Ginger Fox Part 2

Jon is in a deep sleep, lying in my bed, when I lock the door to my room, having first made sure the wardrobe is securely placed in front of the door connecting the rooms. I tuck the key into the pocket of my dress, moving slowly through the corridors. The sound of rain pounding on the roof sends echoes through the mansion. I smooth the dress against my body, adjusting it. The low ballet flats on my feet match the sheer stockings. This was the only pair of shoes I found that fit the retro look. I touch the pearls around my neck with the tips of my fingers, feeling their coldness, a stark contrast to my warm skin. I rub my hands together to dry the sweat of nervousness building up. I had considered not going. I had even stuffed everything back into the box, hiding it in the wardrobe, making it seem like it didn’t exist. But every second I spent in the room made me more curious, wondering what lay behind the white door. After dinner with Jon in his room and lying in bed with him, my eyes were still fixed on the wardrobe, knowing the dress was there. That’s how I found myself taking a long, hot bath, telling myself: you’re not going, you’ll stay in this room and curb your curiosity. Distract yourself with Jon, play that torturous game of Monopoly, muster up the courage to call your mother and tell her there will be no wedding. I almost believed I could do those things, but coming out of the bath in my pajamas, seeing Jon snoring in bed, my chances of distracting myself went down the drain. I paced back and forth in the room, my eyes glued to the wardrobe, chewing the corners of my fingers, making a decision.
I had crossed the east wing, entering the final corridor, spotting the penultimate white door on the right. I jumped, hand on my heart, when a loud thunderclap shook the mansion. The silence that followed was worse, along with the darkness. The damned power was out, forcing me to cross the mansion’s corridor in complete darkness. I’m certainly not like the fearless Lucy; the only thing we share is a nosy nose.
"Damn it!" I mutter, feeling my heart race faster than a scared rabbit. "Damn curiosity, Ginger!"
I chastise myself, still standing still. My nails dig into my hand as I take a deep breath. I should go back; I should take my butt and drag it back to the room with Jon, I know that. But why won’t my legs move? Why aren’t they turning me around and getting me out of here? I look around, seeing only blurs between the flashes of lightning coming through the high window at the end of the corridor.
"To hell with it!" I stamp my foot on the ground, forcing myself to turn back toward my room. "I’m not crossing a dark corridor just for a dick."
Even if he made me come damn well just with his fingers. There’s a good chance it would be the best sex of my life. I really want to know what it’s like to be kissed by him, to have his big hands holding me tight and fucking me, in some kind of fetish involving me starting with a striptease for him. And...
"Damn, damn, and damn!" I swear in frustration, as my thoughts give me reasons to be excited and not reinforce my decision to leave. "You’ll survive, stop being an idiot, Ginger."
I raise the tip of my finger, starting to bite the side, taking slow steps as if a turtle were racing me and would win.
"Maybe he has a small dick," I whisper to myself. And my brain, in response, brings back the memory of the lounger, when I looked at his waist and could clearly see the outline and thickness of the penis he has. "No, he doesn’t..." I sigh, wanting to get rid of this agony consuming me. "There probably isn’t anything special in that damned room."
You didn’t go, how will you know?
My curiosity thinks fast, making me lose to myself in my arguments. I lower my hand, shrugging my shoulders as I take a deep breath, exhaling immediately afterward. I turn again, faster than before, and practically run toward the door, not thinking about arguments or discussions with myself. I extend my hand, grasping the doorknob and turning it. The unlocked white door opens, allowing me into the room. I look toward the lit candle on a silver candlestick. The old wooden double bed is neatly made. I scan the room, searching for Mr. Roy, but I’m alone. I close the door behind me slowly. Looking around, there is no other exit, no other door indicating a bathroom, just the bed, the bedside table with the candlestick, an old, large wardrobe that reaches from floor to ceiling, with no drawers, just two doors, an open window letting in the cold, strong wind and some raindrops, and a painting of a flower-filled garden. The room is cold and gloomy. If I was scared of the dark corridor, the abandoned room nearly makes me panic.
I walk to the center of the room, looking at the bright flash outside with the lightning. Moments later, the loud crash of thunder makes me jump back, laughing nervously and terrified. I place my hand on my chest, which is pounding rapidly. I feel the pearls against my fingers, near my neck, reminding me of what I need to do now. I take a deep breath as the wind blows through the open window, sweeping through the room and hitting me. He is here, or was. The strong scent of his cologne confirms it. Maybe he prefers to watch from afar, just as he did with Lorane and Bob. Is he watching me through a magical mirror hidden somewhere in the room? Or is he just testing my limits, as Baby warned me he would? In the worst case, he’s doing both. Even as fear grows inside me, I’m intrigued, curious, and more excited than ever. The terror of being in a room devoid of warmth, knowing I’m being watched, sends my adrenaline soaring, increasing my blood flow from the fear of everything that could happen here.

My arms stretch as I lift one foot slightly, removing one of the ballet flats and using the free foot to push off the other, shoving it with my toes near the bed. I glance at the candle’s flame, protected by the lampshade to prevent it from extinguishing. I move my fingers to the front of the dress, unfastening the first button and lifting my gaze to the painting. I continue down the row until all the buttons are undone. I shrug my shoulders, raising my arm to remove the first sleeve. The flash of lightning occurs again, and I close my eyes as the thunder crashes loudly. I breathe so lightly that my heart almost leaps out of my mouth. I open my eyes, biting the side of my mouth, and remove the other sleeve, letting the fabric slide down my stomach. When it catches at my waist, I hook a finger on each side of my hips, pushing my butt back to force it down until it rests at my feet. I straighten up and lift one foot, stepping to the side, then do the same with the other.
I feel a shiver race across my body with the cold wind touching my skin. I remove the ribbon from my hair, releasing the bun I had made. My fingers go behind my back, unfastening the bra. The strap slides down slowly, stopping near my elbow. I hold the bustier with my splayed fingers, thinking he must be enjoying the view. As if to take revenge for being in this room, having my fear tested, I turn, facing away from the painting. I won’t give him the pleasure of seeing my bra fall to the floor; after all, games are meant for more than one player, aren’t they? I move my fingers, dragging the front of the bra with me, and smile as I let it fall to the floor, feeling a sense of revenge. My fingers go to my hair, pushing my breasts forward while I play with my curls, letting them cascade down my back. I lower my face to my panties, sliding my fingers along the side of the thin fabric. I hook them onto the straps, sliding them lazily down my legs, feeling the silky texture of the stockings on my skin. When the panties reach my feet, I lift my body back up, letting them fall to the floor with a slight movement of my feet. I lift my gaze to the door, waiting for it to open. This time, there’s no lightning, just the loud thunder shaking the window panes. The wind hits the candle, extinguishing the flame. My face turns toward it, ready to try to light it again, but I freeze. I don’t even raise my foot; the old, rusty hinges of the wardrobe creak as it opens just enough for someone to pass, making me hold my breath, almost stopping my heartbeat.
When the door opens, you may enter.
I recall the last part of the note. I turn my face toward the tall, old wardrobe, staring into the great darkness ahead. I’m sweating, my body hot and terrified. Even though the cold wind is hitting me, I’m still on fire. My chest beats rapidly as I draw deep breaths between gasps. My fingers are trembling, my legs weak, almost unable to support me. The door opens another inch, like a silent invitation, calling me to explore the secrets within. And I think that’s when I realize I have more in common with Lucy than I could have imagined. It’s not just curiosity that binds us, not when my feet move boldly, tracing my way there, being swallowed completely by the pitch-black darkness.
And just one sound in the darkness catches my attention, bringing back memories of that Sodom room, making me recognize the heavy, labored breathing of the strange man who used me but fucked me damn well. The man was Jonathan Roy.