Rating: NC17 overall.
Disclaimer: The Bee owns nothing. Certainly not the characters or products
mentioned in this story and unfortunately, the Bee makes no profit from it.
Summary: This story is a light hearted comedy/mystery.
It is based slightly (very slightly) on the plot of the old movie
"House Of Long Shadows". It is an HUA that tells the story of a very successful
mystery writer, Alexander Harris, who is suffering from a severe case of writer's
block. Against his better judgement, he accepts a $10,000.00 bet with his
publisher after claiming he can crank out a full manuscript in a 24 hour period. This
short story is his struggle to do that and the bizarre obstacles that pop up.
Warnings: Sexual dialogue and M/M slashy acts.
As always, special thanks to the amazing Petxnd for her wonderful banners.
Xander stood frozen, his back against the door, his laptop clutched tightly to his
chest and his ass hole clamped up airtight in fear. As the pupils of his eyes slowly
contracted to normal, adjusting to the dim cavernous recess of the house, he could
make out shapes and forms. He was standing in a large open entry way. Directly
ahead of him was a wide, sweeping stairway that rose and 'Y' ed off leading to
upper hallways both left and right.
It really was magnificent. The stair posts were carved elegantly and matched the
same scroll work that filled all the woodwork around the closed doors on both
sides of the foyer. During it's time of pride and use it must have been a real showcase.
'Oh" He thought. 'Maybe that's it. I could do an epic. Civil War maybe. I can
just see a Southern Belle gliding down the stairway, meeting a handsome man at
the bottom and he says....Well, fuck, I guess "Frankly, Scarlet, I don't give a damn"
has already been done.'
Gingerly he took a step forward and craned his neck to look around. Both sides
of the foyer were planked by doorways that led into the bowels of the house and
as soon as Xander's heart rate returned to normal and he was certain he wouldn't
be experiencing a mild cardiac infarction, he knew he had to get moving.
Although the artistic side of him wanted to spend hours on the upper levels peeping
out the different bedrooms and developing stories about the people who lived and
loved there, he knew that unless they were stories with a plot, a murder and a
stunning arrest, he didn't have the time to fuck around.
His first priority now was to find a place to work and set up his computer. Then
he would fire up the generator, fill the fridge with his food, maybe make a sandwich
and see where things went from there. Yep, Xander was getting a grip. He was
a man who appreciated organization and having a solid plan went a long way toward
making him feel a whole lot better. In fact, he was starting to feel foolish.
"Haunted house." He chuckled. Actually saying the words out loud and the sound
of his own voice gave him a stability and reassurance. "What fucking nonsense!
No self respecting ghost would be caught dead in a house that smelled this musty
He turned his head first left then right. Which way to go? Did he take door number
one or door number two? Where was fucking Monte Hall when you needed him most?
Finally, with a shrug, Xander went to the right. He slowly reached out and wrapped
his hand around the glass doorknob, ready to jerk back quickly if it bit him, shocked
him or turned into a snake.
When none of that happened, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. It
led to a huge, dusty library. Cautiously, relief rushed through him. It was exactly
what Xander needed. Walls of familiarity in the shape of books to surround him and
a massive oak desk to set up and work at. The chair at the desk was leather, well
worn and the seat was still dented in the shape of the ass of the man of the mansion.
"O.k, O.k, now we're talking."
Now more confident and relaxed, Xander moved into the room as his eyes took in all
the thousands of dusty old tomes on hundreds of shelves. On the small sections of
wall that did not contain shelves, Xander could see pictures. Old pictures of men
with guns, hunting dogs and quail held up at the necks.
This was a man's room. A room for smoking cigars, drinking expensive whiskey and
discussing the finances of the world. A room where testosterone flowed freely in the
talk and movements of the masters of the estate. No women allowed.
Xander straightened his backbone. He sniffed and adjusted his nuts.
'Hell yeah.' He snorted. "I'm the man of the house now.'
Bobbing his head in renewed confidence, Xander marched directly toward the desk
where he set his laptop down. He felt one hundred percent better and was now
ready to get rolling. He wanted to hurry and get the generator fired up. He just
knew that at any moment now his creative juices would begin to gush forth and
he wanted to be ready to funnel the flow toward his keyboard.
Hurrying back toward the foyer, something tickled Xander's brain and he stopped.
Turning around slowly, Xander glanced again in to the study and it struck him what
was odd. While everything in the room was dusty, musty and probably crusty, the
desk was clean. Even in the dim lack of sunlight, Xander could see that it was
polished and spotless.
He cocked his head to the side and studied on it for a while. Finally with a shrug,
he decided that perhaps there was an errant breeze that blew through, preventing
the dust from settling in that part of the room. Perhaps wood of that quality had
an inbred aversion to dirt.
Oh well. Whatever the reason, Xander was short on time. He could figure it out
later. Right now, he had a generator to gas up.
On the second big pull, the huge, clanking mechanical monstrosity roared to life
and Xander let out a cheering whoop.
"Hell yeah! Who's the man now? That's right. That's right. It's me. It's me."
He then capped off his bouncing, butt wiggling sing songy chant by beating his
fists on his chest and doing his best Tarzan holler till the last 'woo' caught in his
throat and set off a coughing jag that nearly drove him to his knees. When he
finally recovered, he collected himself and staggered out of the small backyard
shed that housed the generator and he quickly returned to the mansion.
It really had been a stroke of good fortune that there were two 5 gal. gas cans
sitting full and just waiting to be dumped in. Xander resolved to speak to Ethan
about leaving things like that around where they could be so easily stolen.
After unpacking his meager groceries, Xander was thrilled to note how quickly
the fridge was cooling off. He was not a fan of warm beer. He was greatly relieved
setting empty all these years, the house was in amazingly good working order.
He then checked his watch. 11:45, and he rubbed his hands together briskly.
"Well, all done and 15 minutes to spare. Nothing left to do now but pound out an
outline of a story idea. That will make the actual writing go a lot faster and I will
be done in no time."
Xander hustled back to the library, fired up his computer and cracked his knuckles.
"All righty tighty. So, what will the next Alexander Harris best selling mystery
novel be about? Well, we need a victim of course and a killer. Hmmmm."
Xander's attention drifted and he looked all around the room, his eyes cataloging
the vast number of books as his brain estimated how many there actually were.
Slowly he rose to his feet as he continued muttering to himself.
"Yep, a killer and a victim. Course really the place to start is with a motive. Can't
have a murder without a mot.....I wonder how many of these books Ethan has
Shit, even if he read, oh, say, one a week, 52 weeks a year, 20 years, that's, um....."
Xander mentally did the math as his fingers waggled in an unconscious attempt to
assist with the calculations.
"1040 Books! No way. I'll bet there's twice that many in here. No fucking way that
fucking old queen read all these. HA! Wait till I get home and call him on that one."
The very thought of calling Ethan snapped Xander back to focus and he quickly
returned to his chair where he dropped with a plop. He briskly scratched his scalp
and adjusted the screen of his laptop. When all was perfect, he took a deep breath
and his fingers flew over the keyboard. After a few seconds. he sat back and viewed
his progress so far.
THE LATEST BEST SELLER BY ALEXANDER HARRIS, MASTER DICK BEATER.
THIS IS THE STORY OF A PROUD, UPSTANDING COCK WHO WAS PUMMLED
AND SQUEEZED TO DEATH BY A TIGHT, PINK, STARFISH.
Xander read and reread the silliness as he hooted and laughed. Maybe that was
where he was going wrong. Maybe he needed to write a comedy. When he had
regained his composure, he hit 'delete all' and he sighed.