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For three years since my wife died, I’ve tried to put a new life together in the more modern day-to-day world around me. My grown kids come to me for money and hint that they want their inheritance early. The women that I pick to date are either pushy or nuts. I don’t understand what our leaders are doing to our economy and I am starting to drink and eat too much – time for me to regroup, decide to live alone and work. I’m good at work. I write for a successful living, can build houses and I am a good gardener. My father did not encourage my egghead drive to go to college but I went after high school and struggled my way through. He always said, “Someday you will want to work in the dirt and spend more time alone.” I thought he was crazy then. Now, at sixty, I can admit, he was right.

I sold my overpriced home in the big city and moved to a few acres of good farm land with a well kept turn-of-the-century two story farm house. The couple I bought it from left almost everything, including a cellar full of home canned goods. It needed lots of updating work and was ten miles from even a 7-11 or a McDonalds. After six months, I had to lock up for a couple of months for a book tour. When I came back something was not quite right.

During especially still dark quiet nights, I heard noises. Rustling noises, like a raccoon was in the basement. Many times, during the days, I looked for signs. None of the boxes were scratched or chewed through, bottles were not broken, I couldn’t find animal signs. What I did notice were some missing bottles of canned peaches and missing things from the root cellar. I checked and checked but could not find any other clues. Even when I tried to seal access to tiny venting windows, it would still happen.

I had been back for three weeks when I remembered a list of tricks to uncover charlatans that was in some dusty 1910 book about ghosts. A little flour on the floor gave me my first clue — small bare footprints that led to and from a stack of apparently empty apple crates stacked to the left of the inside root cellar door. The prints were much smaller than my size eleven. That night I left a plate of good food and a can of coke; then I securely locked up all ways into the main house.

The next morning, it looked like someone did not want to take the food from the plate because I would know he was there. Still, the plate was picked over and the coke was gone. I browsed through the old crates and found a door that led to an old bomb shelter or storm shelter. I peaked inside. It had a door that led to a short tunnel. Lots of dirty, empty canning jars were stacked in the corner. A few of my flannel shirts were there. They had gone missing from the barn. The evenings were getting cooler now.

I replaced the burned out light bulb in the shelter and left the new 100 watt one on. The room would be warm and provide light for me to see through the peepholes I drilled in the door.

About eleven, I went through the motions of going to bed and turned off all the inside lights as usual. In the darkness, I could see streaks of light coming from a cover that I thought was on an old abandoned well. At least I had learned where the short tunnel led. I got comfortable in the basement and waited, hoping food and warmth would be enough to draw my barefoot burglar into the light.

About twelve thirty, I heard the little door into the basement push open and saw a little silhouette begin a search for the plate of food. I had set a new plate full and a new can of coke. I was expecting a struggle, so I was prepared with an ax handle. I came out of hiding quickly, pushed the crates back into place blocking the exit and turned on the basement lights. We were both shocked and stood perfectly still. My flannel shirt was way too big for my “thief.” The hair was a mess but my criminal had tried to stay clean. The house’s haunting entity weighed maybe 120 pounds and had blond hair, bare feet, green eyes, a pale complexion and was paralyzed with fear. She was also pretty and about eighteen.

“Everything is alright, Little One. I will not hurt you. Please, eat, relax and then tell me why you are stalking my basement.”

Her eyes darted back and forth like a cornered cat. I could see that every muscle in her body was tense looking to flee or fight. She visibly relaxed when I backed away and sat on the stairs blocking her only fast way out.

There was a spoon in the plate but she was starving. Her eyes stayed locked on me and she ate with her fingers as fast as she could get the food into her mouth. The food was almost gone when she touched the coke. It seemed to shock her back into civilization. Tears rolled down both her cheeks. I sat. She cried. I watched all the fight and adrenalin fired strength drain from her exhausted body.

I recognized her. Her face had been on the news for five months. Her tearful mother and pleading father asked for help finding her and announced a reward for information. They said she would have no grip on reality without her medication. I hid my knowledge for now.

“Little One, I’m Jake Thomas. Maltepe Escort This is my farm. I want to help you but you have to tell me how you want me to help you.”

She was fearful and started to back away when I partially stood and swung a mostly full paper sack full of bags of chips, cookies, peanuts and more cokes. She caught the bag. Her eyes softened.

“Please tell me what to call you.”

Maybe she hadn’t talked to anyone for her months in hiding. When she finally did speak, her voice was hoarse, “Megan.”

At least I got the truth so far. I knew she was Megan Sue Allen, 19, her parents lived 150 miles away and presumably she could launch into a violent rage without warning.

“Megan, will you come upstairs with me. It is warmer and more comfortable there. I need for you to tell me how I can help you. I will not touch you, block you from running away or hurt you in any way.”

“I have watched you.”

“Then you know that I don’t hurt things or get angry.”

“You were gone.”

“I had to go on a book tour. I didn’t know you were here. I would have left you food and made you a nice warm place to sleep.”

I did not want to frighten her more than she already was. I stood and walked slowly up the stairs and straight out from the door so she could see that I was not hiding or trying to trap her. She watched me and, holding her bag of goodies to her chest, she followed me.

“Have you ever been inside this house?”


“The living room is behind me; you are in my kitchen and the downstairs bathroom is down the hall way to your right. I’m going to sit by the fire in the living room and have some wine. I hope you will sit with me and talk with me.”

She picked a chair far away from me, close to the fire and close to the front door. I started the conversation and then waited patiently for her to answer, “How long have you been living on my farm?”

“More than four months.”

“What have you been eating? How have you stayed warm? Where have you slept to feel safe?”

“I have taken eggs.”

I laughed, “I’m so glad you told me that. I thought the chickens were holding out on me and I’ve been thinking of getting some younger ones.”

Her lips were parched but her first slight smile showed straight white teeth and a long unused sense of humor.

“I found the other door to the basement by searching the root cellar. I ate some of the canned fruits and jams that I could open. I sleep in the loft above the horses. It is not as cold there.”

“I have discovered where all my flannel shirts went.”

She smiled and even blushed a little.

“Are you still hungry?”

I knew that was a stupid question when it left my lips. “Follow me into the kitchen. You are welcomed to anything you find in there. Just take it easy at first, so you don’t get sick by eating too much, too fast.”

We sat at the kitchen table and talked like normal people until a couple of hours after the sun came up. I cooked us a hearty hot breakfast. She was exhausted.

“Megan, I know who you are from the news, but I will not betray you. You are welcomed to lock yourself into the downstairs guest room, bathe and sleep as long as you want. When you get up, I’ll cook for you again and you can tell me all about your world.”

Maybe it was my age or my graying hair, I don’t know, but this beauty trusted me. She was frightened; I heard the door lock and her prop a chair against the doorknob. I heard the shower and, later, heard her look through the drawers and the bed squeak when she got in. It was after seven that evening when she timidly came into the kitchen dressed in a pair of my pajamas with the arms and legs rolled up and a big knot tied in the waist to keep them up. She had washed, conditioned and combed her hair. She was more beautiful than I remembered.

“It is dark outside.”

“Yes, you slept all day. It is seven in the evening. I bet you’re hungry.”

She just nodded and I got her a big bowl of beef stew with lots of vegetables and warm fresh buttered French bread. She was real. She ate hardily and her face said she enjoyed her meal. I poured her a glass of milk, “Young girls need to have milk to make them strong and sassy.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Tell me everything. I have all the time in the world to listen and have never been visited in this house by a lovely young woman.”

Again she blushed. She started her story and inter-mixed questions about my family and what I do. She finally asked something of me, “Can we move back into the living room. This chair is getting hard. And…and…I would like to have a glass of your wine; if it is ok?”

Twenty-one is the drinking age, but pretty women of any age can get most things from me. She got her wine.

“My mom and step-dad deal meth, big time. He started molesting me when I was fifteen. My mom knew but looked away. He gave me to his partner as a one night present when his partner turned forty. I got mad, fought and threatened to run away and tell the police all about his illegal Anadolu Yakası Escort operations. They kept me locked up and drugged for a few months. When I heard them talking about ways to get rid of me, I ran away. I lived on the streets for a month to dry out and then hitched out of town. When I wouldn’t give the guy a blowjob, he stopped and pushed me out of the car. Only place I could see to go was your farm.”

“Do you know what’s going on with the police and various groups looking for you?”

“Yea, you leave the TV on Fox news while you work. I sat outside your window and listened.”

“You’re not exactly the raving mental case that your parents have described.”

“I’m sure they are scared shitless that someone will find me and believe my story about how they make money and my step-dad molesting me.”

“Well, I believe you. I’ll do what you say but I think we should patch through several levels of Internet security and give the police a heads-up via an anonymous email.”

“It would be fun to get back at them, if none of my stepdad’s friends can find me.”

“Do you know enough to blow the lid off his business?”


“Think through everything you know. Make some notes. We’ll work together tomorrow and make it easy for the cops and DEA agents. We’ll even copy the news to keep everyone honest. I can promise you, they won’t be able to find out that the message originated here.”

The next day Megan was excited and our joint “intel” document came out very concise, professional and believable. It would generate quick response.

“Now that we are on the computer, let’s order you some more female things – work clothes, underwear, shoes, nice clothes, make-up and whatever else you need. You can hide out here as long as you want but eventually you’ll want to get out some, even if it is late at night to a movie or something.”

“You mean like a date?”

“I’m a little old for you don’t you think?”

She didn’t answer. Three weeks later the first stories were starting to break related to the information we provided on her parents. Megan had listened to the news all day and worked around my office as I wrote. As usual, I was oblivious to everything. She found three binders of my early diversion stories. Now everything is on memory sticks or backed up with my “secret” publishers. I’m talking about my porn stories. I guess she read a few in my office and then took a binder to her room every night until she had read all those older stories.

One morning, she confronted me, “You have a naughty side.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I found your porn stories in your office.”

“Come with me.” She followed and I called up the fetish site and the general porn site I often write for. I even called up my own site where people have to pay a few pennies to read beyond chapter two of my newer stories. “You read the early stuff. I’m better now. Here are about three hundred short-stories, some are really naughty, and a few novel length diversions that I’ve written to clear my mind for the sci-fi stories that pay the bills.”

“If I read any more of your stories, I’m going to need a vibrator.”

“Top shelf in the spare bedroom.”

Megan came back with one of the three boxes of sex toys on that shelf. I didn’t tell her where the sex swing, the Sybian or larger toys were.

“Why do you have all this stuff?”

“How can I write intelligently about such things, if I haven’t seen them or operated them?”

“No girlfriend and a ton of toys, makes no sense to me.”

“My stories would benefit if I had a hot woman who would let me watch her use every toy and would tell me how each one felt as it got her off.”

That froze her in her tracks. She wasn’t about to pick up that challenge. Besides the evening news was coming on, mom and stepdad had been arrested for distribution and dealing drugs from Mexico. They were singing like canaries trying to cop a deal. Good old stepdad was a two time loser. This time California would put him away for life unless he gave up every associate and connection. I was wondering how he thought he would stay alive back behind prison bars.

Megan was a good worker around the farm and a mildly playful help around the kitchen. Little by little, she read my stories, got good on the Internet and asked me a couple of hundred questions. She ordered even more clothing. I dyed her hair auburn. She said there were no pictures of her during the last few years. She has filled out, is taller than the press thinks and doesn’t need glasses now, thanks to a traveling Lasik van. She also has blue contacts and her body is strong, tanned and toned. She is growing more confident around me every day but as her twenty-first birthday approached she was still frightened about going out. I did talk her into changing her name, getting a new social security number and a passport. We were planning a trip to Europe and a cruise around the Mediterranean as soon as she could handle it.

The night of her twenty-first birthday was blustery, rainy and cold. Ümraniye Escort I got the fire going and took an early bath. I wanted to introduce Megan to Louis Roederer Cristal champagne and Asti Cinzano Spumante. There were cheeses, crackers and fine deli meats; there were wonderful chocolate dipped strawberries and banana crapes. She surprised me by bathing early and taking a seat on the big couch facing the fireplace dressed in her massive fluffy white bathrobe. Her feet were bare and stretched toward me on the couch.

“First time I saw you, you were barefoot.”

She wiggled her toes at me, “They are in better shape now, thanks to you.”

“No thanks necessary. You have brightened my life every minute since you have been here.” I grasped one foot and kissed her toes, sucking the middle one before I let it go.

Megan was very, very quiet. I guessed I had gone too far. Before I could apologize she asked, “You write about a lot of fetishes and things, but most of your male characters are very oral; is that because it is what you like?”

“It has been a long time for me, Pretty One, but, “Yes,” I’m probably the most oral man on the west coast.”


“It is who I am. The taste of a willing woman is the greatest turn on for me. To see her enjoy my attention, her face contort in climax and to drink her wetness drive me wild.”

Megan shifted around rubbing her thighs together. She was disturbed by my openness and had held her breath until she quietly gasped to start breathing again. She regrouped her thoughts as I introduced her to the Asti and desert.

“The French are very proud of their wines. A woman invented the carbonation process that puts the fizz into champagne, you know. But the Italians love to eat and drink. After a long wonderful, conversation filled diner, Spumente is the perfect compliment for a light desert with a beautiful woman.”

I guess the alcohol was loosening my tongue. Again she was too quiet. I waited then fed her a little bit of crape and said, “Try your wine, My Lady.”

“Everything tastes so good. The Spumente is so light and sweet, it hardly seems to be champagne like the yeasty Cristal.” Then she was quiet again. I needed to relax and enjoy the buzz in my head and the vision of beauty in front of me. Most days I admitted my attraction to Megan to my most secret self but every day, until today, I guarded my actions. I did not want to embarrass myself by forcing her to reject the pathetic old fart, who was coming on to her.

The flickering fire had washed my thoughts away when she almost whispered, “No one has ever kissed me like in your stories. I have never had a climax with another person.”

“As beautiful and young as you are, you will be swept off your feet by a devoted handsome young man. He will please you every day and share a wonderful life with you. I will insist that he loves you and satisfies you.”

Her eyes were watery; she was looking into the fire; her words were halting and barely traveled over her wine glass, “I am twenty-one today. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

My heart beat as noisily as it did when I was sixteen and a beautiful eighteen year old girl, sweetly at first and then assertively, used me most of the night for her pleasure and happily destroyed my virginity. I struggled to live up to her expectations. She was magnificent. She almost killed me. She was a wonderful teacher. She knew what she wanted and boosted my ego for a lifetime by passing out first.

The risk I was taking was crippling. If I read her wrong, I would drive her away. I could disappoint her. I could hurt and betray her, maybe running her relationships forever.

“Close your eyes and listen to me.” Megan’s eyes closed and she reached out handing me her wine glass. She was dreaming of beauty and hoping I could be her tour guide to happy places she had only dreamed about.

I walked behind the couch and held her head gently, bending it slightly back. Next to her ear, I whispered, “Every day I am close to you and the wonderful pheromones from your body capture me. I already know you are a magnificent wonderful woman. Please, inhale and then let the breath out of your lungs.”

My lips closed over hers after she inhaled. When she exhaled, I sucked life from her and then said, “Now you fill your body with my breath.” Her breasts rose and her nipples hardened as she lived on the breath that kept me alive just moments ago. My tongue licked gently at her lips and hers came out to learn to play. Gently, ever so gently, we kissed for the first time. Our first time was a French kiss. My body was struggling not to put more force into the raging passion that coursed through me. My hands caressed her neck as I sucked her tongue and tasted her. I could feel a slight tremble for control ripple deep in her.

I walked around and knelt by the seat of the couch. We kissed and I felt her hands tentatively reach out and slip into my robe. She had seen my hairy, graying chest before but this time her fingers played. They enjoyed my hard male nipples, pulled at my hair and raked fingernails to make my skin tingle. I moaned into her mouth and her lips sucked my tongue. I felt her swallow and suck for more. I let my tongue harden and throb in her mouth; she went with the fantasy. Her breast arched toward me when I pulled my hand back.

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