The House by the Ocean Ch. 01byQuentin Riley©
Driving her car up the coast, Connie felt good about this group coming to stay in her beautiful villa. She had nothing more than a good vibe from Debra's e-mails, but she just felt it...and her gut instincts were never far off-base. Debra--the apparent spokesperson for this vacationing group of eight, gave her much information through their correspondence. All eight were recent graduates and professionals from the Philly area, and close friends looking for some R & R. Good, Connie thought. There would be intelligent people on her property. She hated putting her vacation home in the hands of moronic revelers who were too stupid to understand her place was not a hotel, but a work of art and a home. What a relief!
She was right. The split-level modern Spanish villa had so much more to offer than just a place to crash. Connie designed every inch of the interior with the artistically thoughtful touches that came from being both an art dealer and artist, afforded her. Some of the paintings, drawings and sculptures in the house were her personal works. Yes, the villa was a vacation home and a renter for profit, but to Connie, it was a pure labor of love and passion. The location and design of the house convinced her it was a sacred and mystical place—hallowed ground. So she preferred people with potential sensibility and appreciation for such a place. These eight fit the mold. She could feel it. That was perfect.
The drive up the Northern California coast was one of the most breathtaking sights in the world. The Pacific Ocean to the left dazzled and shimmered unbelievably close to the highway. The sky above was perfectly clear and blue. And the sun radiated everything in pleasant warmth, including Connie inside of her green Audi. There was no need for the air-conditioner inside the car; Connie preferred the ocean breeze blowing through cracked car windows whenever the temperature made it appropriate. It was a perfect day in every way. The comfort in Connie's limbs gave her a surety. The road was smooth on this stretch of the highway, yet the car began to vibrate slightly. Most drivers might have missed the movement, but the unusual movement did not pass the attention of Constance Jocelyn Meyer. Everything was connected, she knew. All around her, the gentle vibration seem to spread from the steering wheel to the doors until the whole interior was consumed with it. Nothing was wrong with her car—of that she was certain. Connie began to smile knowingly. It was with her again—calling to her. "It" was the force that told her to buy the land and house from the previous owner twelve years ago. He was a vapid man with awful taste in interior design and a poorer sense of what he owned. Connie met his asking price and sweetened the deal for his quick departure. The land was hungry for her, and she for it. They were meant to be one because twelve years ago, it called out to her body for the first time just as it was doing right now.
She was getting closer to where she was meant to be...closer to her home. Her center.
The trembling coursed down her seat into her spine and tailbone. She felt it keenly in her armpits as it rode from the wheel through her arms. This...energy took over her body. The sun got brighter inside the car. Connie's mind equated it to an exploding star. The vibration crept between her thighs, rippling against her flesh, pressing deliciously on her sex like a lover's skilled unrelenting tongue. The car began to drift as Connie swooned under the bold, hungry touch of this force. Invisible hands formed against her stomach and moved upward. Thumbs circled the underside of her full breasts, enticing her flesh. Connie's lips parted as nervous sweat surfaced on her skin and her nipples instantly formed into an aroused hardness so hard, she could feel the sexual ache down in her bones. The impression of fingertips traveling the sensitive trail of her areolas left Constance Joyce Meyer's insides in trembling knots...and her vagina wet. The brazen caresses worked down from the breasts, over the stomach and down between her thighs. Constance was fully clothed, but she felt fingers deftly pull her panties to the side and expose her sex. A thumb rolled over her clit again and again. One, then two fingers slid inside her, penetrating her easily. These "fingers" found a rhythm in Connie, steadily increasing in speed. Slick with her arousal, the fingers became the firm, hot, pulsing, dense and unmistakable presence of a cock inside her. Connie felt the heavy weight of a man's solid chest upon her own. She remained steady at the wheel, but her body convinced her mind she was pinned on her back, legs in the air with an insatiable lover riding her—pelvis pounding against pelvis. She was acutely aware of feeling like this thing's...whore. As if her only value was to be used sexually by it. To be fucked like a bitch in heat. The thought of violation running through Connie's head fueled the sexual tension throbbing throughout her body. Her orgasm came over her fast and harder than her mind could ever remember. The climax shattered her into pieces. The car swerved dangerously on the road and Constance was well over the speed limit. The picturesque day started to come back to her conscious mind. She got the car under her control. The invading presence that claimed her flesh for its own was gone, but the brown leather seat between her legs was wet with sex.
She needed to get to the house.