The Call Of The Deep free porn video

It's only minutes into the crossing and already the pitch and roll of the boat have unsettled Natalie's stomach. She casts a glance at the girl sitting directly opposite, sees her pretty face in profile ablaze with anticipation as she stares directly ahead. Across the bay squats Vidor Island, the curtain walls of its castle and formidable keep silhouetted against the back-lit horizon, the parting gift of the Sun's recent departure.

Apart from a shy, 'Hi!' on climbing down into the boat, the girl has not uttered a word; unlike the aged fisherman steering the craft who has kept up a monologue of his daily troubles since casting off from the harbour jetty.

"You fans of hers?" the sailor now asks, addressing neither Natalie nor the girl in particular.

Before Natalie can reply, the girl turns to face the old man and says brightly, "Oh-yes! Since I was ten years old." She looks expectantly at Natalie. When no reply is forthcoming, she asks quite pointedly, "Which is your favourite, then?" 

"I'm not one of her readers, just an old friend. Eva and I go way back." This seems to deflate the girl, and so to make amends, she asks, "Have you read all of her books?"

"Every single one," the girl proclaims proudly. "When I was thirteen, I wrote to her. But she never replied. Then last month — at the convention?" the girl continues, her voice rising with a questioning plea for understanding. "When I asked her to sign my copy of Candy Báthory and the Troublesome Vampire Apocalypse, we got chatting. That's when she invited me here, said I could have a part in the special thing she is planning; something right out of one of her novels, she said. But that might not be so good, don't you think?" She giggles and then quickly covers her mouth as if she had burped unexpectedly in polite company.

Natalie also wonders what her old friend could possibly mean. She remembers how as a teenager, Eva had loved Halloween and how they had terrorised the neighbourhood, inflicted vindictive tricks on the households that refused to come to the door.

 "What's your name?" Natalie now asks.

"Alice," replies Alice, pleased to have been asked.

"Hello, Alice. I'm Natalie. Lovely to meet you. You must be so excited."

"You wouldn't believe how much! Especially as Eva wants me to sit for her. She said I was just what she was looking for, that I would be perfect for the artwork she needs; some ideas for the new film she will be shooting."

Natalie is silent now. A blanket of inadequacy has settled in her mind as she catalogues her old friend's talents: painting and drawing, acting and filmmaking. And now her young adult novels are a sensation. All of which has come so naturally to Eva, towing wealth and fame in their wake.

She wonders if Eva would have become the creative powerhouse she now is if not for the Dammartin footage she had found among her father's inventory all those years ago. The two of them had watched those old reels of film together, Natalie slack-jawed as scene after scene of the most improbable depravity unfolded. A teenage girl named Caroline bound and whipped to satisfy the jaded prurience of societies elite, footage that inspired Eva to embark on her first foray into movie-making. And for her part: Natalie had been only too willing to play the leading role.

There is no stopping the memories now as Natalie relives the first time she gave herself over to Eva's perversity. Both of them naked, Eva had bound her with rope and purged Natalie of the guilt she had endured since Ruth's death. Those were long months of striving for absolution. Each girl daring the other to surpass boundaries, ratcheting up the risk, leading one another to new precipices and peering over, each encouraging the other to jump into an unknowable void. But eventually, the ameliorative of rope and pain became enervated, Eva growing bored. In her own way, she abandoned Natalie as absolutely as Ruth had done when she walked into the midnight darkness of the Irish Sea.

The island is closer now. What had been mere indefinable points of light in the distance have taken on substance, clearly recognisable as the dimly illuminated rooms of Vidor Island Castle. A Tepid honey glow seeps from many arched windows set deep into the night-darkened masonry, the castle made a gothic cliche under an argent Moon. Beyond those ramparts, and beyond the clawing promontories that define the bay, out at sea above the horizon scudding clouds traverse the sky eclipsing the Moon's surface for minutes at a time, darkening the waters through which the boat's prow cuts. But when unobscured, the moonlight electroplates the entire bay.

Nearly there now. Way ahead, on the castle wharf, Natalie can make out two figures standing next to the roaring brazier that acts as a beacon, set up to guide their boat into the inky waters of the harbour. The two figures appear not as real people at all, more like Plato's shades moving back and forth in front of the roaring brazier, shadows about to return to the underworld.

The boat is slowing now as it manoeuvers for its final approach, rounding the causeway and entering the shelter of the harbour walls. Finally, the old sailor at the tiller kills the engine and the boat glides silently towards steep steps of stone set into the causeway's side.

"I hope you two are the last," he says as he throws a rope to the figures above.

"How many have you ferried across?" Natalie asks.

"I've not been counting. But it was eight o'clock this morning when I brought the first lot over."

Natalie looks at her watch and sees it is seven in the evening. She gathers up her luggage and then follows Alice up the jetty steps hardly managing to handle what she now realises is a stupidly large suitcase. She almost loses her footing on the slippery seaweed deposited there by the last high-tide. Luckily, the boat skipper is behind her and forestalls her fall by steading her with firm hands on her buttocks. When she turns around to thank him, she sees his demeanour soured by lechery, a leering delight stirred by her softness pawed through hiking leggings. A shiver of distaste makes her wince. But then she tells herself how lucky she is to have escaped a fall, how she could have ended up trapped between the boat and jetty. 

God! You read about stuff like that.

At the top of the steps, Natalie is amazed to see that the two figures are approaching with torches of living flame that flicker wildly in the stiff breeze sweeping in from the sea. Dressed as they are, in full length black hooded capes while holding such theatrical props, the pair seem to Natalie like women from another world and time.

It must be the theme of the weekend.

"Ms Natalie Garnet?" the taller of the two women enquires, looking directly at Natalie. 

She knows me already.

Natalie resents the abrupt tone, stands for a moment and scowls at the woman.

"Are you Natalie Garnet?" the woman repeats while fixing her with a keen and piercing stare.

"The very same," Natalie finally answers, still unsettled by the severity of the woman's greeting.

"Miss Eva has set aside a room for your exclusive use. But for the time being, you must leave your luggage with us to inspect. You will have no doubt read in your information pack that electrical devices of any kind are forbidden on the island." She pauses to let her words register, then continues, "Including mobile phones. So if you wouldn't mind —" She stretches out her arm, palm open.

Natalie reluctantly hands over her phone and instantly feels bereft. Why can't she see Eva tonight? Have these women even let her old friend and one-time lover know she has arrived? If they had, surely Eva would want to welcome her personally instead of abandoning her to these strangers. Natalie wonders if fame and wealth have spoilt Eva so thoroughly.

While the woman and girl surrender their luggage, a man emerges from a postern door set in the curtain wall at the end of the jetty. He is pushing an antiquated railway porter's trolly.

"The same applies to you, Miss Bamsey," The greeter says to Alice. "And then you are to follow Messalina to the dormitory. Both of you will have your luggage returned within the hour. My Name is Merricat, and this is Adam. He will take your luggage and bring it to you within the hour. So if you, Ms Barnett, would follow me. " 

The woman named Merricat sets off along the stone jetty at a brisk pace, Natalie soon hurrying after her. Messalina and Alice follow, and Adam trails behind with their cases. The wind blowing in from the sea is beginning to chill Natalie through her new skiing jacket and fleece, and she shivers involuntarily, her flesh chilled by apprehension as much as by the icy cut of the breeze alone.

Merricat goes through the door, steps aside and waits for everyone to cross the threshold and enter the castle grounds. All accounted for, she heaves the door shut and locks it with an old key taken from an enormous iron ring threaded with numerous other odd-shaped keys that she extracts from a deep pocket in her cloak. After the click of the lock fastening, she draws three rusty bolts into place, each screeching its reluctance into the darkness.

There is a finality in the grind of those antique iron bolts, an unappeasable certainty. To Natalie, it is as if her past, the life she loves, is now denied her.

The ostensible reason for this visit is to see her old friend again. But when she received Eva's invitation, it came unannounced, out of the blue. Their friendship had run its course fifteen years ago. They had exhausted each other, sexually, physically, emotionally and intellectually. So why was Eva compelled to seek her out again? 

But even if nothing else comes of the visit, no rekindling of their friendship, as a freelance journalist Natalie hopes to scrape together a piece for the Sunday supplements. An exclusive on the darkly eccentric world of the reclusive author/filmmaker Eva Fowler would open so many doors, make her journalistic name.

She asks Merricat, "So, what's this weekend all about?" But the woman does not answer, sets off again without a word to traverse the castle courtyard. Natalie hurries after her calling out, "Merricat! Please wait."

She leads Natalie to another stout door set into the North sea-facing, perimeter wall, where she again chooses a key from the large iron ring. While the woman fumbles with the lock, Natalie turns around to look for Alice, sees her heading over to the main keep trailing behind Messalina.

"Why can't I see Eva tonight?" Natalie asks.

Merricat turns to face her. "I'm sure Miss Eva will answer all your questions in the morning." And then adds, "After all, you two were such dear, dear friends." 

The emphasis on "were" makes Natalie flinch. "Tell me, Merricat. Surely that is not your real name?" Natalie asks with barely concealed spite.

But the woman does not acknowledge the question. Instead, with the flaming torch held high, she pushes open the stout door and disappears into the fortifications. Before following her, Natalie looks up at the edifice of stonework that towers above her. For a moment, her head begins to spin. She remembers how before making landfall, she had gazed up at the outer facade of the looming North Wall as their boat chugged by below. The precipitous ramparts had awed her, the granite into which its foundations are sunk appeared unknowably ancient, yet seemingly impervious to the pounding waves of centuries past.

One last glance upward, seeing a confounding array of stars above the battlements. Then three deep breaths before hurrying inside while calling out once more, "Merricat, please wait!"

She finds the woman standing at the bottom of a stone staircase that twists its way up the concave wall of a tower.

"Where are we going?" Natalie asks again.

"I've already told you. To your room," the woman says as if answering a troublesome child. 

She turns and begins to quickly ascend the spiralling stone stairs. In an instant, she has rounded the curl of the narrow stairwell and vanished leaving Natalie alone watching the glow of retreating torchlight, hearing only the diminishing click of heeled boots on stone. Soon all illumination is gone, leaving Natalie in darkness so utter it makes her doubt her own actuality. Even then, she is loath to step onto the stairs and venture upwards. For a moment she remains alone in a pressing, claustrophobic darkness listening to the echo of the woman's diminishing footsteps.  

Then from above comes a voice carried echoing down the tower walls, "Ms Barnett. Please don't dawdle. I haven't got all night." 

She steps onto the stairs, her hands desperately padding the wall, using the feel of the stonework beneath her fingertips to lead her upwards. After stumbling, she learns the spacing of each step, times her footfalls so as not to trip. She calls out in genuine fear now. "Merricat! Oh, please do wait!"

Fuck! I need to join the gym again, Natalie thinks, now breathless at the top of the stairs, the ones she had given up trying to count as she followed the diminishing light ever upwards. Then quickly along a passageway and they are standing before a sturdy age-darkened door. 

Nothing but fucking doors, locks and keys!  

While holding the torch high, with the fingers of her other hand, Merricat fumbles again with keys. Then the scrape of its metal in the rusting lock; the sound of ancient wood becoming unsettled but not giving. Merricat puts her shoulder to the wood and then bodily pushes the door open. As the two women enter the room, Merricat's flaming torch spawns shadows, sending them flying throughout the chamber. 

The only lighting in the room will be from four torches spaced and set in sconces on the curved chamber walls. "Of course we have no electricity in the castle. Eva insists on authenticity for her darlings," Merricat says as she moves from torch to torch, passing on a flame from her own. These three will be your only means of illumination. They burn surprisingly slowly. Adam will replenish the four in your room before they are exhausted. A fire has been prepared for you, so you will be cosey enough. There are books to read — if you can't sleep."

"Will there be a meal," Natalie asks, her queasiness from the crossing forgotten."

"Dinner was served at six... Though a platter of cold meat could be arranged."

"But I'm a vegetarian," Natalie protests, certain now her dietary needs could never be accommodated in such a place. "Eva knows I am."

"Well, that is rather unfortunate. There is only brown bread and butter, some salad. You can't expect Eva to be concerned with her visitor's dietary peculiarities."

"Salad will do nicely," Natalie says, grateful to know she will not starve.

"There is a chamberpot under the bed," Merricat continues, "and a jug with fresh water, a bowl and soap on the dresser. Someone will come over in the morning to take the slops away." And with that, Merricat is gone.

Alone in her room, Natalie looks around. The light from the three torches now lit and burning fiercely, hardly cut through the darkness that hangs heavy about her. It is as if the shadows they cast seek independence of their source. The half kindled fire in the enormous grate has yet to find life. She kneels to attend to it, jabbing at the coal's incipient flames with a hefty iron poker. 

Somewhere in the castle — deep below her room she imagines —a dreadful wailing rises up. It is such a horrendous and fleeting crying out that for a moment she fears someone is being tortured in a forbidden chamber. As quickly as the cries began, they cease. Natalie recalls how Eva had always loved cats. Just cats. That's all it is: there must be cats here, she reassures herself. Just a she-cat letting some Tom know the score. And while she kneels in front of the pitiful flames, perfectly still and fearful now, it is as if the very stones bleed silence into the room.

Why is it taking so long to bring her suitcase? She could do with her writing pad so she can get some ideas down on paper, formulate questions to ask Eva. She thinks of Merricat opening her bag and inspecting her belongings, fingering her underwear. She stands up and begins to pace back and forth, eventually stops to check out the meagre display of books, their number pitifully inadequate for the towering case that houses them.

She feels a draft brush her cheek, and she follows its iciness. Beside the fireplace, screened by a threadbare faded tapestry, she discovers another doorway. Between the bottom edge of the door and the stone slabs of the floor, a chilling current of air contaminates the room. Beyond the door, she is sure she hears the crashing of waves rising from far below, the sound of their relentless pounding carried on the air upwards. 

She tries the iron handle, its heavy black ring icy to the touch. Just for a moment, she anticipates it giving way. But it merely clicks. She pulls the tapestry back across the door to insulate the room from the chilling draft. Stepping back, she now looks above the fireplace and sees a portrait. In the weak light, it is hard to make out the subject of the painting, and so she takes one of the torches from its sconce and holds it high to illuminate the surface.

A baroquely gilded frame, the canvas grimy and age-darkened. Natalie passes the fluttering flame back and forth before the painting, unable to make sense of the composition. Stepping closer and then stepping back, she is still unable to make sense of it. But as her eyes adjust, she begins to see it is a portrait, its subject one of those worthy family affairs she has seen so many times when on trips to stately homes during long-gone summer afternoons with her parents as a child. 

Perhaps it is the ghastly pallor of his skin, or the resigned to suffering fretful uncertainty in the eyes of the subject that disturbs Natalie so thoroughly. The shaved face seems incongruous with the Elizabethan attire, clothes that by themselves demand a goaty, a beard of any kind as an accessory. No, this individual is quite clean-shaven, his chin weak, a full-mouth framed by idle, decadent lips that seem to sever the lower features of his face from the upper. His dilated herptile eyes fix Natalie to the spot. She can not shake off the feeling that the figure in the portrait is sentient, watching her every move. No matter where she stands, the eyes study her. She shivers involuntarily.

Get a grip, Nat: It's just the poor light and your imagination. 

The rapping on the chamber door makes her jump. "Who is it?" 

"It's Adam with your luggage and supper," a male voice answers.

 "About bloody time," she quietly says to herself before raising her voice and tells him to enter.

The young man hauling her case into the chamber she notices for the first time is kitted out in the costume of footman from some regency drama. He is tall and very handsome. 

Things are looking up.

"Where do you want it?" the young man asks. His Australian accent is out of place, incongruous with this moment and setting.

 "Oh... On the bed will be fine," she says and watches him cart her luggage over to the four-poster and lay it down on the ancient embroidered satin eiderdown. When he has done so, his hand dips into the livery trimmed pocket of his coat and emerges holding a largish Tupperware container of salad. 

He smiles and says, "I found you some cheese and bread too."

He watches her sit down on the edge of the mattress and open the container. Before she eats, she looks up and sees him standing watching her, no sign he is about to leave, and she wonders if she is supposed to tip him.

"Do you know anything about the guy in the portrait?" she asks, opening up the lid of the container. 

The boy turns and looks up at the painting: "That's Pervy Percy, eleventh Laird of Kinwickburn. A bit of a lad by all accounts."

"He gives me the creeps," Natalie says, putting down the food, her appetite soured by the thought of a night alone in this chamber. "Merricat mentioned there is a dormitory over in the keep where some other girls are sleeping?" she said, hopefully.

"No room for you over there. But listen. I could come back in an hour. When I've done in the kitchen, I'll come over and keep you company."

Handsome though he is, she is not in the mood for sex. "How come you have a normal name?"

"Normal name?"

"Not like the other two."

"I'm just a walk-on. Here just for show." He looks thoughtful now. "And I wasn't coming on to you, Natalie," he says, sounding genuinely offended that she even thought he might be. "It's a big bed. You'll hardly notice me. I'll bring my sleeping bag."

She does not reply, is searching his eyes as they stare back at her with expectant patience. She prides herself on her ability to read men through their eyes, fancies she can see in an instant the truth within a person. "Yeah, that would be nice," she finally says, and then instantly thinks herself too easily won by what might turn out to be a faux sincerity.

After Adam leaves, she quickly undresses and puts on her night things before extinguishing all of the torches. The only light is from the fire finally blazing in the huge grate, its flames causing new shadows to dance around the room.

Snug under the heavy blankets, she falls asleep almost immediately, plummets into a dream of ocean depths where human-like creatures swim in shoals, entities not of skin and bone. Their anthropomorphism is a facade, the veneer assumed by life so as not to alarm, one a millennia older the most primitive subspecies of humanity. As she watches the creatures swarm like schooling fish, she sees how their bodies are malleable, squidlike in their shifting ease, their eyes full of an absurd intelligence.

And then they are all about her, their sleekly soft bodies sliding against her, subtly but firmly piloting her downwards, brushing and skimming against her nakedness as she descends impossibly fast into depths beyond measure. Deeper and deeper they usher her, down to the ocean bed where thermal vents erupt, dark fissures that spew smokey darkness into the crystalline ocean.

It is as if the creatures know her, are welcoming her home. Their thoughts fill her mind, repeating her name over and over. She is expected, warmly greeted. A place has been prepared for her.

The maw of a subterranean cave. The creatures gently shepherding her through endless caverns. She is ushered along tunnels illuminated by soft, ambient light. And then her escort is urging her upwards. When her head breaks the water's surface, she does not gasp for breath, realises she has never felt a lack of air while submerged.  

Just two creatures now remain, emerging with her into a warm cavern illuminated by walls that emit a sentient phosphorescence. She looks all about and sees how the light source issues from fungi adhering to the cavern walls. The light it produces dims and brightens. It is as if the cavern itself inhales darkness and then exhales light. The creatures lift her from the stillness of the water and lay her out. And so she comes to lie quite still and naked on a stretch of a small beach of almost snow-white sand at the water's edge in the womblike ambience of the cavern.

And then they are either side of her, their bulbous eyes appraising her. Then hideously blood-glutted lips settle quietly, one pair on each breast, hideous, polypus orifices travelling every inch of her flesh, determined to savour her every inch. 

Now the minds of the creatures call to her, wooing her, reassuring her. There is no end to slip and skid of their sleek bodies' against her, the dainty octopus-like suckers now coming into play, erupting from many points and adhering to every inch of her flesh, pulsating with exquisite tenderness as they contract and loosen. It is if every inch of her skin is being kissed by the lips of numerous skilled lovers.

She looks into the eyes of the one creature now looming over her. Immediately, somehow she knows that he — for she senses the creature's maleness unequivocally — is about to enter her. She no longer tries to comprehend how something so hideous feels so right. Sublimely so! It is in her nature to give herself. This will act will be the summation of all her life's yearnings, her life's purpose all along. How could she have ever envisioned a completion such as this? How could she ever have ever suspected her bouts of depression were yearning for a moment she could until now have only found incomprehensible? 

The dawning realisation of a truth that here in the depths of the ocean is her rightful home. She knows this place now, its purpose. It will be the sanctuary in which the child will be born, grow and flourish. Something is moving inside her. An appendage. Only one? Something alive, working with gentle determination. These things that penetrate her, this bloated tissue and muscle, pleasure her like no man's cock ever has. They twist inside her — front and back. Oh, God! Every orifice is penetrated while every inch of her body, every curve and nook is explored by sweet, caressing uncountable cirri.

The creature in its rapture will subsume her. She will relinquish herself willingly. Boneless flesh in paroxysms of bliss pulsates in a hypnopompic kaleidoscope of ever-shifting colours. The creatures sleek, incessantly restless body hums and drones as it slides silky-soft against her skin. Its restless fronds are never still as if seeking nutrient from her flesh. The pleasure they gift her is incomprehensible.

"Natalie! Natalie! Natalie!" Her name called over and over. No. Not her name. It is a part of her that preceded a mortal name. They are appealing to her soul. Suddenly she is rising from immense depths, shooting up like a free diver released from after a record-breaking descent. 

She is a human female again, is back in the room and gasping for breath. Bolt upright, her eyes are wide and staring into the blackness, the torches and fire long dead. She sees nothing, but she senses someone in the bed beside her. Adam, she assumes. His hand on her shoulder has shaken her awake. Had she cried out?

An icy current of air swirls around the bed. The tapestry is pulled back, the door behind it ajar. The roar of the seas fills the chamber, a cacophony of storm-blown waves boiling up from the rocks below, the roar of a storm where no storm rages. The chill of the sea air claws at her flesh. She realises she is naked and still at the pitch of arousal. 

"Oh-god! Hold me, Adam. You must hold me!" she pleads.

 His arms are quickly around her, his chilled cheeks against hers. The reassurance of his body next to hers calms her, and she coaxes him with whispered promises, reassures him with colluding fingers. She needs his human masculinity to sweep away the horror of her dream, and so she eases her self onto her back and parts her legs, drawing him down after her. He sends his cock sliding along the length of her sex, and she welcomes it, its consensus world certainty. The enormity of it will purge her of the horror, cause her dreams to be a jumble of sweet nonsense.

How he fills her. His thrusts are steady; each one long-considered. She is precious to him. She senses it nuanced in the trawl of his hands over her skin. They sink behind her buttocks, lift and draw her onto his hardness. It is an invasion, his cock an occupying force sent to annex her heartland. His silence does not phase her: it reassures her. With every thrust, she capitulates to his assurance, his governance.

His lips are wondrous things that bring her only human pleasure in their wake as they skim her neck, her cheeks, forehead and brows. Kissing her mouth, subsuming her lips, his tongue is plentiful, and it calms her.

Close to orgasm, the terror of those depths reasserts itself. Then such lucid images, like sheet lightning illuminating her mind. No time to process, to analyse, realise. Those entities and how they had led and guided her home. It was no dream.

He erupts into her, his orgasm exploding at her core. This will end badly: she will be ruptured, body and soul. Her sanity takes refuge in an orgasm of her own. And then she is plummeting from the apex of bliss to the darkness of unknowing. 

The next morning, winter sun streams through the one narrow, glazed aperture set high in the wall, a beam of light where motes play chase. Adam is up and about. A large sooty kettle hangs from some hook fixed inside the chimney.  

When she stirs, he asks her, "Did you sleep well?" 

"Thanks to you," she says, a smile of deep pleasure brightening her eyes. She sits up, sees the embarrassment her bare breasts cause him.

"Why don't you come back to bed."

"Back to bed?"

"I want you again!"

"Again?"

"Like last night."

His astonished bewilderment. "There was no last night. When I came back, you were already asleep... and so I went back to the dorm."

He's winding me up. Please let him be winding me up!

He sees her perplexity, sits on the bed beside her. "You must have been dreaming — though I'm flattered that you thought my dream performance worthy of an encore. Should I get in with you anyway?" 

"So you really didn't spend the night with me?"

"I arrived just before you woke up."

"But it was so real."

"A lucid dream?"

It had seemed so real. But so had the dream of the creature making love to her. She shuts the lid tight on a rising panic and slips out of bed and, still naked, goes to Adam and — just as she dreamed she had — says, "Adam. Please will you hold me!"

To be continued