Passion Knows No Boundaries

Chapter 1On the steamy morning of July 10th at precisely 1:37 A.M., the haunting began. At least, Clarice Nash had assumed the time accurate, since she had always been a light sleeper, and that’s when she had awakened with a sudden fright. Well, perhaps not a fright, she decided, feeling strangely calm, but certainly an unexpected and unnerving surprise. Guttural grunts and groans of a male voice, punctuated by slight whimpers and fierce shrieks of a female, all subdued and muffled as if filtered through a dense sea of invisible cotton, seemed to issue from the end of the vast hallway— From the mystery bedroom. After dashing to investigate, a flashlight firmly in hand, Clarice stood before the large mahogany door, eyeing the key in the lock. This room had been a puzzle to her since moving into this plantation house the previous week. Then again, the puzzle had also contributed in her decision to purchase the otherwise-charming estate several months ago. She loved mysteries, almost as much as she adored antiques and 19th Century history. Put them all together and Riverview—this sprawling Civil War-era plantation residing along the Verdon River south of Savannah—had seemed too good to pass up when it went up for sale earlier that year. But mystery regarding the room or not, Clarice would have purchased this rambling, three-story plantation anyway. Indeed, for some unknown reason, the twenty-six-room estate had intrigued her since childhood, rousing the very depths of her being with an urgency she could never explain. Built in 1833, the vine-bowered main house, with its grand Roman columns supporting a magnificent wraparound gallery, seemed an architect’s masterpiece. Marigolds, veronica, and fragrant mignotte ringed the elaborate gardens, while delphinium, valeriana, and flax bordered herringbone-brick walkways to the lazy riverfront. With dual lines of moss-draped live oaks shading the half-moon driveway, the estate seemed a picture-perfect vision of the “old South,” an image straight out of Gone with the Wind. How vividly Clarice recalled touring the house with her mother. Countless times each year, Asteria Nash would lead her through the well-appointed rooms, while a tour guide’s voice uplifted her with historical tales of love and intrigue, danger and tragedy regarding the Ballantine family, the plantation’s original owners. Most of the tales the tour guides had spouted were undoubtedly fiction, but that never mattered to Clarice. Each visit to Riverview became a plethora of wonderousness that would leave her completely breathless and hungering for more information—fictional or not—until the subsequent tour. And Clarice had never expected to reside in such a grand estate. Only a hefty inheritance from well-meaning, forward-thinking parents that had built a fortune through years of hard work and sound investments gave birth to that fantasy. And not only did she purchase the house and grounds via a private estate sale set up by a Realtor she knew, but all of the items inside it, objects she had viewed an untold number of times during those tours. So since moving in, being surrounded by antique furnishings, books, portraits, and seemingly endless trinkets from the previous two centuries—some items dating back to the early 1800s—made her feel as if she had magically traveled back in time. But now, however, standing before the door to the mystery bedroom, Clarice had also not expected the noises issuing forth— Nor the sudden, almost-staggering need to have her womanhood ravished by a hard, unrelenting p***s. No, she thought, blinking at the doorknob and pressing a hand to her panty-covered crotch, that urge she could not have anticipated. But why? she asked herself. She had resided in the house for nearly a week, and a few days later had discovered the key to the locked bedroom—although it initially did her no good, since strangely enough, the door had also been nailed shut. Just yesterday, she had instructed the workers she’d hired for renovations to remove the nails, but she had yet to enter the room for her own clean-up maneuvers. Why, on this night, of all nights, would she have a dream related to this long-abandoned room, along with a fierce desire for male flesh bombarding her heated insides? Okay, she conjectured, perhaps one of the muscular construction workers—most of them attired each day in tight, sweat-drenched T-shirts, as she happily recalled—had subconsciously caught her eye and she had dreamt of an endless session of s****l gratification with him, whoever he was. Or since she had yet to hire a live-in staff to help her maintain the grand manse, had one of those workers crept back here with a woman in tow, using this room to fulfill their s****l desires? Somehow, she didn’t think either possibility the case. The voices, though bearing a human resemblance, seemed somehow different. Unnatural. Besides, she sensed something else had drawn her here, something other than the odd noises coming from within. Something that made her feel she would uncover some astronomical secret, some long-sought destiny, within the walls of the previously abandoned room. But what? A valid question. The answer, however, she had yet to discern. After flinging strands of her waist-length, ginger-colored hair off her shoulder, Clarice turned the key until she heard the click, then twisted the polished brass doorknob and pushed the door inward. Rusty hinges squealed a protest as she began dancing the flashlight beam over antique furniture. The scent of mildew and neglect smacked her face like an affront. Cold air—icy, actually—immediately assaulted her. Shirking off the bizarre chill, she persisted in her investigation, taking several steps into the room. She halted, however, when the tingling in her loins began anew— And with double the force. Clarice rested against the wall, eyed the chilly bedroom, and touched herself between the legs. At that moment, s****l satisfaction took absolute precedence over anything else in her life. Her hard n*****s almost painfully tented the plain white T-shirt she normally wore to bed, as if pleading for a warm mouth to suckle them. The myriad sensations eventually faded, however, leaving behind contradictory feelings of lawless anger and sheer relief. All the while, the sounds that had awakened her moments ago persisted. Stronger now yet still seemingly filtered, the guttural grunts and whimpers of lovemaking stirred the otherwise stagnant air, whispering against her eardrums like a siren’s song. Clarice snapped the flashlight to its highest setting, poking the shadows with the enlivened beam. She saw nothing but the dusty, cobwebbed corners of a room her Realtor claimed had been sealed since the years of the Civil War. One by one, the cloudy vanity mirror, the drop-leaf table of dusty mahogany, the chamber set, and the soot-covered upholstered chairs with tufted backs met her steady eyes. The cold, desolate fireplace of red marble seemed to scream for attention, while the slightly mussed yet surprisingly pristine bedstead— A shiver traced Clarice’s spine. No, it can’t be! She aimed the beam over the bed once more. What the hell was that appearing on the mattress like a low-hanging cloud? A mist? A light of some sort? A…a…? Gone! And the sounds evaporated. My imagination, she told herself—attempted to convince herself. There’s nothing there, she decided as she focused the flashlight beam on the floral bedspread. Only her imagination…only her imagination…Too much time watching reruns of Ghost Whisperer or The Dead Files, or of settling into bed with the Stephen King novels she loved so much… And all the tingling in her crotch immediately disappeared, as if swept away by an invisible hand. The grandfather clock in the corner bonged. Clarice shot the light toward its dust-blanketed face—2:43 A.M. Wait a moment! She had awakened at 1:37…she had read her digital clock when the noises had awakened her. More than an hour had passed since she had leapt out of bed and darted to this room to investigate the noises? And how would a clock—supposedly untouched, and unwound, for more than a century—bong? And on an off-minute, no less? What the hell? Another wave of chills assailed her, as if a glacier wind had issued from out of an unseen open window. The tingling in her crotch reawakened, doubled, then redoubled, as if feathered by a hungry tongue or the head of an engorged c**k seeking frantic satiation. Clarice sank to her knees, rubbing the swollen nub at her crotch, the flashlight in her other hand casting outrageous circles throughout the timeworn chamber. She shoved two fingers deep inside her heated tunnel and gasped when an orgasm ripped through her. Molten lava seemed to pump through her veins, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy. Shuddering, she dropped the flashlight to the carpet and continued to stroke herself, now with both hands, the accompanying sensations more electrifying than anything she had ever experienced. Falling to the floor, she tossed back her head and screeched another orgasm. What on God’s green earth was happening to her? * * * * In Charleston, South Carolina, Derek Lamont Ballantine awoke with a start. Confused and disoriented, and blinking sleep from his eyes, he studied the alarm clock’s green-digital readout—2:43 A.M. He flicked on the bedside lamp and peered down at his nude body. Rivers of fresh, pearly white semen spotted the black hair on his chest and belly, had formed a lake inside his navel. His still-mammoth erection continued a steady, yet somehow unsatisfied throb. Derek shook his head in childlike wonder. A ragged chuckle poured from beneath his thick mustache. It had been more than a decade since last he’d experienced a wet dream. Not since his high-school years, before he had lost his virginity at fifteen. Only in those days, he could recall the dreams that had made his c**k consistently erupt in slumber, dreams starring one of his high-school teachers in all her imagined naked glory…Miss Shelly Ann Hotchkiss. A damned-fine looker, that woman! A slinky young blonde with a penchant for wearing skin-tight sweaters and sinfully short skirts. Breasts as bouncy as helium-injected balloons. Legs as long and as lean as the State of Mississippi. A teenager’s wet dream just waiting to explode. Even now, Derek’s c**k twitched with renewed vigor, as if it had a memory all its own. But at this hour, and on this morning a decade later, Derek’s recent dream remained a shielded mystery—or rather, the acting starlet only a barely perceived memory. He recalled only dreaming about the best s*x he had ever had, a seemingly never-ending session of absolute carnal delight. Unfortunately, to his vast displeasure, he couldn’t put a face to his phantom lover. Damn it! The chirping of nighttime insects poured in through the open bedroom windows, along with a humid-heavy breeze and the distant sounds of traffic and late-night carousing from the downtown district of the city. Derek snatched a handful of tissues from the box on the night table. After squeezing his hard c**k and milking himself of the last creamy droplets, he mopped the fluid from his torso and dense forest of black pubic hair. He swung his legs off the mattress and sat up. While digging his toes into the plush maroon carpeting, he tossed the sticky tissues into a nearby wastebasket. Good God, he needed to get laid! And soon! It had been more than a month. And even then, he truly hadn’t enjoyed the flesh of a female, per se, just the mouth of a stripper at a bachelor party he had attended. Yes, once he’d returned appeased from the bar’s parking lot, his friends had razzed him unmercifully, some in respect for his “latest conquest,” others more than likely envious regarding his effortless methods in seducing the blonde bombshell. He had smiled at her. Pure and simple. All that was required to get that much-needed fellatio in the front seat of his Chevy Camaro. Hell, he couldn’t help the way he looked. He had inherited his father’s swarthy, dark features and tall, lean carriage—not to mention the considerable appendage dangling between his legs. A Ballantine through and through. Although Derek prided himself in keeping in tip-top shape, that, too, seemed almost effortless. A few sit-ups each morning and a bi-weekly trip to the nearby gym did the trick. He hadn’t gained an ounce since high school, could eat anything he desired—a pizza lover’s heaven!—which also awarded him considerable envy from his peers. But of more importance, after puberty, he seemed to have also been generously granted that “magic key” most guys only dreamed to possess—a certain something that turned the heads of just about every female who came in contact with him. Since his journey into manhood, his s*x life had been magnificent, with one long whirlwind of lovers catering to his every whim. He supposed most men might become vain with the s****l lure he magically possessed, and often wondered how his friends did not kill him out of pure spite. Yet with maturity, came less promiscuity. By his choice, lovers came fewer and farther between. If truth be told, Derek reveled in the notion of settling down with the “right woman,” just as his father had done with his mother. A woman who loved her husband without question; a woman who acted as not only a best friend, but a devoted lover. A true partner in life! One day, if so blessed to stumble upon the right creature, Derek would certainly marry the girl, happily and zealously. Now, running hands through his shoulder-length, sleep-mussed hair, Derek studied the sweat-stained pillows for a long moment. No sense in attempting slumber again, he decided. Not when both his manly senses and enlarged organ buzzed with unwarranted, manic energy. He climbed to his feet and padded to the adjacent bathroom, his still-hard c**k bobbing before him as if seeking a sweet, welcoming home. With a shaky hand, he turned on the shower. Cold water. Just the ticket to wash the stickiness from his body and the horniness from his brain. Derek positioned himself directly beneath the riveting spray of water, braced his hands against the cool black-and-white tile, and released a frustrated sigh. After closing his eyes, his mind began to wander, trying to piece together the dream that had so stirred him. Again, no images took shape. But the feelings? Damn it! Never in his life had he felt so passionate, so utterly horny! With his right hand, he began to stroke his erection, a thick, nine-inch tube of flesh-coated steel. No need for soap, he quickly deduced, as his natural lubricant issued freely from the knob, unlike his obstinate memory of the dream, hiding in some dark recess of his brain. If he could only conjure up pictures of the dream woman who had brought him to this agonizing state of turbulent randiness. Why can’t I remember? Why, damn it? Why? Unable to answer his burning question, but swiftly losing the reason to care, Derek threw back his dripping head. He pumped his granite-hard p***s in a furious frenzy. Despite the cold water, he pictured the long legs and bouncy breasts of his former teacher, Miss Shelly Ann Hotchkiss, as he had always imagined her in his teenage years—laying prone on his bed, her shapely thighs spread in steamy welcome, her full, succulent mouth compliant to his every s****l demand. Before long, another load of cream blasted in excited rhythm from Derek’s spasming c**k. His juice sprayed the tile wall in waves of manic release, while grunts of animalistic satisfaction shot from his lips and echoed in his ears. How long he stood beneath the invigorating water, dredging his finally satisfied meat of its fresh offerings, he had no clear idea, but his heart eventually slowed to a controlled and healthy tempo. Maybe now, Derek thought, taking deep, gratified breaths and watching his erection wither to a flaccid six inches in his sticky palm…maybe now he could get some blessed and uninterrupted slumber…