The Rogue s Harem Book 2 Chapter 8 Deadly Shadows
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House Of Shadows: Chapter 1 free porn video
Maureen Haley paused when halfway down the long upstairs corridor in her Aunt Sylvia’s rambling old Maine house. A strange squelching sound came from inside the library.
She eased up to the big oaken door and pressed her ear against it. The sound was wet and sucking, like a rubber boot being pulled out of spongy, clutching mud. A puzzled frown creased Maureen’s brow.
She quietly tried the doorknob: it was locked, but the handle clicked when turned. The sound within suddenly ceased with a groan.
At once apprehensive, Maureen hurried to her bedroom at the end of the corridor. Closing the door behind her, she then opened it a crack and peered into the passageway.
After less than a minute, the library door opened and William Selle, her aunt’s butler, came out.
The old man glanced up and down the corridor, his hand trembling as he pulled the door shut behind him. His legs shook and his face whitened as he hurried to descend the stairs.
Maureen waited until he was shambling through the downstairs hall before opening her door and stepping into the corridor to creep back to the library.
The door was unlocked, and when she closed it behind her, she saw the big, old-fashioned key in the lock. She turned it, and then scanned the large room on entering it.
There was an eeriness to the library. A half-dozen old oil-paintings hung on the wall at the end of the room. Maureen glanced around her, noticing the dusty books in their s**ttered cases and the dilapidated, out-of-date furniture ... and the statues.
At first glance, they looked like waxworks from some old museum, but on closer examination it was possible to see that the simulated flesh on the figures was soft, smooth rubber. They were so realistic that Maureen had reached out and touched the arm of one of them when her aunt had first shown them to her.
“Don’t touch,” the old lady had snapped, rapping her cane on the hardwood floor to emphasize her words. “Never touch the replicas!”
There were four of them. One was the image of a stiff, stern-looking man in Edwardian clothes whom Aunt Sylvia had told Maureen was her great-grandfather. Another was a replica of Shakespeare. “Your grandmother was a great reader,” said Aunt Sylvia, “a great admirer of the Bard.”
The third statue was of Henry VIII, imposing in his regal robes. The fourth statue, the one that interested Maureen the most, was of Anne Boleyn.
The figure was so realistic that Maureen half-expected it to talk.
“She’s very beautiful,” Aunt Sylvia had said, “the hair on her head is real and her limbs and body are created of plasticated foam and rubber. She’s perfect in every detail. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was overlooked.”
“Who-who had it made?” Maureen had faltered, overawed by the pseudo-realism that surrounded her.
“Your grandfather,” Aunt Sylvia had told her. “He had an interest in Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn that was almost an obsession.” Her aunt had stared at the figure of the lovely young woman with a strained expression. “He would spend hours locked in this room, talking to them and playing with them.”
“Playing with them?” Maureen’s voice had been shocked. “How?”
But her aunt had never answered the question, instead abruptly changing the conversation to the oils.
Now Maureen stood in front of the statues and wondered.
Her eyes flickered to Henry VIII. “Did my grandfather play with you, Henry,” she murmured out loud, then laughed at her foolishness. “Or you?” Her eyes went back to Anne Boleyn and the smile faded from her face.
She was so real!
She moved closer, then timidly reached out, touched the satin bodice on Anne Boleyn’s body. The material was soft and smooth, and Maureen’s finger seemed to sink into the simulated flesh. She drew her hand back with a gasp. It was like touching a real person!
Maureen’s eyes went down the figure. The skirt flowed out and under the low hem and small, daintily shod feet were visible. Boldly, Maureen bent down to touch the leather shoes. They were black and shone brightly and there was the scent of newly applied polish.
Polishing the statue’s shoes was one of the duties of the strange old man.
She lowered her head and sniffed. The smell was unmistakable: Anne Boleyn’s shoes had just been polished. Maureen stifled a giggle, then frowned. The strange sound!
Absently, she lifted the satin skirt and stared at the perfectly formed, silk-shod legs. What other ministrations did William perform for the statues?
She lifted the skirt higher, saw the garters that seemed to cut deeply into the synthetic flesh as they held up the hose. Maureen touched the naked foam-rubber thigh-flesh. It was smooth and soft and slightly moist.
It was a moment before she realized the bizarre fact. Moist!
The blood drained out of Maureen’s face. What had old William been doing to the replica of Anne Boleyn?
Her hands trembled as she lifted the skirt to the statue’s waist; then she swayed back, feeling slightly faint at the sight that met her eyes. The body of Anne Boleyn was indeed perfect in every detail as her aunt had said. The figure was leaning slightly backward, silk-shod knees flexed, foamy-white thighs parted and above the apex of simulated flesh, a furry triangle of lustrous pubic hairs glistened.
Oh God, Maureen thought, what else was real?
She slid her hand between the pliant thighs, glided her fingers higher and higher until they were pressed under the statue’s crotch. Maureen closed her eyes, probed upward with a finger. It was wet, warm and sticky inside the opening she found. The air panted from Maureen’s lips.
The foam-rubber mouth of the simulated vulva seemed to be open in a pout; the slick, smooth lips felt as though they were sucking at Maureen’s finger, drawing it deeper into the sexual maw. She dragged her finger out slowly, moving it up to the top of the lips, and, as expected, a stiff, tiny rubber projection stood out like a sexual spire, an imitation clitoris.
Complete. It was complete in every detail.
Maureen felt the insides of the thighs: they were stickily damp.
William!
She let the hem of the dress drop back into place, stood back and took a deep breath. She knew now what the sucking sound she’d heard was. Old William screwing Anne Boleyn.
✴✴✴
If you want to read the rest, go to Amazon and get my book "House of Shadows" by J Palliser as an Ebook or in Print...
She eased up to the big oaken door and pressed her ear against it. The sound was wet and sucking, like a rubber boot being pulled out of spongy, clutching mud. A puzzled frown creased Maureen’s brow.
She quietly tried the doorknob: it was locked, but the handle clicked when turned. The sound within suddenly ceased with a groan.
At once apprehensive, Maureen hurried to her bedroom at the end of the corridor. Closing the door behind her, she then opened it a crack and peered into the passageway.
After less than a minute, the library door opened and William Selle, her aunt’s butler, came out.
The old man glanced up and down the corridor, his hand trembling as he pulled the door shut behind him. His legs shook and his face whitened as he hurried to descend the stairs.
Maureen waited until he was shambling through the downstairs hall before opening her door and stepping into the corridor to creep back to the library.
The door was unlocked, and when she closed it behind her, she saw the big, old-fashioned key in the lock. She turned it, and then scanned the large room on entering it.
There was an eeriness to the library. A half-dozen old oil-paintings hung on the wall at the end of the room. Maureen glanced around her, noticing the dusty books in their s**ttered cases and the dilapidated, out-of-date furniture ... and the statues.
At first glance, they looked like waxworks from some old museum, but on closer examination it was possible to see that the simulated flesh on the figures was soft, smooth rubber. They were so realistic that Maureen had reached out and touched the arm of one of them when her aunt had first shown them to her.
“Don’t touch,” the old lady had snapped, rapping her cane on the hardwood floor to emphasize her words. “Never touch the replicas!”
There were four of them. One was the image of a stiff, stern-looking man in Edwardian clothes whom Aunt Sylvia had told Maureen was her great-grandfather. Another was a replica of Shakespeare. “Your grandmother was a great reader,” said Aunt Sylvia, “a great admirer of the Bard.”
The third statue was of Henry VIII, imposing in his regal robes. The fourth statue, the one that interested Maureen the most, was of Anne Boleyn.
The figure was so realistic that Maureen half-expected it to talk.
“She’s very beautiful,” Aunt Sylvia had said, “the hair on her head is real and her limbs and body are created of plasticated foam and rubber. She’s perfect in every detail. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was overlooked.”
“Who-who had it made?” Maureen had faltered, overawed by the pseudo-realism that surrounded her.
“Your grandfather,” Aunt Sylvia had told her. “He had an interest in Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn that was almost an obsession.” Her aunt had stared at the figure of the lovely young woman with a strained expression. “He would spend hours locked in this room, talking to them and playing with them.”
“Playing with them?” Maureen’s voice had been shocked. “How?”
But her aunt had never answered the question, instead abruptly changing the conversation to the oils.
Now Maureen stood in front of the statues and wondered.
Her eyes flickered to Henry VIII. “Did my grandfather play with you, Henry,” she murmured out loud, then laughed at her foolishness. “Or you?” Her eyes went back to Anne Boleyn and the smile faded from her face.
She was so real!
She moved closer, then timidly reached out, touched the satin bodice on Anne Boleyn’s body. The material was soft and smooth, and Maureen’s finger seemed to sink into the simulated flesh. She drew her hand back with a gasp. It was like touching a real person!
Maureen’s eyes went down the figure. The skirt flowed out and under the low hem and small, daintily shod feet were visible. Boldly, Maureen bent down to touch the leather shoes. They were black and shone brightly and there was the scent of newly applied polish.
Polishing the statue’s shoes was one of the duties of the strange old man.
She lowered her head and sniffed. The smell was unmistakable: Anne Boleyn’s shoes had just been polished. Maureen stifled a giggle, then frowned. The strange sound!
Absently, she lifted the satin skirt and stared at the perfectly formed, silk-shod legs. What other ministrations did William perform for the statues?
She lifted the skirt higher, saw the garters that seemed to cut deeply into the synthetic flesh as they held up the hose. Maureen touched the naked foam-rubber thigh-flesh. It was smooth and soft and slightly moist.
It was a moment before she realized the bizarre fact. Moist!
The blood drained out of Maureen’s face. What had old William been doing to the replica of Anne Boleyn?
Her hands trembled as she lifted the skirt to the statue’s waist; then she swayed back, feeling slightly faint at the sight that met her eyes. The body of Anne Boleyn was indeed perfect in every detail as her aunt had said. The figure was leaning slightly backward, silk-shod knees flexed, foamy-white thighs parted and above the apex of simulated flesh, a furry triangle of lustrous pubic hairs glistened.
Oh God, Maureen thought, what else was real?
She slid her hand between the pliant thighs, glided her fingers higher and higher until they were pressed under the statue’s crotch. Maureen closed her eyes, probed upward with a finger. It was wet, warm and sticky inside the opening she found. The air panted from Maureen’s lips.
The foam-rubber mouth of the simulated vulva seemed to be open in a pout; the slick, smooth lips felt as though they were sucking at Maureen’s finger, drawing it deeper into the sexual maw. She dragged her finger out slowly, moving it up to the top of the lips, and, as expected, a stiff, tiny rubber projection stood out like a sexual spire, an imitation clitoris.
Complete. It was complete in every detail.
Maureen felt the insides of the thighs: they were stickily damp.
William!
She let the hem of the dress drop back into place, stood back and took a deep breath. She knew now what the sucking sound she’d heard was. Old William screwing Anne Boleyn.
✴✴✴
If you want to read the rest, go to Amazon and get my book "House of Shadows" by J Palliser as an Ebook or in Print...
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