Pandora's Hideaway

Chapter One A crisp wind chilled her cheek and blew her matted hair across her eyes so that she couldn’t see the shoreline clearly. On this gray, foggy afternoon, the Gull Island ferry loped through November’s choppy waters, pushing its way unhurriedly against the current. Some weathercasters predicted snow by nightfall. Mariel considered the thought romantic; to be trapped on a windswept, snow-covered island, harbored inside a warm lodge—air steeped in the smells of cinnamon and fresh baked bread while a blizzard blew outside. Albert would be there. A little, ticklish tease skirted about the inside of her panties at the thought of her fiancé. Tall, straight, handsome, eager—his smile could win a hundred hearts and had broken several in his last semester at college. He wore his tenderness and vulnerability on starched shirtsleeves, was visited by demons—self-doubt and predictability—and lived for Mariel Fitzgerald’s approval. Her eyes searched the evaporating clouds for Albert, hoping to see him standing vigil in anticipation of her arrival. Two weeks was much too long between visits for their recently cemented relationship. He loved the idea of her, while she loved her need for him—a need as s****l as it was emotional and romantic. He’d spent hours talking of his family’s island retreat… how they’d scour the attic for artifacts of his family history, make love in the cellar… hold hands walking on the beach, and roast marshmallows in his secret boyhood hideaway—a secluded cave on the quiet side of this serene island. At the moment, however, all the romance of this visit seemed extraneous to her greater need. Every nerve in her was frayed for lack of satiated lust. For days, her dreams and nightmares had been filled with thoughts of body parts colliding. c**k. Cunt. Humping. Albert’s stiff erection banging her crotch to ruthless completion. What he loved about her, but had not the courage to discuss was the unbridled force of her unleashed s****l desire. He remained in awe of it—and so did she. Their last night together two weeks before, they’d met in Darby’s pub, just outside the university, drank beer, played darts with Sid and Hannah, then screwed in the alley, in an alcove lined with brick and collegiate ivy. Before they landed in that alley hot and horny, they’d been playing touchy/feely games under the table. Albert had pressed his hand to her thigh, and she squirmed with the first recognition of s****l juices flowing. Sid dared the girls to take off their panties right in the booth where they’d been eating fish and chips and pepperoni pizza. With skirts on, there were no excuses, so the two hiked them high and squirmed their way out of their bikini briefs, laying them on the table, while sporting great grins of inebriated triumph. Albert’s hand kept Muriel’s skirt pushed back enough to dig in and find her p***y seeping love juice. Mariel blushed seeing Sid’s randy eyes focused on the covert activity—there really was a prudish side to her character that shunned overt exhibition. But being drunk took all the filters for appropriate behavior and pushed them off like used campaign posters. Even Albert was a little shocked by his fiancé’s behavior, when she’d finally had enough of finger-play and pushed him out of the booth toward the back of the pub and out into the alley. She found the alcove between buildings seclusion enough; and raising her skirt, displaying unabashed nakedness, she found Albert almost too overcome to react. But after recovering from the shock, he grinned like a drunken sailor, unleashed his fleshy weapon from his pants and plowed it deep between her thighs in the cottony regions of her labia, where he was lucky to strike with acute accuracy. She was awash with exploded molecules, s****l sparks that shot from her cunt right through to her limbs. Sixty seconds of exuberant bump and grinding crotches followed, until both were consumed with heat and exclaiming to the night, softly so, that they had come. The two grinned sheepishly coming down from their euphoria, instantly sobered when they heard the pub’s screen door crash on its hinges. The pair turned, seeing the back of someone’s head retreat inside. Had they been seen? Both too bashful to return through the same screen door, they fled the alley, Sid and Hannah, and the rest of their night, holding hands and laughing—but refusing to say a word about their moment of reckless impropriety. This had been the first truly reckless thing they’d done in the year of their acquaintance, and perhaps it saved their relationship. Though, neither one had forgotten the half-remembered incident; it might take years before they had the guts to mention it to the other. So instead, they individually harbored the feeling that it had been the best among a lot of best times. In two weeks, Mariel could hardly think of anything else when her head hit the pillow for the night, and her squelched lust would jump out and grab her sleeping crotch. The memory turned every light on in her s****l cells, the ones that controlled heartbeat and breathing, sweat glands, pheromones and the muscles of her pelvic floor that spasmed involuntarily, that called to her hands, ‘come out and play.’ m**********g to back alley f***s took little time at all; and afterwards, she’d zoom to sleep and think of nothing until morning. The ferry’s sides ground against the ancient dock, the old, seaworthy vessel creaking and groaning as it hit the wood pilings. Mariel scanned the crowd for Albert’s face, failing to find her fiancé among the few greeting passengers at the tiny port. Striding toward the office with her overnight bag flung over her shoulder, she steeled herself against the chilling wind, moving rapidly toward the ferry building. She was hardly in a forgiving mood with the skies so inclement, and her fantasy of a romance novel welcome shattered. “Mariel,” she heard her name, but not from the voice she expected. This one she didn’t recognize. “Yes,” she turned abruptly, facing a man with brown, wind-tossed hair, a day’s growth of beard and a familiar aspect in his face and clear, blue eyes. “Jack. Jack Reynolds.” She still didn’t recognize him, as he held out his hand in welcome. “Jack Reynolds. Albert’s brother,” he finally offered up the further explanation. “Oh, my yes,” she held out her hand for him to clutch in his warm palm. He wrapped his arm around her in a familial fashion, scooting her to the waiting car—a 1950’s vintage convertible. Mariel shook him off. “This would be very nice in the summer,” she remarked climbing into the vehicle. “The best we have in this habitat,” Jack Reynolds shot right back, as he quickly took the driver’s seat and gunned the car out onto the unpaved road. “Where’s Albert?” Jack snickered. “Got himself in a pickle with Dad. Promised him a game of rummy. You just don’t leave the old man in the middle of a winning streak.” “Oh,” this didn’t please her. “You have to understand the family before you can make any snap judgments,” he seemed to read her disappointment. Albert had never disappointed her before. She didn’t like this brother—he had a scoundrel’s self-assurance, which Albert would never have, a smile that exceeded charming on any test of charisma, and a stubborn lock of hair that begged to be pushed back. The tickle in her crotch seemed to soar forth into rapacious lust—she assumed because she was in such close approximation to her lover. But if she were being honest, she would admit her attraction to the blackguard, black sheep, older brother. Her Cousin Susan had warned her against getting involved with him. Susan had made the original introduction of Mariel to Albert, with a whispered word of caution about Jack Reynolds. But at the time, her eyes were solely on Albert, and she could see no reason why they would ever stray. “I don’t think I’ve made any judgment at all, let alone a snap judgment,” she quipped back defensively. “Oh, yes, you did,” he shook his head snickering. “You’re just the kind I’d expect Albert to bring home. Prim, studious and judgmental. But don’t mind me, that’s just my completely unbiased opinion.” “You’re as bad as the advance press,” she told him. “Oh? I have a reputation. I guess Albert’s been talking.” “Albert has hardly said a word about you that wasn’t complimentary. But I do have other sources.” “Really? And who would they be?” “I wouldn’t dare share my knowledge with you, Jack Reynolds.” As determined as she was to fit into the Reynolds’ family group that weekend, she threw all caution aside talking to the brother now. Advised or ill advised, each snapped retort seemed perfectly reasonable, completely harmless, but very much earned by this ill-mannered rogue. “My, my, they do say that some take an instant disliking to people, but I’ve never seen such a strong example. Have I done something to offend you?” “It’s not what you’ve done; it’s what you failed to do.” She sat back in the seat, her arms crossed in front of her midriff. “And that is?” “I think we should drop it. Maybe I am testy. I’m not too wild about ferries and it’s cold…” her voice trailed away. “Suit yourself, Miss Mariel Fitzgerald.” He took the corners of the winding road too fast, sending her body back and forth, no seatbelt and little to hang onto. “Would you please slow down,” she finally blurted out. “Ah, we’re almost there.” “But I’d like to get there in one piece.” He chuckled. “You certainly have it in for me.” “I do not.” The Chevy suddenly pulled into a clearing in front of a massive Victorian home, which was about as wide as it was tall. It had the look of summer grace, a well-worn ambience of old abundance, which was now in need of some refurbishing. But overall, staring upward toward the turret of the old, white, frame house, and then downward across the expanse of wrapping porch, Mariel was pleased. This was just as Albert described. Something rare. A thing of beauty. His clear, grey eyes never ceased to intrigue her when he spoke of his family and especially the summerhouse on Gull Island. She could see him stepping from an old tintype, dressed in tweeds and spats and a jaunty straw hat. As she stepped from the car and approached the house, Mariel saw Albert clamber from inside to the porch steps and bound down them excitedly. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he dashed toward her, flinging his arms around her shivering frame. “Dad just wouldn’t let me leave until we finished.” “Yes, that’s what Jack said,” she answered. Mariel wasn’t sure if it were the smell of dust, or mold, of aging flowers, or furniture polish that so infused the air with a fragrant but ancient aroma. However, she liked the effect. It seemed to work on her loins, as every other aspect of her arrival worked to send her s****l jets on near overload. As the introductions were made in the drawing room, and appropriate homage was paid to Albert’s parents, Henry and Jonquil Reynolds, Jack sulked on the sidelines, managing enigmatic grins her way, as if he carried with him some secret knowledge of her past that he’d threaten to divulge. She had no secrets, no reason to be cautious or fear anyone—at least not Jack Reynolds, but that didn’t keep the man from flirting—if she could presume that his covert attention to her was flirtatious. An hour or two passed as the family and their newest member sat in the parlor talking grownup sorts of get-to-know-you things. Jack slunk in and out, carrying a drink glass in his hand, which he refilled at least twice. Finally, after all the pleasantries had dried up, and there was little more for the two disparate generations to say, Albert grabbed Muriel’s hand, jerked her to her feet, making a mildly graceful exit, excusing them both. “I think she’d like to see her room,” was the official explanation. “Of course,” Jonquil exclaimed. “How remiss of me. Shall I show her?” She started to rise. “Mother, no. I can take care of this myself,” Albert assured her. The portly, older woman nestled back down in her chair and smiled affectionately at her favorite son. No, she didn’t want the honors even if it was polite and proper. Even as the two left to go upstairs, Jack was at the doorway with the same self-satisfied grin that annoyed Mariel at the dock. Oh, how his eyes could bare her body with a single glance. Yes, that was it! Beneath the scoundrel’s charm was a lecherous sleaze. Third door to the left at the top the winding staircase opened into a suite of pink and mauve-colored confection enough to startle any eye. “Mother thinks all women love this fussiness,” Albert looked around dourly. “Little much, isn’t it?” He sought any sort of reaction from his very practical fiancé. “It’s really lovely,” Mariel said after some hesitation. Yes. A little fussy, but perfectly appropriate for the house—every corner, nook and cranny was bathed in floral decorations, and dolls, China-faced mannequins with empty faces and large eyes that focused fixedly on the center of the room where Mariel and Albert browsed. It did have the effect of sweeping aside all thoughts of s*x, taking her backwards in time to her sexless, repressed childhood and Granny Fitzgerald’s attic. “But you know, I was horny until…,” she turned to Albert. He smiled. “How about my room?” “Only if there are no China dolls,” she laughed. “Don’t worry.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway and around the corner to another bedroom, passing other perfectly good bedrooms on the way… Mariel peeking into them trying to shake off the effect of hers. “Why so far away?” “Mother would never believe we have s*x,” Albert whispered. His room was blue and cool, with dark hardwoods and blue, velvet drapes and not a trace of fussiness. Mariel breathed a sigh of relief. “It used to belong to my Uncle, a very straightforward man.” “And where does Jack sleep?” she suddenly found herself asking—and regretting the question almost as soon as it was spoken. Only slightly taken aback, Albert answered, “His room is next to yours on the front of the house. He took my parents suite when they moved downstairs.” “Oh.” His hands were warm unbuttoning her red sweater, pushing back the knit and exposing her breasts locked inside the lacy, pink brassiere. His hot breath tickled her skin as he leaned over and laid kisses against the cool surface—cool but warming. The ticklishness between her thighs increased. Each article of clothing discarded brought them closer to nakedness and revelation. Her breasts were small handfuls, rounded and well-formed, highlighted by the dark circle of her aureoles and the tiny buds contained within them. A gentle squeeze between his fingers and they scrunched into delicious knots fit for tonguing, which Albert engaged in almost ruthlessly. “Ouch! I can see you haven’t had s*x in awhile,” she exclaimed laughing, while running her fingers through his once groomed hair and letting the biting sensations of his teeth and tongue flow through her. “You’re as horny as I am,” he purred, as he continued down her torso, finally taking to his knees after removing her skirt, and planting his face against her Venus mound, while clutching her ass cheeks in his hands. “More,” she said, as her head flung back, and she held on to him for support. Her legs were weakening as her erotic fires threw away the last week’s repression, and her desire billowed forth. “Yes, yes, yes, Albert,” she seethed, finding herself moving backward and finally falling to the bed, where Albert crawled between her legs and continued lapping the succulent nectar. “Mummmm, you are sweet,” he murmured. His c**k had risen to its full girth and now pressed urgently inside his briefs, inside his corduroy pants. “f**k me, darling!” Pelvis writhing back and forth under his attacking face, she gasped. He was easily led, moving swiftly to a position straddling her hips, fingers fumbling with his buttons and zipper. His speedy entrance was strategically thwarted when he had to awkwardly scramble from his position and remove his corduroy pants. Waiting, Mariel lay back against the pillow drinking in his familiar bodily fragrance: the cologne, the mint on his breath, traces of coffee and wood smoke from the fire below. Returning to the dominant, imposing position over his lover’s languid, seeking body, Albert speared her with the tumescent wand, burrowing into the sensuous mellow depths of Muriel’s tight home. They f****d as virgins, gracelessly figuring out the s*x act on the fly. They managed well eight months ago and were repeating the same wild passionate moves of coupling, grunting, groaning, gasping… until they were quickly lost in climax, holding back their cries for propriety’s sake, but not the heated desire behind the act. “Have you ever thought about tying me up?” Mariel posed the question, as their labored breathing returned to normal. “No, can’t say that I have,” Albert returned. “Is that what you want? I suppose I could find some scarves… and this bed…,” he looked upward at the four posts noting the perfect arrangement. “You don’t think it’s sinful?” He grinned. I think f*****g you has to be sinful; it feels so damned good. Why would tying you up for s*x be any different?” She mulled over an idea that had been creeping into her fantasies repeatedly for the last several weeks. “I saw magazines…,” her voice trailed off. She was afraid of what she’d say. “What magazines?” “Sid’s.” Albert laughed—if she guessed correctly—a little nervously. “Sid’s into all kinds of porn.” “You think bondage is porn?” “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just don’t really understand all the leather and chains.” “Creepy, aren’t they?” “We could always try scarves?” “Humm, maybe, I was just curious if you’d do it.” He laughed, rolling over on Muriel’s cooling body, “I’d do anything you want. You know that?” Yes, she did.