Disclaimers : This story is an original work of fiction. It in no way resembles any persons living or deceased. It is purely a work of fantasy and is intended for the use of adults only. If you are under 18 years of age, or are prohibited by law to have access to such materials, please stop reading now.

Feel free to distribute this work freely, provided it remains unchanged, with credit given to the author. Please download and enjoy it! All I ask is that you e-mail myself with comments or questions. I can be reached at: dino@canoemail.com .

I banged out this story in 2 sittings, with a few more hours for a proof read and spell check. The "stumble across a girl chained to a wall" idea I have had for a while now. The photographer and the old house idea came a few weeks ago. With thoughts of halloween, the story fell together in a rush. Enjoy.

The funeral was a quiet affair, friends and family I hadn't seen for years. Nephews I wouldn't have recognised if I had passed them on the street. Grandma had lived a good long life, still active until the end.

Uncle Joe had invited me to stay the night but I had a long drive and was eager to make a start of it. The afternoon sunlight flashing through the trees as I drove to the highway brought back memories of an earlier time, bike rides with a gang of childhood friends up to the "haunted house".

At the highway I drove over the bridge and instead of making a right, went straight, continuing along the two lane country road. It was a half hour by bike, ten minutes by car, to the "haunted house".

I wanted to see if it was still there, snap some pictures maybe. Yes. The big oak tree. The rocky cliff, the swimming hole behind, not visible from the road. The start of the dense forest, spared from the chainsaws I saw. And then, the narrow driveway leading off the road. I nosed the car onto the overgrown lane, slowly along, until the clearing opened before me. I saw the "haunted house".

Still magnificent grandeur after all these years although crumbling slightly you noticed, getting closer. Gray granite blocks, cut lovingly by the craftsmen of old, curves and spires. The gargoyles still hovered over the grand front entrance. The wood which had been nailed over the door and windows, to keep us kids out, now weathered a dark gray, matching the stone. Silence descended as I stopped the car, switching off the motor, and got out to stand before the "haunted house".

I grabbed my camera bag, walked around the house, snapped pictures in the bright afternoon light. Around the side, out back, the big barn, now a ruin of twisted boards and towering beams. It must have fallen some years back. Memories returned. The pretty Irish girl with the flame red hair, what was her name? Crissy, Christine? A skipped class, the swimming hole, and then, her hair fanned out on the straw, and I on top. Moans of passion and adolescent lust in the old barn.

I finished the roll, loaded another. Along the rear of the house to the back porch, careful steps over the rotted soft boards. The wood nailed over the door loose, nails rusted in the punky wood. I move one board, then another. I see the doorknob and turn it. I duck under the remaining boards and enter the "haunted house".

I know I'm trespassing but no one is home. Haven't been for thirty years, or more. Signs of recent occupancy however. In the kitchen, empty beer bottles and wine bottles here and there. Fresh ashes in the fireplace. On the counter, artifacts, forged from pop cans. Pipes for hash or crack, pungent residue in the bowls. I snap some pictures of the room, the crafted drug paraphernalia. I move on.

Big rooms, empty of all except dust. Sunbeams stabbing through cracks in the boards over windows. The main hall with stairs leading up to the floor above, light spilling down from above, from a skylight. I climb a few steps, snap a few frames of the chandelier in the center, the light from my flash dancing among the dusty crystals. I lower the camera and step back and then. . .

A crack, a snap, my weight leaves my feet and I am falling, flying through the air. Down through the stairs. I land in the cellar, the hard pack dirt floor cushioning the impact somewhat, but not much. I land on my foot, my hand and finally, my back and my head.

I can feel my feet, my hands. I bring my hand down to my head and it doesn't move down. I tip my head up only to bang the back of it on the hard stone pillar behind me. Pain flares behind my eyes. My wrists hurt. I look up slowly and open my eyes.

I am standing against one of the stone columns that support the house. My wrists are encircled with heavy looking iron manacles; a chain leads from one, up to a bracket on the post, then back down to the other. I look down. My clothes are gone. My ankles are similarly adorned with the shackles and chain, fastened to the bottom of the pillar. A beam of sunlight slants down across the room, from a crack in the boards over a window behind me, I guess. Dust motes winking at me, dancing a slow waltz in the beam of light.

I follow the sunbeam to the post in front. A form there, lighter, against the darker stone. I hang in the chains and wait. The sunbeam shifts slowly as the earth turns, the angle becoming greater. Near the base of the column the spot of light creeps slowly. I see toes, red painted toes in the gloom of the cellar. Two slender feet standing in the dust of the floor. Then ankles come into view, shackled to the column like mine are. Weight shifts to one foot as the toes of the other stretch out, to raise the heavy iron off the foot underneath. I see the reddened skin where the shackle had been pressing down, for how long? After a few minutes she repeats the procedure with her other foot.

The sunbeam travels higher, leaving her feet in the dark, to highlight legs perfect, flawless. Her thighs. Her sex, yes she is a she, a fine patch of light hair over the treasure beneath, between. The earth turns, the angle gets greater, the sunbeam passes her belly, flat, hard but oh, so soft looking. I stand there and stare, can do nothing else. Her breasts come into view, perfectly framed by the sunbeam, perfect. Firm, good sized, standing proudly on her chest. The nipples, I see, are two bright berries, sweet.

I glance down and see, my cock spearing out in her direction. Can she see me? Oh well, there is little I can do, like this. I look back towards her, at her face, the face of an angel. Her blond hair behind her, her lips forming a smile, for me? Her eyes sparkling. Her arms up I now see, over her head. Up, shackled, chained to an iron bracket on the post.

The sunbeam touches her hands and up, to the bracket on the post. I hear, from upstairs, a sound like a heavy bolt being withdrawn. I hear, the squeak of old metal. I see, an iron bar behind the girl move up, being raised from upstairs. She looks up. The raising of the bar has created an opening in the bracket where her chain is. She stretches her fingers and unhooks the chain from it. Slowly she brings her arms down, down, down to her feet. She unhooks her ankle chain from the opened bracket there. She stands, to smile at me.

The girl moves towards me, slowly, with careful steps. Her chains tinkle gently as they drag across the dirt floor. She stands closely before me and then reaches for my face with her hands. The chain between her wrists snags on my rock hard prick, pressing the head against her sex. She giggles at that, steps back to disentangle it, then holds my face for a tender kiss. I pull on my arms, wanting to hold her but the chain is still fast to the column. I part my lips as she presses harder, her tongue pushing in to mate with mine. Her passion increases as she probes my mouth with her tongue, holding me, her chain tight across my waist. Then she breaks off, breathing hard, a glazed, far away look in her eyes.

The girl lowers herself to her knees before me. She raises her hands to guide my hard cock into her mouth. She takes my length deep into her, down into her throat in one movement. I gasp as my knees weaken, and my weight causes the shackles to bite into my hands. The pain from my hands is overruled by the sensations from lower down, the muscles in her throat working on my cock head. She moves her head backward to lick and tease me, then forward again, her cute nose pressing on my belly. Her hands, one caressing my nuts while the other strokes my thigh. Her chain, catching on the hairs on my legs from time to time.

She begins an easy rhythm, stroking me with her mouth. Out, pressing hard with her tongue as she draws her head back and then pausing to lick around the tip before moving ahead, letting my length push down her throat again. I strained, desperate to reach out and touch her, to lay her down and fuck her. I begin to feel the pressure building in my back, flowing up my spine, flooding my brain with a warm mist before gathering steam and racing back down. A sharp turn at my hips and then onwards and out, blasting through my cock and into her mouth and throat, choking her, filling her to overflow as I cum and cum. I am floating on a tidal wave of sensations.

A crack, a snap, my weight leaves my feet and I am flying through the air. I open my eyes and groan with the pain in my head. The room is lit with torches, flickering fire on the end of sticks, fixed to the columns of the cellar by ornate iron brackets. I bring my hand down to my face, and it doesn't move down. I tilt my head up to look. Heavy iron manacles around my wrists, a chain from one, up, through the headboard of the bed, back down to the other. My body is covered with a gray blanket. I feel, on my feet, a similar arrangement as with my hands. On my right, the cold gray stone of the house. Ahead, iron bars, a cage, a cell in the basement of the house. I turn my head to the left.

The girl is on a bed against the far wall, watching me. It is the same girl as before. Before? Her golden hair gleams in the torch light. The fetters on her wrists and ankles look heavy, aged, permanent. She sits up, stands, walks over to me. Her chains tinkle as they drag across the dirt floor. She moves beside the bed and lifts the blanket from me. I am naked beneath it. She brings her hands to my chest and rubs me, her chain catching on the hairs there from time to time. I feel my prick twitch and stiffen. She smiles.

She gets up onto the bed. She straddles me. The chain connecting her ankles, tight across my knees. Her shackles, digging into my legs. Her hands press down on my chest and she lifts up, then settles back down, my cock now deep inside her. She rocks her hips back and forth on top of me.

I strain my arms, desperate to reach her, to touch her. Her hands press down on my chest and she lifts up, then settles back down. She does it again, then again, in a slow easy rhythm that is driving me mad with desire. My fingers claw air, aching to touch those luscious breasts so near, too far. My feet, pinned in the shackles, chained to the bed. My knees, pinned with her shackles, her weight pressing them down on me. Her heavy irons on each wrist, the chain between, on my chest as she pinches my nipples with her soft fingers.

I start to feel the pressure building in my back, racing up my spine to flood my brain with a warm mist before gathering steam and blasting back down and then up, through my cock and into the girl above me, filling her to overflow as I cum and cum. I am floating on a tidal wave of sensations.

A crack, a snap and the bed collapses as I fly through the air. A sharp pain at the back of my head as I open my eyes, searching for the girl. I am alone in the center of the floor. The torches around me casting their flickering light, showing little, the shadows around me hiding much. I struggle to sit, sharp pains in my wrist, my ankle, my head.

I hear noises around me from the shadows, the scrape of a chain, a low growl. I see movement in the shadows, the fires on the sticks dancing to an unfelt breeze. The glimmer of two eyes? More sounds. Shadows detach from the dark to move closer to me, encircling me. I see three, four, five. Girls like the one before, yet not like her at all. The same heavy iron fetters and chains on their wrists and ankles. The soft tinkle of a hundred links of chain as they move closer. I see there, that the similarity ends.

Ten feral eyes staring hungrily at me as they closed the circle around me. Crouching on hands and feet, they moved closer, wary yet sure. A hand, cold, brushes my foot. More hands at my back, reaching for my arms. Suddenly they leapt as one, landing on me in a mass of writhing girl flesh.

This is nice, I thought, as I lay in the pile of their bodies and then, a pain so sharp I cried out. One girl had sunk her sharp teeth into the flesh of my thigh. I tried to fight them off as more teeth found my tender skin, hurting me, their nails, ripping into me. The girls used their arms and legs, their heavy chains, to bind me tight so I could not move.

A crack, as my shoulder succumbed to the twisting pressure, my scream echoing around the cellar walls. A snap when my wrist was bent back double, a girls weight falling on it, tearing into it with teeth and nails. My weight left my feet as I was drawn upwards by the girls. I felt myself falling and falling as my life's blood fell, to the dirt floor of the cellar. . .

The beam of sunlight warms my face, pushing past the fog behind my eyelids. I stir, open my eyes, groggily try to sit up. Sudden pain at my wrist, my ankle, my head. I look up to see, dim light through the hole in the stairs through which I had fallen. I tried to stand, gripping the column beside me tightly as pain flared in my left ankle, sending my head reeling.

I paused for several minutes as the hurt and the shock faded. I looked around the empty room. Hard pack dirt floor. If it had been cement I might not be standing now. I looked at my watch, wincing as I turned my wrist. The time was three in the afternoon. Yesterday? Broken in the fall, I guessed. I must have been out cold all night down here.

I put some weight on my leg, slowly. It hurt, but it will have to do, I thought, if I want to get out of here. Slowly I made my way to the stairs. If the door is locked I'm screwed, but it swung open at my touch. I hobbled to the kitchen, pausing to pick up my camera bag with the valuable films inside, moments captured, waiting to see the light again. I made it under the boards covering the back door, then hobbled, hopped, around the house to the car.

The clock in the car told me it was nine thirty in the morning. I had lain in that cellar all night. I drove back to town, to the emergency room of the hospital. A bone in my wrist had a slight fracture, my ankle was badly sprained. The bump on my head felt bad, though the doctor didn't think so. He wrapped my wrist and ankle with an elastic bandage and told me to see my doctor in a few days, when I got home.

Strange bits of thoughts had been flashing through my mind when I was waiting in the emergency room. Pieces of a dream was it? I drove back out to the highway, over the bridge, and instead of making a right, I went straight, continuing along the two lane country road. I nosed the car into the driveway of the house, drove up to the side and stopped. I walked around to the back, my ankle slightly better now with the support from the bandage. I went back inside the "Haunted house".

Through the kitchen to the stairs, I looked up. My trusty Nicon on the step beside a gaping, splintered hole. I reached out, ever so carefully this time and snagged the strap. Not broken, I was pleased to see. I went back to the cellar door and carefully down the stairs. I crossed the floor to the spot I had fallen. Splinters of wood. Marks in the dust. My footprints leading away, then back. The room was empty, silent.

As I turned to go I noticed, at the base of one of the columns, an outline in the dust. I looked closer. A footprint. A bare foot footprint. A small, slender footprint, that of a girl, there, in the dust on the floor near one of the granite pillars which held up the house.

I snapped a few shots of it, and around the empty cellar. Then I made my way back to the car and got started on the long drive home.

I developed the film I took of the house first. I printed the shots of the cellar and examined them closely. Nothing. No footprint where I had been sure I saw one. I scanned the print into the computer, used every effect on the image; nothing there.

It was two weeks before I got around to doing the rolls from the funeral. I printed copies of the best shots for the folks back home. One picture seemed to stand out, the grave site, grandpa's marker and grandma's coffin over the hole next to it. I looked closer. The family around, the priest, and in the background. A girl with the face of an angel, blond hair. Her lips forming a smile, for me?

[end]

dino dave Oct 1999