We were supposed to meet at 9: What time was it? Sorry, I just woke up. Should I come back later? How did I oversleep? I'll be right there. He got out, briefcase in hand, and approached the house. Today he was wearing a polo shirt and jeans, but he was just as hot. He approached the house, but seemed reluctant to come in. There was an awkward silence.
You want some coffee? I wanted to apologize for the way I left. Really, my behavior was beyond-I mean in the basement With you, I mean.
Not awkward at all. It upset me and I stormed out. I should have handled it better. No wonder he had freaked out. I looked him in the eye and said, "There isn't anything to apologize for. I worked up an estimate, based on the items we discussed.
Art took some papers out of his briefcase and handed to me. There was an itemized estimate for the renovation I wanted, but the thing I noticed was that he referred to my house as the Duvall house. This place has been the Duvall house for years. I didn't know if you had a name for your bed and breakfast yet, so I just used that.
You really don't know the history of this place? If you asked any of the locals about this place you might get any number of crazy stories. My dad always used to say it was just small town people with small time minds. The former owners, I mean. Let me start from the beginning. Louis in the late s. You'll hear a lot of stories about Leila Duvall. They said that she was a witch, and that she cursed Malleville, bewitched him with a love spell.
But my Dad always said it was Malleville who committed the ultimate sin. Louis family, who had the audacity to marry a woman of color. This was after the Civil War, so you can imagine how well that went over. You may hear some talk that he was run out of town, but my father said that Malleville's father sent them out here to get them out of the public eye.
Of course, that didn't keep people from talking. My Dad would dismiss most of what people said about them, but he believed in the Duvall curse. Malleville and Leila had five children, but only the two youngest survived to adulthood. The other three died young, and bad according to most stories. Neville and Phoebe, the two surviving children, never married and people talked that they were more than just siblings. They would live here together in this house until their deaths. Phoebe, the youngest, ended up going crazy.
Neville was a recluse, coming out of the house only when he absolutely had to. The last of the Duvall family. My father found him. That was almost three decades ago. The first people who bought the house after Neville died only lived here a few weeks. They sold the place and moved out east somewhere. The next buyers lived here for a year, but they were killed in a car crash. It was all very mysterious since the police found blood in the house. There was an investigation, but nothing ever came of it since the only people who could answer their questions were dead.
Then, about 10 years ago one of the local teens went missing. After a few days, he turned up out of his mind, babbling about the evil Duvall house. But no one ever seems to stay long, though.
Mostly this place has just sat here, empty, and the local legend has grown. Incest, voodoo, devil worship, you name it. Most will say that the ghost of Leila Duvall haunts this place, running off anyone who tries to live here.
That was rude of me. I was finding his presence behind me to be a slight distraction. I could feel his body heat when he leaned over to point at something in the paper work. Occasionally his body would brush against my back, and I could feel the muscle beneath his clothes.
I really didn't understand why this man was having such an effect on me, turning me into a horny teenager. I took a breath and focused in the task at hand. A short time later, the 'i's were dotted and the 't's were crossed. I had myself a contractor. I collected myself, stood, and turned to shake Art's hand. I started to say something bland like it will be a pleasure working with you. But as our hands touched I felt a jolt of electricity, like I've been walking in my socks through deep carpet.
The moment stretched out, his hand holding mine. I looked into his eyes and, like before, I saw conflict. Equal measures of lust and fear seemingly at war with each other. As for myself, not an ounce of conflict. I couldn't think of a single time in my life where I felt such an overwhelming desire. It was a physical ache that had no rational explanation.
I felt a tug on my wrist and allowed him to pull me close to his warm body. Our faces were now just a breaths apart. He seemed to be struggling. My hands were busy pulling the polo shirt out of the waistband of his jeans.
I wanted to touch him, feel his skin. My cock got rock hard, tenting out the soft fabric of the sweatpants I was wearing. I could tell this encounter was going to be different than our last. The feeling was less rushed, we both seemed to want to take our time. His tongue pushed past my lips with a hungry thrust, and I met it with my own. I moved my hands across his broad chest. His skin was smooth as silk. My fingers found his nipples and they hardened at my touch.
I felt him gasp against my mouth, but he didn't stop kissing me. His hands had drifted down my body, to the waistband of my sweats. He slid them inside, and cupped the bare skin of my ass. He pulled me close, grinding his body against mine. I could feel his big cock through the tight fabric of his jeans.
I reached down, and unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down. They fell to the floor, and his underwear quickly followed. Art stopped kissing me long enough to push my sweatpants off my hips, where they joined his jeans on the floor. We both pulled off our shirts. Now completely naked, we embraced again. His mouth quickly found mine. His nine inch cock, now hard as a rock, pressed into my thigh.