At that time of year on the rocky coast of Maine -- not long after the summer solstice -- twilight extends well into the late evening. However, it was now pushing on toward later evening and a thick blanket of clouds, which had already been responsible for several days of rain in the area, conspired to make it a dark and rather stormy night, as required by the conventions of gothic literature.
Additional needed elements were in place as well: the intrepid and unsuspecting traveler (yours truly) his transport in difficulty (car stuck in the mud at the side of the road) trudging along the roadway in need of assistance. Sure enough, I finally spotted a light glowing in the distance. A window in a not-too-distant cottage was lit from within at the late hour of the day.
A cottage, mind you, situated next to a dark, looming lighthouse that obviously hadn’t operated in years. I dragged myself toward the cottage, the sound of surf crashing against the rocks growing louder with each step while the scent of ocean salt invaded my senses.
I knocked loudly at the door of the cottage, which drew some loud crashing noises and considerable swearing from within. At last the door creaked open and I was facing a short, gnarly man of indeterminate age. His face was a fine collection of wrinkles on weathered skin, largely obscured by a silvery beard that descended halfway down his chest. However, he couldnt’ have been more than an inch over five feet tall. The dwarvish effect was completed by a knit cap pulled over a mass of unruly silver hair and a pipe in his teeth. To be honest, it was all I could do to keep from giggling.
“Arr,” he said, “which it’ll be: lost or car trouble?”
Arr? I thought? Was he for real? “Car trouble, actually. Stuck in the mud about a half a mile back.”
“Lots o’ rain last few days. Makes lots o’ mud. Best come in for the night. We can pull your car out come mornin’.”
He opened the door wide to let me in. I stepped inside to the pleasant smell of cinnamon and pine. He closed the door quickly against the wind, which was beginning to howl around the corners of the cottage. Most of the small house was dark, so he led me into the kitchen which was illuminated by a few candles placed around the room and invited me to sit at the table.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“Yes, that sounds wonderful.”
He poured some dark, thick liquid into a plain white ceramic mug and set it in front of me.
“Looks like we’re in for a storm tonight,” he said as he sat at the table opposite me.
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight . . .?”
He cocked his head at me for a moment before answering. “Er, no, I saw it on the Weather Channel.” He tried not to look smug; I felt suitably chastened.
“Do you keep the lighthouse?” I asked.
“Arr, no, I’m a real estate agent in Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. The Internet has been liberating for me, lets me telecommute.”
So noted. I felt utterly stupid continuing to talk with him. I’d have to set aside any preconceived notions I had of him based on how he talked.
“That’s an old lighthouse outside, isn’t it?” I continued.
“Arr, that it were, that it were. And,” he puffed in his pipe and then took it out of his mouth to point the stem at me, “therein lies a tale you’ll be wantin’ to hear.”
Oh good, here it came. “Yes, of course.” I picked up my mug of coffee, using it to warm my hands.
He began: “It’s a tale of unnatural love and tragedy that was the biggest scandal around these parts for years before or after.” He was evidently well practiced at telling his story, and clearly relished the chance to tell it again.
“This lighthouse last shone its light on a warm summer evening in July 1889, the night of the new moon and doubly treacherous for sailors.
“The retired Captain of a whaling fleet lived then in this house. He had been successful at his work, retiring in his early thirties. When he was on land he preferred the seclusion of these modest and remote surroundings, for a good reason.
“Living in a room over in the lighthouse was the lighthouse Keep, by all accounts a big, rugged, muscled man. Many’s a time the Keep and the Captain would share meals and companionable times together, despite the differences in their social backgrounds. No one knew it at the time, but it all came out afterward that the Captain and the Keep were secretly lovers, and had been for nearly eighteen years by that summer. Boyhood friends who’d found each other once again.
“Earlier that spring, a young nephew of the Captain, barely sixteen years old, came to live as a Ward of the Captain. He had recently been orphaned when his parents were killed in a tragic accident. The Ward took to these remote surroundings and quickly recovered his youthful zest for life. The three of them seemed to find comfort and delight in each other’s company.
“But their idyllic arrangement was not to last. As the summer unfolded, it seemed that the Keep developed an unquenchable carnal lust for the Ward. The Keep had also begun to harbor peculiar notions about how to rejuvenate his own body to regain his youthful vigor, notions that involved mystical, sadistic rituals, according to some. These two unstoppable forces in the Keep’s mind finally collided on the night of that new moon in July.
“The Captain, you see, had been called away to consult with the government, for whom he served as an advisor on nautical matters. He was gone for several days, returning two days earlier than expected.
“He arrived late, well after dark, but was surprised to find his house dark and deserted. Perhaps his Ward and the Keep were in the lighthouse, swapping late night stories and playing cards, as they often had before. Sure enough, he saw candlelight flickering through the open door of the lighthouse as he walked towards it.
“However, the sight that greeted his eyes when he reached the door was far from the innocent recreation he had imagined. He saw his Ward manacled to some infernal machine, totally naked, with numerous welts visible on his skin; the lad may even have been unconscious by that time.
“The Keep, himself totally naked save for black leather boots, black rubber gloves, a thong and a black leather mask held a leather bullwhip in his hand, intent on his deviant ritual.
“The Captain cried out for a halt to the diabolical proceedings. Startled by the intrusion, the Keep dropped his whip and ran up the stairs toward the top of the lighthouse.
“Now in a fit of jealous rage at the Keep’s betrayal, the Captain pursued the Keep to the top of the lighthouse. What really happened there, we’ll never know. The official story was that the Keep, faced with the certain revealing of his activities to the public, jumped to his death on the rocks far below. Unofficially, most folks around here believe that the Captain threw the Keep over the railing after a struggle himself, but none could fault him for it.
“That night, the lighthouse went dark and was never illuminated again. The Captain nursed his Ward back to health, and the Ward never spoke of the incident, nor ever gave any inclination that he remembered what had happened. The Captain never regained his former spirit, dying just a few years later. The Ward eventually got married and continued to live in this house - he was my great-grandfather. And legend has it that, on nights of the new moon, the ghost of the Keep prowls restlessly about the lighthouse, hoping to consummate his bizarre ritual.”
He finished his tale with a huff and puffed on his pipe with satisfaction, waiting for my predictable response.
“Shocking!” I said, shaking my head. Inside, I was secretly quite enjoying the story. I wanted to know more, and thirsted for the knowledge of what had happened inside the lighthouse with the Keep and the Ward. I could close my eyes and imagine the scene in my head. Candles lit, the sound of leather and rubber snapping against skin. His next words broke my trance.
He nodded, “Arr, that it were, that it were.”
“I don’t suppose,” I asked a little too excitedly, “that tonight, by any chance, happens to be a new moon?”
Again he nodded. “Arr, that it is.” Suddenly he whipped the pipe from his mouth and leaned across the table, a look of urgency on his face. “You might wish to mock my tale, but you would be wise not to go near the lighthouse tonight.”
I was a bit taken aback by his sudden forceful demeanor. “I certainly won’t,” I said to him. And if he only knew I wasn’t mocking, but secretly desiring, he might have been even more stern. He might even have kicked me out of the house.
“Good, good. Well, let’s get you into bed, safely tucked away from this old man’s ghost stories. We’ll have an early morning.”
He pushed himself up wearily from the table and led me to a small room off the kitchen. It was furnished with a small table and chair and a single bed already made up.
“Heed my warning and have a good sleep,” he said as he withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
I was indeed terribly fatigued, so I got out of my clothes and slipped into the bed, turning off the bedside lamp. It was surprisingly comfortable, and the blankets warm and cozy. I barely had time to hear the old man climb the stairs to his own room before I fell into a deep sleep.
- - -
I don’t know what brought me so quickly out of my deep sleep, but I awoke to the sound of a loose window shutter banging against the cottage. Apparently the storm was underway and it was windy. I got out of bed and pulled on my jeans to go investigate.
I looked all over the cabin, through the kitchen, the living room for a loose shutter, but couldn’t find a thing. However, by then the banging had stopped anyway. My attention though, as I looked through the last window in the living room, was brought to the lighthouse, where a warm glow spilled from an open door, a light such as might have come from many different candles all glowing at once.
As I watched, I was startled to see a shadow come and go, as though someone were pacing just inside the lighthouse door.I thought maybe my host was playing a joke on me, telling me such a crazy story and warning me not to go to the lighthouse. Then, they’d wake me in the middle of the night and play a joke on me. Some local fun, no doubt. I imagined the host was preparing some elaborate display to enhance the ghost story.
Just then, I did exactly what I shouldn’t have: I disregarded host’s stern warning, went out the kitchen door, and walked toward the lighthouse. As I drew closer, I had the idea that the light from the door had some sort of mystical power over me. It was as if, with every step, I was being pulled magnetically, inexplicably closer. It must have just been due to the coffee and the story along with the dark and stormy night.
I reached the lighthouse and stood in wonder outside the doorway. What I had expected was nothing compared to the reality that confronted me. Directly opposite the door, built into the curve of the staircase that spiraled alongside the outer wall was a large wooden device built of substantial logs, each some six or seven feet long, in the shape of a large X. At the ends of each timber were leather straps hanging loosely on chains.
In front of the wooden device, laying in the center of the floor, was an enormous bullwhip, almost resembling a large smooth snake lying in wait for prey. Next to the whip was a small table that had a black leather mask and black rubber gloves resting atop it. Propped against the opposite side of the table on the floor were a pair of tall, lace-up black leather boots.
As I had imagined from the house, the entire scene was illuminated by what must have been a hundred candles. There were candles everywhere, in candlesticks, on steps, hanging from sconces, and simply sitting along the outer circular rim of the lighthouse wall. Combined, they gave off a warm, sensual glow that illuminated the scene before me.
I had read enough about these types of stories in attempts to fulfill my fantasies, to know what was about to happen. But I guess I thought that, surely, this is reality and not some type of gothic fiction story.
I walked forward into the scene, impressed with the lengths my host took to ensure that it was as accurate as possible. as I approached the center of the room, I knelt down to inspect the tall black leather boots. I leaned in closely to look at the work, admiring the craftsmanship it took to build them. They truly were almost works of art, and appeared to be very old, although they looked newer than my own jeans. I could see the stitching as it rose and fell up the leg, and as I reached out to run my fingers over it, I could feel that the leather was almost warm to the touch. The supple leather ebbed and flowed, bending to my fingers as they passed over it. I had a sudden urge to bend down and lick them, but I kept it inside. I didn’t know if anyone was watching, but it felt like I wasn’t alone in the room even though I couldn’t see anyone.
I stood up, letting go of my fantasies about the boots and turned my attention to the gloves. I picked one up, and I noticed it too was warm to the touch. I had a sudden urge to slide my hand and fingers inside of it, to feel what it would be like to wear it, but I dropped it onto the table as again, I wasn’t sure if I was being watched.
I suddenly remembered that there had been a shadow of a man moving back and forth in front of the light. I remembered seeing him from looking towards the lighthouse from the kitchen. Looking around though, I couldn’t see anyone around the area. Someone had to have lit all these candles and set out these objects, I thought to myself. I looked up, only to become dizzy watching the staircase as it spiraled up into the upper depths of the lighthouse.
I staggered away from the table, to find myself clutching the large wooden X that had been set up. As I rested my hand against the wood, I felt a tightening sensation on my wrist. I looked up and my eyes went wide with horror.
The wrist strap had seemingly come to life and was encircling my wrist all by itself. I tried to jerk my hand free, but just as I did so, the strap tightened and the chain retracted into the wooden beam, holding my wrist in place immobile against the wood. I cried out in surprise, only to have my other wrist grabbed the the opposite wrist strap that had extended out on its chain from the other wooden beam. It too grabbed my wrist tightly and the chain retracted, pulling my wrist, and arm, along with it.
I found myself restrained against the large wooden X, both wrists held firmly in place by the leather straps on the top of the device. Bewildered, I looked out into the room. Nothing had changed except for me now wrist-bound to the device. I looked down, and only then did I really start to panic.
Both of the leg straps had extended their chains out into the air and were hovering dangerously close to my ankles. As soon as I tried to move them away from the leather fastenings, they pounced, grabbing a hold of my ankles tightly inside of them while the chains retracted back into the wooden beams. As they did so, my legs were spread open wide by the firm grasp of the leather straps and the retracting chains.
As I watched my legs and arms being forcibly held open by some supernatural force, what I witnessed next made me question my sanity.
As I looked into the room, I saw one of the black rubber gloves rise up into the air all by itself. It moved as if some invisible person was putting it on -- fingers stretching and shrinking, grabbing and releasing so that the person’s hand and fingers could get inside. Once it had taken the shape of a strong, masculine hand, the other glove rose up into the air and did the same thing. Both gloves rubbed each other as one does greedily when they see something they want while the leather mask rose up off the table by itself.
The leather mask lifted and hovered into a space that should have been occupied by the space of someone’s head, although again, there was just no one there. I was really getting scared at this point as I watched the mask slip onto the invisible head, zipping itself up. It only had openings for the eyes, and I could see the outline of lips on the other side, inside the mask regarding me, smirking at me.
Finally, to top it all off, the black boots resting against the table started to move on their own as well. The laces loosened up all on their own, pulling themselves through the eyelets and increasing the space it would be needed for someone to slip a foot and leg inside of them. I could see some invisible foot as it lowered into the boot, while the leather opened to accommodate it. After it had entered inside, the leather tightened back up and the laces flew through the air, tying themselves tight against the invisible leg that now occupied the tall black leather boot. It rose to the top of the calf, just below the knee of some muscular, invisible stud. The other boot made similar motions and soon they were walking all by themselves throughout the room, finally settling beneath the gloves and mask that had previously moved by themselves. It looked like some hunky, naked, invisible man was wearing the items as they all came to rest in relation to each other.
The whole situation was wholly unreal. Could I have predicted a week ago that tonight I would find myself in an abandoned lighthouse lashed to a living St. Andrew’s cross? I couldn’t say that I would. I was strangely turned on by the whole situation, although equally terrified. I had no idea what these objects had in mind, but my mind turned to the whip. I was quite aware that all I had on was a pair of blue jeans and black boxer briefs. I hoped whatever entity or intelligence was operating these items would only be merciful. I didn’t have much hope even though I secretly wished to be punished for my intrusive appearance into the lighthouse. I knew I had been warned not to come here. This must have been my punishment.
An altogether new sensation touched upon my body, and I looked down to see my jeans unbuttoning and unzipping all by themselves. Once they’d done so, they forcibly, supernaturally ripped themselves off my body, ripping at the seams and falling lifeless to the side on the floor. My boxers followed their lead, and soon I was left naked and helpless, strapped to the cross while the black leather items seemed to move closer to examine me in detail.
The items walked up to the whip and one of the black rubber gloves pointed a finger to the handle of the thing which rose like some king cobra into the air, straight into the palm of the open, living glove. It gripped it lovingly, caressing the handle. Suddenly, the glove flicked its wrist making the whip crack in the air, and I felt something tickle against my left nipple like a fluttering tongue.
I watched as the glove pulled the whip back again, and -- crack! -- I felt a touch light as a feather across my balls. Hey! This was getting serious! I thought to myself.
What was happening anyway? I thought to myself. I’d vaguely been thinking it would be my host, but this was definitely not the gnarly old man. No, this was something wholly other. Something completely beyond the physics of the earth. I’d stumbled upon something I probably shouldn’t have. Was this the prowling ghost of the lighthouse Keep here to consummate his eternally frustrated ritual? His spirit must have infected every item inside this place. No wonder the cabin owner wished me to stay clear.
Once again, the glove primed the whip and, once again with an ear-splitting crack I felt a gentle tweak at the tip of my rock hard dick. My first reaction was to complain that this dangerous farce had gone on long enough, but I was betrayed by my dick, which had grown full and firm, in evident acceptance of this unique stimulation.
A hidden drawer inside the table opened up, and I saw a black leather thong emerge and rise into the air. It filled out to the proportions of a masculine, muscular man and hovered into place amidst the other assembled, living items already in an active state. A sharp protrusion came from the pouch of the black leather thong, pointing directly at me.
The foreplay with the whip seemed to be over. The outfit that I could only imagine to be that of the old Keep’s slowly, deliberately coiled the whip within its black leathered gloves and then stepped toward me. I was entranced by the site of the outfit items moving on their own, yet still in sync with each other. The boots stepped close, followed by the gloves with the whip and the leather head mask, still smirking at me. The living outfit stepped right up until the tip of its hard-on touched the tip of mine. the feeling was electrifying. I stared into the empty eyes of the leather mask. I looked down only to see the leather thong rubbing its tip against my own, and down further until I could see deep down into the hollow feet of the living boots.
I could see the end of the whip wrapping itself around my hard, jutting cock. It slowly coiled around it, caressing it with slow strokes up and down the entirety of my shaft. At one point a drop of hot wax from one of the burning candles dropped onto my shoulder above my head. My dick jumped in surprise; the old Keep’s outfit making motions as if it was snorting and laughing at my reaction, and I got slightly upset with it.
“”Well how did you think I’d react to something like that?” I asked of the living items, angrily.
Without warning, the whip released its fondling of my dick and coiled itself two, perhaps three times around my throat. I was concerned about its intentions, but strangely aroused as well. My dick could not have been more engorged than it already was.
The whip end snaked upwards and wrapped itself just enough so that it was tightened enough around my throat and neck. At the same time, the gloves let go of the whip and began working on my nipples. At first, they merely flicked and brushed against them. But before long, they began pinching them and beginning to imitate biting and light nibbles that got progressively firmer and, I might add, more painful as well as pleasurable.
Between the gloves fondling my nipples and the whip wrapped tightly around my neck, I was starting to feel light-headed. I was startled again when another drop of hot wax fell again on my shoulder.
Another tug from the living whip signaled to the ghostly Keep’s items to work down towards my erection. A black rubber glove sailed down towards my jutting cock and started to softly drag its hollow fingers over the sensitive skin. I went limp as my strength gave out from my legs and I succumbed to the power that was so gently toying with my sexual frustration. The rubber glove worked with great deliberation for many minutes while I concentrated on trying to breathe in enough air, a challenge I feared I was slowly losing.
Just as I felt certain to pass out -- whether from lack of oxygen or ecstasy or both -- the Keep’s living whip released his hold on me and pulled free of my neck. I saw it coil up in the air next to the outfit that was standing up again, away from my horny, betraying body. I humped greedily at the air, wishing that I could feel the supple rubber of the Keep’s gloves against my cock again.
The whip found a creative use for itself again. The tip found the end of my dick and coiled itself a few times around it, effectively turning into a leather sleeve that was now proceeding to jack me off with itself. The handle had turned itself upward and was poking around my ass and I was afraid of what might happen. The handle inserted itself, without any lubrication of any kind and proceed to fill me with itself.
My vision was filed with a white light that lasted for a few seconds, as I got used to the bulbous handle of the living whip making its way inside me. As my vision returned slowly, I was greeted by the most glorious sights.
I watched the tip of the whip jack me off as the handle fucked my inviting ass as I also watched his black rubber glove jack off the massive tent building in the black leather thong standing in front of me. As I watched his outfit jerk itself, it was almost like his dick was an extension of my own, his glove’s tempo taking me even closer, ever so slowly, as the end of the whip was bringing me slowly towards my own climax, both in perfect rhythm with each other.
His boots started to get busy again too, rising up and flying into the air on either side of my head. Being this close to them again, the urge to stretch out my tongue and touch the leather came over me and this time, I didn’t care who was watching. I slid my tongue along the supple leather, and watched as the boot moved itself around against my exploring tongue.
The other black rubber glove not otherwise occupied with jacking off the Keep’s massive erection in his thong grabbed my hair and held my head tight against the boot as I licked and kissed the leather.
It was as if every fantasy I’d ever had in the past had come to life all in this very scene. The handle of the whip kept up its smooth action inside my ass, wiggling around and fucking me faster as the other end wrapped around my cock was also jacking me faster -- in rhythm with the black rubber glove on the Keep’s thong. It’s a good thing I was held up, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to stand.
I was getting close, and the Keep knew it. All my senses were overwhelmed. The room, the candles and hot wax, my bondage, the vision of the Keep’s cock being jacked by the rubber glove, the whip deep inside me and the boots and glove by my head -- it was too much. A few more strokes of the whip on my cock and inside me and I could feel it building inside me.
I came with a vengeance spewing cum from my dick covering the thong and black rubber glove. Several more times the whip plunged itself inside me, and each time I pumped out another load. I closed my eyes as my tongue continued to explore the black leather of his boots. The rubber glove on my head rubbed its fingers through my hair.
I was fully spent. I tried to relax, to slow my heartbeat when suddenly a gust of wind howled around the lighthouse, throwing shut the door and then flinging it back open again. The wind whipped through the room, blowing out candles and plunging the room into darkness. I was so frightened as the items around me all fell slack and lifeless to the floor. The door slammed shut and I noticed the outline of a person standing there. I felt my consciousness slipping and promptly passed out.
I awoke to find myself lying comfortably in my bed in the cottage, with the bright morning sun streaming through the window. I heard someone moving about in the kitchen. Must have been the crazy old man preparing breakfast. I quickly got up and threw on my clothes. I noticed my jeans and underwear were just fine. Not ripped apart or anything. Did I dream everything that happened to me? I wondered to myself.
I walked into the kitchen, relieved to see that it was the old man and not some sort of pots and pans hocus pocus magic moving about on its own. He gestured for me to sit at the table, where I ate a hearty meal of fried eggs and bacon. I noticed I had an unusually aggressive appetite.
Our conversation was minimal. At one point, he looked in my eyes and pointedly asked, “So, I hope ye slept well and sound.”
“Oh yes,” I said with some conviction, “quite well indeed. It must be the sea air.”
He looked at me skeptically, but decided to pass on the cross-exam I guess. “Arr, that it be, that it be,” was all he said to that.
We finished our meal in silence and drank the dregs from our coffee. Then, he slapped the table and announced, “well then, let’s get your car pulled out of the ditch.”
“Sounds good to me.”