Stella is lost in the dark, driving in a storm on an increasingly narrow, unfamiliar country road. What should she do? And why is she running away?
Stella’s car runs off the road and she injures her head. She needs help. Beyond the wild hedgerows and woods is a sprawling mansion with lights in the windows. It seems a party is taking place and Stella’s saved ... or is she?
When Stella meets the host, the stunning Madame Reynard, she’s instantly attracted. In fact, she knows this woman ... intimately. How? Why is she so familiar?
Stella searches for answers in this dark gothic tale of desire and denial.
A door creaked. Footsteps. Running footsteps getting louder. Stirring, Stella tried to open her eyes but they refused to cooperate.
“Hello? Hey, can you hear me?”
Someone tapped Stella’s cheek then grasped her head, supporting her. Something cold was pressed against her lips and an acrid liquid flooded her mouth. Wine -- strong wine -- burned her throat. Choking, she spat it out.
“Easy, easy ... sip it.”
More wine washed over Stella’s tongue and this time, she swallowed. The potent liquid trickled down her gullet, warming her. Forcing her eyelids open, she slowly focused.
A young woman in her late teens or early twenties was crouched beside her, blinking long lashes over the darkest, widest eyes. She was beautiful, pale, and serene, like the statues beside the gate.
“Welcome back.” The girl smiled, cheeks dimpling. Even her smile resembled the statues.
“I-I’m sorry to intrude,” Stella stammered blearily. “I’ve had an accident.”
“What?” Stella squinted at the girl.
“No, I’ve just --”
“Arrived? Yes, I know. I saw you skulking around outside and figured you’d sneak in this way. I came to meet you.”
“Good thing you did,” Stella murmured. “I’m hurt.”
“You seem okay to me, Mistress.” The girl tilted her head. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
Again? Stella frowned. This strange girl had obviously mistaken her for someone else.
“More wine?” The girl offered up the glass. “It’ll help.”
Stella shook her head. She studied the girl with her extraordinarily dark eyes and glossy, red lips that seemed too big for her face. Maybe the severity of her hairstyle distorted her features? The tight ballet bun wasn’t particularly flattering. She suddenly noticed the girl’s attire: a highly revealing black lace basque and very little else. The girl’s large dark nipples poked at the semi-transparent material while the soft flesh of her abundant breasts bulged over the top of the wired cups.
The skimpy top was worn with the tiniest white panties and white suspenders holding black fishnet stockings in place. Black leather burlesque boots completed the ensemble. With a black lace choker around her neck and white trim on the basque and stockings, the girl’s outfit resembled that of a French maid. Presumably, the party was fancy dress.
“Something wrong?” the girl asked. “Don’t you like our new uniform? It’s better than the old one, don’t you think?”
“I ... I don’t know.”
The girl leant closer. She trailed scarlet fingernails over the basque. “Madame Reynard loves it.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Don’t you?” The girl slid her hands down her body and to Stella’s surprise, parted her thighs, and stroked the gusset of her minuscule panties.
Stella gulped. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you think I could use a phone?”
The girl laughed. Standing, she held out a hand. “Come on, up you get. Can’t keep Madame waiting.”
Stella shrank back. “I’m not a guest. I’m injured. I need help. I crashed my car and then the brambles --”
“Ripped you to shreds?” The girl tittered. “Oh Mistress Stella, don’t you want to see her?”
“Madame Reynard, of course.”
“No. Not really,” said Stella shaking her head. “I don’t want to interrupt the party, I just need a phone and ...” Stella’s words dried. She stared at the girl. “How do you know my name?”