An Anniversary to Remember
The harvest had given way to the last month of winter in San Francisco. A young couple walked along the old pier, a pier which is simply called the Muni pier by most locals. The fisherman cast out by the rocks which contour the shoreline area. The seagulls, wheeling and crying calling out to one another as they dove, wings skimming the surface above the foam in search of food. The chill of winter glistened with salt spray over the Pacific Ocean.
“Excuse me, would you mind taking our picture?” John stopped an elder American Indian man walking by.
“Sure” he took the camera. “Are you visiting from outside of California?”
“No, we live in Roseville. We’re here celebrating our first wedding anniversary.” Nina offered.
“Congratulations. Where are you staying in the city?”
“The Victorian bed and breakfast on the hill –“John started to say.
“Oh” the elder’s face became serious, “it’s been around since 1845,” he continued. “It was a popular brothel house until a young prostitute was murdered in her room by a jealous client. Her spirit is not free of the room,” he paused. “People have said they could still hear her bloodcurdling screams.”
“What room was she murdered in do you know?” suspecting that the extreme coldness in the room was for a reason.
“Nina, you don’t really believe the story, do you?” John was grinning at her in disbelief.
“Well, maybe that would explain the mysterious scent of a woman’s perfume that lingers in the room.”
“My grandfather tells of a velvet red tapestry wall paper that was left in the room she was murdered in, to honor her memory.”
“Thank you for that very
entertaining story” John extended his hand out to the man in a friendly gesture.
They headed back to the Italianate turn of the century Victorian, finding parking three blocks away on a steep angled hill typical to San Francisco. Haunted or not it was still majestic with enormous bay windows, wide eaves with brackets and tall arched windows with the trim painted in the traditional blue-gray violent and plum purple. The Louis XV period pieces and the end of the nineteenth century antiques was impressive, there was something about the history involved that took you back in time to ornate mirrors and the swish of swirling skirts dancing in tune to an Italian waltz.
“What if she’s in our room?” John teased unlocking the door.
“If you don’t believe the story than why are you still standing in the door way, huh?” Nina teased back.
“Look, it’s perfectly fine,” he pointed to the elegant four poster bed. “No ghosts in here either,” he gestured towards the bathroom with the porcelain claw foot tub.
“You know, there’s only one way to find out if the story is true.” She taunted.
He arched his eyebrow accepting the challenge and went into the closet and carefully peeled back a small corner of the wall paper. Nina knew he had discovered the red velvet tapestry because his sarcasm had given way to silence. They laughed and laughed like two scared teenagers double daring each other to stay for another night.
Normally, the spirit whore would have had them running scared out of the Victorian hotel. But it had been a long time since she had any visitors in her boudoir. The previous hotel owner had forbid the renting out of her room because people reported being sexually fondled by something they couldn’t see and of hearing light sexual moaning late at night. For now, her name isn’t of matter; only know that she was a harlot working on Maiden Lane in 1848. It was actually known as Morton Alley in those days. It wasn’t uncommon for a prostitute to service eighty to one hundred men in one day. But her story was different because of her fair skin and red hair. The harlot took pride in that she could charge more than any of the other girls and had her pick and choose of the men. She wasn’t looking for love or starving for romantic gestures, like most of the other girls. Nor was she hoping to find a suitor to rescue her from whoring. Her desires were simple and uncomplicated, she wanted to be fucked.
Late into the night, when the cold and fog had rolled into the city in pale wisps of white and gray, the spirit harlot went to work. It always began with a mysterious electricity coursing between the couple. It made Nina’s breathing quicken with anticipation to have John’s lips on hers. And he was coveting her shiny red lips, with his finger he began to smudge her lipstick roughly all over her mouth, “you’re mine,” he growled with a storm of passion brewing in his eyes.
His hands hungered for her breast, her nipples slipping through his fingers. His mouth was everywhere. His mouth tasted the sweet river between her legs. Her breathing became a light moaning, her body twisting, her back arching, his mouth eager, he circled around and around, sucking, licking her up and
down, his tongue soft and hard, she wanted to savor the pleasure but her body was begging for a release. He grasped her ass with his two hands, holding the fish on his hook, steady, devouring what is his, she was searching for the edge of euphoria. He was feasting, the sounds of her moisture escaping his mouth, he ate and ate.
“Fuck!” She moaned, exploding, floating, and floating; Nina had never known such pleasure.
“Let me please you,” she cooed seductively at her husband.
She touched him with the tips of her fingers, slowing moving up and down his length. He was so hard and she was thrilled by the power yielded from moving her hands over him. Hard, erect, he moaned, his eyes glazed she filled her mouth with him. His saltiness rushed down her chin, dripping onto her breasts.
His fingers began slipping in and out of her orifice, “I will have you,” his breathing a rhythm deep and fast.
His cock hard once more, aching and throbbing for his wife, she looked into the gray and black storm passing through his eyes as he penetrated her. He whispered soothing noises, moving in and out of her slowing, gently at first. Until he pounded into her, her fingers digging into him, the pleasure, the pain, he fucked her over and over until his body was covered it sweat, until there was an explosion, a mixture of hard and wetness as he released into her. The young couple lay legs entangled, hands intertwined and before they caught their breath, the scent of perfume lingered once more causing another frenzy of assiduous love making.
The Spirit Harlot was having her way with Him
A good prostitute could pick out a man who was looking for sex a mile away. And she had been a good prostitute. A young guy staggered his way toward the Victorian bed and breakfast. He was trying to understand what went wrong. He and his girlfriend were having dinner at Alliotos Seafood, she had the angel hair pasta with clams, scallops and shrimps in a white garlic butter sauce and he had the moon shaped pasta stuffed with salmon in a marinara sauce. They were supposed to have a romantic evening. He must have said something stupid to have her storm out of the restaurant leaving him to spend the night alone. He was trying not to be an ass about it but all that money spent for nothing, he punched his pillow trying to fall asleep. He felt sexually frustrated. The harlot took pity on him. Ordinary relationships would have never worked for her. She craved the freedom of having sex. In her days, it was 50 men to every woman. All a prostitute had to do was rent a room for seventy-five cents or a dollar and have sex. And tonight she was craving the feel of a penis inside of her.
The guy awakened when he felt the sensation of hands touching his penis, a mouth gliding up and down his fully erect cock. Before he had a chance to become scared, she appeared to him, a beautiful young woman wearing a Victorian style Lolita body suit. The black vintage lace against her porcelain skin, her red and wavy hair flowing down the small curve of her back, she was erotic. He could hear her sexual moan escaping from her ruby mouth while she sat astride on him. He could see her long graceful legs and felt the sensation of light pumping on his erection. Was this all in his mind? But how could it be, because he could smell her perfume, a hint of night blooming flowers, vanilla and musk. He closed his eyes and moaned with pleasure. When he opened his eyes again he saw her full lips devouring his cock again. She sat astride on him once more, pulling out, rubbing her pussy against his prominate penis over and over; she pushed down on him, his throbbing penis going into her deep. The spirit harlot was having her way with him. He was breathing hard, his eyes wild giving himself over to the most animalistic desires. The spirit whore left him shaking from his orgasms. A Life Boomerang
He had called her. His voice sexy, “you don’t know me but I know you.”
Marie scribbled down the address to the Victorian bed and breakfast and the room number he gave her on a piece of paper. She stumbled into the room. Marie had no idea what she was doing in a hotel room waiting for a man she’d never met. Sitting on the bed was a white box wrapped in a red bow. She opened it and took out a Metallic blue dress that matched her eyes. She was nervous, a little intimated by him. He was assured and mysterious. But she desperately wanted to be a call girl.
The spirit whore recognized Marie instantly. They had met on the boat making the dangerous journey to the port of San Francisco, together. The girls had arrived from Ireland. No money, proper but poor folks. The boat captain had given them one day to pay the fare; it was common practice in those days. The spirit harlot often wondered what it would be like to return to life as someone else. It was obvious by the thoughts in the Marie’s mind that she had forgotten her life as a prostitute. Her name had been Sarah. And now as Marie she craved sex but battled guilt when she gave in to it. Marie’s heart pounded, could she do this? The harlot felt pity for the young woman, caught in syncretism.
A flash of memories rippled in front of the spirit whore like a movie. The room suddenly reverted back to 1855, the walls covered in a faux red velvet tapestry. The smell of cigar filled the air with cocoa, leather and spice. It had been an era of men migrating to the west in search of gold. But the harlot had observed that the only men making fortunes were the ones with businesses catering to those poor men sifting for gold. So she learned the art of being a wall flower, waiting for the sign of a man with gold. A handsome man had walked in, took a seat at the bar and pulled out of his silk lined jacket, a celebratory cigar.
She worked her walk, “Allow me, Sir,” she said to him, caressing his hand.
They had headed back to her boudoir on Maiden Lane. He had paid her in six ounces of gold nuggets. The handsome man sat on the sofa watching her undress. His smile was of a man with a secret. He stared at her but never once touched her. And then he left. Her mind had been filled with thoughts of him, his hands over her body, his tongue mingled in her mouth. She just couldn’t understand why he had left.
Days later, a little boy had braved to enter into the brothel house, yelling, “Rowan!”
The girls had been in an uproar, threatening to teach the youngster a thing or two. But he had been paid a nugget of gold to deliver a box.
“I have a gift for you!”
In the box was a beautiful dress from Paris. It was from him. And he wanted to meet with Rowan away from Morton Alley at the Victorian Hotel, the one situated on a San Francisco hillside with the spiral staircase leading to a beautiful stain glass door.
Marie’s heart beat violently with fear at the sound of the key card swiping open the door. It was in that moment that she saw Rowan’s spirit. It was Marie, during her life as Sarah, the prostitute, who had told the nobleman where Rowan was meeting with the handsome man when he had come looking for her. Marie’s guilt came from knowing at a subconscious level that she played a role in Rowan’s murder. She had been jealous that a wealthy nobleman had moved Rowan out of Morton Alley and into a parlour with fine food and fine ladies. The European nobleman would refer to Rowan as his petite paramour. He had treated her like a fragile doll, only to be pulled out of her box to defer to him. She had never wanted to be his concubine, nor his paramour. But in those days, Rowan always did the right thing for everybody else. Unfortunately her life ended before she could learn to live life by her own terms.
In the over two hundred years Rowan’s spirit had remained in her boudoir she had learned how to enter someone’s body, like she had done with Nina. But she wanted Marie’s permission this time and it was granted. And as if by magic or destiny a transformation took place, Marie’s long blonde wavy hair suddenly appeared red and her metallic blue eyes became green. And like a life boomerang, the handsome man stood at the door, just as Rowan recalled him to be; only he was wearing casual jeans and a white dress shirt .
His eyes still the color of melted caramel and that small curl to his lips foretelling of secrets was the same. “
You look good enough to eat.” A coy smile swept across the handsome man’s lips.
She worked her walk over to him but he pushed her away, ignoring her. It was not what she was expecting. And with those words he closed the door, leaving Rowan in the Victorian room alone in Marie’s body. The sound of Buddhist temple bells filled the silence; Rowan picked up the phone and read his message. He instructed her to meet him three blocks away. She felt scared, walking down the darkened street alone.
The temple bells rang again, she answered. “How does it feel?” the sound of his voice excited her.
“Where are you?” she responded, fear revealing itself in her voice.
Suddenly from the darken shadows of an alley way a pair of hands pulled Rowan in. He pushed her against the brick wall, kissing her roughly, his hands grabbing her breasts, feeling her body. He stopped. Turned her around and spread her legs open. He inserted a finger into her wet orifice, she began to moan. People were passing by but he didn’t stop fingering her and no matter how hard she tried, Rowan couldn’t control her breathing. The fear of being caught, the excitement of people watching, this is what she needed. He unbuttoned his pants and thrust into her. Fucking her hard, his finger circling her clit, “Fuck!” he moaned releasing himself into her. After catching his breath, he zipped up and walked away leaving behind the smell of his whiskey, sharp and sweet.
Rowan pulled her dress down, composing herself before stepping into the dimly lit streets. Her phone vibrated, she read his message and headed back in the direction of the Victorian bed and breakfast. He was sitting on the sofa, swirling his whiskey around the glass of ice, waiting in the shadow of darkness for her. She walked up to him, ready to let him know how shitty and not to mention dangerous it was to leave her alone in an alley way.
“You smell of our sex. And I want to fuck you again, standing up, against the wall. I want to fuck you from behind and come inside you. Lift up that dress of yours.”
Like a good whore, she stood in front of him, her dress up, no panties. When he stood up to unbutton his pants she licked off a dribble of whiskey from his mouth. His eyes shone with desire, spilling out the words that would not be uttered by his mouth. The sound of someone swiping the door to open it didn’t startle him. He calmly took Rowans hand and led her to the closet and proceeded to fuck her again while the maid wandered about the room, tiding up. He had requested fresh towels, on purpose. But the maid didn’t take her time; there was something about that room she didn’t like. The feeling of some one watching her sent chills up her spine. As soon as the maid closed the door, Rowan let out a sound, like that of an animal. She had cum.
Rowan died in 1855 at the hands of a jealous lover. A nobleman had become obsessed with having her as his trophy. She wanted to be with a man who had the courage to fuck her like an unbreakable woman and he only made love. On the day she was murdered, Rowan was in the thrones of pleasure when the Nobleman walked in. She was being fucked by the handsome man. His every touch, his fingers over her flesh had been her manna. She was his will, his pleasure, his desire. She didn’t need the nobleman. Rowan had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of her life.
And so it was in a moment of passion that she spewed out what would be her last words, “I am not your concubine because I give myself to everyone!”
The nobleman had felt a spell upon him, fascinating, strange, a thing not fully understood. The hair on the back of his neck had begun to prickle. Goosebumps rose on the bare skin of his arms, and he felt his breathing grow shallow when he stabbed Rowan in the heart. He looked away from the red-headed beauty, unable to look into her eyes. She had screamed in agony, she screamed because she loved the handsome man, she screamed for what she allowed herself to become, a paramour to a noblemen she had hated and she screamed until there was no breath, no more life to scream about. The circle was complete, Rowan was free to go. She would never regret being a whore, a prostitute, perverse in her sexual appetites. But she was off to seek another life.
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
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