The House On Maple Avenue
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The House On Chestnut Avenue free porn video
THE HOUSE ON CHESTNUT AVENUE
There are many old houses in our town, but none quite so sadly romantic
as Number 27 Chestnut Avenue. It isn't a particularly large house; I
would guess about four bedrooms, and is set back off the road in a
reasonably sized garden - which is now much overgrown, to the point where
it is virtually impossible to see the house from the road.
The reason that Number 27 is both sad and romantic is that it has stood
empty for the last sixty years quietly decaying on its peaceful plot. In
the middle 1950s the house had been the happy home of a prominent local
family - (by name Stephenson) - having been in possession of their family
since it was built towards the end of the eighteenth century. The 1950s
occupants had been the local doctor, his wife, and their two young
daughters. Tragically all four had been murdered during a robbery that
went horribly wrong. The perpetrators had been caught and sentenced to
life imprisonment. (They were, in one sense, fortunate to escape hanging,
which had only just been abolished in the UK).
By the 1950s, the family once so extensive and prominent had dwindled to
a mere handful. As the doctor had never got round to making a will, it
took quite some time to achieve probate and find the next-of-kin who
would inherit. As it turned out, the heir was a sheep farmer in
Australia, where his branch of the family had emigrated in the late 19th
century. He had no intention of moving to the UK and put the house on the
market. However, owing to its sad history there was no interest shown by
anyone in buying it and, after a while, the sheep farmer lost interest.
He had no need of either the house or the money being a very rich man in
his own right. No 27 just sat there; its paint peeling and the garden
gradually becoming more and more overgrown. And so it has stood to this
very day.
Such is the background to my story. My name is Sam Jackson and I am a
journalist on the Courier - our local newspaper. One morning my Editor
called me into his office. As I entered I saw he had two young visitors
with him. These were introduced to me as Sarah Wainwright and Paul Hughes
and they were students studying History at our local university. My
Editor explained that they were researching the Stephenson family as part
of their course work and in the process of digging through old documents
had come across a deed box that had lain unopened in the offices of the
Stephenson's solicitors for over forty years - since the abortive attempt
to sell the property in fact. Somehow or other Paul and Sarah had managed
to convince the solicitors to loan them the deed box, which they found to
contain, amongst other interesting material, the keys to Number 27
Chestnut Avenue. Paul and Sarah had decided that they were going to visit
the house but, recognising that the solicitors might not approve of this,
had imaginatively approached our paper to see whether we might wish to
accompany them and write up the experience. "60 Years after Tragic
Murder"; you get the general idea. Their thinking was that if the story
of their visit to No 27 was in the public domain and had generated local
interest, it was less likely that the solicitors would risk making a fuss
when they found out.
My Editor thought this an intriguing prospect and informed me that I
would be the one to accompany Paul and Sarah and write up the story.
"I'll send along a photographer" he announced. "Hopefully he will be able
to get some spooky, atmospheric pictures. I would like to make this our
major 'general interest' feature for next Saturday's edition." So that
was that; I had an assignment and Paul and Sarah had covered their backs.
Accordingly, the following morning the three of us plus the photographer
assembled outside the gate to No 27. I was pleased to see that the
photographer assigned to me was Graham James. He was an older,
experienced man with whom I had worked many times in the past. In fact he
had acted as my mentor when I was a tyro journalist just starting to cut
my teeth in the profession.
I had spent the previous evening reading up on the facts of the murder in
the newspaper's archive. It had been a particularly shocking affair.
Doctor John Stephenson and his wife Mary had just put their young
daughters - Alice (9) and Wendy (7) - to bed and were settling down for
an quiet evening in. Dr John heard the sound of breaking glass coming
from the back of the house and went to investigate. He found two
intruders in the kitchen who panicked on being discovered and struck out
with the crowbar they had used to force an entry. John was hit on the
temple and fell to the floor dead. Apparently Mary had, foolishly,
followed John to the kitchen and screamed as she saw her husband killed
in front of her eyes. Her screams must have awoken the girls because when
the bodies were discovered the following day, those of the two girls lay
at the foot of the stairs.
The two intruders having killed the whole Stephenson family in a fit of
panic, fled. They were apprehended a few days later and, at the
subsequent trial, told the Court that they had believed the house would
be empty that night. As I have already explained, owing to a recent
change in the law, they escaped hanging but were sentenced to life
imprisonment. As I now looked at the old house where these tragic events
had occurred, I couldn't help shivering. Everything looked so peaceful in
the summer sun; it was hard to believe what had happened here 60 years
previously.
Paul took the keys to the house from his pocket. "I hope this will still
work," he said. "It has been years since they were last used and there is
a real possibility that the locks have rusted solid." So saying he
inserted the key and turned it. To the surprise of all of us the door
opened smoothly. There was no squeak of rusted hinge or groan of
distorted wood. Graham was busily snapping away, taking pictures of the
outside of the house as well as of the two students making an entry. We
all stepped inside.
Given that it had been locked up for over fifty years, the house smelt
remarkably sweet. In fact the interior of the house was in a much better
state of preservation that its outside condition would have led us to
expect. There wasn't a great deal of dust in evidence and none of the
window panes were broken. (This latter fact was particularly amazing, as
the first thing small boys tend to do on discovering an empty, abandoned
house is to throw stones through the windows.) It was almost as if the
house was protecting itself by scaring people away; a fanciful notion
that I briefly considered and then rejected as part of the opening
paragraph for my story.
The next surprising thing to strike us was that the house was still
furnished. Apparently, having failed to sell, it had just been locked up
and left. Oriental rugs lay on the hall floor and a long-case clock stood
against a wall. As we looked into other rooms, they too were fully
furnished; mostly with antique pieces that presumably had come down
through the family, but also with artefacts redolent of the 50s; a
Bakelite radio; small screen, black-and-white television set; and
capacious, artificial leather armchairs. The kitchen was pure 1950 with
an upright gas-stove, twin-tub washing machine, and primitive
refrigerator. These were expensive items in the 50s, so clearly the
Stephenson's had lived well for their time.
The house was classic middle Georgian period; built of brick, it had a
stone portico in the centre of the front face with two symmetrical
windows either side on the ground floor and five above. Inside, to the
left of the hall there was a sitting-room with a door that led through to
the dining room. On the far side of this room another door gave access to
a service passage and the kitchen and staff wing beyond. On the right of
the hall two doors gave access to a grander sitting-room at the front and
what had clearly been Doctor Stephenson's study to the rear.
A handsome staircase of three flights climbed from the hall to the first
floor. Underneath the stairs a door led through to the service corridor.
We all went upstairs. By unspoken common consent we had clearly decided
to get an overall impression of the whole house before looking at any
room in detail. On the first floor there were four bedrooms - one in each
corner of the house; whilst the space above the front hall was occupied
by an antiquated bathroom with free-standing, roll-top bath and high-
level lavatory cistern. Once again, all the bedrooms were fully furnished
and I found it particularly affecting to see that what had been the
children's bedroom still had toys on the shelves.
Having walked round the house together, each of us now gravitated towards
the room we had individually found most intriguing during our overview.
Sarah and Paul stayed in the nursery. I personally found this too
redolent of sad memories and crossed to the principal bedroom. Graham
wandered downstairs to the study.
Doctor and Mrs Stephenson had chosen their bedroom well. Two windows at
the front and two to the side gave sweeping views across the garden - now
sadly overgrown. You could still, with difficulty, make out the areas
that had been lawn and which flower beds. The room was furnished with a
heavy mahogany bedroom suite comprising bed, ladies' vanity table,
gentleman's chest of drawers, and two wardrobes - (I guessed; one 'his',
one 'hers'.) Opening one I was proved right, as Mrs Stephenson's dresses
and skirts still hung inside. Without quite knowing why, because it was
extremely intrusive, I lifted one of the dresses out of the wardrobe and
examined it. It was very much 50s fashion and just the sort of thing to
have been worn by an Upper-Middle Class doctor's wife. It was made of
heavy silk in a bold floral pattern in pink and green. Sleeveless, it was
knee-length with a slim pencil skirt. Again, not knowing what prompted
me, I took the dress across to a floor-length mirror that stood against a
wall and held the dress up in front of me. Now I have never had any
interest in woman's clothing, so have no idea why I did this. I held the
dress to my body and thought how flattering the cut and colour was. This
was bizarre behaviour and shaking my head vigorously to snap out of my
daze, I swiftly returned the dress to its hanger and hurried from the
room.
Descending the stairs, I called out to Graham that I was ready to start
discussing potential shots with him. Graham came out of the study and I
was struck that there was something subtly different about him. Was it my
imagination or was his grizzled hair browner and cut shorter than
previously? He also held himself more erect and I could detect no trace
of his prominent beer-belly. In fact he was rather dishy! 'Dishy; what
was I thinking?!! Graham was a friend and colleague of many years
standing and I had never thought of him as 'dishy' before. The atmosphere
of this house was getting to all of us.
Just then Sarah and Paul came downstairs. Again there was something about
the way they moved and held themselves that was different to what it had
been before we entered the house. Sarah was sucking her thumb and
flicking her skirt like a little girl, whilst Paul was demurely holding
her hand, taking little mincing steps, with his eyes downcast looking
shyly at the floor. "This will never do," I exclaimed, "if we don't get
on we shall never finish what we came to do and, as ever, it will fall to
me to clean up behind you; a woman's work is never done!" 'A woman's work
is never done'; had I really just used that expression in connection with
myself? I could hardly believe my ears.
"Steady on old girl," said Graham. "If we all rally round we will get
everything done in next to no time." And with that he turned and went
back into the study, closing the door behind him. "Mummy, will if be
alright if we get out the best dollies to play with? We promise we won't
break them," asked Sarah, standing in front of me.
"Of course dear," I heard myself replying. "Now run along with your
sister and behave yourselves; Mummy has things to do." Sarah and Paul
turned and ran back upstairs giggling with delight.
I leaned against the newel post fighting for breath; what was happening
here; was I going mad? I couldn't understand why we were all behaving so
peculiarly. Why were Sarah and Paul behaving like small children and why
was I speaking as though I were a woman - and more than that, a mother?
I tried to calm down and think things through rationally. I had to admit
that I too had behaved in an untypical fashion whilst in the bedroom
upstairs. This thought had no sooner crossed my mind than my feet,
seemingly of their own volition, started walking me up to the first
floor. Try as I might I could not stop myself. I walked once more into
the principle bedroom; crossed to Mrs Sanderson's wardrobe and took out
the dress I had admired earlier. I laid the dress on the bed and moved to
her bureau. Opening the top drawer I was greeted by the sight of neatly
arranged piles of lingerie. My hands carefully moved items to one side
until I came upon an old fashioned, zip-sided girdle. I took this out and
laid it down next to the dress. Next I found myself selecting a matching
set of bra, French knickers, and half-slip. They were made of ivory silk
and were lavishly trimmed with lace. From another drawer I took an
unopened packet of fully-fashioned nylon stockings.
All the while I was doing this, my racing brain was telling me that it
was wrong and I was desperately trying to force myself to stop; all to no
avail. Having laid the clothing out on the bed, I started to undress.
Surely this weird compulsion wasn't going so far as to make me put the
clothes on? The very idea was ridiculous. Even if I had wanted to dress
as a woman - and I didn't - there was no way these delicate garments
would fit my burly frame. But that was exactly what happened next. No
sooner was I naked but that I stepped into the girdle; wriggled it up
round my waist and fastened the hooks and zipper. To my amazement it
fitted! Either the garment had stretched more than was reasonable, or my
waistline had inexplicably shrunk.
Next I sat on the edge of the bed, opened the packet of nylons, rolled
them into a doughnut shape and carefully slid first one and then the
other over my feet and up my legs. Making sure that I had the seams
straight, I fastened the welts of the stockings to the garter tabs
dangling from the bottom of the girdle. I then stepped into the knickers
and pulled them up over my hips. The half-slip followed next. From the
waist down I was now totally clad in female undergarments.
My horror increased as my hands reached out and picked up the bra. In
spite of my best endeavours I could not resist slipping my arms through
the straps and reaching round to fasten the hooks and eyes at the back.
(I was shocked at just how easily and naturally I carried out this
intricate manoeuvre; I had wrestled too many times with ladies' bras
trying to get them off, not to realise that there was no way I should
have been able to put one on so easily!)
Looking at myself in the mirror my worst fears were realised. The
lingerie had not got bigger; my body had shrunk to fit them. My
appearance was bizarre to say the least. There I stood dressed only in
female lingerie; the bra cups hanging limply on my breast-less torso. I
started to fear that this state of affairs might not last for long and,
of course, at that moment, as the thought entered my head, my chest-flesh
started to expand until, before long, the bra was containing and
supporting two beautiful globes of milk-white flesh. The thought popped
into my head that my breasts were in rather good condition for a woman of
thirty who had suckled two children. Where did that notion come from?!!
Now that I looked at myself more carefully, I noticed that other parts of
my body had also changed shape. I now sported a narrow waist, swelling
hips, a pert, pear-shaped bottom and elegant legs that rose from slim
ankles, to dimpled knees, and onto smoothly rounded thighs. I had a
figure any woman would kill for but one that I, as a man, only wanted to
go away!
I sat down on the stool that stood in front of Mrs Stephenson's vanity
table fighting to calm my beating heart by taking slow, deep breaths. I
couldn't help being distracted by the way my deep breathing caused my
newly acquired bosom to swell voluptuously. As I looked at my reflection
in the mirror, I was greeted by the incongruous sight of an attractive;
lingerie clad, female body topped off with my aging male head. Unable to
resist, I opened the draw of the vanity and took out various items of
makeup. As I spread foundation across my face, applied powder and started
to work on my eyes, the structure of my face subtly altered. Before my
eyes, it morphed and shifted until my skin - (previously rough with beard
stubble) - was porcelain smooth; my - somewhat overlarge nose - became
pert with a cute tilt at the tip. My eyebrows retreated into a pair of
smooth arches; and my eyes widened and changed colour from brown to a
brilliant blue. Beneath the makeup I could still recognise myself, but as
I might have looked had I been born a girl and some fifteen years
younger.
I finished of the makeup with an application of bright red lipstick,
which I carefully blotted with a piece of tissue paper. Next my hands
picked up a brush and I found myself brushing my hair. As I did so my
hair lengthened and turned from mousey brown to golden blonde. Externally
I looked all female. As I replaced the hairbrush on the vanity I noticed
that my hands had become slim and elegant; my nails were longer and had
somehow acquired a coating of bright red varnish.
I stood and looked at my reflection; "Not bad for a mother of two" I
thought to myself, running my hands down my sides and smoothing out the
half-slip. It was most peculiar; it was as if I were two people at the
same time. 'Sam' was appalled at what was happening to him but could do
nothing to stop it. 'Mary' on the other hand, was relaxed and delighted
to be back in her old bedroom. (As you will have guessed I had in some
inexplicable way been taken over by the ghost of Mary Stephenson and
transformed into her image. She seemed to have no memory of having been
murdered because the emotion I was receiving from 'her' part of my brain
was one of calm confidence and love.
There was enough of 'Sam' remaining in me for me to put my hand under my
slip and inside my knickers. It was as I feared; my male parts had
vanished, to be replaced by the vagina and triangle of pubic hair of a
mature woman.
Now I guess I should have been terrified by what was happening to me, but
I wasn't. 'Mary's' calmness was the controlling emotion and 'Sam' seemed
to be willing to go with the flow. I moved to the bed and picked up the
silk dress I had taken from the wardrobe earlier. I unzipped it and
stepped into the slim fitting skirt. I wriggled into the dress and with a
dexterity I had not previously possessed, fastened it up at the back. I
lifted the skirt and tugged my slip into place before smoothing the silk
over my tummy and hips.
Reaching for a jewel box that stood on the vanity, I inserted a pair of
pearl earrings into my, now pierced, ears, and fastened a matching
necklace around my slim throat. The dress had a boat-shaped neckline and
the pearl necklace looked lovely against my milky skin. A little pearl
bracelet and slim, gold, ladies watch completed my jewellery, and I
slipped my nylon clad feet into a pair of high-heeled pumps before giving
myself a quick spray of perfume. I smiled as I admired myself in the
mirror. "Yes; I was still a beautiful woman even if I was now 28 years
old and the mother of two wonderful girls. No woman could have a better
husband than my John."
It was a very strange experience; I felt totally comfortable as a woman
although, at the same time, I knew I was Sam Jackson, reporter on the
Courier. Somehow Mary Stephenson and I were able to coexist in the one,
admittedly female, body. I slowly walked out of the bedroom and down the
stairs. I could feel the tug of the suspenders on my girdle as I walked
and my nylons rasped sensuously as they rubbed together. As I reached the
landing half way down the stairs, I could see John, Alice and Wendy
standing together in the hall. My John was so handsome; I felt a surge of
desire rush through me. And my precious girls; they were both looking so
solemn. Wendy was clutching her elder sister's hand and, whilst I knew
they were actually Sarah and Paul, my heart went out to them.
"Oh my darlings," I cried, "it has been such a long time but, at long
last, we are all together again." I hurried down the remaining flight of
stairs and gathered the girls in my arms. I had tears in my eyes as I
kissed and hugged them. I rose to my feet and turned to John. He had a
broad smile on his face as he embraced me. Even though I knew 'John' was
also Graeme, I returned his kisses with enthusiasm.
"I take it we are all aware of the dual nature of our personalities?"
John said, taking command of the situation.
"Yes dear," I replied, and the girls nodded.
John continued, "I am guessing that in some way the spirits of the
Stephenson's have been preserved by their old home and our coming - the
first people to enter the house in fifty years - has given them the
chance to reanimate. But our old personalities haven't been obscured. Our
bodies may have altered, but I know full well that this beautiful woman
is not only my wife Mary, but also my old mate Sam, and that you two,"
and he gestured towards Alice and Wendy, "are not only young girls, but
also grown up college students Sarah and Paul. Incidentally, which one of
you is which?"
"I'm Sarah," said Alice. "And I'm Paul," responded Wendy. "I have to say
it feels odd being a girl," he continued.
"You should complain," I said with a laugh, "just wait until you grow up
and have to cope with a bra and girdle!"
"Do you think we are stuck like this?" asked Alice/Sarah. "Only whilst I
am, of course, used to being female, I don't really fancy going through
puberty and the teenage years for a second time, thank you very much!"
"I don't know," replied John/Graeme thoughtfully. "Maybe when we leave
the house reality will click back to normal and we will become our old
selves again."
"Well let's try it and see," I interjected hurriedly.
The four of us instinctively held hands as John opened the front door and
we stepped out onto the porch. For a moment everything blurred and I felt
very giddy and nauseous. Then things came back into focus as I looked out
across the neatly manicured lawns of Number 27 Chestnut Avenue. "But this
place was totally overgrown when we came in," I remarked in a bemused
fashion.
"Yes; and that isn't the only thing that has changed," said the man
standing by my side. "Look at us."
I turned and looked at the man carefully. Of course I recognised him; it
was Graeme Stephenson, owner of a fashionable photographic studio and my
husband. 'My husband?' Yes, of course; I was Samantha Stephenson, forty
years old, and the Features Editor of our County life-style magazine; and
these two charming young women were our twin daughters Sarah and Pauline.
The girls were in their final year at university, where they were
studying History, and were home for the holidays. It was August 2013 and
we had been living at No 27 for a whole year. In fact I was busy
preparing an 'anniversary' party for the four of us this coming weekend.
I looked at us all more closely. Sarah and Pauline were fashionable
dressed in tight little mini-skirts and loose cotton tops. Their long,
bare legs were perched upon high platform heels. I had long since given
up trying to convince them that such shoes were doing their feet no
favours and that they would suffer - as I did - when they got older. I
could still remember being their age when spike-heeled stilettos were all
the rage and my mother saying much the same to me!
Graeme, my husband, was tall and slim, with a little moustache. I loved
the way it tickled my nose when we kissed. I was wearing a smart, cream
linen suit with sling-back sandals. I had just got home from the office
and couldn't wait to slip into something casual and more suitable for a
lovely summer's evening with my family.
"I'll just go and change," I said to Graeme. "You fix us all a drink.
I'll have a glass of Pinot Grigio please." I went inside and upstairs to
our bedroom. As I slipped out of my suit and peeled off my tights, I
experienced an odd sense of d?j? vu. For a brief moment everything was
clear; I was 'Sam Jackson - Reporter; I was also 'Mary Stephenson' -
1950s Mother and Housewife. But in this reality I was 'Samantha
Stephenson'. I remembered that Graeme's grandfather had been Dr John
Stephenson's younger brother Philip. When John was so cruelly murdered,
along with his lovely family; Philip had inherited the house on Chestnut
Avenue. (In this time line there never had been an Australian heir.)
Graeme's grandfather, and after him his father, had found the prospect of
living in No 27 too distressing after what had happened there and had let
the house to others. It was different for Graeme and I, we were two
generations removed from these tragic events and had never known John,
Mary and their daughters. Graeme's father had died a couple of years
previously, and, with his passing, the way became open for us to take
possession of the old family house for ourselves and, on the expiry of
the current tenancy, move in. The old house had required a lot of
renovation to bring it back to how we wanted it to be and the last year
had been hard work. However, in some odd way the house had seemed pleased
to once more have a Stephenson family in residence. I am not normally
superstitious, but it had seemed 'meant'. Graeme and I had lavished money
and time on restoring the old house to its former glory and we now felt
truly settled. The girls loved it as much as we did and seized every
excuse to come home for a few days when university studies allowed.
Having undressed from my office clothes, I enjoyed a leisurely shower to
wash away the grime and stress of the working day, before slipping into a
clean set of undies and a pretty summer dress. As I glanced out of the
window, I could see Pauline carrying a tray of drinks out onto the lawn.
Leaning out of the window I called out, "I'll be down in a second
darling. We can all enjoy our drinks together and then I'll get supper."
I turned and smiled happily as I looked around the lovely bedroom I
shared with Graeme. I felt a warm glow of anticipation spread through my
tummy as I contemplated the lovemaking that would undoubtedly ensure with
Graeme at bed time. My man was a real tiger in bed and I was no slouch
myself!
I hurried downstairs to my family, banishing all thoughts of 'Sam' and
'Mary' from my mind. I knew deep down that 'Samantha' was an amalgam of
the souls of both 'Sam' and 'Mary', but I was so comfortable in my own
skin as Samantha that I did not need to worry about how, in other
circumstances, my life - or 'lives' - could have turned out so very
differently. As of now I was mother of two wonderful girls and wife to a
sexy husband. That was good enough for me!
Gigi
- 21.10.2022
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