudden thought and I turn, unintentionally catching him at it.
Spencer blushes, bends down and attacks the keyboard by way of distraction.
"Miss Lake." Glancing up, another blush poor chap. "Sophie Lake. Booked but no check in logged."
"Right."
Interesting.
Torch and two-way, check. Another reason to want the combats is my skirt looks even smaller with the bulky utility belt strapped to my waist.
And, walking corridors and stairs, musing. About the ghost. The apparent actual, reported multiple times when Lupin was so much ruins and not shiny new White Wolf. The ghost of.
What was her name?
So many of the employees here don't even know about the stories and history of the place. They don't care.
And wouldn't it be funny, crazy but funny if this suitcase randomly turning up were her.
Luc.... Damn, I'll remember it eventually.
What if it's her. Teasing and playing, the prankster some books and reports say she is?
Ha. As if.
Up on third and the case is right where I saw it. One of those solid models. Tartan, red mostly, yellow and white stripes up and down, side to side. Some blue and black in the mix. Someone loves Scotland, is Scottish?
Travel tags, airport stuff on the handle: Lake. Miss S.
"Miss Black, this is Bishop come in."
Burst of static. I wait, finger the handle look around, and she's hardly likely to appear out of the air but.
"Bishop, Black here."
"Where are you boss?"
"Office."
"Are you free." Glancing down, frowning. "Got a situation."
"Boss?" Because she hadn't answered. Overhead the lights flicker, I glare at them.
"A." Pausing and I'd swear she's smiling, the tone sounds amused. Strange almost accent or is it just the static? "Situation."
"Confirmed."
"Boss." More silence. What? "Are you free?"
"Oui."
"Say again?"
"Yes. Come to the office, Bishop. Black out."
French?
Stowing the two-way radio back on the chunky belt, I set off back downstairs bringing Miss Lake's case.
"Boss?"
"Come in Bishop, please." Gesturing like a wave and a point: inside, and look here's a seat. But I'm paused in the open doorway.
Her name, title, made a question because she looks different.
Changed.
Yes I haven't seen Miss Black in prehaps ten days, she's in when I'm not and so on, plus there isn't a daily requirement to knock on the door, come in or check in.
But. Changes: still in uniform those damn combats and the shirt hugging her chest, hugging and a tighter fit due to the black corset cinched at the waist and stomach. And her hair looks different, still a brunette affecting that white fringe hair brushed to the sides, but it's. Longer? Grown more so then ten days would allow.
I'm sure.
And the accent too. French and definitely audible, like a native those soft lilting tones.
And- and and and -it might. Might? Be the corset but she looks thinner, her chest a cup size or two larger.
"Bishop?"
"Boss." Nodding and stepping forward, door swinging shut at my back. Brief bizarre feeling of being a small creature now trapped in the lair. Suitcase parked beside the chair and I sit, Black opposite the desk between us.
"Lost luggage?"
"Possibly something more, boss."
"I see." Favouring me with a quite creepy wide smile. "So you, the detective of this piece suspect foul play."
"Well..."
"And." Talking through my pause. "Here you are to conduct an investigation. Yes?"
"Well." She isn't entirely wrong, questions do need to be asked. "Yes."
"Then prehaps I must be detained," she actually winks like it's all a game, "pending proof of innocence."
The room lights flicker whilst I cough out a laugh at the absurdity of needing to lock the boss up. Like she's moments from bolting, escaping to never be seen again.
Like she's even guilty.
"Here." Heavy thud as my cuffs are placed on the desk. "You'll be using these I presume?"
Tone amused as my hand darts down to the belt, finding a space, the absence of heavy steel locking cuffs which of course are now on the desk. Between us.
Waiting.
"How did you...?"
Miss Black only shrugs.
Waiting.
"No." Shaking my head and reaching out, half expecting my cuffs to vanish, or shuffle across the desk towards her like some kind of cheap magic.
Silence whilst I fix the cuffs back in place, and then she gestures at the case.
"Miss Lake's?"
"Yes." Cautious, frowning. "How did you know, boss?"
"The design." After a pause spent smiling at me. "Miss Lake is relatively famous and I had taken note of her failure to check in."
"Right."
Except something isn't. Right, here. If Lake didn't check in then why the suitcase?
"Could it be the system glitched?"
"That she's here?" Leaning forwards fingers of her right hand walking across the desk. Still smiling. "Wandering. Lost maybe?"
"Is she?" Because there was a knowing tone just then, smugness leaking through, though I've no fucking clue why that should be the case.
"Prehaps you should go and look?" Now the fingers march left and right. "Take your torch and seek out the dark places."
Almost. The words thrust out like a challenge.
"I will." Standing, nodding down at my boss, who smiles back up hands now loosely clasped on her desk.
"Bon chance detective."
Flicker overhead, lights tripping and resetting. And, in that brief instant they power back on I get the weirdest after image: that of Miss Black's close twin, a young woman, standing, floating almost behind her sat down real self, hair blowing in an invisible wind and wearing a dress whose neckline plunges alarmingly low.
And then gone as I blink.
Nod.
Leave.
Extract taken from 'Here be Wolves, the fall and fall of the de Monteforts' 1988, by Kingston. E. Smith.
....the family crest. (see illustration vi)
A pair of wolves, styled as such things were: long, stretched all hard angles and occasional spiked fur. Stood on hind legs front paws up to hold the shield they flank. Open mouths snarling, facing out.
The shield, round and upon which an eight pointed star is drawn, a recognised symbol for chaos, for infinite possibilities.
Below, grounding the wolves and shield an unfurled banner runs a gentle downward curve, bowing. 'Hunter not Hunted' the family motto writ large for all to see.
A message, or a warning prehaps due....
....the family crest. (see illustration vi)
A pair of wolves, styled as such things were: long, stretched all hard angles and occasional spiked fur. Stood on hind legs front paws up to hold the shield they flank. Open mouths snarling, facing out.
The shield, round and upon which an eight pointed star is drawn, a recognised symbol for chaos, for infinite possibilities.
Below, grounding the wolves and shield an unfurled banner runs a gentle downward curve, bowing. 'Hunter not Hunted' the family motto writ large for all to see.
A message, or a warning prehaps due....
005.
Vanessa Bishop.
Security, White Wolf Hotel.
Security first, where I manually scroll through the camera feed, not really expecting to see Sophie.
Stood, waving like Wally in the books.
And of course she's nowhere in sight.
I fill out the logbook, noting the time and appearance of her suitcase, noting a conversation held with Miss Black but not going into detail.
A written record though, a paper trail and due diligence should Sophie turn up, here in White Wolf they'll be proof we acted accordingly and so nobody can sue us.
You're welcome boss.
I'm not a detective, nor am I police which means I've little or no power beyond protecting White Wolf: kicking drunks out of Journey's End and so forth. I don't even need half the stuff- cuffs, baton -on my belt but Elwood's a good security head. Likes us to be prepared.
Running fingers along the belt, both sides from butt to crotch, checking by feel that I have everything.
I set off. Start at the top and work down, using a printed list- from poor blushing Spencer -so I know which rooms are currently occupied.
Which I have to knock first at basically, since my key card opens everything but my powers don't extend to simply barging in.
I've got an hour and change before check-in commences, and it takes most of that time to work down from the penthouse suites to ground. Do a visual check of Journey's End and manually search both- knocking first at the gents -bathrooms.
Which just leaves the basement. Staff only access and yet.
Some small hunch has been quietly insisting all along that: I'll find her, Sophie Lake, down there.
Back stairs, the old servant's access running basement to roof, but blocked by a locked door at ground. Click of my key card and down I go.
The renovation work is minimal down here: repairing the aging foundations, fresh coat of paint but no walls have been knocked out, moved. Down here it's the original layout, a roughly rectangular formation of rooms arranged around a circuit like corridor, only now instead of the wine cellar we have an industrial scale laundrette.
For instance.
Eerie. Quiet. Or perhaps that's just my mind playing tricks, seeing what isn't there tales of the ghost and Miss Black's strange behaviour, all of it rolling and blending.
Playing tricks.
Focus.
And she, Sophie, she shouldn't be down here at all. Out of the whole hotel here is the last place she'd manage to wander. Lost.
Miss Black's words and I feel a shiver.
Tamp it down.
Room to room, keeping quiet and listening. Slow, careful. Looking.
Finding nothing.
Until I emerge from the bin store, final home to the hotels rubbish all piled into a half dozen large wheeled bins, sorted by way of recycling and emptied once a week.
There's a bra. A fancy pink plunge bra with lace cups, large cups at least double D's. Far off to my right laid on the floor.
"Bit too obvious." Shaking my head at what feels like a lure, a dangled hook although by whom I couldn't say. But it feels as though I'm supposed to walk right.
I go left.
Into the next room. Finding nothing but.
Back in the corridor and the same- I assume -bra is now off to my left.
"Black." Two-way in my hand as I stare at the bra, and how could she have anything to do with this except.
That hunch. Just a feeling.
"Come in this is Bishop."
Static.
And all the lights simultaneously failing.
And, plunged into darkness suddenly there's someone right here with me. Someone standing inches away I can't see them can't hear them. But I can feel them, a tingling running up my bare arms.
A face swims out of the darkness: young and pretty all in shades of grey long curling hair framing the face. And on instinct, half scared and jumpy I pull my baton and swing.
But she only laughs as- what the fuck oh crap how -it passes straight through her.
A tugging at my waist and just as suddenly she's gone, stepping or drifting back out of sight, quiet laughter in her wake.
My utility belt. Gone.
No torch, and the two-way is useless, nothing but static and I try Miss Black again only for that same quiet laughter to bubble up from the tiny speaker catching me by surprise, at which point I toss the radio away, jumping.
Grabbed from behind and I spin, swinging the baton which is knocked from my hand to spin away. Lost.
I run, try to run but someone has hold of me. A tight grip and I struggle, fight.
Wind up free at the cost of my shirt, my tie, shrugged off and out and I run.
Stumbling bouncing off walls blind it's so dark I can't see.
Laughter floating out of the nothingness behind me and around a corner, light.
Torches? I falter, stop. Confused to discover torches fixed to stone walls and a matching floor. A too large room compared to the building layout I've walked over two dozen times since opening.
Someone behind me again. Soft butterfly kisses on the shoulders and across my back rooting me- feels like I'm a statue -to the spot.
Hooded, vision gone fabric pressing against my face, tight and completely covering. No eye holes and a ball like thing on the inside fitting snugly into my mouth. Filling it. Gagging me.
Going by feel alone.
Stripped, and I still feel strangely unable to fight back as my clothes are removed skirt and pants, bra. Work boots.
And though I don't move there's suddenly pressure at my back, hard stone against my nakedness.
My limbs moved, positioned and cold smooth metal closing around wrists and ankles, fixing me into a standing X shape, stretched out tight splayed and I can feel muscles pulled taut.
I shan't be able to move at all.
Especially not when more metal clamps shut: biceps and thighs, waist. Neck.
A final ghost like laugh, quiet and fading.
Leaving me behind.
Vanessa Bishop.
Security, White Wolf Hotel.
Security first, where I manually scroll through the camera feed, not really expecting to see Sophie.
Stood, waving like Wally in the books.
And of course she's nowhere in sight.
I fill out the logbook, noting the time and appearance of her suitcase, noting a conversation held with Miss Black but not going into detail.
A written record though, a paper trail and due diligence should Sophie turn up, here in White Wolf they'll be proof we acted accordingly and so nobody can sue us.
You're welcome boss.
I'm not a detective, nor am I police which means I've little or no power beyond protecting White Wolf: kicking drunks out of Journey's End and so forth. I don't even need half the stuff- cuffs, baton -on my belt but Elwood's a good security head. Likes us to be prepared.
Running fingers along the belt, both sides from butt to crotch, checking by feel that I have everything.
I set off. Start at the top and work down, using a printed list- from poor blushing Spencer -so I know which rooms are currently occupied.
Which I have to knock first at basically, since my key card opens everything but my powers don't extend to simply barging in.
I've got an hour and change before check-in commences, and it takes most of that time to work down from the penthouse suites to ground. Do a visual check of Journey's End and manually search both- knocking first at the gents -bathrooms.
Which just leaves the basement. Staff only access and yet.
Some small hunch has been quietly insisting all along that: I'll find her, Sophie Lake, down there.
Back stairs, the old servant's access running basement to roof, but blocked by a locked door at ground. Click of my key card and down I go.
The renovation work is minimal down here: repairing the aging foundations, fresh coat of paint but no walls have been knocked out, moved. Down here it's the original layout, a roughly rectangular formation of rooms arranged around a circuit like corridor, only now instead of the wine cellar we have an industrial scale laundrette.
For instance.
Eerie. Quiet. Or perhaps that's just my mind playing tricks, seeing what isn't there tales of the ghost and Miss Black's strange behaviour, all of it rolling and blending.
Playing tricks.
Focus.
And she, Sophie, she shouldn't be down here at all. Out of the whole hotel here is the last place she'd manage to wander. Lost.
Miss Black's words and I feel a shiver.
Tamp it down.
Room to room, keeping quiet and listening. Slow, careful. Looking.
Finding nothing.
Until I emerge from the bin store, final home to the hotels rubbish all piled into a half dozen large wheeled bins, sorted by way of recycling and emptied once a week.
There's a bra. A fancy pink plunge bra with lace cups, large cups at least double D's. Far off to my right laid on the floor.
"Bit too obvious." Shaking my head at what feels like a lure, a dangled hook although by whom I couldn't say. But it feels as though I'm supposed to walk right.
I go left.
Into the next room. Finding nothing but.
Back in the corridor and the same- I assume -bra is now off to my left.
"Black." Two-way in my hand as I stare at the bra, and how could she have anything to do with this except.
That hunch. Just a feeling.
"Come in this is Bishop."
Static.
And all the lights simultaneously failing.
And, plunged into darkness suddenly there's someone right here with me. Someone standing inches away I can't see them can't hear them. But I can feel them, a tingling running up my bare arms.
A face swims out of the darkness: young and pretty all in shades of grey long curling hair framing the face. And on instinct, half scared and jumpy I pull my baton and swing.
But she only laughs as- what the fuck oh crap how -it passes straight through her.
A tugging at my waist and just as suddenly she's gone, stepping or drifting back out of sight, quiet laughter in her wake.
My utility belt. Gone.
No torch, and the two-way is useless, nothing but static and I try Miss Black again only for that same quiet laughter to bubble up from the tiny speaker catching me by surprise, at which point I toss the radio away, jumping.
Grabbed from behind and I spin, swinging the baton which is knocked from my hand to spin away. Lost.
I run, try to run but someone has hold of me. A tight grip and I struggle, fight.
Wind up free at the cost of my shirt, my tie, shrugged off and out and I run.
Stumbling bouncing off walls blind it's so dark I can't see.
Laughter floating out of the nothingness behind me and around a corner, light.
Torches? I falter, stop. Confused to discover torches fixed to stone walls and a matching floor. A too large room compared to the building layout I've walked over two dozen times since opening.
Someone behind me again. Soft butterfly kisses on the shoulders and across my back rooting me- feels like I'm a statue -to the spot.
Hooded, vision gone fabric pressing against my face, tight and completely covering. No eye holes and a ball like thing on the inside fitting snugly into my mouth. Filling it. Gagging me.
Going by feel alone.
Stripped, and I still feel strangely unable to fight back as my clothes are removed skirt and pants, bra. Work boots.
And though I don't move there's suddenly pressure at my back, hard stone against my nakedness.
My limbs moved, positioned and cold smooth metal closing around wrists and ankles, fixing me into a standing X shape, stretched out tight splayed and I can feel muscles pulled taut.
I shan't be able to move at all.
Especially not when more metal clamps shut: biceps and thighs, waist. Neck.
A final ghost like laugh, quiet and fading.
Leaving me behind.
006.
Lily Smith.
Receptionist, White Wolf Hotel.
What is it the brochure says:
Bringing the country to the city.
Ha. Granted there's green here, surrounding White Wolf like a shield tall stone walls and a scattered screen of trees. Grass stretching and rolling. The great outdoors only small, compared to Londons great parks.
Still more then the other posh hotels can claim though.
Around back, of the tall somewhat imposing- that ancient architecture wasn't made to look friendly -building sits a car park: staff clustered in one corner, the rest for guests and a comfortable boundary between.
Wouldn't want our shitty- Miss Black's Posche aside -economy minimum wage stuff to accidentally dent or scratch all that expensive B M and Jaguar shine.
I don't drive. Pointless in London, I think. The tube and bus network is pretty all encompassing, not many places you can't reach for a reasonable fee. Plus the roads are full of lunatics.
But I still have to walk round back, to beside the conservatory like pool building tacked on at one side. Here workers dug a shallow ramp down, knocked through an outer basement wall to create large double doors. A loading bay, for rubbish collection and deliveries.
A staff entrance.
I'm early shift today, which means early like still dark and a slight chill to the air, everything quiet and still London reduced to a low murmur. Only a couple of cars on the staff side: Bishop's Citroën.
And I'm sure it's been in that same spot several days now?
Maybe she leaves it, walks home?
Jogs, knowing her. Probably whilst carrying a four man tent and two weeks rations. Probably without even breaking a sweat.
Fucking gym bro.
Inside I head for the lockers, stow my bag and coat, retrieve my accursed tie.
Hear water running, a shower in the ladies it sounds like? Both staff bathrooms run off the locker room, shower stall included, nice of them though I don't care, but.
Bishop?
Miss Black, despite no Porshe?
Curious, and needing a mirror for the tie anyway, I wander through.
Completely unprepared for the sight awaiting me, at which I- unable to help myself -giggle.
It's Sophie Lake. Famous, famously single, desired by men and women the world over, Sophie Lake.
I'd been on shift when she arrived, late. And there'd been, something, happening with Miss Black. Some kind of out of character behaviour. Flirting, almost and me, almost, falling for it. For her.
It had felt- and I know I wouldn't actually know what it feels like for real but still it had felt -like hypnotism.
I'd run. Confused and slightly horny, because the boss does look kinda yes please, and plus there's that whole boss angle. So I'd run, and assumed she, Sophie, checked in just fine for her overnight.
One night.
So what's she doing here over half a week later? In the early hours? In the staff bathroom?
Looking like this.
Stood in the stall with her back to me, but I know it's Sophie because of the ink: a large butterfly stretching from shoulder to shoulder, filling her upper back one wing decked out as the Scottish flag, the other a death's head grinning skull. Ink she's shown off often, for magazine shoots and the cover of her debut album.
She's topless, white jeans and chunky boots getting soaked, the jeans near see-through under the constant noisy cascade of water.
Bound. How and why? And every other question is lost, left unasked because. Wow.
Arms pulled, it looks savagely tight behind her, rope at wrists and elbows, more looped around her upper body. Skin very visibly pinched. Black leather straps running a circle, pinning drenched blonde locks to her head and I know enough to spot a gag.
A ball? Maybe.
A final rope around her neck. Tight, not strangling tight but enough to keep her in place. Like a collar the ends raised and bound high overhead, to the pipework. Forcing Sophie to remain in this spot, directly under the gushing torrent.
And my girlish laughter, high and rattling. Nerves and what the fuck? It breaks a spell though because Sophie turns, slowly her head coming around upper body and legs following.
Those amazing enhanced breasts coming into view, squeezed and separated by ropes, thrust and offered up like a gift.
"Rrrrfffgggggmmmmnnnn." Low moan as she looks at me and.
Sudden prickling feeling of cold at my back and I feel- I'd swear -pushed forward instants before my legs engage.
Head spinning round and of course it's all in the mind.
Nobody there.
They didn't scrimp on the showers, the stall is large, for one, and the head of good quality able to dispense a large circular downpour.
Unthinking, because she needs help, I step in, under. Becoming drenched in seconds by the warm rain like cascade as I get close.
Gag off first. Check she's okay, do the right thing by the- you're welcome boss -company.
Except.
I'm tossing the ballgag behind me, not paying attention so don't see Sophie lunge.
Suddenly I'm being kissed, passionate with real feeling, enough that my nipples wake instantly, that without putting thought into things like consequences and should I really be doing this?
I step in, closer. One hand reaching down and around plunging into jeans to cup a firm solid butt cheek. The other reaching too, finding pert breasts, squeezing, flicking the nipple as Sophie kisses me some more. As I kiss her back.
In the shower.
Getting soaked and not caring.
Of course, eventually we wake up, come to our senses. Surprisingly, not mad despite a confused expression Sophie grins, causing me to grin back.
Like idiots.
And at some point, during our frantic seeming zoned out not fully aware of anything except her and the water and my rising arousal. As we'd kissed I'd removed her noose like collar, somehow. Plus my shirt.
At some point, her sucking on my breast and me strumming her clit, Sophie kneeling and licking my back arched hands guiding her in, pressed close and kissing.
At some point I'd swear there'd been a third.
Another set of hands, another mouth. Sophie looking just over my shoulder.
Flickering lights.
Lily Smith.
Receptionist, White Wolf Hotel.
What is it the brochure says:
Bringing the country to the city.
Ha. Granted there's green here, surrounding White Wolf like a shield tall stone walls and a scattered screen of trees. Grass stretching and rolling. The great outdoors only small, compared to Londons great parks.
Still more then the other posh hotels can claim though.
Around back, of the tall somewhat imposing- that ancient architecture wasn't made to look friendly -building sits a car park: staff clustered in one corner, the rest for guests and a comfortable boundary between.
Wouldn't want our shitty- Miss Black's Posche aside -economy minimum wage stuff to accidentally dent or scratch all that expensive B M and Jaguar shine.
I don't drive. Pointless in London, I think. The tube and bus network is pretty all encompassing, not many places you can't reach for a reasonable fee. Plus the roads are full of lunatics.
But I still have to walk round back, to beside the conservatory like pool building tacked on at one side. Here workers dug a shallow ramp down, knocked through an outer basement wall to create large double doors. A loading bay, for rubbish collection and deliveries.
A staff entrance.
I'm early shift today, which means early like still dark and a slight chill to the air, everything quiet and still London reduced to a low murmur. Only a couple of cars on the staff side: Bishop's Citroën.
And I'm sure it's been in that same spot several days now?
Maybe she leaves it, walks home?
Jogs, knowing her. Probably whilst carrying a four man tent and two weeks rations. Probably without even breaking a sweat.
Fucking gym bro.
Inside I head for the lockers, stow my bag and coat, retrieve my accursed tie.
Hear water running, a shower in the ladies it sounds like? Both staff bathrooms run off the locker room, shower stall included, nice of them though I don't care, but.
Bishop?
Miss Black, despite no Porshe?
Curious, and needing a mirror for the tie anyway, I wander through.
Completely unprepared for the sight awaiting me, at which I- unable to help myself -giggle.
It's Sophie Lake. Famous, famously single, desired by men and women the world over, Sophie Lake.
I'd been on shift when she arrived, late. And there'd been, something, happening with Miss Black. Some kind of out of character behaviour. Flirting, almost and me, almost, falling for it. For her.
It had felt- and I know I wouldn't actually know what it feels like for real but still it had felt -like hypnotism.
I'd run. Confused and slightly horny, because the boss does look kinda yes please, and plus there's that whole boss angle. So I'd run, and assumed she, Sophie, checked in just fine for her overnight.
One night.
So what's she doing here over half a week later? In the early hours? In the staff bathroom?
Looking like this.
Stood in the stall with her back to me, but I know it's Sophie because of the ink: a large butterfly stretching from shoulder to shoulder, filling her upper back one wing decked out as the Scottish flag, the other a death's head grinning skull. Ink she's shown off often, for magazine shoots and the cover of her debut album.
She's topless, white jeans and chunky boots getting soaked, the jeans near see-through under the constant noisy cascade of water.
Bound. How and why? And every other question is lost, left unasked because. Wow.
Arms pulled, it looks savagely tight behind her, rope at wrists and elbows, more looped around her upper body. Skin very visibly pinched. Black leather straps running a circle, pinning drenched blonde locks to her head and I know enough to spot a gag.
A ball? Maybe.
A final rope around her neck. Tight, not strangling tight but enough to keep her in place. Like a collar the ends raised and bound high overhead, to the pipework. Forcing Sophie to remain in this spot, directly under the gushing torrent.
And my girlish laughter, high and rattling. Nerves and what the fuck? It breaks a spell though because Sophie turns, slowly her head coming around upper body and legs following.
Those amazing enhanced breasts coming into view, squeezed and separated by ropes, thrust and offered up like a gift.
"Rrrrfffgggggmmmmnnnn." Low moan as she looks at me and.
Sudden prickling feeling of cold at my back and I feel- I'd swear -pushed forward instants before my legs engage.
Head spinning round and of course it's all in the mind.
Nobody there.
They didn't scrimp on the showers, the stall is large, for one, and the head of good quality able to dispense a large circular downpour.
Unthinking, because she needs help, I step in, under. Becoming drenched in seconds by the warm rain like cascade as I get close.
Gag off first. Check she's okay, do the right thing by the- you're welcome boss -company.
Except.
I'm tossing the ballgag behind me, not paying attention so don't see Sophie lunge.
Suddenly I'm being kissed, passionate with real feeling, enough that my nipples wake instantly, that without putting thought into things like consequences and should I really be doing this?
I step in, closer. One hand reaching down and around plunging into jeans to cup a firm solid butt cheek. The other reaching too, finding pert breasts, squeezing, flicking the nipple as Sophie kisses me some more. As I kiss her back.
In the shower.
Getting soaked and not caring.
Of course, eventually we wake up, come to our senses. Surprisingly, not mad despite a confused expression Sophie grins, causing me to grin back.
Like idiots.
And at some point, during our frantic seeming zoned out not fully aware of anything except her and the water and my rising arousal. As we'd kissed I'd removed her noose like collar, somehow. Plus my shirt.
At some point, her sucking on my breast and me strumming her clit, Sophie kneeling and licking my back arched hands guiding her in, pressed close and kissing.
At some point I'd swear there'd been a third.
Another set of hands, another mouth. Sophie looking just over my shoulder.
Flickering lights.
Extracted from an interview by Kristabel Jackson with Blonde Bomb, the stage name of artist Sophie Lake. From the current issue of Mixmag.
KJ: You've only just come off a year long tour of the US and Canada, co-headlining with DJ Steve West. It's fair to say this new release has caught us all off guard.
SL: What can I say, when inspiration hits....
KJ: Better to let it loose then bottle it up?
SL: Exactly.
KJ: 'Shadows In The Fog.' A five track EP to follow on from 'Slow Like A Cheetah,' your debut album that stormed charts on both sides of the pond, winning multiple awards.
SL: Still doesn't feel real sometimes, all those sold out arenas and each time. Each night, waiting to go on and you panic and think nobody's out there. That it's all been a beautiful dream.
KJ: But it's not.
SL: Right. It's a crazy ride, but I wouldn't ever jump off. Not now.
KJ: Any advice, from a success story to those still dreaming and hoping?
SL: Yeah. Course. Keep believing, keep fighting and keep trying. Find your sound, hold it close.
KJ: Wise words. So, we've all been spinning 'Shadows' on repeat since the copy landed at Mixmag towers.
SL: And...?
KJ: Wow. Definitely. You can see the progression from 'Cheetah,' all that hard speeding bass. But evolved.
SL: Thanks.
KJ: Got to ask though, that final track?
SL: Fantome.
KJ: It's, different. Still right there, but a new direction for you. Slower and softer to a point. Almost like a love song? And in French too?
SL: Yeah. Well. Trust me I'm regretting it now. [Laughs]
KJ: So why the step change, is there a story here?
SL: There was a girl.
KJ: Lucille?
SL: Right, Lucille. A girl I. Met. And we had, shared a thing. Fun times.
KJ: And, because the fans will want to know, is Lucille still around? Will you see her again?
SL: Around, probably. Will I see her, I don't think that's up to me.
KJ: You've only just come off a year long tour of the US and Canada, co-headlining with DJ Steve West. It's fair to say this new release has caught us all off guard.
SL: What can I say, when inspiration hits....
KJ: Better to let it loose then bottle it up?
SL: Exactly.
KJ: 'Shadows In The Fog.' A five track EP to follow on from 'Slow Like A Cheetah,' your debut album that stormed charts on both sides of the pond, winning multiple awards.
SL: Still doesn't feel real sometimes, all those sold out arenas and each time. Each night, waiting to go on and you panic and think nobody's out there. That it's all been a beautiful dream.
KJ: But it's not.
SL: Right. It's a crazy ride, but I wouldn't ever jump off. Not now.
KJ: Any advice, from a success story to those still dreaming and hoping?
SL: Yeah. Course. Keep believing, keep fighting and keep trying. Find your sound, hold it close.
KJ: Wise words. So, we've all been spinning 'Shadows' on repeat since the copy landed at Mixmag towers.
SL: And...?
KJ: Wow. Definitely. You can see the progression from 'Cheetah,' all that hard speeding bass. But evolved.
SL: Thanks.
KJ: Got to ask though, that final track?
SL: Fantome.
KJ: It's, different. Still right there, but a new direction for you. Slower and softer to a point. Almost like a love song? And in French too?
SL: Yeah. Well. Trust me I'm regretting it now. [Laughs]
KJ: So why the step change, is there a story here?
SL: There was a girl.
KJ: Lucille?
SL: Right, Lucille. A girl I. Met. And we had, shared a thing. Fun times.
KJ: And, because the fans will want to know, is Lucille still around? Will you see her again?
SL: Around, probably. Will I see her, I don't think that's up to me.
007.
Scarlet.
B. K. Paranormal Investigations.
"All I'm saying is," swinging the van into a space, it's sheer bulk sticking out amongst the other universally prestige vehicles in the lot, "that it's a fuck ton of money. Bob."
"Which is why nobody else is coming." Bob, voice drifting from the back, talking sense I suppose. "We've got the exclusive here."
If there's even anything to find.
White Wolf Hotel, formerly Lupin House the de Montefort seat of power, had things worked out differently. Possibly haunted, and I've been doing this long enough to know you can't trust even documented evidence.
Let alone some dropped words in an interview given by a fame hungry celebrity.
I guess we'll find out, and as Bob keeps- smugly -pointing out, ain't nobody else turning up. We've got this- maybe -ghost all to ourselves.
Sometimes people or companies hire us. We're a legitimate enterprise. Sure, there's a YouTube channel where we upload findings, comment on those uploaded by others, but we aren't cowboys, nor glory hunters. We take the job, the seeking out to either debunk or prove legitimate these sightings seriously.
People hire us, but sometimes we take on our own commissions.
Like here: White Wolf.
Having found the interview in Mixmag Alison. Ali, the third member of our crew bought it to our attention. So we looked into it, making the connections from Sophie to Lucille to Lupin to White Wolf. An old haunted house story, a building gone to ruin and locked up.
Until now.
And why has nobody else taken the clear opportunity to explore and film and investigate inside this place?
Their loss.
And it is, will be expensive. Because White Wolf haven't hired us but luckily Bob comes from old money, so we're covered.
We'd reached out, before booking. No sense turning up tools and shit in hand only to be denied permission to film, not given access to all parts of the old House.
So we'd reached out, and management: a Miss Black, had seemed very accommodating over the phone.
Perfect.
Van parked we unload, bag and a suitcase for Ali and me. Bob, staying in the van with the monitors each night, follows behind with the trolley full of equipment.
Reception, after a word and a brief conversation via the two-way, points us through to the back area.
The managers office.
"Bon apres-midi." Heavy French accent, leaning against the desk on our side as we walk in. Pivot off and stepping forward hand out and.
Bob's trolly begins beeping and chattering, noises from the depths, the piled machines and sensors.
"Sorry." Delving into the pile, his back to us all and Ali, trying to be helpful though the machine's are really Bob's realm so all she can do is shift stuff around. Hunting.
Leaving me alone to smile an apology. Oops and silly technology.
Alone, so only I see Miss Black's smile. Too wide. Amused. Somehow knowing.
She's skinny, even without the cinched black corset worn over a dark red dress, it's neckline v like and plunging. Large pert breasts and I'd swear she's braless. Long hair with a dyed white fringe. Black knee high boots adding height.
"Miss Black?"
"Yes." Shaking hands whilst behind me the beeping, Bob's cursing continues. "So you're the ghost hunters?"
"Yes." I nod. "Thank you for agreeing us access."
"Of course." A waved dismissal. "I am." She smiles, still too wide. "Intrigued, to discover what you might find."
"Right."
It's like. The weirdest thing, it's like she knows something we don't.
"You have a plan?"
"We'll set up." I wave, a gesture to emcompass the whole hotel. "Then check back in the morning, maybe do a couple walkabouts tomorrow daytime and dark."
Miss Black nods.
"Very well." And finally the machine's are silenced, Bob turns just in time to accept a handshake. A smile. "Do let me know if you require anything."
"Of course." He smiles, Ali and me nodding.
And out we go.
It takes us until late to set up. Ali back in the van, Bob and me walking several laps of the whole building, up and down stairs, all over. We set up motion activated camera's in the places rarely used: the sub level, the pool. Plus temperature and EM sensors all around. A whole bunch of noise activated recorders.
Everything linked remotely to the van, Ali checking connections as we work.
Finished, we share a take-out, a couple of beers in the van, the back of which is converted into an office of sorts: workbench with monitors and equipment, narrow bed and two chairs, a fridge.
Ali and me say goodnight, leaving Bob running final checks- it'll all beep if we catch anything. We head back indoors and up to our room, a twin.
Best sleep well tonight, because tomorrow we'll be working all through.
Scarlet.
B. K. Paranormal Investigations.
"All I'm saying is," swinging the van into a space, it's sheer bulk sticking out amongst the other universally prestige vehicles in the lot, "that it's a fuck ton of money. Bob."
"Which is why nobody else is coming." Bob, voice drifting from the back, talking sense I suppose. "We've got the exclusive here."
If there's even anything to find.
White Wolf Hotel, formerly Lupin House the de Montefort seat of power, had things worked out differently. Possibly haunted, and I've been doing this long enough to know you can't trust even documented evidence.
Let alone some dropped words in an interview given by a fame hungry celebrity.
I guess we'll find out, and as Bob keeps- smugly -pointing out, ain't nobody else turning up. We've got this- maybe -ghost all to ourselves.
Sometimes people or companies hire us. We're a legitimate enterprise. Sure, there's a YouTube channel where we upload findings, comment on those uploaded by others, but we aren't cowboys, nor glory hunters. We take the job, the seeking out to either debunk or prove legitimate these sightings seriously.
People hire us, but sometimes we take on our own commissions.
Like here: White Wolf.
Having found the interview in Mixmag Alison. Ali, the third member of our crew bought it to our attention. So we looked into it, making the connections from Sophie to Lucille to Lupin to White Wolf. An old haunted house story, a building gone to ruin and locked up.
Until now.
And why has nobody else taken the clear opportunity to explore and film and investigate inside this place?
Their loss.
And it is, will be expensive. Because White Wolf haven't hired us but luckily Bob comes from old money, so we're covered.
We'd reached out, before booking. No sense turning up tools and shit in hand only to be denied permission to film, not given access to all parts of the old House.
So we'd reached out, and management: a Miss Black, had seemed very accommodating over the phone.
Perfect.
Van parked we unload, bag and a suitcase for Ali and me. Bob, staying in the van with the monitors each night, follows behind with the trolley full of equipment.
Reception, after a word and a brief conversation via the two-way, points us through to the back area.
The managers office.
"Bon apres-midi." Heavy French accent, leaning against the desk on our side as we walk in. Pivot off and stepping forward hand out and.
Bob's trolly begins beeping and chattering, noises from the depths, the piled machines and sensors.
"Sorry." Delving into the pile, his back to us all and Ali, trying to be helpful though the machine's are really Bob's realm so all she can do is shift stuff around. Hunting.
Leaving me alone to smile an apology. Oops and silly technology.
Alone, so only I see Miss Black's smile. Too wide. Amused. Somehow knowing.
She's skinny, even without the cinched black corset worn over a dark red dress, it's neckline v like and plunging. Large pert breasts and I'd swear she's braless. Long hair with a dyed white fringe. Black knee high boots adding height.
"Miss Black?"
"Yes." Shaking hands whilst behind me the beeping, Bob's cursing continues. "So you're the ghost hunters?"
"Yes." I nod. "Thank you for agreeing us access."
"Of course." A waved dismissal. "I am." She smiles, still too wide. "Intrigued, to discover what you might find."
"Right."
It's like. The weirdest thing, it's like she knows something we don't.
"You have a plan?"
"We'll set up." I wave, a gesture to emcompass the whole hotel. "Then check back in the morning, maybe do a couple walkabouts tomorrow daytime and dark."
Miss Black nods.
"Very well." And finally the machine's are silenced, Bob turns just in time to accept a handshake. A smile. "Do let me know if you require anything."
"Of course." He smiles, Ali and me nodding.
And out we go.
It takes us until late to set up. Ali back in the van, Bob and me walking several laps of the whole building, up and down stairs, all over. We set up motion activated camera's in the places rarely used: the sub level, the pool. Plus temperature and EM sensors all around. A whole bunch of noise activated recorders.
Everything linked remotely to the van, Ali checking connections as we work.
Finished, we share a take-out, a couple of beers in the van, the back of which is converted into an office of sorts: workbench with monitors and equipment, narrow bed and two chairs, a fridge.
Ali and me say goodnight, leaving Bob running final checks- it'll all beep if we catch anything. We head back indoors and up to our room, a twin.
Best sleep well tonight, because tomorrow we'll be working all through.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 284
- Joined: 1 year ago
Seems I completely missed the start of this - you did mention 'rebooting' the tale a while back but apparently it somehow slipped through the cracks for me.
A different take on the traditional ghost story, with the ghost essentially infiltrating 'the living side of things'.
Her speaking French is interesting. I might be misremembering the history of the specific period (or thinking of a different period), but it actually does make some sense, despite the location.
The small interludes are familiar from previous iterations of the tale, but they do fit quite nicely in this case as well.
The whole situation/setup raises the question of how much Mr Hill/The Studebaker group was/were aware of the situation, given the comments about the hiring/dress code. Seems like more then a coincidence.
Also makes me question if Lucille intentionally committed suicide as part of some ritual? Certainly she seems to have extensive power as a ghost, and various hints lead in the direction that her death was planned for - or at least anticipated.
Her inviting the paranormal investigators is an interesting twist, but actually makes sense, given her character (a bit different then other versions of the tale) and backstory. 'Hunter not hunted' indeed...
Overall, much like the previous versions of this, a nice change of pace compared to the usual. Interested to see where it goes.
A different take on the traditional ghost story, with the ghost essentially infiltrating 'the living side of things'.
Her speaking French is interesting. I might be misremembering the history of the specific period (or thinking of a different period), but it actually does make some sense, despite the location.
The small interludes are familiar from previous iterations of the tale, but they do fit quite nicely in this case as well.
The whole situation/setup raises the question of how much Mr Hill/The Studebaker group was/were aware of the situation, given the comments about the hiring/dress code. Seems like more then a coincidence.
Also makes me question if Lucille intentionally committed suicide as part of some ritual? Certainly she seems to have extensive power as a ghost, and various hints lead in the direction that her death was planned for - or at least anticipated.
Her inviting the paranormal investigators is an interesting twist, but actually makes sense, given her character (a bit different then other versions of the tale) and backstory. 'Hunter not hunted' indeed...
Overall, much like the previous versions of this, a nice change of pace compared to the usual. Interested to see where it goes.
de Montefort is a French sounding name, and admittedly I've done zero research, but it suits to make the family origins French. Back then, I'm sure in the past sometimes families from overseas would be granted/gifted titles/lands for services rendered to the Crown.BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑1 month ago
Her speaking French is interesting. I might be misremembering the history of the specific period (or thinking of a different period), but it actually does make some sense, despite the location.
Again zero research but it sounds correct based on things I recall reading/hearing/learning before.
Artistic licence anyway
Worth noting that yes Miss Black/Lucille gave permission, but B. K. approached her first. Not sure it matters in the general flow, but anyway.BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑1 month ago
Her inviting the paranormal investigators is an interesting twist, but actually makes sense, given her character
B. K. Paranormal Investigations.
Night one.
Constance Li. Lifeguard, White Wolf Hotel.
It's Li. Just, Li.
Not because of all this last names only crap. I mean. What were my parents thinking? Constance Li. Constant, Li.
Constantly.
A nickname that followed me through school and college. Not the worst, not overly mean. But it, shit like that wears a girl down.
So. Li. Thank you.
I should be home, at least on my way by now but ten minutes before closing some old couple wanted pool access. And we aren't allowed to deny a paying guest let alone stare pointedly at them as the large wall mounted clock ticks down, over.
Would've been better if he, the husband at least I assume, had stopped staring at my breasts.
Breasts that were supposed to be my big break. I, don't laugh, was going to be the modelling queen of all England, or at least London. Glamour shoots, some light girl on girl porn. Video chats maybe the whole thing might've led up to my own site.
But. Stupid. By the time I'd learned, taken the edge off my newbie faltering ways, gained the skills to wow, I was already fading eclipsed by brighter and better.
Unwilling to go home I hunted around, landing here. Lifeguard at White Wolf.
Not a bad life, plus having politely declined to do otherwise I get a kick out of people's- employees and guests -faces as I wander the building dressed only in my dark green one piece. The stretchy spandex perfectly shows off my skinny six frame, muscular arms and legs, a flat stomach. Enhanced F cups jutting out like a ships prow the White Wolf double W symbol plastered on my left breast.
The swimsuit is low cut, high waist and a thin thong like strip running underneath showing all my Asian tan leg, the darker skin perfectly matching black hair, cut short and bobbing as I move not quite ticking the neck.
Okay, I wear a hoodie too because you can't refuse the boss. But I keep it unzipped.
Just incase I need to shed it in a hurry to save someone's life. Honest.
Finally, they leave.
I lock the door, lean against it releasing a long breath, reaching out to flick off all the overheads.
"Thank. Fuck."
"Indeed."
Spinning around fast, which brings me face to literal face- stood too close well inside that invisible comfort zone -with Miss Black.
Who's naked.
Skinny, breasts impossibly large and pert, echoes of mine only weren't hers smaller? Last time I cared to notice. Dark hair hanging loose that white fringe framing a smiling, amused face. She's untrimmed, a quick all over not quite believing the sight glance finding an explosion of short wiry hairs covering her crotch.
All of this, the still pool the larger room surrounding. Miss Black and her complete lack of clothes. Everything in shadows, barest hint of light filtering through the glass walls and ceiling, the moon and various dim glows from towards the car park.
Sudden flash, a half dozen rapid fire I think the camera equipment those ghost hunters installed? Which I don't understand and didn't care to ask the how and when of them working.
[Flash flash flash.]
Blinding, playing tricks and it must be because for a brief instant Miss Black appears to be floating about a foot off the ground, long hair swaying in a soft breeze. Body more grey then pale skinned.
"Boss?"
"I don't have a costume."
"Right?" What the fuck kind of reason is that? "Well."
"Maybe I could borrow yours?"
Stepping in and, the whole thing utterly crazy just messing up my thoughts, before I'm properly aware. The added distraction of those breasts suddenly right there near brushing my own.
My breasts, naked because in one swift movement she's stepped in and grasped my shoulder straps beneath the hoodie, tugging both items off the shoulders and down towards my waist.
"I...." Feeling oddly frozen, like someone reached inside me and flipped a switch. As Miss Black bends down, sliding the swimsuit all the way to my feet.
Which like an obedient schoolgirl I lift in turn, helping myself out of it.
Leaving me naked too at which point I blink, the oddness gone.
[Flash flash.]
And this time, brief and then I blink but she'd suddenly been several metres away. Hovering above the pool toes not quite touching the clear blue water.
Splash of entry deafening, breaking my locked stance and I approach as she surfaces, treading water in the middle large breasts half floating, she's smiling.
"Veux-tu me rejoindre?"
"What?"
"Come." Holding out a hand, that French accent continuing. "Closer." A flash of teeth mouth looking too wide. "I promise not to bite."
I can speak Chinese, Spanish. The former with a very passable native accent, so the French from an English native- because I've spoken to the boss often enough to know such things -isn't that impressive. To me.
But the whole thing is nuts all the same.
Crazy.
Swimming with the boss. Naked.
What, the, fuck?
"Screw it." I jump, head first showy dive, flick of my body fish like underwater, coming up right beside her water cascading down off my own nakedness. Running both hands through my hair, pushing it back the act thrusting my chest out.
Miss Black's eyes on my breasts. Hungry.
And I know what happens next, you'd have to be an idiot not to know: next we kiss, then we fuck. And presumably afterwards Miss Black returns to the realm of sanity, normality. And we won't talk about or repeat this ever again.
Instead though.
Treading water, I inch closer only to have my advance matched by a small retreat. And again.
Playing with me. Smiling.
I retreat, a small backwards stroke legs forwards to kick and she stays put. Watching eyes on me still smiling.
Still a game. I kick away from her again because in a moment she'll chase me, surely? And Miss Black vanishes.
[Flash.]
Spots in my vision as the third backward stroke brings me up against something solid, yet soft. Cushioning. And by the time I've connected the improbable dots Miss Black's arms are already reaching around from behind, left and right one to grasp at a breast the other to hug my flat stomach, pinning me- not firmly -against her.
My head between her breasts, it was them I'd felt, the cushion like contact a softness and warmth.
I let out a sigh as fingers drift across a nipple, which leaps to erect life at the contact. From behind me a soft laugh. Amused. Still playing. I lean back, reaching down to take her hand, to guide it towards my waiting pussy.
Go ahead and fuck me.
But instead of leaning.
[Flash flash.]
I fall backwards through the space Miss Black was clearly in, a splash as I go under the shock making trained me panic for an instant, kicking and flailing bearings lost which way is up?
Kicking, breaking the surface and spitting out the water I'd half swallowed, looking around and there she is. Standing down at the shallow end breasts and head clear of the water at that depth, one arm out and resting along the pool edge as she leans back all casual.
Breasts thrust slightly out at me. A challenge, a come on. Smiling, still. Her other hand prodding at the foam board that usually leans against one wall poolside, the emergency aid should I need to strap someone down prior to dragging them clear.
I stay put, treading water near the centre. Watching as she watches me her pose calm, casual.
Nothing but time, to play. Like it's all a game, a- not sure why I'm making this connection but still -hunt and I don't think I'm the predator in this scenario.
Brief shiver, little throb in my pussy as though she- from all the way over there -somehow just teased at my clit.
"Well?" Called out across the space, bored of waiting but I feel certain if I swim closer she'll- fuck knows how she's doing it but she'll -vanish, move again.
"Chasser moi?"
"What?"
"Chase me." Pushing down with one finger, the board dips, leaping back up after. "You may."
Not do I want to, or could I. You may, like permission being given.
"You'll only run." Smiling though, yes it's all nuts but we've danced long enough that now I want a fuck, would be disappointed to find this ending any other way.
"You wish me to stay still?" Another push down on the board. Toying. "To be. Liée."
"What?" Confused, and met only with that too wide smile, those large breasts out of reach like a tease.
"Bound." The word dropped, the implications seemingly clear. The board, the straps.
"Sure." Splashing water her way, nowhere near but I can play too. "I wish you to stay still." Blowing her a kiss on impulse. "Pretty please."
Stepping forwards, advancing muscles bunching to push the board ahead of her. Towards me.
Climbing and sliding atop as it begins drifting across the pools relatively still surface. I grin, am about to close the distance when.
[Flash.]
The straps on the board flex, move.
[Flash flash.]
Even in the dim light, the near blinding afterglow I can see them impossibly moving.
She's laid like a person relaxing in bed, horizontal arms by her sides legs only slightly apart. The straps are designed to hold a casualty still: forehead, wrists and waist, thighs and ankles. I watch mouth open in shock- what the fuck kinda trick is this -as they all slide around her, through various buckles.
Tightening.
Sudden yelp as.
[Flash.]
The rope kept coiled up hanging from one wall, for separating the pool into two lanes those rare occasions I need to, comes slithering snake like through the water beside me.
[Flash flash flash.]
There are plenty of holes, slots in the board, gaps for handholds and so on. The rope slips up and down through these, moving fast all around. Wrapping Miss Black's whole body neck to ankles, pinning her firmly in place because where the straps allowed some small movement, even tightened, the rope I can see is digging and pinching her pale skin all over.
She's stuck. Staying still as requested.
Drifted close enough, me walking forwards as I'd watched, to touch now.
So I do.
Standing, belly and breasts clear of the water I lean in reaching out. Slow, unsure like I expect her to leap off the board despite I can clearly see how tightly she's lashed down.
Miss Black, blinking back up at me, rope running through her mouth forcing the lips apart. Gagging her.
"Fffggghhh sssrrrmmnn." Low, moaning. Almost like begging and the urge to help should be automatic but instead all I feel is lust. That I can touch and play, how fucking hot she looks.
"Mmmnnnnffffrrrsssssss." More low moans, squirming beneath my touch fingers waking up a nipple.
Which I eagerly suck.
"Ggghhhdd mmmnmm rrsssddfff pppffggg." Her voice half the reason I'm getting so turned on, that begging moan a perfect match for the sight of her helplessness.
Begging because she's helpless. Stuck by her own making.
The whole thing a game and my pussy throbs, feeling phantom contact like fingers rubbing across. Finding my clit, rolling the softness of it underneath a thumb.
Not stopping to think, to wonder. I enjoy Miss Black's bound body some more. Kissing and licking, exploring with hands and tongue.
More phantom touches, pressure massaging my breasts and continued contact to my clit. Too turned on to wonder and forgetting that she's- Miss Black -bound instead eyes closed and fully immersed to it all I picture her, my skinny busty boss teasing me as I tease her.
Climbing up atop, a surefire way to capsize us both except we're light, skinny, the weight not enough. Straddling her and kissing some more, my hands on her breasts, her hand stroking the core of me.
Climax inbound.
Beneath me she moans, and eyes open I stare down, enjoying the sight of her naked helplessness.
Slow, dawning realisation that it can't possibly be her touching me and.
Suddenly we're tipped, the board rolling over doing a complete rotation as Miss Black- strapped down and unable to prevent this -screams.
As we emerge moments later and yet.
Somehow.
I'm now strapped and lashed down, feeling wet coarse rope digging in all up and down arms and legs, pinched waist and squeezed breasts. My jaw, rope pressed against my tongue.
And Miss Blafk straddling me, grinning down as she sits, kneeling. Reaching out to cup my breast a long nail catching the nipple.
The almost, so close moments ago climax still sloshing and building. She expertly pushes me up and over the edge.
"Je suis Lucille."
Laid atop me her. Miss Black's? Body completely echoing mine in terms of positioning. Legs atop mine arms too, holding my hands in hers.
And the question mark. Is she Miss Black? The impossible tricks, the very real accent and those larger then I recall breasts.
That name, memory of. Something? Sparking.
"You will." Kissing my gagged lips, softly that post sex come down everything gentle and warm. "Call me. Oui?"
"Sssrrrmmnnddffffff." Yes.
"Bien." Smiling down, squeezing my hands tightly. "Find me. Call me. If you désir." Another kiss. "Want, me."
[Flash.]
Making me blink, and when my vision clears.
She's gone.
Leaving me to float, drift, bound and strapped naked in the pool. In the dark.
Night one.
Constance Li. Lifeguard, White Wolf Hotel.
It's Li. Just, Li.
Not because of all this last names only crap. I mean. What were my parents thinking? Constance Li. Constant, Li.
Constantly.
A nickname that followed me through school and college. Not the worst, not overly mean. But it, shit like that wears a girl down.
So. Li. Thank you.
I should be home, at least on my way by now but ten minutes before closing some old couple wanted pool access. And we aren't allowed to deny a paying guest let alone stare pointedly at them as the large wall mounted clock ticks down, over.
Would've been better if he, the husband at least I assume, had stopped staring at my breasts.
Breasts that were supposed to be my big break. I, don't laugh, was going to be the modelling queen of all England, or at least London. Glamour shoots, some light girl on girl porn. Video chats maybe the whole thing might've led up to my own site.
But. Stupid. By the time I'd learned, taken the edge off my newbie faltering ways, gained the skills to wow, I was already fading eclipsed by brighter and better.
Unwilling to go home I hunted around, landing here. Lifeguard at White Wolf.
Not a bad life, plus having politely declined to do otherwise I get a kick out of people's- employees and guests -faces as I wander the building dressed only in my dark green one piece. The stretchy spandex perfectly shows off my skinny six frame, muscular arms and legs, a flat stomach. Enhanced F cups jutting out like a ships prow the White Wolf double W symbol plastered on my left breast.
The swimsuit is low cut, high waist and a thin thong like strip running underneath showing all my Asian tan leg, the darker skin perfectly matching black hair, cut short and bobbing as I move not quite ticking the neck.
Okay, I wear a hoodie too because you can't refuse the boss. But I keep it unzipped.
Just incase I need to shed it in a hurry to save someone's life. Honest.
Finally, they leave.
I lock the door, lean against it releasing a long breath, reaching out to flick off all the overheads.
"Thank. Fuck."
"Indeed."
Spinning around fast, which brings me face to literal face- stood too close well inside that invisible comfort zone -with Miss Black.
Who's naked.
Skinny, breasts impossibly large and pert, echoes of mine only weren't hers smaller? Last time I cared to notice. Dark hair hanging loose that white fringe framing a smiling, amused face. She's untrimmed, a quick all over not quite believing the sight glance finding an explosion of short wiry hairs covering her crotch.
All of this, the still pool the larger room surrounding. Miss Black and her complete lack of clothes. Everything in shadows, barest hint of light filtering through the glass walls and ceiling, the moon and various dim glows from towards the car park.
Sudden flash, a half dozen rapid fire I think the camera equipment those ghost hunters installed? Which I don't understand and didn't care to ask the how and when of them working.
[Flash flash flash.]
Blinding, playing tricks and it must be because for a brief instant Miss Black appears to be floating about a foot off the ground, long hair swaying in a soft breeze. Body more grey then pale skinned.
"Boss?"
"I don't have a costume."
"Right?" What the fuck kind of reason is that? "Well."
"Maybe I could borrow yours?"
Stepping in and, the whole thing utterly crazy just messing up my thoughts, before I'm properly aware. The added distraction of those breasts suddenly right there near brushing my own.
My breasts, naked because in one swift movement she's stepped in and grasped my shoulder straps beneath the hoodie, tugging both items off the shoulders and down towards my waist.
"I...." Feeling oddly frozen, like someone reached inside me and flipped a switch. As Miss Black bends down, sliding the swimsuit all the way to my feet.
Which like an obedient schoolgirl I lift in turn, helping myself out of it.
Leaving me naked too at which point I blink, the oddness gone.
[Flash flash.]
And this time, brief and then I blink but she'd suddenly been several metres away. Hovering above the pool toes not quite touching the clear blue water.
Splash of entry deafening, breaking my locked stance and I approach as she surfaces, treading water in the middle large breasts half floating, she's smiling.
"Veux-tu me rejoindre?"
"What?"
"Come." Holding out a hand, that French accent continuing. "Closer." A flash of teeth mouth looking too wide. "I promise not to bite."
I can speak Chinese, Spanish. The former with a very passable native accent, so the French from an English native- because I've spoken to the boss often enough to know such things -isn't that impressive. To me.
But the whole thing is nuts all the same.
Crazy.
Swimming with the boss. Naked.
What, the, fuck?
"Screw it." I jump, head first showy dive, flick of my body fish like underwater, coming up right beside her water cascading down off my own nakedness. Running both hands through my hair, pushing it back the act thrusting my chest out.
Miss Black's eyes on my breasts. Hungry.
And I know what happens next, you'd have to be an idiot not to know: next we kiss, then we fuck. And presumably afterwards Miss Black returns to the realm of sanity, normality. And we won't talk about or repeat this ever again.
Instead though.
Treading water, I inch closer only to have my advance matched by a small retreat. And again.
Playing with me. Smiling.
I retreat, a small backwards stroke legs forwards to kick and she stays put. Watching eyes on me still smiling.
Still a game. I kick away from her again because in a moment she'll chase me, surely? And Miss Black vanishes.
[Flash.]
Spots in my vision as the third backward stroke brings me up against something solid, yet soft. Cushioning. And by the time I've connected the improbable dots Miss Black's arms are already reaching around from behind, left and right one to grasp at a breast the other to hug my flat stomach, pinning me- not firmly -against her.
My head between her breasts, it was them I'd felt, the cushion like contact a softness and warmth.
I let out a sigh as fingers drift across a nipple, which leaps to erect life at the contact. From behind me a soft laugh. Amused. Still playing. I lean back, reaching down to take her hand, to guide it towards my waiting pussy.
Go ahead and fuck me.
But instead of leaning.
[Flash flash.]
I fall backwards through the space Miss Black was clearly in, a splash as I go under the shock making trained me panic for an instant, kicking and flailing bearings lost which way is up?
Kicking, breaking the surface and spitting out the water I'd half swallowed, looking around and there she is. Standing down at the shallow end breasts and head clear of the water at that depth, one arm out and resting along the pool edge as she leans back all casual.
Breasts thrust slightly out at me. A challenge, a come on. Smiling, still. Her other hand prodding at the foam board that usually leans against one wall poolside, the emergency aid should I need to strap someone down prior to dragging them clear.
I stay put, treading water near the centre. Watching as she watches me her pose calm, casual.
Nothing but time, to play. Like it's all a game, a- not sure why I'm making this connection but still -hunt and I don't think I'm the predator in this scenario.
Brief shiver, little throb in my pussy as though she- from all the way over there -somehow just teased at my clit.
"Well?" Called out across the space, bored of waiting but I feel certain if I swim closer she'll- fuck knows how she's doing it but she'll -vanish, move again.
"Chasser moi?"
"What?"
"Chase me." Pushing down with one finger, the board dips, leaping back up after. "You may."
Not do I want to, or could I. You may, like permission being given.
"You'll only run." Smiling though, yes it's all nuts but we've danced long enough that now I want a fuck, would be disappointed to find this ending any other way.
"You wish me to stay still?" Another push down on the board. Toying. "To be. Liée."
"What?" Confused, and met only with that too wide smile, those large breasts out of reach like a tease.
"Bound." The word dropped, the implications seemingly clear. The board, the straps.
"Sure." Splashing water her way, nowhere near but I can play too. "I wish you to stay still." Blowing her a kiss on impulse. "Pretty please."
Stepping forwards, advancing muscles bunching to push the board ahead of her. Towards me.
Climbing and sliding atop as it begins drifting across the pools relatively still surface. I grin, am about to close the distance when.
[Flash.]
The straps on the board flex, move.
[Flash flash.]
Even in the dim light, the near blinding afterglow I can see them impossibly moving.
She's laid like a person relaxing in bed, horizontal arms by her sides legs only slightly apart. The straps are designed to hold a casualty still: forehead, wrists and waist, thighs and ankles. I watch mouth open in shock- what the fuck kinda trick is this -as they all slide around her, through various buckles.
Tightening.
Sudden yelp as.
[Flash.]
The rope kept coiled up hanging from one wall, for separating the pool into two lanes those rare occasions I need to, comes slithering snake like through the water beside me.
[Flash flash flash.]
There are plenty of holes, slots in the board, gaps for handholds and so on. The rope slips up and down through these, moving fast all around. Wrapping Miss Black's whole body neck to ankles, pinning her firmly in place because where the straps allowed some small movement, even tightened, the rope I can see is digging and pinching her pale skin all over.
She's stuck. Staying still as requested.
Drifted close enough, me walking forwards as I'd watched, to touch now.
So I do.
Standing, belly and breasts clear of the water I lean in reaching out. Slow, unsure like I expect her to leap off the board despite I can clearly see how tightly she's lashed down.
Miss Black, blinking back up at me, rope running through her mouth forcing the lips apart. Gagging her.
"Fffggghhh sssrrrmmnn." Low, moaning. Almost like begging and the urge to help should be automatic but instead all I feel is lust. That I can touch and play, how fucking hot she looks.
"Mmmnnnnffffrrrsssssss." More low moans, squirming beneath my touch fingers waking up a nipple.
Which I eagerly suck.
"Ggghhhdd mmmnmm rrsssddfff pppffggg." Her voice half the reason I'm getting so turned on, that begging moan a perfect match for the sight of her helplessness.
Begging because she's helpless. Stuck by her own making.
The whole thing a game and my pussy throbs, feeling phantom contact like fingers rubbing across. Finding my clit, rolling the softness of it underneath a thumb.
Not stopping to think, to wonder. I enjoy Miss Black's bound body some more. Kissing and licking, exploring with hands and tongue.
More phantom touches, pressure massaging my breasts and continued contact to my clit. Too turned on to wonder and forgetting that she's- Miss Black -bound instead eyes closed and fully immersed to it all I picture her, my skinny busty boss teasing me as I tease her.
Climbing up atop, a surefire way to capsize us both except we're light, skinny, the weight not enough. Straddling her and kissing some more, my hands on her breasts, her hand stroking the core of me.
Climax inbound.
Beneath me she moans, and eyes open I stare down, enjoying the sight of her naked helplessness.
Slow, dawning realisation that it can't possibly be her touching me and.
Suddenly we're tipped, the board rolling over doing a complete rotation as Miss Black- strapped down and unable to prevent this -screams.
As we emerge moments later and yet.
Somehow.
I'm now strapped and lashed down, feeling wet coarse rope digging in all up and down arms and legs, pinched waist and squeezed breasts. My jaw, rope pressed against my tongue.
And Miss Blafk straddling me, grinning down as she sits, kneeling. Reaching out to cup my breast a long nail catching the nipple.
The almost, so close moments ago climax still sloshing and building. She expertly pushes me up and over the edge.
"Je suis Lucille."
Laid atop me her. Miss Black's? Body completely echoing mine in terms of positioning. Legs atop mine arms too, holding my hands in hers.
And the question mark. Is she Miss Black? The impossible tricks, the very real accent and those larger then I recall breasts.
That name, memory of. Something? Sparking.
"You will." Kissing my gagged lips, softly that post sex come down everything gentle and warm. "Call me. Oui?"
"Sssrrrmmnnddffffff." Yes.
"Bien." Smiling down, squeezing my hands tightly. "Find me. Call me. If you désir." Another kiss. "Want, me."
[Flash.]
Making me blink, and when my vision clears.
She's gone.
Leaving me to float, drift, bound and strapped naked in the pool. In the dark.
-
BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 284
- Joined: 1 year ago
Fair enoughYeah, I did not word it well, but obviously she allowed them (ie 'inviting them in').
-
Amusing aside with Constance's name
And quite the encounter at the pool. A lot of paranormal magic in play, both physically and mentally (with how muddled Li's thinking seemed to be).
Interesting that Lucille seemed a little more interested in her then the others - could be nothing of course, but she 'engaged' with her more, if that makes any sense, made her part of the game more then the others who she more or less just pulled what amounted to ghost pranks on, leaving them tied up.
Of course it could have nothing to do with Constance, and everything to do with setting out 'bait' for the ghost hunters - it would be strange if she was unaware of the cameras, especially after allowing them in. Putting on a show, as it were, as this version of Lucille certainly seems more the trickster spirit type that would intentionally do something like that.
Well, as usual, suppose we shall have to see.
An old/ancient ghost, from a time before cameras. Am hoping the following chapter explains such.BlissfulMisery wrote: ↑1 month ago it would be strange if she was unaware of the cameras, especially after allowing them in.
008.
Scarlet.
B. K. Paranormal Investigations.
Stealing what we can from the extensive breakfast buffet: croissants and small butter packets, a whole unopened carton of orange juice and our thermos, which I fill with expensive sounding coffee whilst Ali stands close by keeping watch. Two egg and bacon filled baps, guaranteed to stink out the van but we're both used to it.
Bob loves food with a strong aroma.
It isn't technically stealing anyway, we're- Ali and I -paying guests, but we are taking food for three. Probably you're only supposed to eat in Journey's End too.
Tough.
Loaded up we walk out to the car park, to Bob.
"Fuck."
"Indeed."
"Yeah, but." Mouth as wide, disbelief as apparent as Ali's. "Fuck."
All our sensor equipment: the cameras and monitors of various ambient factors such as temperature, everything we set up is linked to it's own individual sender unit. Whatever it records is not only stored internally but sent wirelessly to a bulk storage cache in the van.
Which we can access via the onboard desktop. The van, a camper has been extensively converted to house and store our equipment, whilst still allowing room and the facilities to live.
We're reviewing.
"Fuck." Because a single expletive doesn't quite feel enough. "Me."
Last nights footage.
Miss Black's rope gag parted lips, the cameras- programmed to take a single photo each time certain complex sensors pick up movement -are a pair from our distributed stock of fifteen, set up low down in opposing corners of the pool room,
We can, in this particular image, see the pool, water still. Miss Black laying strapped and lashed to some kind of board whilst an equally naked Asian girl- massive enhanced chest -leans over her, lips locked on an upthrust breast.
But there's a blur. Something female shaped, grey and half see-through, long flowing hair and humped breasts. The blur is pressed against the Asian from behind.
Possibly? Maybe? I'd swear the blur is reaching down, around, hand on the Asian girls crotch.
And it's the blur, not the naked strapped down fucking that's activated our cameras.
"How many of these do we have?"
"We can't use them." Bob, tone all serious already sliding the mouse, clicking and dragging.
Deleting.
"But...."
"But the blur." Turning to regard Ali. "We've got something, yes?"
"Don't we?"
"Sex." I sigh, shake my head. Bob's right.
"Bob's right, Ali. What we've got is two girls having sex. That's what anyone we showed those to would see. Not the blur, the. Fucks sake."
Unable to keep the curse in, because we'd had it. Something.
Lucille?
"We know there's something." Bob, and we're both nodding, breakfast eaten and somewhat calmed now. "Even though we can't show it, we've seen it now. Something's definitely here at White Wolf."
"Agreed." With a silent thumbs up from Ali, downing the last of the juice to show she does too. "So what's our next step?"
"Go see the manager?"
Bursting into blushed laughter on the last word.
"Not sure any of us could look her in the eye right now." Shaking my head, smiling. "Anything from the other sensors Bob?"
"Basement stuff glitched out." Tapping keys, pointing at the screen. "Everywhere else reports zero activations."
"So we need to do a walkabout anyway, take the mobile gear for a spin."
Walk the building, wave the portable stuff around, film some footage for whatever we eventually put out into the world.
"We'll check out the basement stuff as we go."
"Sure." Bob nods. Happy to remain in the van. He loves the ghost stuff, we all get quite passionate, animated, over it. But Bob's preferred role is more hands off. Monitoring us, the sensors. Basecamp whilst Ali and I handle the sharp end.
"She'll probably come find us anyway." Nudging Ali as we get ready. "For a report."
Which sets us both off laughing.
It. B K Paranormal Investigations, was Bob and my father's company, something they did between normal jobs and raising families, friends, working together on a shared passion.
B, for Bob. William, but Bob. And K for Kenneth, or Ken.
But Ken, dad lives in America now, his wife- mum -had to move for work so of course he followed. Lucky to have a job he could easily quit, picking up similar with a new company across the pond. And in his absence I stepped in, after which we hired Alison, Ali fresh out of university with a whole sheaf of science based qualifications.
And now B K is a full time enterprise for all three of us. Serious business.
"Weapons check."
An old joke, that tooled up Ali and I always feel like soldiers heading into combat, with Bob the commanding officer, in the bunker eyes on our feed.
It doesn't hurt our YouTube numbers that the female's here, most often on camera, are on the slim side of curvy, both of us early twenties Ali's hair naturally black mine dyed a soft pastel blue. There's a uniform of sorts: denim shorts, on the small and tight side since the weather's on the warm side, paired with a black tee the company name picked out across the back in gothic white script.
We're both wearing thick canvas belts off which hang torches, plus a two-way linked to ear pieces, a fixed mic sprouting down towards our mouth. Ali has the camera, though we switch, and in her other hand a temperature sensor, whilst I'm carrying a bastardisd strapped and bolted together combined EMF and noise detector.
"Check check."
"Check one two."
"Coming in clear." Bob's voice, clear through our ear as we stand outside the van. Ali pans the camera, I wave into the lens as she passes.
"Video feed good ladies. Off you go."
"Thanks Bob." Leaning in the door, exchanging a thumbs up before I close it.
Joining Ali as we walk towards the hotel.
Scarlet.
B. K. Paranormal Investigations.
Stealing what we can from the extensive breakfast buffet: croissants and small butter packets, a whole unopened carton of orange juice and our thermos, which I fill with expensive sounding coffee whilst Ali stands close by keeping watch. Two egg and bacon filled baps, guaranteed to stink out the van but we're both used to it.
Bob loves food with a strong aroma.
It isn't technically stealing anyway, we're- Ali and I -paying guests, but we are taking food for three. Probably you're only supposed to eat in Journey's End too.
Tough.
Loaded up we walk out to the car park, to Bob.
"Fuck."
"Indeed."
"Yeah, but." Mouth as wide, disbelief as apparent as Ali's. "Fuck."
All our sensor equipment: the cameras and monitors of various ambient factors such as temperature, everything we set up is linked to it's own individual sender unit. Whatever it records is not only stored internally but sent wirelessly to a bulk storage cache in the van.
Which we can access via the onboard desktop. The van, a camper has been extensively converted to house and store our equipment, whilst still allowing room and the facilities to live.
We're reviewing.
"Fuck." Because a single expletive doesn't quite feel enough. "Me."
Last nights footage.
Miss Black's rope gag parted lips, the cameras- programmed to take a single photo each time certain complex sensors pick up movement -are a pair from our distributed stock of fifteen, set up low down in opposing corners of the pool room,
We can, in this particular image, see the pool, water still. Miss Black laying strapped and lashed to some kind of board whilst an equally naked Asian girl- massive enhanced chest -leans over her, lips locked on an upthrust breast.
But there's a blur. Something female shaped, grey and half see-through, long flowing hair and humped breasts. The blur is pressed against the Asian from behind.
Possibly? Maybe? I'd swear the blur is reaching down, around, hand on the Asian girls crotch.
And it's the blur, not the naked strapped down fucking that's activated our cameras.
"How many of these do we have?"
"We can't use them." Bob, tone all serious already sliding the mouse, clicking and dragging.
Deleting.
"But...."
"But the blur." Turning to regard Ali. "We've got something, yes?"
"Don't we?"
"Sex." I sigh, shake my head. Bob's right.
"Bob's right, Ali. What we've got is two girls having sex. That's what anyone we showed those to would see. Not the blur, the. Fucks sake."
Unable to keep the curse in, because we'd had it. Something.
Lucille?
"We know there's something." Bob, and we're both nodding, breakfast eaten and somewhat calmed now. "Even though we can't show it, we've seen it now. Something's definitely here at White Wolf."
"Agreed." With a silent thumbs up from Ali, downing the last of the juice to show she does too. "So what's our next step?"
"Go see the manager?"
Bursting into blushed laughter on the last word.
"Not sure any of us could look her in the eye right now." Shaking my head, smiling. "Anything from the other sensors Bob?"
"Basement stuff glitched out." Tapping keys, pointing at the screen. "Everywhere else reports zero activations."
"So we need to do a walkabout anyway, take the mobile gear for a spin."
Walk the building, wave the portable stuff around, film some footage for whatever we eventually put out into the world.
"We'll check out the basement stuff as we go."
"Sure." Bob nods. Happy to remain in the van. He loves the ghost stuff, we all get quite passionate, animated, over it. But Bob's preferred role is more hands off. Monitoring us, the sensors. Basecamp whilst Ali and I handle the sharp end.
"She'll probably come find us anyway." Nudging Ali as we get ready. "For a report."
Which sets us both off laughing.
It. B K Paranormal Investigations, was Bob and my father's company, something they did between normal jobs and raising families, friends, working together on a shared passion.
B, for Bob. William, but Bob. And K for Kenneth, or Ken.
But Ken, dad lives in America now, his wife- mum -had to move for work so of course he followed. Lucky to have a job he could easily quit, picking up similar with a new company across the pond. And in his absence I stepped in, after which we hired Alison, Ali fresh out of university with a whole sheaf of science based qualifications.
And now B K is a full time enterprise for all three of us. Serious business.
"Weapons check."
An old joke, that tooled up Ali and I always feel like soldiers heading into combat, with Bob the commanding officer, in the bunker eyes on our feed.
It doesn't hurt our YouTube numbers that the female's here, most often on camera, are on the slim side of curvy, both of us early twenties Ali's hair naturally black mine dyed a soft pastel blue. There's a uniform of sorts: denim shorts, on the small and tight side since the weather's on the warm side, paired with a black tee the company name picked out across the back in gothic white script.
We're both wearing thick canvas belts off which hang torches, plus a two-way linked to ear pieces, a fixed mic sprouting down towards our mouth. Ali has the camera, though we switch, and in her other hand a temperature sensor, whilst I'm carrying a bastardisd strapped and bolted together combined EMF and noise detector.
"Check check."
"Check one two."
"Coming in clear." Bob's voice, clear through our ear as we stand outside the van. Ali pans the camera, I wave into the lens as she passes.
"Video feed good ladies. Off you go."
"Thanks Bob." Leaning in the door, exchanging a thumbs up before I close it.
Joining Ali as we walk towards the hotel.
Conversations with myself/the dead.
Bethany Black.
Manager, White Wolf Hotel.
"Bethany Black."
Half asleep, phone to my ear on autopilot answering just to shut the ringer up.
"Good morning Mr Hill."
That gruff American bark, an army general quite capable of marching his forces across the pond, making the water still and solid by sheer force of will. That voice is like a bucket of cold water.
Instantly awake.
"No sir." Asking but it comes out more like ordering, I fumble, fight my sluggish brain. What time is it over there?
Does he ever sleep?
"Yes. I." She. "Did agree."
Sudden pause. Silence and I wait, bracing against the coming storm but instead.
Softer. Asking.
"Proof sir yes." Do not breathe a sigh of relief down the line. "There's nothing here to find, of course." Ha. "So they'll take that, publish, and life goes on."
Except, no.
Ending the call, Topper Hill and behind him the international might of Studebaker, calmed and satisfied. For now.
Until the- I'm assuming -expert's at B. K Paranormal Investigations find her.
At which point I am definitely getting fired.
If not worse.
"Lucille." Huffing the name out and in a moment of frustration, rebellion which will fail me when it counts I grab hold a pillow, send it flying across the room.
In the bathroom, freshly showered I stare at my reflection.
"Bethany Black." Staring, making myself believe. "I am Bethany Black."
Until I set foot back inside White Wolf, at which point she'll slip in, take over, everytime now just like the first time.
Countess Lucille de Montefort, whatever there is left of her after over four hundred years of being dead. The grey lady of White Wolf, formerly Lupin House, majority stakeholder and owner of.
Me.
I tried fighting her off. Pushing. Forcing. I've tried not speaking, or inserting other words into her flow.
Like help.
Useless. It, fighting her is useless. I step inside the hotel, I'm all hers.
And the silly thing, the crazy and you'll laugh at how fucked up this is: at the end of my shift, she let's me leave.
Because she knows I'll be back, and I always go back.
To work, to White Wolf, to her.
I'm being changed. Somehow? Methods and workings I couldn't hope to comprehend, influence and suggestion. Lucille's sheer will? However it's occurring change is happening. I no longer look completely myself, larger breasts, firmer, and a slimmer frame I've dropped a dress size or two.
My hair, still the coloured fringe but it's grown out.
"You don't have to." Still at the mirror, naked, hair combed and minimal makeup applied. Telling myself the old lie.
You don't have to go in, to work, to White Wolf/Lupin. From this distance she has no power over me. I think? I could walk. Run, away. Leave this job leave London, start again, afresh. New life new job.
The old lie.
Because I can't leave. I.
Don't want, to leave. Majority stakeholder I'd said, which is true. Lucille's hooks are in me, to the point I don't even feel whole, or right when it's just me. Me as her, the ghost in charge making me a mere passenger and onlooker, that now feels more real then these blurred life moments alone. Everything in soft focus nothing seeming to matter. Food tasting bland, contact dulled.
Take my clothes, as good an example as any. No more strict uniform for me, those combats I so loved, trousers to set me apart from every other female employee. These days my wardrobe consists of dresses, corsets in lieu of bras, and pants.
Fashion with a fair lean towards the sixteenth century.
Boots. Not trainers or sandals, not tiny posh heels. Boots on my feet, slip on or lace up, always at least to the knee.
Dressed, in my dress, I head in. Late shift, all the better to supervise the- doomed -ghost hunt.
Back of the building, the car park now dominated by that oversize camper an array of aerials bolted to the roof and side, bristling skywards. Making my way through daylight, evening not arrived yet the sun still shining.
And there she is.
Waiting.
Standing, floating not quite a foot clear of the floor as though back in her day Lupin sat higher, the floor not where she remembers it.
Countess Lucille. Shades of grey, long flowing hair caught and played, tussled by a slight breeze affecting only her, corset cinching a skinny waist even smaller, large breasts, teased by a low cut dress they're positively spilling out, over. The hem at knee height, teased by that same gentle wind.
Halfway up the steps I stop, breathe.
She jumps, body a blur as it vanishes and reappears, a half dozen occurrences in the space of less seconds, left and right across the open doorway.
A bad special effect yet still somewhat terrifying. An actual real ghost, moving as nothing should ever be able.
"They know, you know."
She can't respond, can't talk in this state, doesn't care to- if she even can -communicate with me once inside and in control. Sure, nods and gestures. Enough I know I'm being heard.
Heard, but ignored beyond a certain amusement. Aristocracy, aloof.
Or perhaps she's just batshit crazy, doesn't care.
Hand out now, palm up fingers spread, extended: come in.
"You'll get caught." Trying again, because I have a personal stake in this. "Probably you've already been caught."
Flash reply of memory, because I can still see through my eyes when they're her eyes: the lifeguard, Li, naked and me too, bound, floating. Lucille leaving me to play with her and I'd tried, gagged but I'd tried. To warn, to beg for help I'm not always sure I want.
We'd left her there, Li, in the pool. Helpless and spent.
Has she been rescued?
Has she talked?
"These people." Half turning to cast an arm back, gesture at the camper. "Times have changed Lucille."
Definite smirk, arms crossed beneath that impressive chest.
Sometimes I see her memories. A short life, lived and cut short. Now, my warning issued, her arrogance the response I see: a man, priest, turned away at swordpoint. Soldiers too afraid to advance closer, fearing witchcraft or sorcery. Her contempt for authority, uncaring. What can they do? Who will believe?
"Times change."
The special effect again, jumping in and out whilst remaining largely in the same spot. Anger flaring her mouth set to a thin line eyes slitted you will. Not. Tell me.
The outstretched hand. Come.
Now.
The insistence makes me shiver, and I almost. Almost. Take a step backwards. Almost defy her.
"Boss?"
"Smith." Without turning, recognising the voice and moments later Smith's bulk stepping up beside me. I glance, see her looking from me to the door.
Lucille, no longer there.
Yet still waiting, for me.
"Okay," another me to the doorway glance, "boss?"
"Yes." Forcing a smile. "Everything's fine."
Not fine. And I don't have the time nor the pages to list why.
We go inside, and two steps beyond the border between the world outside and Lucille's kingdom I feel the familiar bite of cold as she glides against, into me.
Pushing me effortlessly aside.
Taking charge.
Bethany Black.
Manager, White Wolf Hotel.
"Bethany Black."
Half asleep, phone to my ear on autopilot answering just to shut the ringer up.
"Good morning Mr Hill."
That gruff American bark, an army general quite capable of marching his forces across the pond, making the water still and solid by sheer force of will. That voice is like a bucket of cold water.
Instantly awake.
"No sir." Asking but it comes out more like ordering, I fumble, fight my sluggish brain. What time is it over there?
Does he ever sleep?
"Yes. I." She. "Did agree."
Sudden pause. Silence and I wait, bracing against the coming storm but instead.
Softer. Asking.
"Proof sir yes." Do not breathe a sigh of relief down the line. "There's nothing here to find, of course." Ha. "So they'll take that, publish, and life goes on."
Except, no.
Ending the call, Topper Hill and behind him the international might of Studebaker, calmed and satisfied. For now.
Until the- I'm assuming -expert's at B. K Paranormal Investigations find her.
At which point I am definitely getting fired.
If not worse.
"Lucille." Huffing the name out and in a moment of frustration, rebellion which will fail me when it counts I grab hold a pillow, send it flying across the room.
In the bathroom, freshly showered I stare at my reflection.
"Bethany Black." Staring, making myself believe. "I am Bethany Black."
Until I set foot back inside White Wolf, at which point she'll slip in, take over, everytime now just like the first time.
Countess Lucille de Montefort, whatever there is left of her after over four hundred years of being dead. The grey lady of White Wolf, formerly Lupin House, majority stakeholder and owner of.
Me.
I tried fighting her off. Pushing. Forcing. I've tried not speaking, or inserting other words into her flow.
Like help.
Useless. It, fighting her is useless. I step inside the hotel, I'm all hers.
And the silly thing, the crazy and you'll laugh at how fucked up this is: at the end of my shift, she let's me leave.
Because she knows I'll be back, and I always go back.
To work, to White Wolf, to her.
I'm being changed. Somehow? Methods and workings I couldn't hope to comprehend, influence and suggestion. Lucille's sheer will? However it's occurring change is happening. I no longer look completely myself, larger breasts, firmer, and a slimmer frame I've dropped a dress size or two.
My hair, still the coloured fringe but it's grown out.
"You don't have to." Still at the mirror, naked, hair combed and minimal makeup applied. Telling myself the old lie.
You don't have to go in, to work, to White Wolf/Lupin. From this distance she has no power over me. I think? I could walk. Run, away. Leave this job leave London, start again, afresh. New life new job.
The old lie.
Because I can't leave. I.
Don't want, to leave. Majority stakeholder I'd said, which is true. Lucille's hooks are in me, to the point I don't even feel whole, or right when it's just me. Me as her, the ghost in charge making me a mere passenger and onlooker, that now feels more real then these blurred life moments alone. Everything in soft focus nothing seeming to matter. Food tasting bland, contact dulled.
Take my clothes, as good an example as any. No more strict uniform for me, those combats I so loved, trousers to set me apart from every other female employee. These days my wardrobe consists of dresses, corsets in lieu of bras, and pants.
Fashion with a fair lean towards the sixteenth century.
Boots. Not trainers or sandals, not tiny posh heels. Boots on my feet, slip on or lace up, always at least to the knee.
Dressed, in my dress, I head in. Late shift, all the better to supervise the- doomed -ghost hunt.
Back of the building, the car park now dominated by that oversize camper an array of aerials bolted to the roof and side, bristling skywards. Making my way through daylight, evening not arrived yet the sun still shining.
And there she is.
Waiting.
Standing, floating not quite a foot clear of the floor as though back in her day Lupin sat higher, the floor not where she remembers it.
Countess Lucille. Shades of grey, long flowing hair caught and played, tussled by a slight breeze affecting only her, corset cinching a skinny waist even smaller, large breasts, teased by a low cut dress they're positively spilling out, over. The hem at knee height, teased by that same gentle wind.
Halfway up the steps I stop, breathe.
She jumps, body a blur as it vanishes and reappears, a half dozen occurrences in the space of less seconds, left and right across the open doorway.
A bad special effect yet still somewhat terrifying. An actual real ghost, moving as nothing should ever be able.
"They know, you know."
She can't respond, can't talk in this state, doesn't care to- if she even can -communicate with me once inside and in control. Sure, nods and gestures. Enough I know I'm being heard.
Heard, but ignored beyond a certain amusement. Aristocracy, aloof.
Or perhaps she's just batshit crazy, doesn't care.
Hand out now, palm up fingers spread, extended: come in.
"You'll get caught." Trying again, because I have a personal stake in this. "Probably you've already been caught."
Flash reply of memory, because I can still see through my eyes when they're her eyes: the lifeguard, Li, naked and me too, bound, floating. Lucille leaving me to play with her and I'd tried, gagged but I'd tried. To warn, to beg for help I'm not always sure I want.
We'd left her there, Li, in the pool. Helpless and spent.
Has she been rescued?
Has she talked?
"These people." Half turning to cast an arm back, gesture at the camper. "Times have changed Lucille."
Definite smirk, arms crossed beneath that impressive chest.
Sometimes I see her memories. A short life, lived and cut short. Now, my warning issued, her arrogance the response I see: a man, priest, turned away at swordpoint. Soldiers too afraid to advance closer, fearing witchcraft or sorcery. Her contempt for authority, uncaring. What can they do? Who will believe?
"Times change."
The special effect again, jumping in and out whilst remaining largely in the same spot. Anger flaring her mouth set to a thin line eyes slitted you will. Not. Tell me.
The outstretched hand. Come.
Now.
The insistence makes me shiver, and I almost. Almost. Take a step backwards. Almost defy her.
"Boss?"
"Smith." Without turning, recognising the voice and moments later Smith's bulk stepping up beside me. I glance, see her looking from me to the door.
Lucille, no longer there.
Yet still waiting, for me.
"Okay," another me to the doorway glance, "boss?"
"Yes." Forcing a smile. "Everything's fine."
Not fine. And I don't have the time nor the pages to list why.
We go inside, and two steps beyond the border between the world outside and Lucille's kingdom I feel the familiar bite of cold as she glides against, into me.
Pushing me effortlessly aside.
Taking charge.
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BlissfulMisery
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 284
- Joined: 1 year ago
Hmm. I had actually thought it was more along the lines of what I said (Lucille toying with the investigators), but I suppose that makes sense as well. Two viable paths for the story to have taken, I suppose.
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Not a lot to say about any *specific* portion of it, but I liked the first part with the introduction to the investigation team. To the point, but enough detail to flesh things out/provide proper context.
And the followup provides (as you mentioned) some interesting context for the pool scene. Not sure how dark it is 'intended' to be, but it does come off that way, with how helpless Bethany feels, trapped between a domineering boss and a domineering ghost, between the practical and the paranormal. While I doubt it was ever intended to come off that way, given how nonchalant she seems about it, there is even an element of body horror. Would be *very* unnerving to have ones' body changed to suit another's whims.
Also what seems like a bit of Stockholm syndrome, although I think that was intended as more comedic then dark. Hard to tell - I suspect I am getting a different impression from the text then was meant.
I do not dislike it however. Just a bit of a mixed bag, in a way that makes me cognizant of something that is usually subconscious - the dichotomy between what a piece of writing is 'intended' to make one feel, versus the actual result. Usually these things line up quite well, but there certainly is a philosophical argument to be made that they do not have to.
But I do not wish to veer too far into that particular subject, as it seems a little beyond the scope of the thread
