Chapter 1: Whispers in the Walls
The wind howled like a banshee across the desolate moors of the English countryside, carrying with it the chill of centuries-old secrets. Deep in this forgotten corner of Oxfordshire, where the nearest village was a two-hour trek by foot, stood Blackthorn B&B—or what was left of it. The sprawling Victorian manor had been abandoned for decades, its reputation as the UK's most haunted lodging ensuring it sat empty, gathering dust and decay. Ivy choked the stone walls, windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and the roof sagged under the weight of neglect. But to David and Isabelle, it was opportunity incarnate.
David, 27, broad-shouldered and rugged from years of manual labor, had always been the practical one. His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw set with determination, and his callused hands spoke of a life fixing cars and building decks back in London. Isabelle, 23, was the dreamer—petite with cascading auburn waves, piercing green eyes, and a lithe figure honed by yoga and restless energy. They'd pooled their savings and outbid a handful of ghost hunters for the place. "Fixer-upper goldmine," David had called it during the signing. Isabelle had grinned, her excitement infectious. Siblings through and through, bonded by a childhood of shared hardships after their parents' divorce, they saw this as their fresh start—a haunted B&B turned boutique retreat for thrill-seekers.
Day one dawned gray and drizzly. They arrived in a rented van stuffed with tools, paint, and supplies, the gravel crunching under the tires as they pulled up to the sagging porch. "Home sweet crypt," Isabelle quipped, heaving a toolbox inside. The air inside was thick with mildew and something faintly metallic, like old blood. They started in the foyer: ripping up rotten carpet, sanding floors, and patching leaks. But from the moment they crossed the threshold, unease settled in.
"You feel that?" Isabelle asked that afternoon, pausing mid-sweep in the dining room. Her broom hovered, bristles stiff against the warped oak planks.
David wiped sweat from his brow, hammer in hand. "Feel what? The draft? Yeah, these windows are shot."
"No, like... eyes on us." She glanced over her shoulder, her tank top clinging to her sweat-dampened skin, outlining the gentle swell of her breasts. David shook it off—sibling paranoia, he figured—but nodded anyway. "Probably just the wind."
By evening, as they painted the lounge walls a cheery cream, the creaks began. Footsteps, soft and deliberate, echoed from the upper floors. Thud... thud... pause... thud. David froze, paintbrush dripping. "Rats?" he muttered, climbing the creaky stairs to investigate. Nothing. Isabelle followed, her shorts riding up her toned thighs, flashlight beam slicing the gloom. "It's like someone's pacing," she whispered, her voice husky with nerves. They laughed it off over tinned beans and instant coffee, but sleep came fitfully that first night in their respective rooms.
Day two brought more work: plumbing in the kitchen, electrical rewiring in the guest suites. The footsteps persisted, always just out of sight—overhead when they were downstairs, behind them when they climbed the attic stairs. "We're not alone," Isabelle said during lunch, her fork hovering over a sandwich. David's eyes met hers across the scarred oak table, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. "Ghosts don't pay rent," he joked, but his hand lingered on hers a beat too long, grounding them both.
By day three, exhaustion mixed with the growing tension. They tackled the east wing, prying at loose floorboards and scraping wallpaper that peeled away in brittle sheets. That's when they found it: a door, hidden behind faded floral paper in a narrow corridor, as if sealing in something unholy. Dust motes danced in their flashlight beams as they wedged crowbars in.
"Whatever's back here, it's been hidden away for a reason," Isabelle murmured, her breath quickening. Together, they yanked pulled away the wallpaper—David's biceps bulging under his tight t-shirt, Isabelle's lithe arms flexing beside him. They pushed the door which was stiff but eventually swung open on rusty hinges, emitting a groan that seemed to echo from the house's very soul.
They stepped inside, flashlights cutting through the stale darkness. The room was a time capsule of depravity. At its center loomed a massive mattress sunken and stained with what looked like old wax and darker fluids. Scattered around the floor were the charred remnants of dozens of candles, their wax pooled in grotesque shapes. The single window was boarded over, plunging the space into perpetual night. But it was the walls that stole their breath—covered floor-to-ceiling in murals, faded yet vivid, painted in oils that gleamed wetly even now.
The images were unapologetically sexual, erotic fever dreams as etched by a mad artist's hand. Writhing bodies intertwined in impossible contortions: women with full, heaving breasts arched back as faceless men thrust into them from behind, cocks thick and veined, glistening with arousal. Couples locked in orgiastic chains—lips suckling engorged nipples, tongues delving into slick folds, hands gripping asses marked with handprints. One mural depicted a woman on all fours, her pussy lips spread wide by probing fingers while another figure knelt before her, shaft buried deep in her throat, bulging her neck with each savage pump. Symbols of fertility and ritual dotted the edges—phalluses dripping seed, yonic portals overflowing with creamy essence. The air hung heavy with a musky, primal scent, like sweat-soaked sheets and spent lust.
David's throat tightened, a forbidden heat stirring low in his gut. He glanced at Isabelle, her cheeks flushed, nipples faintly visible through her thin bra as her chest rose and fell rapidly. "Jesus," he breathed, his voice rough. She met his gaze, eyes wide and dilated, lips parted. A dark feeling coiled in the pit of their stomachs—not just fear, but something insidious, arousing. It tugged at them, whispering promises of surrender.
"Definitely saving this for last," Isabelle said, backing out slowly, her hand brushing David's arm. Electricity sparked at the touch. They nailed the door shut hastily, hearts pounding, and avoided the corridor the rest of the day.
Night fell like a shroud, the moors silent save for the wind's mournful wail. They retreated to their rooms—David's on the second floor, Isabelle's adjacent on the first. Doors clicked shut, locks turned. David stripped to his boxers, his cock half-hard from the day's lingering images, sliding under threadbare sheets. Across the hall, Isabelle peeled off her clothes, her naked body glowing in the moonlight filtering through cracked panes. Her fingers traced her curves absentmindedly—pert C-cup breasts, flat stomach, the trimmed patch above her smooth slit—before she slipped into bed.
Sleep evaded them. The house creaked alive. Footsteps prowled the halls—heavy, insistent, circling their doors. Whispers slithered through the walls, indistinct but urgent, but eventually fell in to sleep.
Chapter 2: Dreams in the Dark
The house settled into an unnatural hush as midnight tolled, the ancient timbers groaning like lovers in the throes of ecstasy. David lay sprawled on his lumpy mattress, sheets tangled around his muscular thighs, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of shallow sleep. Across the hall, Isabelle curled beneath her thin blanket, her naked skin prickling with gooseflesh in the chill air. The footsteps had faded, but something else stirred—an insidious presence that seeped through the cracks, weaving into their subconscious like smoke.
David's dream ignited first. He was back in that room, the air thick and heady with the scent of wax, musk, and raw sex. Flickering candlelight danced across the murals, making the painted figures writhe as if alive. There stood Isabelle, gloriously nude, her auburn hair wild, green eyes smoldering with hunger. She beckoned him to the massive bed, her full breasts swaying, nipples hard as rubies.
"David," she purred, voice echoing unnaturally loud, "fuck me like they did."
He surged forward, his cock already throbbing, thick and veined, straining against his boxers before they vanished in the dream's haze. She dropped to her knees before the mural of the throat-fucked woman, mimicking it perfectly—lips parting wide as she engulfed him. Her mouth was a velvet inferno, tongue swirling around his swollen head, sucking greedily as saliva dripped down her chin. David groaned, hands fisting her hair, thrusting deep until her throat convulsed around his length, gagging wetly, eyes watering with filthy delight. The murals pulsed approval, painted cocks spurting illusory cum onto ghostly walls.
They tumbled onto the bed, her legs splaying wide to reveal her glistening pussy, lips puffy and slick. He plunged in raw, no preamble, her tight heat clenching like a vice.
"Harder, brother," she moaned, nails raking his back as he pounded her missionary-style, balls slapping her ass with lewd smacks. The dream shifted—they flipped, her riding him reverse cowgirl, grinding her clit against his base while facing a mural of anal ecstasy. He spat on her puckered hole, easing a thumb in as she bounced, her moans escalating to screams: "Fill me, David! Breed your sister!"
Isabelle's dream mirrored his, vivid and visceral. She was the painted temptress, David her insatiable beast. He bent her over the bed's edge, ass high, cheeks spread to expose her dripping folds. His tongue delved first—lapping her clit in firm circles, spearing her entrance, sucking her juices with obscene slurps. Then his cock replaced it, slamming home in one brutal thrust, stretching her walls until she howled. They fucked against the walls, her tits pressed to the murals, nipples rubbing against depicted lovers as he railed her from behind, fingers pinching her clit. Orgasms ripped through them—his hot seed flooding her in ropes, her squirt soaking the sheets—in every position: her legs over his shoulders for deep cervical kisses, sideways scissoring with frantic grinding, even standing with her pinned to the boarded window, his hips jackhammering as she milked him dry.
The dreams peaked in a frenzy of taboo bliss, bodies slick with sweat and cum, the room alive with their cries. It felt real—the creak of the bed, the slap of flesh, the taste of salt on skin.
David jolted awake at dawn, sheets plastered to his skin, cock tenting painfully erect, a wet spot blooming from his nocturnal emission. His heart thundered, guilt warring with lingering arousal. What the fuck?
Isabelle stirred moments later, thighs clenched, pussy aching and soaked. Her fingers twitched toward her clit but she stopped, cheeks burning. Incestuous filth—about David? She shoved it down, dressing hastily in yoga pants and a loose tee that did little to hide her hardened nipples.
They met in the kitchen over coffee, the morning light doing little to dispel the shadows. David poured mugs, avoiding her eyes, his sweatpants doing a poor job hiding his semi.
"Sleep alright?" he asked, voice gruff, stirring sugar with unnecessary vigor.
Isabelle leaned against the counter, crossing her arms to hide her flush. "Yeah, fine. You?" Her gaze flicked to his crotch involuntarily, then away, a fresh throb pulsing between her legs.
"Same. House still creaking like a bitch." Awkward silence stretched, neither daring to confess the erotic hauntings. They dove into work—sanding banisters, varnishing floors—but the dreams lingered like a fever, coloring every glance, every accidental brush of hands.
That night, the dreams returned, sharper, louder. David's vision assaulted him with sensory overload: Isabelle's pussy squelching around his pistoning cock as he fucked her doggy-style before the phallic mural, her ass rippling with each impact. "Cum inside me, fill your sister!" she screamed, voice booming unnaturally. He obliged, pumping thick jets deep, her walls fluttering in orgasmic spasms, juices squirting back onto his thighs.
Isabelle writhed in her bed, dreaming of David's tongue buried in her pussy while his finger fucked her arse, then his massive shaft splitting her open in prone bone, the bedframe thudding rhythmically. Moans filled her ears—hers, his, echoes from the murals—culminating in him flipping her, sucking her tits while railing upward, her cream coating his balls.
Morning brought sticky shame, stolen glances, unspoken heat. Night three amplified it: full-on illusions, them fucking voraciously—her throat bulging on his girth, his mouth vacuuming her clit amid gushing floods. David penetrating her with a spectral cock, stretching both holes until she sobbed in ecstasy, cum leaking from every orifice.
By dawn, arousal was constant, dreams bleeding into waking thoughts. The house watched, waiting.
Chapter 3: The Candles' Call
Five nights in Blackthorn B&B had worn David and Isabelle to frayed edges, their days a grind of renovations blurred by mounting tension. The dreams had escalated into nightly torment—hyper-vivid symphonies of forbidden flesh, each more depraved than the last. David's cock ached perpetually, his mind replaying phantom fucks: Isabelle's throat convulsing around him, her ass clenching as he reamed her, her pussy gushing in squirting crescendos. Isabelle fared no better, her clit throbbing at the slightest provocation, nipples stiff under her clothes, craving the dream-David's relentless pounding. They worked in charged silence, bodies humming with unspoken need, the house feeding on their restraint.
On the fifth night, the dreams struck with vengeful fury. David's plunged him into the room anew, candles blazing. Isabelle straddled him on the bed, her slick cunt grinding his face while a spectral force impaled her from behind—double-teamed in a frenzy of slurps, slaps, and screams.
"Drown in my cum, brother!" she wailed, flooding his mouth as phantom seed overflowed her ass. The intensity shattered him—he bolted upright, drenched in sweat, cock pulsing with a fresh load staining his boxers. His chest heaved, heart slamming like a war drum.
Then he heard it: wet, rhythmic schlicks from the hall, mingled with breathy moans and the faint flicker of light. Barefoot, in nothing but his tented underwear, David crept out, pulse racing. The sounds grew louder, pulling him toward the boarded door they'd nailed shut. But the nails were gone. Beneath the frame, golden light pulsed, accompanied by the scent of melted wax and feminine arousal—musky, intoxicating.
He pushed the door open with a low creak. The room was transformed: dozens of candles blazed anew, scattered on every surface, their flames dancing wildly, casting shadows that writhed like the murals themselves. The air thrummed with heat, thick with pheromones. And on the massive bed in the center—Isabelle. Naked, legs splayed obscenely wide, knees bent and feet planted, exposing her shaved pussy in full, glistening glory. Her inner thighs shone with slick arousal, labia swollen and parted like a blooming rose, clit peeking erect and begging. One hand worked furiously between her legs—fingers plunging in and out of her sopping hole with lewd squishes, thumb circling her nub in frantic loops. Her other hand mauled her breasts, pinching and twisting rosy nipples until they stood angry and erect, milk-white skin flushed crimson.
"Isabelle? What the fuck are you doing?" David's voice cracked, horror and lust twisting in his gut. His cock surged traitorously, tenting harder, pre-cum beading the fabric.
She looked up slowly, black eyes locking on his—but they weren't hers. Pitch black voids stared back, inhabited by something ancient and ravenous. A sultry smile curled her lips, voice emerging husky, layered with echoes: "Come, brother... come lick your sister's pussy. Taste how wet you make me."
Wrong. So fucking wrong. David's mind screamed retreat—incest, possession, madness—but his body betrayed him. An invisible force tugged, each step toward the bed inexorable, like magnetic chains. Whispers slithered into his ears, intimate and insidious: She's dripping for you. Lick her clean. Fuck your blood. It's destiny. The murals seemed to lean in, painted lovers moaning encouragement.
He reached the bed, knees buckling as the pull overwhelmed him. Dropping to all fours, he crawled between her spread thighs, her scent enveloping him—tart nectar, pure sin.
"No... we can't..." he murmured, but his hands gripped her hips, parting her wider. Her pussy quivered inches from his face, folds glistening, entrance clenching hungrily.
The whispers roared: Devour her. David struggled to fight back the whispers but they were too much and dove in, tongue flattening broad against her slit, lapping from taint to clit in one long, greedy stroke.
Isabelle arched, a guttural moan ripping from her throat: "Yessss, brother! Eat me!"
He obeyed, feral now—tongue spearing her channel, fucking in and out with wet slurps, curling to scoop her creamy essence. Her taste exploded on his buds: sweet-salty ambrosia, addictive. He sucked her clit between his lips, teeth grazing, humming vibrations as two fingers plunged knuckle-deep, hooking her G-spot with ruthless precision.
Her hips bucked, grinding her sopping cunt against his face, juices smearing his chin, nose buried in her scent.
"Deeper! Finger-fuck your sister's hole while you lick!" she commanded, black eyes gleaming.
David complied, adding a third finger, stretching her velvet walls with squelching thrusts, his free hand squeezing her ass, thumb teasing her puckered ring. She writhed, tits heaving, one hand fisting his hair to smother him deeper. Orgasms built fast—her thighs quaking, pussy spasming, flooding his mouth in hot gushes. He drank it all, growling into her flesh, cock leaking profusely, the force urging him onward.
To be continued..
