The Revenant Of Hargreaves Manor

All parts of "The Revenant" are (c) 1994, William A. Lemieux.  May be freely
distributed by cybernetic media, provided no fee is charged or profit gained. 
Hardcopies are expressly forbidden without prior consent of the author.  May not
be  published or distributed otherwise without written permission.

FORWARD
 This was written for the numerous fetishists lurking on the internet. The
reader with more conventional tastes may find its long and windy descriptions of
clothing and bondage tedious, and may wish to skip it altogether.  You have been
warned.  No whining.

  This story is also a departure from my usual writing style.  The idea came to
me while daydreaming at home.  I had been staring at a shiny black and
perversely fetishistic statuette which sits on my television while I listened to
the radio.  "Texas Lady's Man" by Concrete Blonde came on, and as I listened to
the lyrics (which concern a ghostly lover), this story flashed into my head. 
The story demanded to be written in an anachronistic style, I've no idea why.  I
don't know whether I actually succeeded in that effort.  Readers of my other
prose may find it verbose, protracted, and slow to develop.  Others I hope, will
enjoy it as is.  I make no apologies.

-=*=-

THE REVENANT OF HARGREAVES MANOR,
A gothic tale of fetishism and the supernatural,
in eight parts.                           
 
by
Bill Lemieux   
                            
PART 1 of 8

 This, dear reader, is the story of how one woman, obsessed with the 
pleasures of the flesh, has found her dreams in the stuff of other 
people's nightmares, and how, for daring the frontiers of the 
supernatural and the perverse, has been condemned for an unknown term to a 
living... well, heaven.  Hell it certainly is not.  I had my chance to flee,
yet I returned again to embrace this den of deviant spirits... and
here I shall willingly, if unavoidably, remain.  My story begins almost
a year ago...

 My parents had died when I was still quite young, and while I had taken
some years to recover from this blow, my spirits were somewhat soothed by
the generous trust fund they had set by in my name.  Being their only
progeny, and having no other obligations, my time was my own, and after
finishing college (I was the first woman from my parent's neighborhood to
obtain a degree), I spent the majority of each day gratifying my own 
desires.  And why should I not?  I was a free spirit, just slightly 
scandalous in my irreverence and independence.  I spurned the rules of the
society that seemed to hobble and suffocate me at every turn.  The only 
bindings I did not reject were the ties of the occasional lover many
of whom required instruction in the fine art of romantic ligature, and 
the welcome constriction of my beloved stays, laces, and boots.

 It was in the twenty-third year of my youth, at a Christmas party in 1924
to be precise, that I first heard the whispered tales of a haunted brothel
in the countryside of England.  Now I have never believed in the occult, 
or in ghosts, mediums, and the like, but as it concerned a house of ill
repute, and me already (at that young age) quite the libertine, I was 
intrigued.

 I pressed my informant, an inebriated young medical student making a 
clumsy attempt to seduce me, for more information.  He had got the story 
from a British professor of psychology, who was guest-lecturing at the 
young man's college.  I granted my suitor one of those empty-headed laughs
that such men so love to hear.

 "Oh!" I said using my most flirtatious voice, "how delightfully wicked!  
What do you suppose the ghosts do in such a place?"

 It turned out he knew very little, but being the secret connoisseur of
the sensual that I was, I determined to ferret out the story's details.  
From the lad I obtained the name of this visiting doctor, and a few days
later, paid him a visit.

 After assuring the good doctor that I was not a prospective patient, I 
revealed the nature of my new obsession, and politely requested whatever 
information he had on the myth.
 
 "Young lady, that place is no myth, and it is dangerous to boot," he told 
me.  "It is hardly the sort of thing a woman of your station ought to be
interested in."

 I responded by assuring him that I was an amateur student of psychology, 
of human behavior, the arcane, and the bizarre, and eventually he agreed 
to tell the rest of what he knew.

 "The house was not a brothel at all, not in the literal sense," he said,
"it was originally built by a very wealthy landowner by the name of 
Hargreaves.  He was a recluse to the locals, and seldom seen outside his 
vast estate, yet he was well known for entertaining visitors of wealthy 
but equally mysterious character, from all over the world.  It was rumored 
that they came from near and far to sample the most bizarre and decadent 
pleasures that could be devised by Hargreaves and his staff of perverts.
It was also said that he kept a harem of wanton women, and every one of 
those houris was as twisted and debauched as he.

 More rumor has it that of all of his revellers and guests, the Lord of
that house was the most virile, the most decadent, the most determined to 
scale the heights of the sensual arts, to plumb the depths of perverse 
pleasure, as any man who ever lived.

 In any case, he took ill suddenly one spring, and died comfortably but
unhappily within a few days, complaining bitterly of the delights of the
flesh he had not yet sampled or managed to invent.  Legend has it that 
his spirit lives on in the house, waiting for the unsuspecting woman to 
blunder by, that he may lure her to a permanent place in his retinue of 
meretricious servants.

 Fortunately, the house is situated in a remote valley, and is seldom 
visited.  I believe it is now owned by someone in Germany, who insists 
on letting the property lie empty, neither renovating it for his own use,
nor selling it."
 
 Here he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and in his slight
leer, I saw why so many people believe that all psychologists are secretly
perverts.

 "The best part of the story is this:  supposedly, several women from
various parts of the world have visited the mansion alone.  Whether they 
went out of scientific curiosity or out of more base desires isn't told.  
But according to the locals, not one of these women has been seen since!"

 "But don't the police investigate?" I asked, incredulous.

 "They are never notified.  The whole story is kept under wraps by the
locals, who are not sanguine about outside attention.  They would just
as soon forget the mansion, and whatever secrets it holds.  Moreover, no 
one has ever inquired after these women, and the locals are only too happy
to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were, since they are deathly afraid of the
place.  They say that strange lights have been seen in the house, and 
worse, that frightful noises, moans and groans can often be heard by
anyone passing by at night."

 "How curious," was all the response I could muster.  My mind was in
a state of agitation, my heart aflame with unnamed desires.  I HAD to 
visit the place, if only to confirm my suspicion that the whole story
was merely a gimmick of the locals to attract tourism.  And I think I can
admit now too, that I was searching for something.  At that time in my
life, I wasn't sure what, exactly, I was searching for, but I knew that I
was not satisfied.

 Despite my frequent dalliances with the various local Don Juans, I led a 
solitary existence, living alone in the same house my parents had raised
me in.  It was familiar, and precious, and I saw no reason to squander the
property they had so lovingly built, despite the generous funds I had 
available to me by then.  Alone.  Yes, I was lonely, and more than little
bored.  My relationships with various lovers did nothing to dispel said
loneliness, nor did my various social activities and charitable efforts
mitigate the boredom one iota.

                                  -=O=-

 It was some weeks before I was able to put my affairs in order.  I did
not want various suitors and gallant rescuers coming after me, should 
anything... interesting occur, so I made it clear that I intended to
live in a far off country for some years, and that I would correspond as
often as possible.  Of course, I had no intention of doing any such thing.
I have always valued my privacy, and I do not appreciate the well-meaning
attentions of those who would save me from myself.

 The trip across the Atlantic, while occasionally entertaining, was 
uneventful.  (There was one particularly well-endowed young sailor, an 
engineer who operated the wireless... but I digress.)  The only 
entertainment I could derive during the voyage, aside from expanding the
horizons of my young engineer was nearly inciting the fashion mavens
aboard to riot with my mode of dress.  Even at home, I was generally 
considered an "old fashioned" lady, despite my youth, due to my 
prediliction toward tight-lacing and close-fitting clothing.  If any blame
was to be laid, lay it at the feet of my dear mother, who insisted upon 
wearing stays, tightly laced, in the hottest of weather, despite the cries
of the medical community that such foundations were antiquated and 
unhealthy.  I recall asking at a ridiculously early age (I think I was 
seven or eight) for my own stays, and crying when I was refused.

 By the age of twenty-three, I possessed a not inconsiderable collection 
of custom-made corsets, many of which were fashioned from leather, with 
spring steel stays for durability and strength.  The tiny waist granted me
by years of this training caused quite a commotion the first time I 
stepped onto the promenade deck, and even more of a stir that evening in 
the salon.  That, and perhaps my insistence at wearing 22-button calf 
gloves in June, in the humid sea air, was evidently quite confounding to
the wealthy matrons on the trip, who appeared to value comfort above all
else.  I answered the few questions I received honestly and politely, if
not completely.  I didn't feel they needed to know just how much pleasure
I obtained from such restrictive and close-fitting clothing.  If only they 
could have known what I often wear beneath my petticoats, several fewer 
dowagers might have arrived in London due to coronary arrests!

 I arrived in the charming if small hamlet of Harrowgate, south of London,
and promptly let a room in the town's single hostel.  A few casual 
inquiries confirmed the research I had done before leaving America.  The 
manor house was well-known to the townspeople, but they were reluctant to 
talk of it, and no one would tell me where it lay.  It was as if the place
was more an embarrassment than a fright to them.  I began to reconsider my
theory about it being a tourist attraction.

 I visited what passed for their library (which doubled as the county 
record hall), and not only found no clue as to the house's exact location,
but a curious vandalism concerning Lord Hargreaves and his estate.  Every 
reference but two obscure notations had been torn or blacked out of the 
record books.  Of those two that had been overlooked, one was a news 
clipping concerning several specialized craftsmen being sought by Lord
Hargreaves.  The other was a note in the tax records about the immense 
duty paid by his Lordship upon a shipment of processed gutta percha from 
the West Indies.

 After two days of persistent research, much of which was spent convincing
the locals that I was indeed a researcher from a famous American 
University, and that my findings would remain strictly confidential, I
found a shop keeper who seemed to know something.  I had chanced across
his shop, and my attention was drawn by the unusual shoes and boots he had
on display in his window.  The heels were very high and narrow, and I
thought, quite impractical to walk in, since they would obviously be weak
and prone to breaking.  Many of the boots were much higher than the ankle, 
in fact some went right up the leg!  I was immediately fascinated, and at 
the same time, I thought that if anyone might know something of Lord 
Hargreaves and his famous manse, this man would.

 Nor was I disappointed.  After a few minutes chat, I discovered that this
ancient cobbler had actually _served_ Lord Hargreaves as a young man,
apprenticing to his father in this very same shop.  He was reluctant to 
talk about the house, until I mentioned my interest in his boots, and 
promised to order a pair in his most outrageous design.  It had already 
occurred to me how deliciously wicked it would feel to secretly wear a 
pair of these boots beneath the concealing folds of my petticoats.
 
 After that, he warmed to his topic and hinted, with obvious pleasure, at
the perverse delights supposedly explored during Lord Hargreaves stay on
the estate.  He described in loving detail some of the most intriguing
devices, not all of which were footwear, that he and his father had made
for the lord over the years.  I am certain he meant to shock my delicate
sensibilities, (if I had possessed any), but all that he said merely 
fanned the flames, increasing my desire to visit the mysterious place by
ten fold.  On that topic he was more reticent however, and it took no 
small amount of cajoling to divine the location of the property.  He 
seemed to be at once both fearful of the supposed haunting of the place,
and deeply reverent of the secret revels and rendezvous that had taken 
place there.  Once I had the location from him I relaxed somewhat, as I 
had already determined that the hour was too late for a visit, despite 
it's surprising proximity to the town.

 I remained the better part of an hour however, being measured for two 
pairs of the cobbler's fantastic footwear.  The first, which I thought 
capable of setting fashion trends for years to come, were ankle-length 
shoes, much like any others, but rather than being buttoned, they were 
laced up, therefore fitting more snugly, and unlike my other shoes, these
had impossibly high heels!  The shoe maker measured them as five inches 
high, and the heels were thin as a pencil.  I insisted they be made of the
new patent leather, which had only recently reached English shores.  He
said he would have to order it specially from New York, and I agreed to 
pay the premium.

 The other pair were his unusual tall boots, as tall as my hip, and I felt
wonderfully wicked at the thought of the leather being laced tightly about
my thighs.  Needless to say, I insisted upon taking _those_ measurements 
myself.  The shopkeeper was delighted with my order, and when I asked how 
soon they might be finished, he surprised me by claiming they would be 
ready to wear two days after he received the leather.  I resolved to wear
them out of the shop as soon as they were ready.

 After some additional effort about town, I secured the rental of a 
chestnut gelding for the next morning's jaunt, and returned to my 
chambers.

                                  -=O=-

 I awoke the next day from fevered dreams of dark and forbidden pleasures.
A brief sponge bath refreshed me and I devoured breakfast in a most 
unladylike fashion, my head churning with various unlikely fantasies.

 I had dressed for travel, albeit with only a nod toward my usual sensual 
tastes, for who knew what might await me at my destination?  One of my
most severe leather and steel corsets came first, and I winced a bit 
although I was long used to it's firm embrace.  For clothes, I wore a 
rather tight-fitting English riding outfit in brown leather, rather
unconventional for a lady of that time, but then I had always been an
unconventional lady.  This consisted of tight leather jodhpurs tucked into
high boots, a close fitting jacket tailored to show off my corsetted waist
to great advantage, and a ruffle-fronted blouse with a high collar.  As an
afterthought, I added a pair of calf opera gloves, concealing their 
unusual length beneath the buttoned sleeves of my blouse and riding 
jacket.

 The horse had been brought round to the hostel as I had requested, and I
told my hostess, a widow by the name of Mrs. Robson, that I intended a day
trip throughout the countryside, and not to expect me before nightfall.  
 At first she was perfectly horrified at this notion, but I showed her the
small pistol I always carry in my bag, and informed her that things were 
different in America- I was quite capable of looking after myself.  That 
may have been a mistake.  She looked even more flustered, but her only 
further comment was a warning to stay away from Crest Hill Lane, and I 
assured her I would give it a very wide berth.

 I intended no such thing, of course.  I took a roundabout path in a half
circle, touring the immediate countryside near the town until I came to 
Crest Hill Lane, which turns off one of the two main roads from town. 
I rode down this rather beautiful and scenic lane, now little more than
a grassy break in the trees, for several hours until I began to worry that
I might have got the directions wrong.  It was lunch time before I 
happened across a small wooden sign by the side of the road, it's paint
flaking and peeled.

  "HARGREAVES ESTATE - NO TRESPASSING", it read.

 No gate or fence marked the border between private land and public, but
I spotted two small stone pylons in the grass beside the road which must
have been property line markers.   I didn't know how much further the
house might be, so I dismounted and unpacked the small picnic lunch the
innkeeper's wife had so kindly prepared.

 It was another hour's ride after lunch before I came around a stand of 
trees and without warning, there before me stood the mansion.  

 It was quite a stately affair, all in white clapboard and stone, although
evidence of some deterioration was visible.  Judging from the chimneys, 
there were over a dozen rooms.  It was situated in the middle of a large 
prepared lawn, on a slight rise between the trees.  I admit, I was 
impressed with the scope and grandeur of the property.  I rode right up 
the drive to the front steps as if I owned the place, tied the gelding 
loosely to a bush, and marched as bravely as I could up the steps.  

 The air was still, and no birds or creatures of any sort could be heard,
so that the creaking of my riding leathers seemed loud enough to be heard 
all the way back in town.  I hesitated in front of the huge double doors, 
my first instinct being to knock and wait for an answer, but I reminded 
myself the place was deserted and reached for the knob.  It occurred to me
that some squatters or homeless persons might very well be lurking about,
so I decided to knock anyway, the reports sounding like gunshots in the 
still air.

The sudden noise startled something in a tree to my left, which rattled 
and rustled among the leaves for a few moments.  I told myself that it was
only a nervous squirrel or a bird, outraged by my assault on the estate.

 I waited nervously, the words of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" suddenly 
coming to mind... "long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting,
dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." 

 No one answered my knock, to my great relief.  I rallied my courage again
and grabbed the knobs.

 Opening the front doors wide revealed a great long hallway with a 
grand staircase leading upward at the far end.  I stood transfixed a
moment, sunlight streaming in through leaded and bevelled windows fully 
two stories above, while motes of dust sparkled with surreal beauty in the
beams.  Looking around, I saw that very little dust lay on the floor, and 
the beautiful draperies, tapestries, and furniture that appointed the 
entryway might have been brought in yesterday.  In stark contrast to the 
dilapidated appearance of the outside, the interior looked homey and 
livable.  A bit imposing, perhaps even ostentatious, but livable.

 Despite the majesty of the huge atrium, something else immediately caught 
my attention and held it firm.  Sculptures.  On each side of the hall were
stationed a series of beautiful statues of nude women and men, finely 
crafted of what I at first took to be ebony.  There were ten of them, five
on either side of the hall.  

 At last braving the threshold, I stepped into the hallway, and looking 
around somewhat fearfully, examined the first statue on my left.  On
closer examination I saw that the sculptor must have been a kindred 
spirit, for his work was both erotic and bizarre.  The woman was tall, 
taller even than I and quite thin, with hips like a boy's, yet obviously 
not a boy, for her nude sex was sculpted in loving detail.  I noticed that
no pubic hair had been depicted.  Nor was she quite nude after all.  She 
wore a complex harness of straps around her body, which circled her small 
and pointed breasts, her neck, head, waist, indeed, her entire body at 
many points. 

 Small rings were attached to the straps, no doubt used to secure the 
wearer in a desired position, or in place against some unknown apparatus.
She wore high boots which laced to the knee, and I recognized the same 
high thin heels that I had seen at the cobbler's in town.

 So great was the artist's skill, and so minute the details, that for a
moment I entertained the fantasy that the statue was real, and might walk
away at any time.  Yet the harness and body were obviously one, and the 
whole was a polished and consistent jet black, quite impossible for any 
human complexion, even those especially dark-skinned natives of the congo.
I dismissed my fantasy with a nervous little smile.  It occurred to me
that there was no grain, indicating that the material, whatever it was, 
was not ebony.  What then, obsidian?  But where would one find quantities
sufficient for so many statues, and how to sculpt it?  Obsidian was one of
the hardest natural stones, and very difficult to work.

 Presently my eye was drawn to another of the sculptures half way down the
hall.  This one also depicted a woman, of differing proportions and 
different garb than the first.  She too was tall though not so tall as 
the first, and was clothed in what I took for an elaborate corset, yet a
corset quite unlike any I had seen before.  For this garment began at the 
shoulders where there was additional lacing, covered the chest and torso 
going right under the arms, and extended down, nipping in at the waist in
the usual curve, then extending further over the hips, all the way to the 
ankles.  The breasts were uncompressed, having been allowed to protrude 
through openings over the chest.  A high boned collar, looking like 
nothing so much as another corset, held the woman's head rigid at a regal
angle.

 The whole thing was depicted as if tightly laced, and conformed quite 
closely to the wearer's body.  It was obvious that anyone wearing such a 
garment would be quite unable to move, let alone walk.  It did not look at
all comfortable and yet suddenly, unaccountably, I felt a yen to own, yes 
and to be laced into, stays just such as these.

 Looking down the aisle of statuary, I saw that all of them were detailed
portrayals of unique figures, each with his or her own raiment or at least,
various pieces of tack in lieu of clothing.

 As I looked around in wonder at these strange and erotic works of art
amid the glamorous surroundings of the mansion, my gaze fell upon the grand 
staircase leading upwards.  Feeling a sudden desire to know what sort of
bed-chambers might be found in a place such as this, I began the climb.

Part 2

 Topping the stair, I found myself in a long hallway stretching to the right and
left of the landing. I turned right, walking slowly as if fearing to wake anyone
who might be sleeping in one of the bedrooms, though the place was obviously
deserted.

There were a great many paintings lining the walls, and examining them I found
that each was a lurid depiction of various exotic acts of coitus, of bondage,
flagellation, and other less decipherable activities. Stopping at the first door
I came to, I placed hand on knob and then froze. What was that sound? But I was
being silly. I'd fancied I'd heard something from the other side, but of course
that was impossible. The house had been abandoned for years, and I'd seen no
sign of vermin or pests in my inspection so far.

In truth, the place seemed remarkably well-kept, as if it still had caretakers,
even though more than one of the townspeople had assured me that no one ever
went there, for they all feared it. I laughed nervously. Perhaps it really was
haunted. Or perhaps there was another explorer (trespasser, my mind whispered)
lurking about? Though I had seen no other horse or cart, I paused, placed my ear
against the door, listening with all my being. I heard nothing. Nothing
except... no, there was nothing.

Gathering my courage and preparing to greet any fellow intruders just in case, I
turned the knob and opened the door. There was no one on the other side. Inside
was a delightful little boudoir containing a pair of armoires, a large chest of
drawers, a massive four-poster bed with a dramatic white canopy and an ornate
chest at its foot, and a very large dressing mirror. Another door probably led
to the water closet. A few comfortable looking chairs were scattered about. The
room was appointed with style and grace, with pretty window treatments and
drapes all around, a few more of the ubiquitous erotic paintings, even a small
reading desk with it's own chair. Even now, I am sitting at that desk to write
this.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I thought that this was how I might have
decorated my own bedroom, had I been inclined to such extravagance. While my
inheritance allowed me to live comfortably, my funds were not limitless, and I
knew I could never have afforded such luxury. I found myself thinking that I
might be very comfortable living in such opulence, and I wondered why the
current owner did not simply move in or at the very least sell the property.
Surely he did not actually believe the legends of ghosts!

Surprisingly, the parquet floor was devoid of rug or carpet, yet the polished
wood glowed with that inner light that only age and great skill can achieve. In
all, a charming boudoir!

I had always loved canopied beds, and I threw aside the curtains of this one to
admire it's secret interior. The first thing that caught my eye however, was not
the beautiful white velvet coverlet, but the curious contraption hanging in the
center of the bed. It was a complex-looking leather harness, attached beneath
what looked like a heavy iron wagon wheel. The support chain disappeared through
a hole in the canopy. Bizarre!

Looking round the bed, I noticed two heavy rings, one high and one low, set into
each post of the frame. It seemed the residents had shared at least one of my
private interests! I crossed to the armoir and threw wide the doors, curious to
see if any clothes remained, and if so, what manner of gowns and lingerie it
might hold, given the salacious reputation of the house.

The first few items I found confirmed even my wildest speculations. Here was a
gold mine of glove-soft leather! A red corset with a waist measure even smaller
than mine, a long white dress of unusual design and features, and one or two
items I had never seen before, but whose purpose my prurient imagination could
easily guess at. There were other, more conventional clothes of silk and lace,
and then a few that took me by surprise.

At first I thought they had been spoiled, that perhaps something had been
spilled on them. Then I decided they were a form of oil cloth, such as sailors
wear to keep dry. I took up a pair of opera-length gloves. They were black and
glossy, soft, and made a liquid rustling as they moved. A pungent odor arose
from them, not at all unpleasant but... different. I pulled at them and found
that they stretched! Then I had it. They were made from gutta percha or gum
elastic, that new material from the latex trees of the West Indies, they had to
be.

Yet unlike the crude mackintoshes I had seen worn by workmen and police
officers, these were of exceedingly fine quality, and had no seams. I wondered
at the method of their construction. Fascinated, I dug further into the armoir,
and came up with several more items in the unusual material. A black body suit,
like long-sleeved winter underwear except all in one piece, was one of the many
items that took my fancy. I wondered whether, since it was elastic, it might
actually fit me. The thought of the strange material clinging to my body sent a
shiver through me. I wasn't sure whether I was excited or repulsed.

The next thing was a skirt, very long and narrow and of much heavier material
than the suit. A classic hobble skirt, but one so restrictive as to seem quite
impractical- how would one walk in it? There was one other piece which seized my
attention in particular. Upon examining it more closely, I felt an embarrassed
flush rise to my face, and a warmth begin gathering quite a bit lower. This
differed from the other garments in that it was a tan, almost amber color, which
I guessed was the natural state of the material. It was a pair of tight fitting
bloomers, with a high waist and obviously close-fitting legs, and it seemed to
wiggle and vibrate of it's own accord as I turned it over in my hands. But what
made my mouth turn dry and my blood begin pounding in my ears was what I saw
inside.

A pair of soft rods, phallic in shape, were fitted in the crotch as part of the
garment. (I was relieved to note that the garment was either new or had been
scrupulously cleaned.) More over, a wide rounded ridge of soft bumps rose from
the base of the front rod, and I knew instinctively where those bumps would
rest. I knew then that at least some of the rumors of this place were more true
than the gossips imagined! The denizens of Hargreaves Manor had been perverse
indeed, and deep down, I knew that I would have felt right at home with them.

The rods were what gave the garment it's strange vibrating sensation. Something
heavy and loose, (quicksilver perhaps?) was trapped within each one, and they
wriggled and shook with every movement. When I imagined how they would feel
inside me, my knees became as rubbery as the bloomers. I needed to sit down, and
I was seized with the impulse to try on some of these clothes, but I rallied my
willpower and determined not to give in to temptation... at least, not just yet.

By this time I was in the sort of trance that every woman has experienced at
least once: that delirious state of elation that one enjoys only when trying on
particularly attractive garments, or when one has been given beautiful new
jewelry or as in my case, an entire new wardrobe designed around my most
favorite, and most secret, vices. Yet these articles were not mine, abandoned
though they might be, and further, it was unlikely at best that any should fit
me.

Even so I was as a woman hypnotized, and I could no more turn away from this
fantasy-come- to-life as I could have walked away from true love. The one thing
that had been notably missing so far was footwear. There was the door I hadn't
really paid attention to, which I expected to be the water closet. Opening it
revealed not a bath at all but a huge closet. The inside was nearly large enough
to be called another room, but was consumed entirely with shelf upon shelf of
well organized shoes and boots. Not a few of these were the same thigh length
style that I had seen in the shop in town, and every single one, short or long,
carried the same high thin heels!

I felt dizzy, intoxicated, realizing I had stumbled upon a treasure trove that
for me at least, was beyond price. I knew suddenly that I would not be able to
leave this house without trying something on. After all, it wasn't as if these
were some other woman's clothes any longer. Whoever had owned them was either
long dead, or had moved away, abandoning them. No one had disturbed this place
in half a century, and these delightfully wicked garments most likely had not
seen the light of day in twenty years or more.

I knew women who would have burnt these things on sight. I knew men who, while
publicly condemning such bawdy fashions, would in private have been as helpless
as a baby before any woman daring enough to wear such things. And while I had
expanded the horizons of a few young men in my home town, and had privately
conversed with one or two other women who only hinted at such interests, I knew
for certain of no others who shared my fascination with clothes that were
restrictive, or "difficult" to wear.

I had never told even the most adventurous of my lovers about the small
collection of tight leather clothes I occasionally wore next to my skin,
concealed beneath my skirts. How many others lived who would treasure these
things as I did? I told myself that they deserved to be worn and enjoyed just as
the makers had intended, not abandoned in a dusty old mausoleum such as this. I
took down an interesting pair of the high boots and found to my surprise that I
still held the pantaloons in my other hand. I blushed again. It seemed my
subconscious had already made up it's mind what I was to wear.

Another sudden thrill of forbidden pleasure shot through me. If I could find
anything that fit, this was going to be a wonderful romp!

Returning to the bed, I divested myself of my clothes, eventually discarding
even the corset, as I had already determined to try on the black "long
underwear" I had spotted earlier. I had decided that the red patent corset would
look far better worn over the suit than my own stays would under it, since
anything under that thin stretchy material would no doubt make unsightly lumps
and wrinkles.

So there I stood, naked, wondering what to try on first. I felt silly for a
moment, since only then did it occur to me just how unlikely it was that
anything here should fit me. Once again taking inventory of each armoir and the
closet, I held one garment after another against me while staring in the mirror.
I was startled to see that everything was either my size or very close to it!
What luck! Although I judged that much of it would fit rather more snugly than
the loose petticoats I was used to, I did not hesitate to lay out upon the bed a
complete, if somewhat elaborate wardrobe.

It was so hard to decide- I wanted to try on everything at once! At last I
picked out a pair of the tall boots to complete the collection and turned to my
pile of loot. After organizing things in order of dress, I picked up the first
item on my mental list, the tight amber panty girdle. Only then did I stop to
think about how I might put it on. The stumbling block was the... well, let me
be frank: the rods. I was already excited, enough so that I could feel the
moisture down there, yet how was I to get the other rod into my rear? From my
previous experiments with that particular sin, I knew I would need lubrication
to ease its passage. It seemed likely that whoever had lived here must have had
something of that sort handy, so I cast about the room for a possible storage
place.

The chest! Until now, I had forgotten it. Hoping that it wasn't some other
lady's hope chest I was invading, I flung it open. If it was a hope chest, it's
owner's hopes were complex and perverse. The contents of the chest was the most
complete and eclectic collection of sexual toys and amusements I had yet laid
eyes on. Amid all the phalluses, harnesses, straps, hoses, clamps, valves, and
less recognizable paraphernalia were several jars and bottles. One of these
containers, nestled among the collection of phallic replicas, proved to be a
thick, clear, and odorless unguent that was incredibly slippery, and I judged it
to be just what I sought. I even tasted it cautiously, and found it devoid of
any flavor as well.

Applying a liberal amount to the objects of my desire, as well as to my own
flesh, I donned the garment with care. I was delighted to find that it fit very
tightly but well, stretching to form a close-fitting layer over my thighs,
belly, and crotch. The feeling of the soft rubber prongs pushing into me was
exquisite, all the more so since I had been denying myself since disembarking
from the ship. The rear rod was large, but no larger than many a vegetable I had
made sinful use of when I was a young girl. I nearly swooned from the rush of
heat and pleasure that they induced. But I was resolute. Pausing for only a
moment to catch my breath, I resumed my dressing, my concentration now somewhat
less acute than before.

The next thing for me to try was the long underwear, if that was it's proper
name. I had already begun to think of it as a sort of suit of armor, a
long-legged and long-sleeved leotard, such as a ballet dancer (a very licentious
ballet dancer) might wear. I examined it slowly, wonderingly. The craftsmanship
that had gone into it's making was exceedingly fine, despite the unusual nature
of the material. It was nearly seamless and at first I could find no opening by
which to put it on. Eventually, I decided that it was intended to simply be
pulled on, entering through the neck, although I was skeptical that the collar
could be stretched that far. I tugged at it carefully at first, then with all my
strength, and found that it stretched (with effort) wide enough that at least I
should be able to get my legs in, and perhaps my hips as well. I hoped I would
be able to force it open further once I had got that far.

In a flash, I was sitting on the trunk, with the garment at my feet. I put one
and then the other leg in, and pulled. Alas, the material was not at all
slippery, despite it's smooth texture, and it stuck and grabbed at my skin. I
was frustrated for only a moment however, before reaching for the bottle of
lubricant. It seemed that a little went a long way, but I supplied the interior
of the outfit with a generous amount just to be sure. As an afterthought, I
smeared another liberal amount throughout the interior of the bloomers as well.
On my second try, I was delighted at the totally novel sensation of my legs
slithering into the intimate embrace of the tight material. It took surprisingly
little effort to pull it up above my knees. Getting it the rest of the way on
was a challenge, but the material slid back and forth almost like a fluid, and
after much squirming and tugging, I got my arms first inside the collar, then
into the arms of the garment.

Finally, I was dressed. I squirmed a little more, shrugging my shoulders to move
the material into place around me, working all of the trapped air out. As the
form fitting cups pulled snug against my bust, I started at an unusual
sensation. My hands flew to my breasts. The fiendish maker had put little bumps
inside the breast cups of the garment, and they caressed and tweaked my nipples
as I moved. What decadent people had lived here!

Now that I was neatly sealed inside my second skin, I took a moment to admire
myself in the mirror. The sight was startling. The suit fit me as if I had been
dipped in some black liquid, leaving nothing to the imagination. It emphasized
my hips and bust and showed off the results of my tightlacing habit to great
advantage. In a world of petticoats and crinolines, the figure before me was
bizarre and foreign, yet delightfully naughty. A little shudder shot through me
as I turned to get a better view of the back. Any such motion resulted in
delicious thrills from the bumps over my breasts and the wicked rods in my sex.
But there was still more to try on!

I tore my gaze away and turned back to the bed, in a haze of arousal. I had
picked out the longest pair of the gleaming black boots I could find, hoping
that their apparent similarity of size to my own ankle-length boots might
indicate a tolerable fit.

Now I turned them in my hands, with the odd feeling as I did so that I was not
so much examining a pair of boots, but getting acquainted with two new friends,
as though somehow the boots were as glad to have been discovered as I had been
to discover them. They were of the same gum elastic as the suit, albeit much,
much thicker, yet they were soft to the touch and quite supple from side to
side. Along their length however, they were quite stiff, and I saw immediately
how this had been accomplished. There were many pieces of long thin boning,
probably steel such as my corsets employed, extending from the ankle to the very
top. It was as if they were actually boot-shaped corsets instead of foot wear! I
pulled one on experimentally, and to my surprise the foot at least, fit
perfectly.

(Why did I not wonder then at the unlikelihood of all these things fitting me so
well? If I had, this terrible (and yes, wonderful too) fate might never have
befallen me.)

I pulled on the other and began lacing them up. As the eyelets drew closed, the
slightly elastic material stretched tight around my calves, molding itself to my
legs. I could already tell that the boning would make the boots nearly rigid,
and I wondered how anyone could walk in them. Nevertheless, the restrictive
feeling of the shafts and the high arch into which the soles forced my feet
(higher even than my own heels which were well above that dictated by fashion)
elicited a wonderful feeling of helplessness, as if I were giving up control of
my body to the garments. Perhaps I was, in a way.

When the laces were as tight as I could make them, I stood up awkwardly. Because
of the stays, the boots did not bend at the knee- they were completely
inflexible. Conversely, the ankles were wonderfully supportive.

I took a few steps and found that I could walk, stiff-legged, by swinging each
leg from the hips. Unfortunately, (or perhaps fortunately) that action also made
the rods inside me wriggle and shift, back and forth, making even the few steps
I took very distracting! I stalked over to the mirror on twin peg-legs.

The boots made a beautiful addition to the suit, adding perhaps five inches to
my height, and setting my calves in the more rounded, pleasing shape that such
heels promote. The next item in the pile was the corset. I wrapped it around me
and laboriously laced it up. It was just that much smaller than my own that the
leather protested a bit as the laces closed. But I persevered, and was soon
happily compressed within its unyielding embrace. I paused for breath, as the
lacing had been arduous without assistance, and I had warmed myself up nicely in
the process.

When my breathing was more or less normal again, I picked up the next bit of
loot, the skirt. It was unusual in pattern, with a very high waist cut very
narrow (obviously for wear only over a corset) then full through the hips,
tapering sharply below that. It had no openings or laces, and putting it on
proved problematical. I could only barely bend at the hips due to the corset,
and bending at the knee was now quite impossible! I stepped into the skirt, sat
on the chest, and with great difficulty managed to bend over far enough to reach
the waistband. It took me several minutes of tugging and adjusting to get the
skirt on and fitted properly. I probably should have used more of the lubricant,
but I wanted it to remain as restrictive as possible.

The high waistband of the skirt came up to my chest, completely covering the
corset. With the exception of my head and hands, I was now completely enclosed
in the skin tight and shiny material. Deciding that I may as well complete the
picture and cover my hands as well, I donned the long gloves with difficulty,
stretching and smoothing them out over the sleeves of the suit. I would have
considered covering my head as well had there been anything to cover it with!

I took a moment to rest then, squirming just slightly in place, reveling in the
delicious, slithery sensations of my new garments. Eventually I sat up, and
gingerly rose from the bed. I say gingerly, because by now I was immersed in a
veritable fog of lust, and every twist of my torso, every bend of my hips sent
such tremors of delight through my body that I found it very hard to think
coherently, let alone stand and walk.

After a moment though, that is just what I did, as I resolved to explore the
rest of this strange house while enjoying my "tight situation". After a few
steps, I got the knack of keeping my balance, although it was only possible to
take tiny steps in the tightly stretched hobble skirt. I struggled out the door,
hobbled down the hall to the first door across from the one I had just quit, and
opened it.

At first I assumed it to be some kind of bathroom, as the walls were entirely
clad in white tile. But there were other accoutrements and fixtures here not
found in any ordinary bath. I stepped in and looked around. To one side was an
alcove much too big to be a shower, yet shower it was, and bath as well, with a
half dozen shower nozzles. Over there was a sunken bath, surmounted by an odd
framework of brightly polished metal. To my left side was what I at first took
to be a bed, but soon realized was a kind of padded basin, big enough (and
comfortable enough) to lie down in. It had a drain at each end and raised sides.
The surface was fitted with soft cushions upholstered in more of the rubberized
material, but in white rather than black.

Seeing nothing that immediately captured my fancy, I left the curious bathing
facilities and wobbled to the next door across the hall. This was another
bedroom, outfitted quite differently from the first. It had the same high
ceiling and bare wood floor, but there the similarity ended. The bed was a mere
padded bunk, strongly built, but plain and spartan with short posts and no
canopy at all. The walls were appointed with various fascinating pieces of
framework, both wooden and metal, and from these a vast array of straps,
buckles, belts, and more complicated accessories was hung.

Several cabinets were against one wall, and I was tempted to go through them but
I knew that I shouldn't dally, for there was the rest of the huge mansion to
explore, and the hour would soon be getting late! By now the arousal I'd been
feeling had blossomed to a fever pitch, and I walked (or hobbled, rather) to the
next door shakily, slowly, and with great care, holding onto the walls when
possible, wondering if I would climax helplessly while standing in the middle of
the hall!

I felt very near to it, and moved more slowly so as to delay what now seemed
inevitable. The next room was a puzzle until I let my libertine imagination run
wild. Here the floor was covered completely with what was in essence a huge bed
or couch. Its padded sides rose up the walls some four or five feet, and it had
a distinct depression toward the center, like a very shallow bowl. It appeared
to be silk at first glance, but when I touched it, I realized it was something
just as soft and smooth, but somehow tougher, a bit colder to the touch. I
imagined some sort of gutta percha -covered satin, or perhaps a waterproofed
silk.

I stumbled as I turned for the door, and the rods within me wiggled and vibrated
with such a burst of enthusiasm that I nearly collapsed on the spot. Now
grinning with a wicked delight, and determined to see how far I could get before
succumbing to my impending climax, I literally fell across the hall to the next
to last door. Opening it and stumbling pell-mell inside, I fell upon the bed
without really seeing the room, and surrendered myself to the insistent tide
welling within me. I wriggled and squirmed as the first orgasm swept through me,
feeling the clever rods within me shake and rattle in response. For a timeless
time, I teetered on the brink of a yawning gulf within myself, then plunged into
the depths, my body disowned and trembling independently, as if possessed- and
who knows, perhaps it was! Then darkness closed about me, and I knew no more.

Part 3

 I don't know how long I slept, but when I awoke, the quality of light in
the room was noticeably different.  I glanced toward the window.  Through
the gauzy privacy curtains, I could see that while it wasn't yet dark, I 
would have to end my explorations soon if I were to return my horse at a 
reasonable hour.  Carefully, I rose from the bed and took my first real 
look at the room I had so recently defiled (or sanctified) with my lust.

 This was another bedroom, not unlike the first in that it had similar
furniture, similar appointments.  Unlike the first however, this one had
a few additional features, and what features!  What looked vaguely like  
an Egyptian mummy case (but without the fancy paint or hieroglyphics) lay 
against one wall.  A complicated harness of straps and leather was 
suspended from the ceiling near one corner, and a very unusual looking 
sculpture hung in the middle of the room at the end of a rod fastened to
the ceiling.  I took a closer look at this last.  It was a bust, or head 
rather, having a quite realistic human shape, and a stylized woman's face.
 It had been carved or perhaps cast in some ebon, glossy material.  It 
hung precisely at the level of my own head, it's empty, open eyes staring 
directly into mine.  I shuddered.

 This was not intended to be art.  On either side of the head, depending 
from the ceiling on the same sort of rods, were two spheres of the same 
material, with openings in the bottom.  A close look showed that the 
sculpture could be opened, with a snap catch at one side, and tiny hinges
on the other.  Opening it revealed a hollow interior padded in red rubber.
 I touched the lining thoughtfully.  The material was warm!  I looked 
about the room, suddenly panicked that someone else had been here, perhaps
had watched me while I slept.  I saw and heard no one, but my heart would 
not be still.  

 I strode to the door (slowly, taking miniature steps) and flung it open.  
No monstrous intruder loomed over me, no startled footsteps retreated down 
the hall.  I listened, straining my ears for any sign of inhabitants.  

 All that I heard was the occasional distant creek of a timber, the 
faintest twitter of a bird outside.  Gradually, I calmed myself.  There 
had to be a rational explanation for the warmth of the... whatever-it-was.
 Helmet I suppose, is the best term.
 
 When I got back to it, it was still warm, perhaps just a little cooler
than before.  The lining was slightly soft and yielding to the touch, like
mud shifting under an elastic membrane.  The feel of it against my fingers
was obscene, yet strangely compelling.  I could guess what it was for, of
course.

 I owned a leather hood (left at home in the states) that had been custom
made for me by a craftsman who shared my unusual tastes.  He had wet 
-molded it on a plaster cast of my head, and it fit me perfectly.  I wore 
it often in private dressing-up sessions, enjoyed the feel of the tight 
fit against my face, the sense of isolation as the thick leather removed 
sight, dulled hearing.  This elaborate device was different.  I had 
assumed from the beautifully sculpted facial features that it had been 
made for someone specific, yet it seemed to me that the soft interior 
would accommodate a wide range of head and facial shapes, if perhaps not 
too many sizes. 

 I opened and closed the helmet a few times absentmindedly, while gazing 
around the rest of the room.  

 Without really thinking about it, I found myself opening it wide and 
placing it around my head.  I stopped suddenly, surprised at myself, my 
heart thudding.  

 What was I doing?  What if I had put it on, and hadn't been able to 
remove it?  The thought should have scared me silly, but for some reason,
the idea of being trapped in the contraption gave me an illogical thrill. 
I looked at the catch.  It was a simple thing, just a button that could 
easily be operated.  It had no lock.  Of course, if the victim's hands 
were restrained, it would be impossible to remove, or for that matter, to
move about the room, since the helmet was fixed rigidly to the ceiling.
  
 Ah, and if there were a lover present, the person inside would be 
helpless to resist... he could do anything to her... I caught myself.  
Once again, my sinful imagination was getting the better of me.  Slowly, 
my hands trembling, I put my head into the helmet, pressing the sides 
closed.  It took some force as the soft interior, still a bit warm but 
now noticeable cooler, oozed around the contours of my face and head.  

 Looking out through the open eyes of the helmet, I saw myself in the 
full length dressing mirror against the wall.  It was the only view 
available after all, since the helmet could not be moved even a 
millimeter.  I made an unusual sight.  The helmet might very well have 
been a part of my suit but for the column rising to the ceiling which 
held it rigidly in place.  

 The rest of my body gleamed within a shining black carapace, my 
compressed waist, normally concealed beneath layers of petticoats and 
skirts, now plainly visible.  Of course, for that matter, all of me was 
plainly visible, only barely disguised by a layer of thin black rubber.

 I kept up the pressure on the sides until the latch closed with a loud 
*snap*.  Startled, I fumbled for the latch, and opened the helmet again 
with relief.  I looked at the shape inside.  Each half-shape was 
recognizably my own.  I had "customized" it.  I smiled, turning to look 
guiltily about the room, as if to reassure myself that there really
wasn't anyone else about.  

 My boot heel caught on something and I looked down.

 Directly below the helmet was a pair of metal fixtures screwed to the 
floor.  They consisted of a pair of leather and steel straps, perhaps 
three feet apart, each with a small socket nearby.  There was a metal 
panel set into the floor between them.  At first, I couldn't quite 
fathom their purpose, then inspiration came.  I put the toe of one boot 
under the strap, and let the stiletto-thin heel down into the socket.  
It fit perfectly.  I removed my foot.

 Obviously, there was some way it could be fastened to fix a pair of boots
or shoes in place.  I grinned, realizing I could play out this scene by 
myself, since I already knew I could get out of it.  A pity I couldn't 
bend over to fasten the latches temporarily.  I wondered what the other
metal plate was for, but since I could hardly bend over, it was 
effectively out of reach, and would therefore have to remain a mystery 
until I was less restrictively attired.

 I put first one foot then the other into the fixtures, stretching the
skirt tightly to reach the other one, when to my surprise, I heard a loud 
click.  I lifted my foot, or rather, attempted to lift it.  I realized 
with dismay, (and perhaps just a little excitement) that my boots were now
firmly fixed to the floor!  I struggled with them a moment before 
admitting that, like everything else I had found in this house, the trap 
was very well made.  I tried bending over to release the mechanism, but as
I had already learned, the corset and boots made that quite impossible.  

 Finally I resigned myself to unlacing the boots and leaving them attached
to the floor.  

 But wait!  If I was going to do that I reasoned, I might as well enjoy 
this situation a bit more first.

 It occurred to me suddenly that I was now in the very situation intended
by the inventor of this contraption, with my boots properly fixed to the 
floor.  Despite my better judgement, I just had to know what it felt like.
Once again, I closed the helmet about my head, with somewhat less effort
this time since it had already conformed to my features.  The lining was
rather cool now, and it was now nearly rigid.  Yet once closed, I was 
perfectly comfortable, since the interior conformed precisely to the form
of my head.

 It seemed that the mysterious warmth I had felt at first was a riddle I 
might never solve.  I revelled in the strange sensation of having my head
held absolutely yet comfortably rigid, encased in a soundless prison.

 I was a little embarassed to discover that I was caressing myself in what 
would have seemed a very lascivious manner had any witnesses been present, 
and I shifted my hands self-consciously, running them over the smooth 
outer surface of the helmet.  Near the top of the helmet, my fingers 
brushed a stud or button on the mounting column, and I felt it move. 

 There came a distant thump, more a physical sensation than a sound, felt
through my feet and in my head through the helmet.

 With emerging horror, I watched in the mirror as the metal plate in the 
floor flipped open, and SOMETHING rose out it, disappearing beneath the 
hem of my hobble skirt.  I could feel the faintest of vibrations through 
my boots as the mechanism worked.  That was the last straw.
 
 Frantically, I scrabbled at the latch of the helmet, but it now seemed
locked fast, and would not release!  I struggled in vain to escape, but I
could barely move at all, held taught as I was between the helmet and the
clamps on the floor. 
 
 I could only stare, mesmerized and afraid, as length after length of 
something moved past the gap between my skirt and the floor, rising 
unseen toward my sex.  Nearly hysterical, I began chanting a sort of 
continuous mantra in my head, telling myself that the people who had lived
here had been decadent and sexy, but not murderous fiends, that I would
not be harmed.  

 I told myself this repeatedly, but in my predicament, I was not 
convinced.  Slowly, the thing inched upward, and I stared at what little I
could see of it, fascinated.  It was larger than the hobble skirt, and now
I noticed a shape pressing through the rubber as it moved.

 Suddenly, I felt something at my crotch.  What ever it was pressed slowly
against me, pushing between rubber and flesh, swelling the front of the 
skirt (I couldn't see the back) and surrounding me from pubic bone in 
front to tailbone in back, like some sort of obscene bicycle seat.

 I don't know what I had been expecting, but this soft yet insistent grip 
was not it.  I relaxed a little.  I didn't know it's purpose yet, but 
it didn't seem to be malevolent.  It continued to push against me, lifting
me slightly, pulling my legs taught within my boots.  At the same time, I 
felt the helmet exerting a gentle pull upward.  Then everything stopped. 
 I was now stretched taught from head to toe, and with the exception of 
my arms, i was totally immobilized.

 Gradually, I gathered my wits and took stock of my admittedly awkward
situation.  Obviously, I had activated some elaborate and perverse toy
installed by the previous owners.  Having triggered it, I now had to 
figure out how one got out of it, if getting out was even possible without
aid!  It didn't look easy.  I wondered how long I would have to be missing
before the townspeople came looking for their horse.  Then I realized in 
horror that with their fear of this place, they might never come after me 
at all!

 I looked myself over in the mirror.  I had to admit, I made a pretty 
picture.  But erotic as the image was, I had my priorities straight.  I 
had to get out of this thing before I took complete leave of my senses. 

 As best I could, I examined via the mirror the apparatus holding me 
prisoner.  I wished the mirror were closer, that I might not miss any tiny
details of the equipment.  Surely, since it was possible to get into it
unaided, there was some way to release oneself?  Perhaps there was another
stud or button on the helmet or it's mount that would release me.  I found
the original stud, and pressed it again.  Nothing happened.  I felt around
for another.  No such luck.  Then my eyes fell upon the spheres suspended
on either side of the helmet.  Each was the same glossy black, perhaps six
inches in diameter.  Perhaps they were controls of some sort?  Gingerly, I
reached up and felt around the outside of each one.  In the mirror, my 
reversed movements looked strange.  I felt nothing on the outside.  I felt
the bottom, where I had seen what I thought were openings.  Yes, they were 
hollow.  Screwing up my courage, I pushed a hand up inside one of them, 
felt around.  It was lined in something soft, and my fingertips felt a 
small knob, like a ping pong ball.  I pulled it, and it moved, with a 
detent I could feel, but again, nothing happened.  I reached into the 
other tube, felt another knob.  I pulled at it with the same results.

 Then, without really thinking about the position I was now in, I pulled
both knobs simultaneously.  Instantly, I felt the soft lining of each 
sphere swell and tighten around my wrists and hands.  Instantly I yanked 
downward with all my might, but it was too late- my hands were effectively
trapped, and I was at the limit of my reach- I couldn't pull effectively 
anyway.  My unthinking blunder had made my situation even more desperate
than before!

 At the same moment, I felt a powerful throbbing begin in the seat or 
clamp which gripped my pelvis.  In seconds, I was transported, my body 
traitorously giving in to the powerful vibrations, and I prepared myself 
for what I knew would be a tremendous climax.  The only thing I could move
now was my eyes, and my gaze was held fast by the amazing sight in the 
mirror before me.

 I stood as a bizarre, gleaming black mannequin, transfixed within an 
elaborate sex toy, with no sign but a heaving bosom that the person 
inside was rapidly going out of her head with need and desire.  The 
vibrating seat which gripped me was in turn shaking the rods inside me,
which responded with their own counterpoint of silent liquid rattling.

 For some reason, perhaps because I had so recently enjoyed an unusually
powerful series of orgasms, I was not able to come off at first.  I became
more and more aroused and the tremendous vibrations stimulated me to a 
point of excruciating sensitivity, but I did not climax for the longest 
time.  It seemed like hours before I finally spent, and when I did, it was
a shattering, intolerable release, sweeping me away, and for the second 
time that day, I experienced "le petit mort" as my thoughts became 
twisting, slippery things, and I knew no more.

                                -=*=-

 When I awoke, it was nearly dark.  I shifted position on the bed, as some 
elusive memory that I couldn't quite remember nagged at me.  Then I had
it, and sat bolt upright.  Or tried to.  My joints were stiff and my 
clothes weren't cooperating.  I let my head fall back on the pillow while 
I marshalled my thoughts.  I remembered the complicated bondage device 
by which I had so foolishly allowed myself to be trapped.  What had 
happened after that?

 The last thing I remembered was being immobilized in the device's 
fiendish clutches (pardon me if I wax lyrical), and climaxing very, very 
hard.  I looked around.  I was lying in the first bedroom where I had 
dressed.  Had it all been a dream?  But I _knew_ I had explored those 
other rooms.  I distinctly remembered climaxing as I fell onto the bed in
that last room...hadn't I?  I thought I had slept there for a while, so
perhaps I had dreamt my trials with the bondage device then.  But if so,
how had I gotten here?  I knew that I had to find the answer to this 
puzzle, but one look at the failing light filtering through the curtains
and I knew that I had to get back to town.  I could return another day for
my answers.  Right now, I had to get out of these wonderful (but socially 
shocking) clothes and into my own petticoats and bustle before I returned 
to town.

 I got out of bed and looked around the dimly lit room.  There was no lamp
beside the bed, and as far as I could see, no lamps any where in the room.
I looked up.  There was an electric fixture on the ceiling.  It seemed 
unlikely to me that they had the new electric lights in so old a house as
this, but I found the switch on the wall, and to my surprise, it worked!  
It did not occur to me until much later that there were no wires leading
up to the house, or for that matter, that the houses back in town used 
lamps- they didn't even have gaslights!

 Now that I had light to see by, I started to undress.  But starting was 
as far as I got.  I could not pull down the skirt.  The waistband simply 
refused to stretch, as if it were now made of canvas not gum elastic, and 
as if I had been sewn into it.  Had my clothes taken on a mind of 
their own?  

 Not to be thwarted, I reached for the collar of the suit.  It stretched
no more than the waistband of the skirt.  Impossible!  I plucked at the 
glossy material encasing my breasts.  It stretched just fine, snapping 
back with a startling sting that made me gasp.  I pulled again at the 
collar.  No.  A chill crept up my spine.  I grabbed at the skirt again.
 Despite the gloves and the tight fit of the material, I managed to get a 
purchase on it and pulled at the seam behind me with all my strength.  It
did not yield an inch.  The lower part of the skirt stretched easily 
enough, for I could still walk, albeit with the same difficulty as before.
 But the waistband might as well have been made from cotton duck.

 Well, at least I could unlace the punishing corset.  After spending the
majority of the day in it, I had found that even the slight reduction in
size from my usual stays made it uncomfortable after a time.  It would 
take getting used to.  I felt behind me for the laces... and could not 
find them!  Stumbling over to the mirror, I stared over my shoulder in 
consternation.  The laces now appeared to be tucked inside in some
fashion and there was no indication of knots or ends to be seen.  What on
Earth had happened?

 I felt near to tears.  In desperation, I cast about the room for a pair 
of scissors.  No such luck.  I looked in the little writing desk, the
trunk, even the closet.  Nothing, not even a letter opener.  And I could 
hardly remove the boots, since their tops were at my hips, well up inside
the hobble skirt.  What was I to do?

 Forcing myself to remain calm, I considered my options.  All right, I 
couldn't possibly don my riding breeches over the hobble skirt, nor did I
care to parade through the sleepy village of Harrowgate in my delightful
but perverse finery.  I could look for something in this house to wear 
over these things, and if I couldn't find anything, I would return to town
after dark, return the horse, and try to sneak into my rooms, where I 
could cut the skirt off, unlace the boots, and if I had to, I would cut 
off the corset and the suit as well.  Only then would I be able to remove 
the tight bloomers (which I was now practically swimming in) with their 
devilish rods, and finally, _finally_ be able to relax.  

 Among all of the outre' garments in the armoir, I managed to find a more
mundane, and rather attractive white linen dress that fit me a bit 
loosely, yet covered what had to be covered.  The gloves I finally elected
to leave on, as I had already been seen around town in my own gloves, and
in any case, no one would be able to tell the difference between my own 
calf riding gloves and these, in the dark.  Or so I fervently hoped.

 I dressed slowly, my movements hampered by the restrictive skirt and the
unusually high heels to which I was still unaccustomed.  Once or twice, I 
stopped, my heart hammering, as I thought I heard voices or laughter 
somewhere in the house.  I knew it had to be my imagination, but in my 
confused state, I was ready to believe almost anything.  I laughed these
specters off to nervousness- all save one.  
 
 That one time, I heard a sound that I have never forgotten.  It was 
perhaps the very thing that caused me to return to this accursed (and 
blessed) bastion of debauchery.  At the time, it simply filled my with a 
dreadful curiosity and a tremulous longing that I could not explain.

 It was a sort of loud, grunting sigh, a unique, recognizable sound.  I 
knew precisely what it was, and what the maker was doing, even if I had no
idea who it was, or how I could be hearing such a sound in an empty house.
It was the sound of a woman in the throws of passion, a woman climaxing.  
It was impossible that I should hear that sound there, in that deserted,
desolate manse, so I told myself it was only my over-wrought imagination,
that I had indulged in the pleasures of the flesh just a bit too heavily.  

 But even as I did so, another more rational part of my mind whispered to
itself, "...I know what I heard."

 I paused outside the door, debating whether to go back and look at the 
other rooms again, perhaps decipher the truth of what had happened 
earlier, or to just run for the safety and sanity of my rooms in town.  I 
decided I didn't necessarily want to know the truth at that point.  I was 
beginning to believe the place _was_ haunted, and I did not feel up to 
suddenly confronting Banquo's ghost now that it was nearly dark.  With a 
sudden flash of inspiration, I returned for the bottle of lubricant,
realizing that if I did manage to discover a way to remove these clothes
without ruining them, the slippery goo would be invaluable if I ever 
desired to wear them again.

 Getting down the stairs to the front door was a struggle, made even more
challenging by the fact I was enjoying the process immensely.  The 
insidious rods and the bumps over my nipples still conspired to send 
paroxysms of pleasure through my body with almost every movement.  I'm 
proud to say that I made it to the foyer without stumbling however, and I 
paused for a quick look back at the strange place which had made my day so
frightful, and at the same time, so entertaining.

 As I sent a parting glance around the front hall, I saw something which
made my knees suddenly grow weak and my heart leap into my throat.  
Indeed, I might have collapsed on the spot, were it not for the stiffness
of the boots and corset. 

 I turned and fled through the front door, found the gelding waiting 
patiently right where I had left him (much to my relief), climbed aboard,
and urged him to a canter toward town, rest, and sanity.

 You see, where I had looked down the hall, the same hall I had wandered
through upon my arrival, the hall where before ten beautifully sculpted 
statues had stood, there was now a vast, echoing, and very empty foyer,
devoid of any sign of statuary.

Part 4

 Without delay, I tore the reins free of the bush, leapt aboard, and
urged the gelding into a canter.  Big mistake.  I pulled him back into a 
walk and panted for a while, gathering my far-flung wits and letting the
clenching of my sex relax again.  I was having the devil of a time staying
mounted too, since the tight hobble skirt left me no way to get a grip on 
the horns of the side-saddle.  

 At least I wouldn't have to suffer being stared at.  My unconventional 
position (not to mention my unconventional garb) was adequately concealed
beneath the gown I had appropriated.  I realized then that I had left my 
own boots, my corset, indeed all of the clothes I had worn that morning, 
back inside the house.  

 Needless to say, I did not even consider going back for them.  I relaxed 
into the rhythm of my mount, and would have spent the rest of the ride to 
town in confused contemplation of the events of the day but for one more 
startling revelation.  Something bumped against my knee, and thinking that
some piece of my horse's tack had come loose, I reached for it.  What I 
found in my hand wrested a strangled cry from my throat, and once again I 
felt my heart pound within my breast.

 It was a black and white cameo necklace, beautifully wrought, fastened 
to the saddle's pommel by a red satin cord.  The design was of a woman's 
face, surrounded by an oval ring of chain.  That I should find it hanging 
from my saddle was unreasonable enough, but that it should carry the face 
that it did was impossible.  The face upon the amulet was unquestionably
my own.

 I stared at it in horror, as if I held some particularly disgusting piece
of vermin in my hand, before letting it fall from my nerveless fingers.  
(I was fortunate that it was still tied to the pommel!)

 What... how...  How could it possibly have gotten there, unless... My 
rational mind refused to accept the possibility, but what other 
explanation was there?  

 I had, without realizing it, come in contact with the revenant of 
Hargreaves Manor.

 I left the horse at the stables, making my apologies to the stable boy 
for the lateness of the hour.  I had, I told him, ridden too far and 
stayed too late, without an appreciation for how quickly sunset could 
approach in this generally overcast and cloudy country.  He dismissed my 
apologies with a smile and a wave, and I realized that he was quite taken
with me.  He was an attractive lad, and had he been a few years older, I 
might very well have made his dreams come true.  

 If he noticed my change of dress, he did not comment.  Removing the 
amulet from the saddle, I fastened it about my neck.  While it might be a
gift from a ghost, it was a gift nevertheless, and I had decided I liked 
having a secret admirer.

 I had to spend several minutes reassuring Mrs. Robson that nothing was 
amiss, nor was that task altogether easy.  She wanted to know what had 
become of my riding habit.  I told her I had come back in the middle of 
the day and changed into cooler clothes, hadn't she seen me?  She looked 
skeptical, but did not pursue that issue.  She wanted to know why I had 
returned so late.  I gave her the same excuse I had given the stable hand.
Mollified, she finally permitted me to retreat to the safety of my room
but not before casting a thoughtful look at my unusual gloves.  I hoped
she thought them made from patent leather.

 Safe within my chambers, I divested myself of the mundane frock, and then
stood frustrated, as I realized I would have to ruin these beautiful 
things in order to remove them.  I didn't want to cut them but I didn't
care to stay in them forever either.  And I admit, the discovery that they
had somehow changed themselves so as not to be casually removed had 
frightened me.  As much as I had enjoyed wearing these things, it would be
a relief to be out of them- I was sopping with perspiration and the usual
evidence of my passionate exertions earlier in the day.  I made one last,
half-hearted tug at the skirt and to my surprise, it now felt pliant and 
elastic again.

 I turned and looked behind me in the mirror.  Sure enough, the corset 
laces were dangling behind me, as accessible as when I had first tied 
them.  My first instinct of course was to take advantage of this turn of 
events and get undressed as quickly as possible, but I was overcome by 
curiosity.

 How was it possible for these changes to take place, and what had caused
them?  I had to assume there was some purpose behind these strange events,
and that this was not mere random phenomena.  Why had I been "allowed" to 
put the garments on in that bedroom at Hargreaves Manor, and yet had them
literally secured upon my person later?  And why was I now able to take 
them off again?  The only thing that had changed since I discovered my 
predicament was...

 I stared at the reflection of the amulet.  Moving slowly, as one 
possessed, I took it off and set it upon the vanity.  As soon as it left
my neck, I could FEEL something squirming at my back, and I detected a 
subtle change in the feel of the suit's collar, and of the waistband of 
the skirt.  I picked up the amulet and looked in the mirror.  As I put it
on, I saw the ends of the laces simply drop out from between the others. 
As I took it off again, they slithered up out of sight.  The sight was 
fascinating and disturbing at the same time.  Was this magic, or some new
marvel of science?  It was obvious I would not find out on my own.  It was
equally obvious that someone (or something) knew I had been at the manse,
had perhaps even observed me while I was there.  Yet this person or 
persons seemed to have my better interests at heart, since they had gifted
me with this amulet.  The whole thing was a pretty little puzzle, and I 
knew I would find answers in only one place.

 But I had reached the limits of my analytical powers for the day- I was
exhausted.  Right then, I needed one thing: rest.  And by the grace of 
some still-unknown benefactor, I could at least get out of the costume
which had made my day so enjoyably fatiguing.

 Reluctantly then, I peeled off the decadent clothes, making a 
considerable amount of rustling, snapping, and squeaking sounds, the 
unusual nature of which I feared would bring the ever-suspicious Mrs. 
Robson running.  I paused for a few minutes, breathing slightly harder 
from my exertions.  When no one inquired after the unique sounds coming 
from my room, I unlaced the corset and struggled out of the suit. 

 Removing the bloomers gave me another thrill, and for a moment I 
considered wearing them to bed, although they were literally dripping with
lubricant, my own perspiration, and... other sorts of moisture.  I hung
the amulet next to the vanity mirror.

 In the end, I spent some considerable time cleaning and drying all the 
garments at the wash-stand before finally collapsing on the bed.  
Exhausted as I was, I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.  If I 
dreamt that night, I have no memory of my dreams.

                                -=*=-

 In the morning, I might have thought the entire experience a pleasant 
dream but for the strange gutta percha clothes festooning the room and the 
undeniable presence of the amulet hanging from the vanity mirror.  For a 
long time, I lay in bed, listening to the chirping of the birds outside my
window and thinking about the week before.  It was obvious that someone was
in fact living in Hargreaves Manor.  Further, it was evident that this 
person was as perverse as I in his (or her) interests, and took great 
delight in frightening (and playing with) the occasional visitor so 
foolish as to explore the place.

 I set aside for the moment the puzzle of how a cameo amulet had been 
carved in my exact likeness in a matter of hours.  Perhaps it had been 
made for someone who looked like me, and it was pure coincidence that I 
had happened by when I did.  Perhaps I had been singled out for the 
treatment I had received, because I resembled a lost lover (a pathetic 
idea that frightened me, although I had certainly not been mistreated). 
There were many possibilities.

 Throughout my ruminations however, I could not shake the vague notion
that I was somehow predestined to have found the place.  How to explain 
the clothes which fit me so well?  How to explain that an entire household
had existed for years, which not only indulged in every secret fantasy I 
had ever entertained, but which embraced delights of which I had never 
dreamed?  After all these years, I had found that I was not alone in my
strange desires, but when I achieved my paradise, my holy grail, I found 
it long since deserted.  Or was it?  Could any one person have worked all
of the mysterious coincidences and events that had awaited me at the 
mansion?  Was there perhaps an entire host of fellow perverts, that for 
some reason (and through uncanny skill) managed to remain hidden in the 
place?  And what of the "magical" (or at the very least, mystifying)
properties of the clothes I had taken?

 I had nothing but questions, and the only way I was going to get answers
would be to return to Hargreaves Manor.  

 I was not at all sure that I was ready for that.  I decided to bide a 
while, to relax and see a little of the country, before committing to a
course of action with ramifications impossible to predict.

 I think even then I knew that returning to the house would be a
momentous decision- a turning point.  Even then, I felt that it was 
important to be absolutely certain in my mind (even if my body had already
decided) that a return was what I really wanted.

 So I wandered the streets for a few days, stopping in once to visit my
new friend the cobbler, more often haunting the library, finding various
quaint and picturesque shops to purchase curios from, and in general 
making a nuisance of myself about town.  

 On more than one occasion, I took a solitary picnic into the fields 
surrounding the town.  These fields were of such surpassing beauty that it
is worth mentioning here, although they have no real bearing on my story 
of themselves.  There are dozens of these small glens and meadows in and 
around the woods which surround Harrowgate, and all are filled (at least 
at that time of year) with fragrant wildflowers, softly humming insects 
and a sense of quiet, brooding expectation that is almost supernatural.
  
 Even if Hargreaves Manor had turned out to be a hoax, or even 
non-existant, those days spent lying in the sunlit grass with only a bottle
of wine and various books of romantic poetry or erotic prose for company,
were worth the tedious trip across the Atlantic all by themselves.

 I stopped in at the cobbler's, in hopes that my order might be ready.  He
had said it would only take two days after he had the leather, but the 
last time I had checked, the shipment had been delayed.  When I got there,
he beamed at me, and disappeared into the back of the shop without a word.
He returned with both pairs of boots, which he displayed on the counter 
with pride.

 "They're beautiful!" I exclaimed, and I was sincere.  The man was indeed
a craftsman.  We exchanged very few words as he showed my how to lace the 
high boots up (the operation reminded me of the lacing of a corset).  We
had no need of words.  There was a feeling of reverence in the shop as we 
shared briefly in this secret vice, devotees of the same fetish but from 
opposite viewpoints.  I admit that I preened a bit as he crouched at my
feet, the added height of those amazing heels giving me a sense of power
and superiority.  They fit quite well and very tightly, and just as I had 
promised myself, I wore them out of the shop, the other pair in a box 
under my arm.  If Mrs. Robson noticed anything unusual about my gait as
I returned to my room, she said nothing of it.

 I think that I had actually made up my mind that first day, and that 
after that, I was just delaying the inevitable.  After some four or five 
days had passed in this fashion, I felt a deep restlessness stir within 
me, a sort of subterranean quaking of the senses.  Some part of me, 
hitherto unacknowledged, was demanding a resolution of the mystery I had
tried to deny.  I knew then that it was time to return to that disturbing
house, regardless of whether I would end up confronting personal demons or
merely banishing imagined spirits.

 That very day, I cut short the pointless outing I was already engaged in
and returning to town, set about preparing for a more serious journey.  I
stopped into the common room of the house where I was staying and chatted 
with Mrs. Robson for a bit, intimating that I was leaving town the next 
day.  I told her that I was on a kind of independent tour of the world, 
and implied that certain unwanted suitors might inquire after me.  I said 
that I would appreciate her discouraging any inquiries, and paid her not 
only the rent due for the rooms I had rented, but a handsome bonus as 
well.  She seemed a bit saddened, and I had the distinct impression that
she saw right through my subterfuge, yet was unwilling to dissuade me from 
my chosen path.

 I went up to my rooms confident that no one would learn of where I had
gone, at least not from her.   I packed up my trunks and by noon, had
arranged for them to be shipped to Newcastle which was, I had told various
people, my next destination.  I fully intended to go there too, once I
had finished my exploration of Hargreaves Manor.  Yet somehow I had the 
nagging suspicion that in returning to that place, I was embarking on a 
different kind of journey, one which might just change my travel plans
drastically, not to mention the course of my life.

 I didn't know it, but I lay down that evening for the last time in the 
mortal world I had known.

 I awoke in the middle of the night, feverish with dreams of twisted
erotic games and animated intimate apparel.  I had no idea what time it 
was, for there was no clock in the room.  The restless feeling had 
returned, and I knew I would sleep no more that night.  While I lay there,
I thought about how I should dress in the morning for my return to the
house.

 I was convinced now that there was something (or more likely someone), 
living on the property.  Whatever was going on there, however mysterious
and disturbing, was very, very exciting to me, and I wanted to be a part 
of it.  I had to assume that I had been allowed out of there with those
clothes for a reason.  It seemed appropriate that I not only return them,
but wear them upon my return.  That thought led to another: how did the
amulet work?  I was not prepared (yet) to believe in magic, but I knew of 
no science or engineering which could account for the unlikely behavior
of the garments.  Nor am I ignorant of such matters.  Unlike my many
female acquaintances back in the States, I was well-read and more than a 
little self-educated in matter scientific.  

 I got out of bed and walked over to the vanity.  The amulet hung where 
I had left it, glowing in the shadows by virtue of a stray moonbeam that
sliced in between the curtains.  I picked it up and examined it in the 
dim light.  I glanced at my own face in the mirror.  The likeness was 
startling!

 I looked from it to the clothes, and an almost palpable wave of longing
and desire washed over me.  Good grief!  Had I not sated myself enough
the day before?  I felt more lust for these garments than I had felt for
any flesh and blood lover I had had before!  What was wrong with me?  I 
lit the lamps about the room with a lucifer match and picked up the 
nearest item, the skirt.  The cool material warmed to my touch quickly, 
and gave off it's characteristic liquid rustling sound as I handled it.

 The odd scent filled my nostrils and to my surprise, I felt my nipples
harden.  What was it about that smell?  I knew that I had developed such 
a strong affinity for leather that the smell alone could arouse me.  And 
I had read of the recent work by the Russian physiologist Pavlov.  Had I 
become conditioned to this new and strange smell so soon, so easily?  
True, the circumstances had been intense...

 I knew where this train of thought was headed, and I fought with my urges
briefly for some reason, perhaps out of a sense of moderation.  It seemed 
I was indulging myself in wretched excess.  But, my libido rationalized, I
had already decided to wear the clothes upon my return to the mansion, why
not dress a little early?

 So for the second time, I donned the bizarre garments I had liberated
from Hargreaves Manor.  It was fortunate that I had had the foresight to
bring the slippery goo with me from the house, else I might never have
gotten them back on.  The process was no less laborious than it had been
the first time however, and I was quite warmed up before the task was
done.  

 Somehow, the proximity of the amulet brought about the changes in my 
garments.  How was that possible?  I turned it in my hands, examining it
closely for any sign of clockwork or mechanism.  It was quite thick, and
felt unusually heavy for a mere cameo.  It was also quite cool to the
touch, despite having been held in my hand for some time.  The back, which
I had at first thought to be bare, had a faint but discernable design
carved in it.  It was a pair of concentric circles with unusual runic
characters distributed between the two.  Absently, I traced around the 
circle with a fingertip.

 Instantly, I was startled by a dramatic change in my raiment.  The corset
had become noticeably tighter around me, and I felt a tightness slide down
over my hips and higher on my chest.  I stared at myself in the mirror.  
The corset had somehow lengthened as well as tightened, and now extended
down over my hips right to the knees, and reached right up to my bust and
even higher in back.  Amazing!  In a flash of insight, I traced the design
again, in the opposite direction, that is, counter-clockwise.  Just as
quickly as it had constricted, the corset relaxed to it's former shape.  I
was surprised to note that I hadn't felt any appreciable discomfort.
  
 These stays had been rather too tight when I had laced them up that 
morning, and I hadn't worn them nearly enough to grow accustomed to their 
smaller measure.  Fascinated, I stroked the runes again, slowly, in a 
clockwise direction, making two circuits.  

 Once again the corset tightened it's friendly grip upon my waist.  Never
had I been so tightly corsetted.  The effect upon my figure was 
incredible!  On the other hand, I was now becoming a bit uncomfortable and
out of breath.  I changed my breathing to the chest heaving style which is
stereotypical of tight-lacers, panting as well as I could under the 
circumstances, admiring my tiny waist, and attempting a flirtatious turn 
before the glass. 

 Only then did I note that it had become quite difficult to move my feet.
To be sure, my legs were now compressed by the corset from hip to knee, 
but my ankles seemed restricted as well.  Looking down in surprise, I saw
that the hobble skirt had become even longer, and now reached right down 
to the insteps of my booted feet.  Not only that, but it was if possible,
even tighter.  This was incredible!

 Whoever had designed these things had been not only a genius, but a
mischievous pervert, I decided.  Either that, or an accomplished magician.
It occurred to me that had I been a Christian, I might have had second 
thoughts about the origin of the power I now toyed with.

 I wondered how far the effects could be taken.  Eagerly, I traced the 
circle again, wondering how much more my poor tortured waist could take 
before I fainted or began to suffer real pain.  

 The corset did indeed tighten further, and was accompanied this time by
yet another startling change.  My boots literally squirmed around my feet,
bending forward while the heels lengthened until I found myself up on the 
tips of my toes.  I was immediately off balance, and had to grasp the 
mirror frame to keep from teetering over.  Peering down at the boots 
peeking from under the hem of my now ankle-length skirt, I found I had 
acquired heels over seven inches in height, and my feet had been forced 
into a dramatic arch right in line with my shins.  Surprisingly, I felt no
pain other than a strong sense of stretching and confinement.

 I wanted to experiment a bit.  I knew that the amulet was what enabled me
to don these things, and that they had changed when I had left the room or
at least, the mansion.  Tentatively, I dangled the amulet by the cord and 
held it away from me.  Once again I felt the faint slithering of the laces
disappearing behind me.  But that effect was insignificant in the face of 
a host of other sensations which accompanied it.  It seemed that 
everything I wore suddenly became much firmer, thicker, even my gloves.  I
felt a distinct tightening around my arms, legs, indeed, over my entire 
body, which increased the further away I held the amulet.  I held it close,
and the the all-encompassing pressure relented.  

 Surprisingly, I seemed to be adjusting to the intense compression of my
waist quite quickly, since I no longer felt anything other than the 
powerful restriction, and no actual pain.  I essayed another turn of the
fingertip.

 The corset tightened another notch.  Impossible, I thought, can the
leather itself be contracting?  Again, an additional change came with my
newly shrunken waist.  The collar of my suit stretched up, slithering 
around the base of my skull, my jaw, even up to my ears on the sides.  It
had gone quite stiff and rigid too, such that I could no longer turn my 
head, or nod, or do much of anything at all above the shoulders.  I had to
turn my entire torso to look around.  This was a thrilling effect, but a
bit frightening, and I stroked the amulet in the opposite direction.  To
my relief, the effects reversed immediately, one step at a time, and after
a few moments, my entire wardrobe was back to normal, if the word can be 
applied at all to an outfit with such sorcerous capabilities.

 Through all of this, I was becoming increasingly aroused.  This was like 
being in bondage, and every bit as exciting to me, but here it was my 
clothes themselves restricting me.  It occurred to me that with a cloak 
and a veil, I could even venture out into the town for a nocturnal walk 
in this delightful situation, with no one the wiser.  

In moments, I had unpacked a suitable cloak, and with the addition of a 
large hat and veil, had an effective disguise.  Now, no one would suspect
anything out of the ordinary, or so I fervently hoped.

 But just in case, I again put on the innocent white linen dress before 
donning my cape and hat. 

 I thought it best however, to leave the amulet around my neck so that 
the other side effects would not overcome me or give me away.  For one
thing, it was difficult at best to walk in this outfit as it was, without
the additional tension and stiffness induced when the amulet was absent.
Moreover, the restriction was more than a little arousing, and since I tend 
to lose consciousness when the delicious paroxysm arrives, it would hardly
do to be discovered passed out in the streets of Harrowgate or worse, 
grunting and groaning like a mare in heat.  

 On my way to the door, I discovered to my horror that the hostel was an 
old and shaky building, replete with every kind of creak and groan one can
imagine, each one of which I seemed to be letting loose with my careless 
feet.  By the time I gained the foyer I was amazed that I hadn't awakened
Mrs. Robson.  I paused for a breath then, listening to the quiet sounds of
the old house settling on it's foundations, then let myself out and into 
the night.

Part 5

 The streets were deserted and thoroughly damp from the heavy fog that 
swirled around me.  Under the first streetlight (noting that this hamlet 
was backward enough to still employ oil lamps), I took out the amulet, and
circled the carving on the back with my finger.  Zip!  The corset 
tightened itself once more.

 I resumed my leisurely stroll, revelling in my secret pleasure, while the
rods danced and wiggled silently within me.  At each corner, I would take
out the amulet and trigger the magic (as I now thought of it), accepting
the changes one by one, each difference making it that much more difficult
to continue my constitutional.  Once or twice I heard the footsteps of 
some other somnambulist, perhaps a policeman (did this town even have 
policemen?) or a shopkeeper up late at the towns one and only pub.  But 
in each case I merely held still away from the lights, and allowed the 
enveloping fog to conceal my presence.

 Eventually, I was back in the same situation I had experienced in my 
room, not quite immobilized but hard pressed to set one foot in front of 
the other, teetering on tiptoe, head held up high and stiff, staring 
straight ahead.

 I paused in the shadows alongside the library, wondering mischievously
what would happen if I were to continue tracing the circle of the amulet.
How far could this go?  I ducked into the deeper darkness of the 
adjoining alley.

 It is said fools rush in where angels fear to tread. 

 I looked around the empty streets, assuring myself that I was well hidden
in the fog and shadows and quite alone.  Then once again I set fingertip 
to carving and circled the amulet.
 
 This time a strange thing happened.  The circles and runes began to glow 
with an ethereal, flickering gold light, as if a handful of fireflies had 
somehow been secreted inside.  The corset contracted only slightly more 
before it stopped, a fact of which I would have been glad had I been 
aware of it, but my attention was elsewhere.  For at the same time, the 
"collar" which up to now had stopped at my jaw line, stretched itself like
a living thing up and over my face and head.  At first I panicked, but it 
quickly became apparent that I was not to smother, for my eyes and nose 
were left uncovered.  The rest of my head and neck was firmly encased in a
rigid coating of... whatever it was.

 But the most distracting effect was a powerful throbbing which arose in 
the rods within me bringing a flush to my face and a wash of heat 
throughout my body.  

 After a moment, I got used to the lost mobility of my head, telling 
myself that it was hardly different from the leather hoods I had made use 
of in the past, simply more rigid and form fitting.  

 It was far more difficult to get used to the vibrations in my crotch, and
before long, they had me well beyond aroused, and the temptation to throw 
caution to the wind, to let things take their "natural" course was simply
overwhelming.  Obviously, there was no one about, what had I to fear?  I 
fully intended to consummate my adventure right then and there.  Turning 
my body this way and that, I peered about to make certain I remained 
unseen.  Then I deliberately held the amulet out in front of me so that 
the garments tightened around my skin making me, if possible, even more 
immobile.

 Ah, heaven!

 Unfortunately, as I said before, I tend to lose concentration when I 
spend, and as I approached my first climax, I dropped the amulet.
  
 Instantly I was transported, as the rods continued their mad wriggling 
dance, but my clothing became so tight and stiff as to be nearly rigid.
I began to come in less than a minute, and I continued to climax 
repeatedly thereafter, until I was near to screaming.  It seemed that I 
could not stop!  I desperately needed a brief respite, but no rest was to 
be mine, as I could not stoop to pick up the amulet.  In fact, I could 
not bend at all as I was held nearly rigid from bust to ankles.  I 
couldn't even see the thing from my position, since I was quite unable to
look down except with my eyes.  In a red haze of lust, I struggled to 
concentrate on my desperate situation, cautiously taking a few tiny steps 
back until the amulet came into view.  It seemed to take hours, and I fell
prey to another wave of spending before I had managed it.  The amulet lay
in plain view of the sidewalk at the entrance to the alley, next to a 
street drain.
 
 That had been close!  Now if only I could somehow pick it up before 
someone happened along.

 In desperation, I looked about the alley for some tool or implement I 
could use to retrieve the amulet.  There was nothing nearby.  I teetered
on tiny mincing steps down the alley, resting a hand on one wall for 
balance.  Several yards down was a muck pile (reeking of spoiled 
vegetables) behind a store, and a rake.  Perfect!  

 It only took a few years to reach it.  I took up the rake and slowly made
my way back to the mouth of the alley, my body threatening to betray me 
with yet another paroxysm of pleasure at any moment.  The vibration and 
obscene squirming of the rods within me, combined with the incredibly 
restrictive suit, boots, gloves, et al, was a combination that could only 
have been devised by a fiend, and one which conspired to put me quite out 
of my mind with wanton abandon.  I stared at the amulet, which lay a few 
yards from my feet, and tried to concentrate.  Carefully, carefully, I 
inched forward, the rake scraping the ground in front of me with a noise I
feared would bring constables from the next county.  I planned to inch 
forward until I heard or felt the amulet under the rake, then pull it up 
within reach.  

*tinkle*

 Ah-hah!  I pulled backward gradually, painstakingly, noticing as I did so
that the tension on my body was abating somewhat.  It was going to work!

*tinkle-tinkle..PLOOP!*

 The suit tightened around me like never before, and the rods literally 
leaped inside, wriggling and shaking with renewed vigor.  My heart hammered
within me as I sagged against the wall under this new onslaught.  NO!  How
could I have been so clumsy?  I backed slowly down the alley, holding the 
wall like a drunk just to keep from teetering over.  (were I to fall, how
would I ever get up again?)

 The grating came into view, and confirmed my worst fears.  The amulet had
fallen into the drain and was irretrievably lost.  Coherent thought 
threatened to slip away entirely as I convulsed in another wave of 
spending.   I tried to shake off my body's betrayal, tried once more to 
think.  My only hope now was to get back into my room some how and cut the
clothes off.  

 Then my heart froze.  

 To my ears came the distinct sound of footsteps.  As I listened they
grew louder, advancing down the street toward this very alley.  In a blind
panic, I teetered further into the shadows of the alley, only just 
remembering to take the rake with me.  It was hard enough walking on those 
towering heels with my feet on tip-toe, with almost no play allowed by the
skirt around my ankles, but to attempt to walk quickly, and without making
noise, was fruitless.  I did the best I could, sure that I was making 
enough racket to wake the dead.

 I stopped when I came to a small service door, pressing myself into the
recess as best I could and trying to suppress the shaking which wracked my
body still.  If only the damned fiendish clothes would let up for just a 
minute!

 The footsteps came closer, closer, until the mist-shrouded shadow of a 
male figure appeared in the mouth of the alley.  I held my breath (no easy
feat, since the corset left me precious little breath to spare) and prayed
I had not been heard.  The shadow stopped.  It turned, and appeared to 
look right at me.  Surely he could not see me through the pea soup which
surrounded us?

 At that precise moment, a frightful yowl erupted from further down the
alley, accompanied by a clatter of rubbish bins.  I started, and nearly 
screamed before I recognized the sound, my heart pounding within my breast
like a trip hammer.  I heard a low chuckle from the shadow at the street, 
and he moved on, his footsteps quickly fading in the heavy fog.

 I breathed a sigh of relief, and swore to which ever patron saint looks 
after alley cats that they should enjoy my gratitude and protection 
forever more.  

 Now back to my rooms?  But it seemed certain that, in my current state, 
I would not be able to regain the safety of my room at the hostel
without waking Mrs. Robson.  I certainly didn't care to have her discover
me now, especially since I wasn't at all certain I could carry on an 
intelligible conversation. 

 I was in a very nasty pickle.  How was I to get these clothes off without
destroying them?   What could I do?  A moment's thought gave me what 
seemed the only possible solution.  I would have to return to the mansion 
early, tonight, under cover of darkness.  I had to assume that either the 
room where I had first dressed was somehow enchanted, like the necklace, 
enabling me to get out of these things, or I would have to pray that I 
could find something in the house to cut them off of me.  As wickedly
enjoyable as they were, I wasn't about to spend the rest of my life in
them, and I was certain that the incredible sensation coursing through me
then would not stay pleasurable forever!

 Creeping to the mouth of the alley, I assured myself that the street was
indeed empty before making my slow and painstaking way to the stables.
This was no trivial journey, and I discovered just how late I had risen
when I saw the first pink tinges of sunrise coloring the east.

 I was happy to find that the gentle gelding I had rented before was 
still in the riding stables and not at pasture somewhere.  The stable 
door was unlocked.  I felt like a thief, though I had little doubt he 
would find his way back without difficulty.  I searched through my hand
bag and found several pound notes which I left tucked into the stable 
door as a "rental fee".  If nothing else, it relieved my conscience 
somewhat.

 I had taken care of all of my personal arrangements that morning, with 
the exception of the few things which I had just left in my rooms, which 
included my beautiful new boots.  I would just have to come back for them
later. 

 My next dilemma came when I tried to mount.  It seemed impossible!  I
had fitted him with a gentlemen's saddle, since a sidesaddle would have
been quite unmanageable under the circumstances.  I found a mounting 
block, though it was barely any help, and it took several tries to get me
up as well as semi-mounted.  In the end, I discarded the saddle entirely
(enduring another laborious and distracting trip to return it to the tack
room).  Finally, I ended up lying on my front, along the animal's back, 
with my feet sticking out ridiculously behind.  The poor horse seemed a 
bit nervous about this, but extensive cooing and assurances from me seemed
to gentle him.  By the time I managed to set out in the direction of the
mansion, I was very tired, and the sky was growing perilously light.  It 
was going to be a precarious ride since it was all I could do to maintain
my concentration as it was, and I had no desire to meet some early riser
on the road.  

 The ride to the manse was uneventful, although certainly a long and 
entertaining one.  I could not give the poor horse any commands other than
neck reining and vocal cues, and I didn't feel secure at anything faster
than a walk.  I came three more times during the trip, and nearly fell off
on more than one occasion.  I will not bore you dear reader, with the
prurient details, but suffice to say I was in a more than agitated state 
by the time I once again stood upon the porch of Hargreaves Manor.  I was
fortunate that not once had I seen anyone on the way, for the sun was 
fully risen before I arrived.  But as the first golden rays touched the 
treetops above me, I was finally granted relief.  Slowly, gradually, I 
felt my clothing sliding and squirming around me, felt the compression 
around my body relenting, and the rigid helmet slide from around my head 
and neck.  In mere moments, I found myself clad in the original version of
the attire I had first put on at the manse.  Slowly, comprehension came.

 These features only worked at night?!

 Now I was convinced of magic, though it flew in the face of everything
I had been taught, everything I believed.  I was grateful, nevertheless,
for I could at least finish my ride in relative security, and even a
modicum of comfort, and without assuming that ridiculous position.  The 
faint wiggling of the rods inside me might not have existed, in comparison
to the unnatural animated throbbing they had exhibited earlier.  Finally,
I could relax.

 When I reined in at the end of the drive, I left the horse untethered
as a precaution.  It had not seemed disposed to wander on my last visit,
and considering the events of my previous stay, I was worried what would 
happen to him if I didn't return when I expected to.

 Once more I faced the huge white doors, my knees feeling none too stable,
not only because of the stimulating ride out, but because a part of me was
now willing to believe that Hargreaves Manor might actually be haunted.
By what, I was not yet prepared to guess.

 I forced myself to grab one knob with a shaking hand and turn it slowly,
opening just the right hand door as I peeked inside.

 I half expected to see the front hall decor changed yet again, but it was 
now restored to the same state it had been in upon my first visit.  That 
is, ten statues lined the hallway, leading up to the grand staircase at 
the far end.  I shuddered.  I was not dreaming.  I knew full well that 
those statues had been right there when I came in the first time, and had 
been conspicuously absent when I had left.  Who or what had moved them, 
and why?  For that matter, how?  Although I could not tell what they were 
carved from, their weight must surely have been considerable.

 I stayed motionless for a time, drinking in the ambience of the mansion,
the dust-flecked beams of sunlight slicing in through the high windows 
like shafts of ethereal amber.  They looked almost solid enough to touch.

  My hesitation was due in part to a feeling that I ought to proceed with
more care and deliberation on this trip, and partly for sheer rest.  
Remember, every movement I made still resulted in the most delicious and
wicked thrills emanating from my sex and breasts, although I was largely
inured to such stimulation by that time.

 Once again, I had the uncanny feeling that I was being watched, though my
powers of observation are usually quite keen and I felt certain I should
have spotted any spies.  I peered around the hall, trying to see the place
as if for the first time, perhaps catch some detail I had missed on my 
first visit.  Well, there were the two side doors which I had previously 
neglected.  Shaking off the paranoia that threatened to grip me, I tried 
the one on the left. 

 It opened onto a perfectly ordinary if quite opulent sitting room, 
replete with a harpsichord or clavier in one corner.  I closed that door
and tried the other.  This one revealed a positively immense library, a 
wealth of books in all sizes and shapes, that dwarfed any private 
collection I had previously seen.  This was more to my liking!  I walked 
up and down the stacks, which towered some 20 feet or more over my head, 
taking care to walk around, rather than under, the rolling ladder.  I have
never been superstitious, but after my recent experiences, I was 
determined not to take the slightest chance.

 It seemed that the librarian had had a preoccupation with erotica, 
psychology, and the occult, as the vast majority of the collection was
dedicated to those subjects.  I noted books of unusual construction and
garish coverings, titles both cherished and familiar (de Sade, Boccaccio,
Clemens) and several that were unfamiliar and strangely covered.  I took 
one of these latter books down, written by one "Anais Nin".  The cover had 
a garishly printed paper wrapped around the cover, as if to advertise the
contents.  

 Another, on witchcraft, was by one Alistair Crowley.  I checked the 
printing dates.  To my amusement, the books were apparently some sort of 
novelty, for both this and the previous work bore dates several years
in the future!

 Tempting though it was to immediately sit down and spend the next several
years absorbing the contents of this curious library, I did not allow 
myself to swerve from the purpose of my visit, and took myself back to the
great hall.

 With trepidation, I set foot on the stairs and forced myself to put one
booted toe in front of the other, my arousal climbing almost as fast as my
feet scaled the stairs due to the increased sway of my hips.  Climbing 
stairs in those boots was difficult, but I managed by swinging my nearly 
rigid legs wide from the hip, and pulling myself up with the banister.  It
wasn't easy, and I must have looked a comical sight indeed, but the 
pleasure of being so restricted was compensation enough.

 I arrived at the top of the stairs somewhat breathless and relieved to 
find no spirits, residents, or other apparitions greeting me there.  On my 
first visit, I had turned right down the hall, and had explored all the 
rooms save for the last door.  I decided to first discover what lay behind
that last door, then return to the left-hand wing of the house. 

 I hobbled my way to the door in the end of the hall, and opened it.  
Nothing more than a set of stairs.  I pictured the sight of the house from 
outside, and realized that there was indeed another floor above this one,
the windowed dormers of which I had admired from outside,  At the time, I 
had assumed it was either attic storage rooms or studios, servant's 
quarters, and the like.  The stairs, being plain and uncarpeted, lent 
themselves to the latter theory, but I decided to take a quick look, just 
to be certain.  Although, dressed as I was, `quick' was a relative term.

 I was about a third of the way up the stairs when it happened.

 I heard a swishing sound, and a split second later, before I could even 
turn around, I felt a stinging blow on my rear.  I whirled in anger, ready
to gouge the eyes out of any stalker so bold as to take such liberties with
my person, yet what I saw froze me in my tracks.

 There, hovering before me in the doorway, was a riding crop.  And nothing
more than a riding crop.  No spectre or visible means of support was there
to wield it yet it remained in mid air, swaying slightly, and as I 
looked on in fear, it rose and descended again, this time landing a 
vicious blow to my thigh.  

 I cried out and began to flee as best I could up the stairs.  As soon
as I turned, the horrid thing began visiting a hail of painful slaps 
against my poor derrier.  I managed to make it up several stairs, trying 
in vain to ignore the slithering and wiggling sensations produced within 
me as a result.  The blows stopped.

 I twisted cautiously to look behind me.  The crop remained at the foot
of the stairs, hovering impossibly in mid air, occasionally whipping from
side to side, as a prospective purchaser might test it's heft and balance
in the tack store.  Something looked wrong about the view over my 
shoulder.

 Somehow, both that infernal crop and the doorway appeared to be getting 
closer.  I looked back at the stairwell.  The stairs were moving!  Never 
mind how impossible this was, the stairs were moving down the stairwell, 
carrying me with them, toward the waiting crop!

 I scrambled to haul myself up the stairs, my insides churning, my bosom
heaving, dragging my nearly useless legs along with me, now having very
serious (if belated) second thoughts about wearing the boots on this 
visit.  I was a mass of conflicting emotions and sensations.  I didn't 
want to admit that there really was a something, a ghost if you will, 
holding a riding crop behind me.  It was getting hard to think clearly as
once again the insistent sensations within me gradually took over, and my
mind began to slip away into that delirium of sensuality where one simply
experiences, without the ability or inclination to contemplate the events
taking place.

 Despite my efforts to ascend the possessed (or perhaps merely mechanical)
stairs, I knew I was falling behind because I could hear the swishing 
sounds of the crop behind me.  I was afraid to look back.  At the same 
time, I was critically embarrassed as I felt my arousal peaking, the effort
of climbing the stairs in that infernal outfit rapidly sliding me toward
orgasm.

 It wasn't long before the inevitable happened.  I stumbled slightly and 
caught myself, but at the same time, I fell heavily against the stairs, 
and slid bump-bump-bumping down them, falling even faster than the 
fiendish stairway mechanism had lowered me.  In the process, the wild 
shaking and rattling which resulted within my sex, and the rough thumping
of my tightly encased breasts against the stairs pushed me over the edge,
and I succumbed to the throws of my climax, even as I slid within range 
of the waiting riding crop.

 The ghostly wielder showed no mercy as it rained blow after well-placed
blow on my buttocks (positioned most conveniently since I ended on
hands and knees after I fell).  The resulting stimulation, dulled as
it was through layers of rubber and my own fog of sensory overload, served
only to intensify and prolong my contractions until I was distraught and
mindlessly sobbing with body-warming pain and unbearable pleasure.

Part 6

 At some point I must have lost consciousness for the next thing I knew,
I was lying across the threshold of the doorway at the foot of the stairs,
the animated riding crop nowhere to be seen.  I took stock of myself, half
expecting to discover I had broken something in my fall, but the total 
extent of damage was a slightly tender hip and a very reddened face as I 
realized how very pleasurable had been the beating I had just received.

 I was now convinced that I was not to discover the upper floors secrets 
just yet.  Accordingly, I picked myself up with care, straightened the 
wrinkles from my garments and dusted off the rubber as best I could.  Then 
I turned away from the mysterious stairs to explore the second half of the
hall.

 I walked past the five rooms I had already explored, crossed the landing
and selected the first door on the right.  I paused for a moment, my hand
on the knob, my heart pounding.  What of the sounds I thought I had heard
last night, the voices, that delicious moan?  And how (and why) had the 
statues downstairs managed to disappear and reappear?  I couldn't have 
imagined that!  The smart thing I told myself, was to leave that house 
then and there, never to return.  Who knew what bizarre fate might befall 
me, with no one in the outside world ever to be the wiser?  

 But I was a prisoner of my perversions, a slave to my curiosity- I could 
no more have left the mystery behind at that point than I could have slit 
my own wrists.  Marshalling my courage, I turned the knob and shoved the 
door wide, not yet daring to set foot across the threshold.  

 Within was the strangest thing I had yet seen in that house.  Just past
the open door, the entrance was occluded by a taught black membrane of the
ubiquitous India rubber.  It was twisted slightly, and bulged outward in a
spiral from a central point, as if it were a... well, modesty forbids my 
describing what it reminded me of.  The way was blocked.  I had no way of 
knowing what actually lay within the confines of that room, and I wasn't 
at all certain I wanted to find out.  It was then I noticed the moisture 
dripping from the central point where the folds met.  I was overcome then
by the things obscene anatomical appearance and I slammed the door in a 
panic, my breath coming in gasps.

 I turned my back on it and flung open the door across the hall before the
growing knot of fear in my stomach could become an urge to flee.  

 Thankfully, this door opened onto a scene more comprehensible, if not 
entirely ordinary.  The room was appointed with bizarre contraptions the
prurient intent of which was immediately obvious, as well as opulent and 
beautiful furniture and draperies, as if the builders could not decide 
whether to construct a perverse boudoir or a sitting room.

 I crept in cautiously, half expecting someone or something to jump out at
me at any moment.  The elaborate mechanical constructs took up most of the 
space in the room, and although it was apparent that each was intended to
make use of one or more human bodies, the exact function of most of them 
escaped me at first.  Every piece was different, and I could fathom the 
intended purpose of only a few.  Here, a simple horse with padded shackles
on either side, over which a body might be bent; there, an elaborate 
framework of metal tubing, festooned with straps and buckles, it's use a 
complete mystery.  Another item which hung from the ceiling by chains, 
held my attention for some time.  It appeared to be a sort of soft case or 
binder for a person.  It was made from very soft white leather, in the 
general outline of an Egyptian mummy case, and was equipped with numerous 
straps, lacings, and buckles, as well as several rubber hoses connected to 
a wheeled cart with tanks, valves and other plumbing on it.

 The ingenious devices here made me nervous, and I quit the room after 
only a cursory inspection of the contents.

 When I opened the next door I had to blink a few times to be certain of
what I was seeing.  Revealed was a chamber far more inviting, nay even 
pleasing to the eye, than any I had so far entered.  It was a kind of
bed chamber I realized, but decorated like a mans smoking room, with a
fireplace, heavy drapes, two book shelves, several large candelabra, a 
few small tables, and a pair of overstuffed chairs facing the fire.  The
giant bed stood almost unnoticed in the shadows at the far end of the 
room.  There was a distinctly masculine feel about the whole opulent 
boudoir.

 Very pleasant, at first glance.  

 I looked more closely and was afraid.

 The snarling face of the great bearskin rug on the floor did not startle
me, nor even the fire burning merrily, impossibly, in the hearth.  It was
not the grotesque andirons in the form of gargoyles at either side of the 
fire.  No, what caused icy fingers to clasp abruptly round my heart was 
the single crystal wine glass, half full, and the bottle, sitting on the 
table between the chairs.  The wine or port, or what ever was in that 
goblet, glowed a dark red- a deep, blood color, lit from within by the 
flames dancing on the grate.  But not even this disturbing fancy affected 
me so much as the actions of the liquid itself.

 The wine was moving, ever so slightly.  Swaying, swaying, back and forth,
a quick-tempo tide of red in miniature.  It was as if it had been set down
only moments before.  The whole scene was quite impossible.  Impossible
that is, if I was to believe the house truly empty, but after what I had 
seen so far, I was beginning to expect the unexpected.  I did not however,
expect what happened next.

 "Please come in Miss Swanson, and make yourself comfortable."

 I am proud to say that upon hearing that voice I did not immediately run
screaming from the house, even though that was my first inclination.  I 
think my already inflamed curiosity immediately overcame my startled 
terror just long enough for me to stop and think.

 The voice was deep and resonant, and sounded neither unfriendly nor 
sinister.  I realized then that someone was sitting in one of the chairs,
concealed by the high back and wide wings of its upholstery.  The light
of the fire was in my eyes, casting the chairs into shadow.  I would have
to enter and walk around the other chair, in fact stand right before the
fire place, before I would see his face.

 What was more, this person knew my name, another impossibility since I 
had travelled under an assumed name, and given yet another name in 
Harrowgate.

 "Please... that is... please, I'd rather not," I said, ashamed of the 
tremor in my voice.  I was twenty-four, an adult!  It was intolerable 
that I should stand in that doorway, quaking like a little girl before a
schoolmistress, yet there I stood, and quake I did.  I could not have 
moved to enter or flee at that moment had I wished to.  I felt as if my 
clothes, already restrictive enough, had turned to iron, and me with them,
I was that paralyzed with fright.

 "Come, come, my dear," the voice crooned, more fatherly and familiar now,
it seemed to me, "I shan't hurt you... in fact, that is the furthest thing 
from my mind right now.  At least close the door, you're letting in a 
draft."

 I felt foolish of a sudden, and given a decent, civil request to fulfill,
I found myself galvanized enough to move again.  I stepped forward only 
enough to pass the threshold, turned, and closed the door behind me.

 "Ah, good.  Thank you.  This old house is a bit drafty, and often becomes
chill of an evening.  Won't you join me for a short while, warm yourself 
by the fire?"

 I had no intentions of joining him for any purpose whatsoever, but I 
wanted desperately to know to whom I spoke, and what his purpose here 
might be.  I stepped cautiously around the empty chair, gazing all the 
while at the other.  As I drew closer to my goal, I noticed the room
seemed to be growing dimmer, and a suspicious glance at the fireplace
confirmed this- the fire was inexplicably dying.

 "Ah, I am sorry.  My nocturnal habits have accustomed me to darkened
chambers.  But I fear I am being inhospitable... some light then!"

 I had a brief glimpse of a smoking jacket sleeve, the gesture of a pale 
hand, and with that, the huge candelabra behind his chair lit by itself.  

 This time I did jump.

 "My apologies, I did not intend to startle you.  But there, that's much 
brighter, what?"

 Despite the improved illumination, his chair was now back-lit, with 
virtually no light hitting him from the fireplace, and it was now quite
impossible to make out who (or what) occupied that seat, let alone his
features.  I decided to take the offensive.

 "How did you do that?" I demanded.

 "Do what?" he asked blandly.

 "That, that... lighting the candles."

 "A parlour trick, a curiosity.  Nothing more, I assure you.  I dabble in
a few... arcane... fields of study, areas poorly understood by the common
man... occasionally I learn something that affords a convenience, such as 
lighting candles.  It is unimportant."

 His voice was resonant but soothing, reassuring and familiar, and I found
myself believing him, relaxing rather more than I had intended.  It seemed
his voice spoke to my body, not to my ears.

 "Your feet must surely be tired if you have worn those boots for long,
why don't you sit down there, and rest a bit.  I assure you, I shall
remain the perfect gentleman."
 
 Gingerly, I sat then, with some trepidation, sticking my tightly laced 
boots out in front of me like two stilts.  Despite the corset, I found
it easier to sit than I had expected, and I leaned back a bit into the
incredibly soft upholstery of the chair.  Inexplicably, I felt almost at
ease, as if I had suddenly been transported to the sitting room of an old
friend, and was quietly discussing the weather while sipping a sherry.

 "Who... if I may ask," I stammered, once again embarrassed and unsure of
myself, "who are you?  Do you live here?"

 "But of course, this is my home!  As for my name, I think you may already
have guessed that.  I have, alas, acquired some notoriety hereabout.  But
no matter.  Who I am is of no consequence at the moment.  Who you are is 
far more important, who you have been is almost as interesting, but who 
you are to become... now that is quite fascinating, and it is my greatest
concern!"

 "I don't understand... you knew my name..."  

 "I make it my business to know something about those who visit us here.
You are a treasured rarity, my dear.  It isn't often we receive guests.
Why then should we not take a pointed interest in you?"

 His voice was interfering with my ability to concentrate.  It's 
vibrations seemed to resonate within me, stirring something deep in my
belly.  It was not unpleasant.  I tried to remain on the offensive though, 
despite a sudden, inexplicable longing for whoever owned that voice.
 
 "All right then, but what about those statues downstairs?  When I came
here the first time, there were ten pieces of erotic, perverse sculpture
standing in a row.  Then when I left, they were gone!  And today, they 
are back..." I faltered.  I wanted answers, but I felt somehow that I 
didn't quite know the right questions to ask.

 "Statues?  Ah, of course.  Statues.  The front hall.  In good time, my 
dear, all in good time.  I fear you are not quite ready for that... 
revelation, but rest assured, you will learn all about the many... 
features of my house, eventually.  But I am curious, why did you come here
in the first place?  And how did you come to be dressed so... strangely?
Surely that is unusual fashion for a woman, even in this progressive age."

 I heard rather than saw a faintly knowing smile as he said this, and I
was taken aback for a moment.  He had cut to the heart of the matter, 
exposed what I was here to confront but had never dared speak plainly
of except to a rare few lovers.  I was certain now of his identity, 
impossible though it seemed- he would have to be over a hundred now!  But
what made my heart beat a little harder was that that this man might be
willing to accept me for who and what I was.  I suspected that he already
knew the answers to his questions, that he was trying to evoke a reaction 
from me.  And I wanted to oblige him, too.

 And yet I found myself quite unable to speak, of a sudden.  I stammered, 
made several false starts, and tried again.

 "I ah, well... it's not easy for a lady to discuss these things..."

 "Nonsense!" he rebuked me gently, "let us not delude ourselves!  By the
standards of today's society, you are no lady, else you would never have
found your way here."

 Before I could retort, he cut me off.  "Oh, don't look so offended!  To 
speak of a `lady' in this day and age is to speak of an empty, fragile 
flower- a pretty and decorative thing, but ultimately without PASSION, 
without LIFE.  It is plainly obvious that you are no such blushing virgin.

 "You have the look of a woman accustomed to a comfortable life, yet you 
are no doubt a pariah among high society.  You have chosen the path of a
libertine, a hedonist, and for that I salute you."

 "But I... I'm not sure I'm ready to..."

 "Compose yourself.  I know perhaps more about you than you know about 
yourself.  You need fear no judgement, no disparagement from me or mine on
any score save self-denial.  I understand what drives you, it burns within
me as well, just as it burns in the hearts of all my... guests.  Never the
less, I will hear it from your own lips, else you may expect no further 
hospitality from me.  I ask you again: why do you wear such strange 
garments, and where did you obtain them?"

 I struggled with myself for a few moments more before the years of social
conditioning relented and I could vocalize my desires.  I stared at the
cooling embers in the hearth rather than meet the unseen but palpable gaze
of my host.  When I spoke, it was almost a whisper, and I addressed my 
feet more than my host.

 "It's true.  I am a libertine.  But... I'm not like the other women I
know who have a... a `reputation'.  I have a great many... strange...
desires, perversions, some would say... have had, for as long as I can 
remember."  

 I broke off, near to tears.  I was confused.  I had tied up lovers, 
had been bound by them in turn.  I had dug my heels into the backs of 
men, had women use all manner of perverse paraphernalia on my most private
parts.  Why then this reluctance to admit to my fetishes?  I thought for a
moment.  While I had indulged my fantasies before, I had convinced myself 
and my lovers that it was all a game, that we took up our roles out of 
stylish ennui, a jaded desperation.  Never once had I admitted to a single 
human being, in frank language, that I enjoyed these things in and of 
themselves, that I pursued them for their own sake.  Never before had I 
been as close as I was now to opening the vaults of my heart to a total 
stranger, to letting someone see all of the dark and twisted desires that 
lived there.  It was a frightening yet thrilling denouement.

 "Pray, continue," he said after my pause had turned into a lengthy
silence.

 That simple entreaty completed his spell over me and I poured out my
heart.

 "I like... I enjoy being bound, and gagged, and held... immobile.  It
excites me even more than a lover's caresses.  I enjoy the most 
restrictive of clothes for the same reason, it's as if I were in 
ambulatory bondage.  I love my stays and laces- I am never uncorsetted."

 Once I was started again, I couldn't stop.  It all came out in a torrent.
It was as if his voice had hypnotized me. I felt slightly distanced, as if
some disembodied voice were telling my secrets, not me.

 "I love feeling out of control of my body.  When I am tightly laced or
belted, it's almost as if the lower half of my body is divorced from the
upper.  My hips sway and my gate becomes more swaggering, the muscles lose
some of their control.  The same applies to my heels, I suppose.  Very
high heels are difficult to walk in- they make me feel taller, superior, 
while at the same time putting me slightly off-balance.  When I'm dressed
this way, I can't forget about my body, I must concentrate to stay 
upright, and I'm constantly reminded of what I am wearing."

 "Yes..." my host murmured quietly, "go on."

 "And, well, I seem to have rather more than my fair share of... libido."

 "You mean that you are over-sexed."

 I blushed.  "Yes."

 "NO,: he contradicted harshly, "you are NOT oversexed.  Desire is a 
scale, not some absolute standard.  Each person has their own amount, and 
need simply seek out those who share your level of desire, as well as the 
nature of your desires.  You are above average it is true, but that does 
not make you any sort of freak."  He chuckled then.  "If it did, I and 
everyone in my house would be freaks."

 For this reassurance, I fought the urge to climb into his lap and kiss 
him.

 "Well, yes.  All right," I admitted.

 "And your clothes," he persisted, "where did you get them?"
 
 I screwed my courage up and looked directly into the shadows of his 
chair. 

 "I got them from you, as I'm sure you know."

 "Yes.  At least you are honest."

 "But what I want to know is how it is that they all just happen to fit 
me!"

 "What do you think?"

 I took inventory of my fears, my fantasies.  

 "I think... I think that you knew I was coming.  I think perhaps you may
have even drawn me here somehow."

 "You're insight is exceeded only by your licentiousness.  Very well then.
It's true.  I did know you were coming.  I... foresaw it.  You are not the 
only visitor of your sort to come to us.  And not likely the last.  This 
house is home to a long history of hedonism."

 He paused as if to collect his thoughts.

 "Are you familiar with the scientific theory of the ether?"

 I said that I was.

 "And have you noticed, or at least heard of, persons who are unusually 
sensitive to the feelings, moods, even thoughts, of others?  How do you 
suppose that is possible?  I have done research, made experiments...  It 
is my belief that our thoughts and emotions create waves in the ether, 
waves that may be sensed by those who are sufficiently sensitive, or more
to the point, those who are particularly attuned to the specific nature of
those thoughts."

 Here, I felt that he must be staring very hard at me, and I blushed 
anew.

 "The people who have stayed here over the years have reached heights of 
pleasure unimagined in your ah, outside world.  Because of this, the house
is steeped in a miasma of lusty energy, a psychic aroma of pleasure and 
pain conjoined.  It is this spreading ether of forbidden delights which 
attracts the libidinous, the hedonistic, the perverse.  Ah, forgive me.
In my dotage, I wax poetic far too easily."

 I wouldn't have thought him in his dotage!  His clear and deeply resonant
voice sounded of virility, competence, and masterful debauchery.  

 "As for your clothes, we have a veritable army of unusual tailors, 
smiths, cobblers, and corsetieres the world over.  The garments you found 
were made especially for you.  I wanted to give you an opportunity to 
discover, on your own, a little of what is possible.  To find yourself, as
it were."

 "I...I'm grateful, I assure you.  But then they changed... I couldn't get
them off..."

 "Correct.  Once you have left that room, they cannot be removed unless 
you wear my favor, the amulet."

 "But... the laces of the corset simply disappeared!  The collar of the 
suit, and the waist band of the skirt...it was like magic."  

 "Yes... it must have surprised you.  But that was my intent, after all.
I wanted to be certain that you were the right sort.  A less... interested
woman would have panicked, perhaps cutting the garments off in her haste 
to be free.  Clearly, you enjoyed what was done to you, what you did to 
yourself."

 I blushed, but persevered.

 "But how is it done?"

 "The specifics are not your concern.  Perhaps in time I shall let you in
on a few of my secrets.  But really: magic, science, it makes little 
difference.  Think of it however you will.  Any sufficiently advanced 
science is indistinguishable from magic in any case.  But speaking of the
amulet, I notice you are not wearing it- where is it?"

 The question was asked almost casually, but something in his voice had
my heart in my throat and my pulse pounding instantly.

 "I... I..."  I glanced around the room, ready to bolt from my chair.

 "Emily," he said, more kindly it seemed, "what happened?"

 "I lost it!" I blurted.  Instantly, I regretted my honesty.

 "Ah, I thought as much.  I... felt your excitement as you approached the
house this morning.  I assumed as much."

 "You mean... you're not angry?" I was afraid to feel relieved yet, was 
still tensed in case his temper erupted.

 "Angry?  No.  Disappointed, perhaps.  It was a valuable bauble, and you
_were_ careless... but you need fear no reprisals.  You were not under
my... covenants when it happened."

 I heaved a sigh of relief as he continued, although I wasn't at all sure
I trusted him yet.  Lusted after him, perhaps, for what reason I couldn't
say, but trusted?  No.

 "I want you to feel welcome here.  The room in which you first dressed
is yours for the duration of your stay, if you wish it.  We would be most 
honored to have you."

 "I... I'm not sure..."

 "Do not answer yet.  If you stay, you will be making a commitment.  And I 
would not ask that of you when you are so newly awakened.  You stand at
the gateway to a strange and wondrous world, our world.  But you are not
yet born into that world, and until you are, you must remain forever
outside, as a child peering through a candy store window.  I would have
you join us here... join my family... Eh?  You have a question?"

 "You keep saying `our', `we', and so on.  But you're the only one I've 
seen here.  Are there others living here?  And if so, where are they?"

 "Oh yes, there are others... a select few.  My lovers, my family- loving
mistresses, slaves, and masters all.   Like me, they are nocturnal in 
their habits, but they are here.  You will meet them, become one of them,
if you choose to remain.  In fact, you have seen them, though you knew it
not."

 I shuddered, afraid that I knew to what he referred.  He went on.

 "But I see I have taxed you... you have had a long day.  You should rest 
now.  We will speak again tomorrow."

 Untouched by any tangible hands, the doors to the room opened by 
themselves.

 "I believe you know the way to your room.  I trust it is to your liking.
It is as comfortable as we could devise."  

 One pale hand gestured to the door, and I realized I had been dismissed.
Rather than taking affront, I was only too glad to escape from that
hypnotic voice and it's disturbing "parlor tricks".  Besides, being in his
presence was having a tremendously arousing effect on me.

 As I passed through the doors, he spoke again, softly, from immediately 
behind me.

 "Emily."

 I whirled, but there was no one there.  When his voice came again, it was 
once again from the chair.  A quirk of the room acoustics, I told 
myself.  After all, I was an educated woman, and I ought not to believe in
the supernatural.

 "Emily, I do not make my offer lightly, nor will it remain open for long.
You are of a rare breed.  Here alone will you be among those who 
experience life as you do.  If you leave us once more, we will never meet 
again.  In that event, I fear that you shall know an exquisite loneliness
for the rest of your life.  Think on that, and sleep, and tomorrow we
shall speak again."

 With that, the candelabra extinguished itself, plunging the room into 
darkness and putting flight to my feet.  I closed the doors a bit too hard
and fled down the hall to `my' room.

Part 7

 I felt safer once I was back in the familiar confines of "my" room, the
first boudoir I had explored.  I looked around.  So this was to be mine, 
was it?  I felt a thrill of nervous excitement, the sort of expectant
exuberance I imagine a young lady must feel on her wedding night.  But
I was no blushing bride, and there was no nervous groom here intent upon 
bedding me.

 The huge bed did however, call to me, and I began to undress.  Just as 
Lord Hargreaves (for surely it had been he who had played my host
downstairs) had promised, my skirt and other garments came off quite 
easily in that room, and after a brief struggle with the laces of my 
corset, I was bare.  I am quite certain that my peers at home would have
been horrified that I slept in the nude, but it was a habit of years, and
I wasn't about to give up my comfort just because I slept in a strange 
place.

 I left everything where it fell, thinking to tidy up in the morning.  
I was too tired to care about proper housekeeping just then, or even the
bath I so desperately needed.  I crawled through the bed curtains, but 
immediately smacked my head upon the iron wheel-and-harness thing I had 
seen on my first visit.  It hung right over the middle of the bed- it 
could hardly have been in a more inconvenient place!  I rubbed my forehead
and glared at the offending device, trying not to think about it's 
probable purpose.  I stared up at the hole in the canopy where the support 
chain disappeared.  It seemed to go right through the ceiling. 

 Damn and blast it!  It occurred to me that there must be some way to 
raise and lower the thing- surely one couldn't be expected to sleep in 
this bed with that ominous construct hanging right over one?  I swung out 
of bed and prowled around it.  Sure enough, on the wall on the other side 
of the bed was a small handwheel I had missed on my first visit.  
(Obviously, I am too easily distracted by new clothes, especially those 
for which I have a certain... fascination.)

 I cranked it experimentally a few times, and slowly, the thing began
to rise.  It took a lot of cranking, but the mechanism had been made 
cleverly, for very little effort was required.  A good thing, since I am 
not so strong.  Eventually, the thing was tucked up into the shadows of 
the huge canopy, and there was plenty of room for me to sleep comfortably.

 I slept the deep sleep of the innocent, (never mind the obvious fallacy), 
yet feverish visions of bizarre bondage and ghostly lovers occupied my 
thoughts as I drifted off, and when true sleep finally came, my dreams as
well.

 I awoke abruptly, grasping at the shreds of my last dream as it faded in 
the bright morning light.  It had been a disturbing scene which faded 
quickly in the bright light of the morning.  I vaguely remembered that it
had involved five phalluses, but it had been neither particularly erotic
nor disturbing, only weird.  

 But... light?  I sat up to find daylight streaming in through the opened 
bed curtains.  Hadn't they been closed when I had gone to bed?  I stared 
around me.  The window drapes had been pulled back as well, giving a 
splendid view of the woods surrounding the house.  I got out of bed and
looked about the room.  The perverse clothes of which I had divested 
myself so eagerly the night before were nowhere to be seen.  Someone had
been in here while I slept!  No doubt their intentions were laudable, as 
the place was now tidy again, but nevertheless, the realization sent a few
shivers up my spine.

 A satin robe had been left lying over one chair.  I got up and put it on,
a bit suspicious, since after all, clothing from this house has fooled me 
before, but it remained a perfectly ordinary robe, and did not see fit to 
bestow any unwelcome attentions upon my person.  The next order of 
business was a bath- I smelled as bad as the horse which had brought me 
here.

 As far as I knew, there was only the one bath, the next door down.  Did 
all the (hitherto unseen) residents share that one large facility?  What
a decadent notion!  I made my timid way down the hall and looked the room
over.  I paused for a moment over the padded basin/couch, but in the end I
opted for the shower/bath.  And what a shower it was!  There were knobs 
galore, and six different nozzles, and the bath was deep enough and wide 
enough for four!

 What really caught my attention was the basket of perfumed soaps, shampoo
bath oils, and sponges just outside the shower doors.  Another thing that 
had not been here on my previous visit.  It seemed I was being well 
cared-for.

 I shrugged off the robe and proceeded to take the longest shower of my
entire life, followed immediately by an even longer bath.  Happily, the
hot running water (!) never ran out.  I was a little wrinkled when I was
done, but clean and relaxed.  I returned to my room feeling much more
civilized.

 The next question was what to wear.  I opened both armoires.  My own
riding leathers were nowhere to be seen. I checked the closet.  As before,
nothing but shoes and boots.  It seemed I... there was something on the 
bed.  Someone had been here again, while I bathed.  

 A tidy pile of glossy black clothing, leather, straps and buckles, and 
so forth was surmounted by a small hand written note.  

            "My Dear Emily," I read, "it would please me 
            greatly if you would wear these things today.  
       
            When you are dressed, you will find breakfast 
            waiting for you in the dining room.  I regret
            I will be unable to join you until this evening.
         
            Please make yourself at home- read, relax, listen
            to music.  You may explore the rest of the house
            as you will, but as you are no doubt aware by 
            now, it holds a surprise or two for the unwary.  
            You are in no danger, but you may stumble across 
            one or two things which may be distasteful to you.
 
            I look forward to seeing you again tonight.  Won't
            you join me for dinner at 7?  Formal dress is 
            appropriate.  
                                                    -H."


 Well!  The man certainly had cheek!  Never the less, I was flattered by
this attention, however presumptuous. 
 
 I turned my attention to the pile of clothing on the bed and made a 
quick inventory, uncertain whether I was actually able to comply with his 
instructions whether I wished to or no, and fearful of what might happen 
if I did not.
 
 My first reaction at the selection of clothing resulted in a rather 
unladylike suggestion for my host, but after a moments contemplation, I 
realized two things.  Not only might it be unwise for me to refuse, 
possibly incurring some unpleasant punishment (I thought of the punitive 
content of many of the paintings throughout the house), but secondly, 
what reason had I to be embarrassed?  After all, the residents of the place 
(where-ever they were hiding) had surely seen far more outrageous things!

 Having reached that conclusion, my admittedly acute interest in the
clothes took over and I began fumbling with straps, buckles and clasps, 
trying to divine how it all went together.  At least it was a change from
the ever-present gutta percha clothing.

 The better part of my raiment for the day was to be an elaborate corselet
or corset-dress fashioned from black patent leather.  This outrageous 
garment had no covering for the breasts or buttocks, however!  There were
no bust cups as such, only small individual shelves, like cups that had 
been cut open.  The bottom hem extended nearly to my knees, but the 
derrier was cut out in a large circle and a separate section of lacing
eyes closed the lower portion.  I flushed as I saw that the strap 
connecting the two was intended to run between my buttocks.  

 The pile also contained a pair of the now-familiar high boots, so I set
the corselet aside, knowing I would be unable to bend enough to don the 
boots once the stays were laced tightly about my waist, hips, and thighs.
The boots were easy enough to put on although if possible, their heels 
(and the arch into which they forced my feet) were even more extreme than
the ones I had worn before.  The tops had lacing eyes around the rim, and
looking at the corselet, I saw that matching eyes were placed about its 
lower hem.

 I struggled into the corset-dress then and laboriously laced up the 
back as best I could.  This was no easy thing, but I'd had years of 
practice getting into my own stays unaided, so I managed it eventually, 
although I had to stop for breath and rest more than once.  The hardest 
part was the portion below my rear.  I had laced the top part first and 
soon found that I couldn't bend enough to reach the bottom portion.  I had
to loosen the top and start over.  

 Pulling the strap tight and buckling it squeezed my cheeks deliciously, 
but made them protrude even more.  By the time I was done, I was convinced 
that I made a ridiculous sight, but I refrained from looking in the mirror
for the moment.  I wished to delay the embarrassing vision of my projecting 
bottom and breasts as long as possible.

 Lacing the bottom hem to the tops of the boots was tedious, but simple.
When those laces were tightened as much as possible, it lent quite a 
unique sensation to my legs, as if someone were constantly trying to pull
my boots up.  Different, and actually rather nice, once I got used to it.

 There were only two more things to put on, a pair of long black gloves in
shiny patent leather, and an odd sort of collar, also in black patent.  
The latter was in effect a miniature corset with boning, the top and 
bottom of which being contoured to accommodate the head and shoulders.  
When laced on, it had the effect of forcing my head regally erect, and 
limiting head movement quite severely.  The effect was disconcerting, but
I decided I liked it.

 When I was dressed, I pirouetted before the long dressing mirror, trying
to get used to the idea of walking about with most of my more delicate 
parts on display.  In the end, it was the remembrance of just what sort of
household I now found myself in, that comforted me enough to venture out 
of my room.  This place was, and had been for more years than I had been 
alive, a den of iniquity, a haven of the perverse, a refuge for those who
like myself, had discovered within themselves a greater capacity for 
physical enjoyment than most people knew existed.

 Whether revelation or mere rationalization, it was enough, and it was a 
much more proud and confident woman who stepped into the hallway.  I was
glad to have a warrant of sorts from Lord Hargreaves, for I fully intended
to continue my exploration of his fascinating manse, despite (or perhaps 
because?) of my previous experiences.  I had even tucked the note into the
top of my corselet, in case I finally ran into some denizen of the house, 
who might otherwise question my inquisitiveness.

 But first, breakfast!  I negotiated the huge front staircase carefully,
although it's architects might well have had my boots in mind, so wide and
shallow were the steps.

 I found the dining room through the sitting room, midway through the 
house.  As promised a sumptuous breakfast, enough for many more than
myself, was spread on the table.  There was scarcely room for the single
place setting, for all the food!  Steam rose from several covered dishes,
and I was reminded with a shudder, of the legend of Beauty And The Beast.

 I broke my fast on hot tea with milk, cinnamon scones, a poached egg, and
several sorts of fresh fruit.  Ever the gourmand, I would have eagerly 
sampled all that the feast had to offer, but my corsetted condition left
no room for gluttony.  As a dietary measure, I can recommend tight-lacing
to all young women who are conscious of their figure.

 When I had finished, I debated only briefly what to do next.  Lord 
Hargreaves' note had suggested that I might bide my time by reading,
playing music, or continuing my explorations.  

 Now I adore music, but I have no musical talent of my own, and while 
books are an undying passion for me, my most immediate interest was in 
satisfying my curiosity as to the rest of this fascinating abode.

 So I made my clumsy way upstairs again, intent upon exploring the 
remaining two rooms at the left end of the hall, and possibly the third 
floor as well, if those abominable animated stairs would permit it.

 I paused at the door to the bed chamber where Lord Hargreaves had 
received me the night before, wondering if he slept within, or was hiding
in some remote cranny of the immense house.  His comments on nocturnal 
habits brought to mind the horrific writings of Bram Stoker.  Perhaps he
was asleep in a coffin in the basement.  It occurred to me to wonder 
whether the place had a real dungeon, like the old castles.  I shuddered,
and passed over that door.

 The fourth door opened onto what could only be the complement to my 
hosts bed chamber.  This room was as feminine and graceful as the other 
had been masculine and businesslike.  It was recognizably a bedroom, with
a bed (thankfully unoccupied) as huge as milords, but there the similarity 
ended.  Where the other room had a fireplace with andirons, this had a 
large tiled mantle and apron with a painted porcelain stove.  Where the
other featured iron candelabra, this employed fine china oil lamps.  
Curiously, I realized that neither room had the electric lights I'd found
in my room!  In all, I a charming little boudoir, and wholly 
uninteresting.  I left it unexplored.

 The fifth room was more like what I had come to expect from this bizarre
mansion.  Obviously another play room, it was outfitted similarly to ones
at the opposite end of the hall, albeit with very different accessories.
I ventured in and looked around.  The most striking feature was a huge
tank or pool with glass sides supported by a metal framework, that took up
fully a fourth of the room.  It dominated the room, and were it not for 
the windows, draperies, and wallpaper, would have made the place look more
like a laboratory than any sort of boudoir or play room.  It was taller 
than I by at least a foot, reaching to within a few feet of the high 
ceiling.  I looked it over curiously.  I had no idea what it was for.

There was some plumbing, including one very large pipe, some valves and
levers on one side, and a drain in the floor of the tank.  Steel ladders
led to the rim and down inside.  It might just as well have been an 
elaborate swimming pool or whirlpool bath, save that it was empty, and
this was certainly no solarium.  I struggled up the stairs, looking in, 
and struggled down again, no wiser than before.  I shrugged and moved on.

 There were a great many cabinets along the walls, and the center of the 
room was taken up by several unusual pieces of complex furniture.  I 
rummaged through a few cabinets and found a host of garments, equipment 
and accoutrements in leather, rubber, and metal.  There were strait-jackets
and arm binders, corsets and leg-binders, helmets and hoods, and not a few
things I couldn't identify at all.

 One item that immediately struck my fancy was apparently a body-binder
built for two, in the shape of a mummy case.  It bore two helmets, had a
laced closure, and an investigation into it's interior revealed long 
pockets for each occupant's arms and legs.  It looked like an exercise in
frustration.  I put it away with a bemused smile.

 This room, like the others I had seen before, was positively stuffed with
pleasurable possibilities, but I could experiment later.  I was still 
itching to discover what lay above me on the third floor.  

 I closed the door behind me and went to the door in the other wing which
led to the third floor stairs.  I opened the door slowly, cautiously, half
expecting to find that haunted riding crop on the other side, but there 
was nothing out of the ordinary.  I set one foot on the stairs.  Nothing 
happened.  I ventured another, looking over my shoulder in case that 
horrid whip should reappear.  Nothing.  Slowly, I made my way up the 
stairs, checking nervously behind me as I went, expecting the stairs to
go into motion again at any moment.  To my surprise, I made it to the top
without incident.  I found myself in an attic space, which appeared to run
the length of the house.  It was immense, it was dusty, and it was dark.  
I shivered, despite the fact that the vast room was quite warm.  Chests
and boxes were everywhere, arranged in relatively tidy rows.  A few empty
picture frames were stacked in a corner.  A dress form, covered in dust
and cobwebs stood forgotten to my left.  There was nothing here but what
one would expect to find in an attic.  

 Why then the ghostly protection I had run into upon my first visit, why
the mechanical stairs?  And where in the hell did the domestics stay?  If
indeed there were any such.  By then, I was more than willing to believe
that Lord Hargreaves really was some sort of sorcerer, and that his house 
was peopled solely by unseen, intangible servants.  I shivered again, and
quit the attic in a hurry.

 That left the basement, if there was one, the kitchens, and  whatever 
else I'd missed on the first floor.  Given my previous thoughts on the 
subject of basements and dungeons, I wasn't about to venture that far 
alone, and with the exception of the library, the first floor seemed far 
too mundane to be interesting.  I decided then, that I should spend the 
remainder of my afternoon with the entertainments available here on the 
second floor.

 I wandered into one of the rooms at this end, the one where I had so
carelessly (and deliciously) trapped myself the week before.  I gave the
fiendish mask and it's accessories a wide berth, and looked over the room.

 The only other item I had taken any note of on my first visit had been 
the "mummy case" leaning against one wall, although I now saw that there
were plenty of other interesting items.   I examined the harness hanging 
in the corner, which I had noted on my first visit.  After a moments
thought, I realized it was intended to suspend a person in a relaxed,
horizontal position, while securing their hands and feet in soft leather
cuffs.  I grinned, imagining a few uses for it, before turning back to 
the sarcophagus.

 With my imagination as jumpy as it was, I was reluctant to even touch 
the thing, but upon closer examination, I found that it bore very little
resemblance to the Egyptian sarcophagus I had seen in the New York
museum.

 The case was in the outline of a human form, perhaps a few inches taller
than I, but there the similarity ended.  This artifact was made from the
same hard black material as the helmet on the other side of the room, and
had modern-looking metallic fixtures and hinges.  It was not leaning 
against the wall as I had at first thought, but was tilted at an angle on
a pivot anchored to the floor.  

 The lid was ajar.  I froze.  Had it been open before?  I couldn't 
remember.  I told myself there were no such things as mummies, although
in light of the supernatural events surrounding me in the last week, i
couldn't be too sure.  I stared at the thing, desperately curious as to
it's contents, deathly afraid of getting any closer to it.  I reached out
for the lid.  Slowly, gingerly, I eased it open.

Part 8,
and Conclusion

 The only other item I had taken any note of on my first visit had been 
the "mummy case" leaning against one wall, although I now saw that there
were plenty of other interesting items.   I looked over the harness 
hanging in the corner, which I had neglected before.  It seemed to be
intended to suspend a person in a relaxed, horizontal position, while 
securing their hands and feet in soft leather cuffs.  I grinned, imagining
a few uses for it, before turning to the sarcophagus.

 With my imagination as jumpy as it was, I was reluctant to even touch 
the thing, but upon closer examination, I found that it bore very little
resemblance to the Egyptian sarcophagus I had seen in the New York
museum.

 The case was in the outline of a human form, perhaps a few inches taller
than I, but there the similarity ended.  This artifact was made from the
same hard black material as the helmet on the other side of the room, and
had modern-looking metallic fixtures and hinges.  It was not leaning 
against the wall as I had at first thought, but was tilted at an angle on
a pivot anchored to the floor.  

 The lid was ajar.  I froze.  Had it been open before?  I couldn't 
remember.  I told myself there were no such things as mummies, although
in light of the supernatural events surrounding me in the last week, i
couldn't be too sure.  I stared at the thing, desperately curious as to
it's contents, deathly afraid of getting any closer to it.  I reached out
for the lid.  Slowly, gingerly, I eased it open.

 There was no occupant, although the interior was certainly interesting 
enough.  It took me a few moments to discern the intent of the thing.  The
whole interior was molded in the form of a person, even to the point of 
separate channels for legs and arms.  It was obviously intended to hold 
the occupant motionless, and perhaps, to _do_ things to them in that 
state.  A female occupant I might add.  The lid was molded as well, and 
had two recesses in the appropriate place over the chest.  I touched the 
material tentatively, found it resilient but firm, not unlike the lining 
of that head-sculpture bondage contraption that I had already experienced.
There were slots and holes here and there in padded interior, within which
additional restraints, or... accessories would be concealed, I was sure.
The thing was far too scary for me to try out, and I let the lid close 
softly, slowly, before backing away from it.  There was little else to see
in this room, so I went back into the hall.

 I thought about all the rooms I had seen up here, and what was in each of
them.  The huge glass tank still puzzled me, so I returned to that room.
I walked around the huge tank for a while, letting my imagination run 
wild, but only improbable fantasies came to mind.  

 It was only after I looked through more of the cabinets that I began to
have an inkling.  One of the things I found was a collection of helmets
or hoods, made of the ubiquitous black gum elastic, and equipped with 
some very unusual features.  I took one down and looked it over.  It was
much like my own leather helmets in shape, but there the similarity ended.
This thing had three very long corrugated hoses attached to the front (so
long that they had been coiled up in a separate wooden box), and big glass
lenses over the eyes.  It looked a bit like the things I had seen deep sea
divers wearing when I had visited the Naval Ship Yards as a child.  But 
this rubbery material was much softer and looked far more comfortable (not
to mention sensual) than the huge metal balls that the divers wore.  It 
had no laces at the back like my leather ones had, and I assumed it would
simply have to be stretched over the head.  I peered inside and my eyes 
grew wide. 

 There was a sort of padded cup at the front, obviously intended to fit 
over the mouth and nose, but what really drew my attention was the short
plug, slightly phallic in shape, which projected inward where the mouth
must go.  This was no diver's helmet!  Then inspiration struck.  I looked
from the mask to the tank, and back to the mask again.  I walked over to 
the tank.  Some of the plumbing had elaborate connectors which matched
those attached to the mask.  Aha!  I tried them, and found that they fit, 
although the connectors would only mate in one combination.  The box on
the tank had two levers.  I turned one, and heard a brief hissing.  As I
watched entranced, the gag inside swelled to twice it's former size, while
the collar of the hood swelled into a fat roll.  Hmm!  I turned the other
lever and heard more hissing which did not stop.  I put my hand inside the
mask and felt a flow of cool air.

 Well, the intended purpose of the mask was fairly obvious.  Now what 
could be done with the tank?  Fill it with water and practice one's 
underwater swimming?  In a house such as this, it seemed unlikely.  I 
turned off the valves and left the mask sitting on the floor.  

 I looked at the remaining plumbing, wary of activating anything quite so
massive.  But in the end, I succumbed to curiosity yet again, my courage
bolstered by Lord Hargreaves' note that I would come to no harm.  I 
reached for the largest of the valves on the big pipe.  To my surprise, it
turned easily, and immediately, a very thick, clear liquid began to pour
from the opening within the tank.  It was as clear as water, but it looked
as thick as honey!  Shutting off the valve, I clambered up the side of the
tank and down inside.  Cautiously, I stuck a toe in the slowly spreading
puddle on the floor.  It was slippery, and as thick as it looked.  

 Cautiously I touched some of it where it dripped from the pipe.  It was
the consistency of molasses, and quite warm to the touch!

 Now I knew what the purpose of this tank was!  My head swam as I imagined
the sensations of swimming (if one could even call it that) in the 
gelatinous goo, perhaps even frolicking with a lover (or two) in it's 
slippery embrace, struggling against the resistance of the viscous stuff.

 In the grip of my libidinous vision, I determined then and there to 
sample this pleasure.  Then I looked down at my clothes.  As wicked and
pleasurable as this corset dress was, the patent leather would surely be
ruined if it got wet.  I would have to change.

 I returned to my room, divested myself of collar, gloves, corset-dress, 
and boots, and then looked through the two armoires for something 
appropriately decadent to wear.  What was in vogue for splashing about in
syrup?  I found the tight amber bloomers (with their wicked rods) and 
could think of nothing I'd like better.  I found more of the lubricant in
the chest, and put them on, shivering with guilty pleasure at their
intimate invasion.  Despite the state of exposure in which I had spent the
better part of the day, modesty forbade me from waltzing about as naked as
these bloomers left me, however.  I looked for something to cover up the
rest.  And found the same tight suit of gum elastic that had made my life
so entertaining the day before.  What could be more appropriate?  The idea
of combining it's close embrace with the thick and slippery liquid in the
next room thrilled me to no end.  In minutes I was dressed.  It seemed
wise under the circumstances, to leave off any corset, boots or other
additions.

 I returned to the room with the tank, knees shaking slightly, and opened
the big valve fully, watching with impatient fascination as the tank
slowly filled.  I put my hand on the glass as the thick stuff crept slowly
upward.  After a moment, I could feel the warmth coming through the glass.
I wondered idly where the goo was stored, how it was pumped, what kept it
warm, before the rising tide of my perverse desire forced my attention
back to the task at hand.  Speaking of rising tides, the liquid was almost
ready to overflow the top!  I turned off the valve in a hurry.  I was sure
my host wouldn't appreciate such a mess.  

 Putting on the "diving helmet" involved borrowing a bit of lubricant from
the interior of my suit, as it fit quite tightly, and would not otherwise
have slid over my head.  Once I had it on however, the feeling was 
exquisite, much closer and sensual than my leather hoods, and the gag
invading my mouth was an added bonus.  Cautiously then, I opened the first
valve to the mask.  The tubing twitched, and simultaneously, I felt the 
plug swelling within my mouth, the collar swelling around my throat.  What
if it was too tight?  Would it choke me?  The gag got bigger and bigger, 
until I feared I would have to turn it off and abandon my little 
adventure, and then the pressure eased.  The collar had swelled to a huge
soft roll around my neck, sealing the helmet to my suit, but not exerting
undue pressure around my neck.  Indeed, the net effect was to hold my head
up much like the high collar I had put on that morning.  Only then did I
realize that I had been holding my breath with excitement.  And I couldn't
breathe!  Panicking, I flipped the other lever, and relaxed as a flood of
cool air flowed into the inner mask covering my mouth and nose.

 I looked up at the tank through the lenses.  I felt like some adventurer,
an intrepid explorer of unknown sensual frontiers, and I for a moment, I
deliberately delayed, savoring the moment, fantasizing in a vague sort of
way that I was about to be subjected to some fantastical, perverted test.
 My sex clenched involuntarily around the wiggling firmness within me. 
 
 I climbed up the ladder, pulling my hoses behind me, ensuring that there
was more than enough length for me to enter the tank safety.  I stood 
teetering at the top for only a moment before jumping in.  

 Or rather, jumping ON.  The goop was so thick that at first, I didn't 
penetrate much at all, but lay on the surface, sinking into it only 
slowly.  But gradually I sank into it's warm embrace, (not so warm as I
had thought it would be) revelling in the strange, viscous feeling of
entrapment.  It was clear the just trying to move around in this stuff
would be tremendously fatiguing after only a short time.

 Having never swam under water before, I endured a brief sense of panic
as I the surface closed over my head, but I breathed deeply and quickly
as I sank to convince myself that I really was safely breathing under
water.  That facet alone was a novel experience, but an altogether 
pleasant one, and I suddenly suspected I knew what moved those Navy 
divers to don their clumsy equipment and walk about beneath the waves.

 But I had, I was sure, a far more entertaining suit to wear!  As I
rolled and squirmed (with difficulty) in the thick liquid, the weighted
rods within me wiggled in turn, slowly churning my libido to a fever 
pitch.  I relaxed, slowed, putting off the inevitable.  I didn't want to
become jaded (or fatigued) of this wonderful new experience too soon.

 For a time I simply lay relaxed and still, arms and legs floating loose,
and meditate on the fantastic situation, indeed the almost unbelievable
house and host I found myself a guest of.  It seemed a dream come true.
The thick, warm liquid supported and relaxed me, such that I gradually
gave up my pursuit of pleasure for the moment (after all, I had the entire
afternoon), and my thoughts drifted to my past, at the events in my life
which had culminated in my trip to this house, even to this priceless,
delicious moment.

 All my life I had had to carefully lock my thoughts and desires away 
from those around me, lest I lose the respect of my peers, perhaps even
lose my freedom and my inheritance.  I had often wondered what made me
different- why I revelled in sexual pursuits while many of my peers
condemned such behavior.  Or why even in my sexuality, I was grossly
different than the majority of those around me.  From the earliest age I
had had a fascination with bondage, with immobility, with tight, 
restrictive clothing.  My guardians had been horrified when I was caught
tying up my dollies as a little girl, and I had been spanked for that and
other perversions on more than one occasion.  I learned later in life that
they thought my parents responsible somehow, although no one would speak 
ill of the dead, at least not openly.

 I had thought on that many times, and could find no behavior on the part
of my parents that might have contributed to my unusual tastes or 
licentious behavior.  Perhaps the theories of the naturalist Charles 
Darwin held some answers.  His treatise, "On The Origin Of Species" had
been a popular subject of debate among my circles when I had left America.

 Perhaps there was simply some process of selection, something like the
process by which blonde hair is selected in the progeny of blonde parents,
that might account for my unusual interests.

 At first I had thought myself a freak, for as I grew older and braver, I
dared to mention my passtimes to playmates and found to my chagrin that
they did not share my interests.  Indeed, I was branded a Jezebel at best,
a monster at worst until the spoiled brats forgot and forgave me, as 
children so often do.  It was not until I was in school (where again I 
found myself outcast, for it was considered unseemly for a woman to seek
education at that time) that I met a man who made me feel human again.

 My young Lothario (who I shall not identify, he is now a promising young
attorney) not only pursued the pleasures of the flesh as enthusiastically 
as I (while retaining at all times the appearance of a gentleman), he was
only too willing to indulge in the forbidden pleasures which I gradually
revealed to him.  More than once I had expressed my concern that these
perverse desires of mine set me apart from all humanity, and he assured
me that not only was I not unique in that regard, I was without knowing 
it, part of an entire subculture of secretive libertines who pursued
practices as bizarre and wicked as my own.  In fact, I learned later in
live that there were some who went rather farther than I thought prudent,
and some who were cruel, unpleasant people, who had fallen from the path
of pleasure and revelled instead in the suffering of others, whether those
others enjoyed such suffering or not.  These persons I shunned, feeling as
I did that they had embraced a morally indefensible avocation.

 The fond, heated memory of my first lover to indulge me in bondage and 
other games (although not my first partner by any means) rekindled the
flame of desire within me, and brought my attention back to the present.

 The unnatural sensation of having my movements restricted sent a surge of
heat through my loins, and I struggled to bring one hand up to caress
myself.  To my surprise, I found that the liquid in which I was immersed
now seemed significantly thicker, more glutinous than before.  I noticed
that was somewhat cooler than before as well.  Under the assault of my
rising passion, those thoughts were dismissed casually, however.  

 Naturally, any liquid thickens as it cools, such as honey.

 I arched my back and gave in to the increasingly insistent sensations
emanating from my groin.  Ahh, the novelty of these sensations!  I could
move about, but only in slow motion, the thick gelatin surrounding me
fighting my every gesture.  I slide my hands along the form fitting skin
which enclosed me.  The liquid felt slick, almost greasy.  Again, the 
texture of thick honey came to mind.  I was beginning to lose the ability
to think coherently, as the onslaught of physical delights overwhelmed my
senses.

 Something nagged at what remained of my rational mind, however.  Has some
aspect of my environment changed?  I glanced out through the glass walls 
of the tank, to be certain I was still unobserved.  Then I had it.  The
room had grown darker, dimmer.  I squirmed in the goo, struggling into a
position to look at the windows.  Sure enough, there was little light now
coming in between the drapes.  Was it so late already?  Had I daydreamed
so long?  Then I felt a familiar yet creepy sensation.  The rods within
me, despite my nearly motionless state, had begun a slow gyration, 
accompanied by the faintest of throbbings.  Of course!  The sun was going
down, and since I was outside my room, without the amulet, the ensorcelled
bloomers begun the same mischief they had played before.

 I grinned to myself around the gag filling my mouth, and attempted to
add my own gyrations to those coming from within.  But I now found it 
nearly impossible to move my limbs, so thick and stiff had my bath become.
Was the stuff solidifying around me?  I began to panic, struggling to
crawl through the stuff toward the ladder and safety, freedom, but even
raising an arms was now a monumental effort.

 More over, my ability to care about movement or freedom was becoming 
increasingly diluted as the activity inside my most private spaces changed
from sedate to frenetic.  The soft rods inside wiggled and throbbed in a
mad, implacable dance, and the small bumps on the interior of the pants
rubbed just enough against my most sensitive spot that I soon felt an 
explosion coming on.  But the build was slow, gradual, and in terms of 
intensity, of intolerable sensation, it soon surpassed the point where I
would normally of climaxed, until I was quite unable to breathe from the
suspense.  I realized that I was approaching a paroxysm of monumental
proportions, and it both frightened and thrilled me.  A tiny part of me
wondered if I would even survive with my sanity, it built and built 
without letting go, until I was quite mad with impatience and frustration.

 I struggled against the soft but unyielding gel which now held me fast,
trying desperately to move something, even a finger.  It was impossible.
I was weightless, suspended, like a fly trapped in amber.  I tried to arch
my back, thrust with my hips, anything to hasten the arrival of my orgasm,
even opening my clenched eyes to stare wildly about at my surroundings.

 And stared straight into the eyes of a man who could only be Lord 
Hargreaves.  He stood on the other side of the glass, a sardonic grin on
his face, his hands spread against the tank.  Nor was he alone.  I had 
only enough time to notice what seemed a veritable host of women standing
behind him before the first wave of my climax broke over me, in a searing
flash of vibrating heat.  I had never felt anything so transcendent in my
entire life, and I was helpless to stop it or to affect the outcome.  I
floated, frozen in place, staring into his deep, deep eyes, as wave after
wave of unbearable pleasure swept through me, each one taking with it a
little of my sanity, a little of my consciousness.

 The last thing I remembered was his eyes, his eyes alone, existing 
without a face like the Cheshire Cat, peering into mine as if to pierce my
very soul.  And as the last convulsion shook me, shredding conscious 
thought, I knew that they had, and that I was lost.

                                -=*=-
 
 The ceremony which made me a true member of the household, of the family
to be more accurate, was simple, brief, surprisingly unerotic (unlike 
almost everything else in our lives here) and informal.  

 The ring I now wear binds me to my Lord and Master, just as it binds me
to the others, my brothers and sisters.  We are individuals in one sense,
but we are one, in another.  Our social dynamics and daily habits would
no doubt, seem inexplicable to an outsiders, but there are no outsiders
here, save for the occasional visit from Charles, the cobbler who lives 
in town, the same who made my boots.  He brings us our deliveries each 
morning, supplying us with our few needs.  It is a pity I shall not see 
him again, as he never ventures out here at night.  

 We are sufficient unto ourselves, content, and very, very happy.  

 It is time to bring this tale to a close now, for the dawn approaches.
I hope that Ronald, our resident Librarian, will make a nice binding for
my little book, and give it a place of honor in the library.  It will not
be the first such tale written by one of us.  

 I go now to my rest gladly, for tomorrow there are many preparations to
be made.  The Master has revealed that we may expect a new guest in a few
days, and we are all excited.  The place is a-bustle with activity, 
preparing clothes, cleaning the seldom-used kitchen, even dusting books.

 I greet Tristan, Ronald, and Felicity; Abraham, Annabelle, Glorianna and
the rest of my brothers and sisters in the hall as we take our places.
It is a great comfort to have each other, lovers sincere enough to be 
friends at need, friends debauched enough to be the greatest lovers.  The
first rays of light peek over the trees seen through the great windows at
the front of the hall, and I feel the change begin.

-=*=-

 Within a majestic entrance hall, in a stately old mansion, in a beautiful 
clearing, somewhere in a remote wood in England, stand eleven beautiful, 
jet-black, and erotic statues. 






Author's Note:

 There are no doubt a few anachronisms left in this work, although I have
done my best to stay historically accurate.  I have taken a few liberties
such as with the famous quote from Arthur C. Clark found in Part 6, which 
I hope the reader will forgive.

 I hope also that certain friends will forgive my appropriation of their 
names for some of my characters.  You know who you are, and I trust you
will take it as the compliment it is intended to be.

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