Lake Estate-1

dWARNING: This work of Fiction contains Dark Themes, including Sexual Activity between Man and Boy, between Boy and Man, between Dog and Dog, as well as between Man, Boy And Dog… Yes, I know I’m a sick fucker! I know I should have my head examined! But the thing is, IT’S FICTION! None of this actually happened! It’s all made-up! No men, nor boys, nor dogs were harmed in the writing of this story. If this doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, then why the hell did you open the file? Don’t you read the tags before choosing a story? If you think you can handle it, by all means continue reading. If not, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Hope you enjoy!
–RogueRambler


Ok, let me start by telling you a bit about myself, which might help you understand how I turned-out the way I am. My father was a very rich and very powerful man. When I was a kid I never actually knew exactly what it was he did, but I did know that his job kept him away from home more than he was there. My mother died after battling cancer for almost two years, when I was still quite young. After Mom was gone, It seemed as though Dad was home even less than he had been when she was alive. I always thought that my father had issues about our home being the place were his wife died and while he never ever talked to me about it, my suspicions were mostly-confirmed when we moved from the penthouse apartment in the city, to our family’s estate on Lake Michigan. It was the day I’d finished grammar-school. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. I was so excited about starting high-school the following fall, I was floating on a cloud much higher than the ninth one. I got home from school and went into my bedroom. There, I found the housekeeper packing my things. . I didn’t even know my father owned an estate in Michigan, or that it had been in the family for generations. I couldn’t once remember anyone talking about the lake-estate and for that matter I wasn’t quite sure what exactly an estate was. But when the car pulled-up to the gates of the estate and I finally saw my new home (escorted by the house-staff, not my father–he was in Thailand on business), I knew I’d been there before.

I don’t know how old I was, but I do know it was way before I’d even started school, I had a memory of swimming in a pool surrounded by huge rocks… Of playing on a beach and building a sand-castle… And I remembered a man with long red hair and eyes the same color of green that surrounded the huge stone-and-log house… In my mind, I can still hear my mother giggling and I can see the big man throwing back his head and laughing… He had a deep, howling laugh and he had… …and he had a dog. A big dog. In fact, as I remembered it, the dog was huge, like that Big Red dog in the little-kid’s books. Except the dog in my memory was silvery-gray, like it was made out of metal, not flesh and its eyes were a vivid, bright yellow. I had no fear of the massive mutt, even though I have a very vivid memory of the dog yawning, opening his huge maw only inches from my face. I can still see the long white fangs, strands of dog-spit stretched between the dog’s meaty tongue and long, pointed teeth and glistening in the sunlight. But that tongue, that big, wet tongue, I can remember feeling that tongue slather over my body. I remember laughing my little ass off as that huge dog licked my face.
After my mother died, that became most precious memory,. I never really thought too much much about the man or the dog, or even where we were when the actual event happened. Most every time I relived that moment of my life, I zeroed in on the laughter. I can hear my own pig-like squealing, Mom’s song-like Ha! Ha! Ha!s (I love listening to her laugh) and the man’s savage, howling laughs. That memory has popped into my mind several times a week, ever since I can remember. I have flashes of memories before that, but none with such detail. When I really concentrate on it, I can even smell the dog’s breath, as it licks my face (and oddly enough, I can also remember smelling pee). But in the back of my mind there was always a sneaking suspicion that my first truly vivid memory might only be a memory of a dream. I’d always been afraid that I’d somehow created those images and sounds and even the smells, in my mind.
Spending as much time alone as I did, I had a fantastic imagination. With only the stodgy, old house-staff for company, there wasn’t anyone but myself to talk to and my mind was always wandering. I did have a few friends at the exclusive, private school I attended, but most of those kids were self-absorbed little ass-holes, something I figured-out only a couple weeks into my scholastic career. It didn’t take long for me to figure-out that I was, somehow, different than most the other kids. But I never really thought much about what those differences might be. I simply had the mind-set that I was different and knowing that, I lived my life. I tried to convince myself that I was different because of the death of my mother. However, deep down I knew that while having no mother at home might have contributed to my feelings, the differences between myself and the other kids went much, much deeper than that.

Like I said, I’d always feared that my memory of me and my mother laughing (well, the man with long red hair and I were both laughing too), had somehow been a dream and not a true memory. But as we pulled-up to the gates of the lake-estate, it was like I’d been struck by lightning. I saw the big stone-and-log house, surrounded green grass and a big, black wrought-iron fence around the whole thing. Beyond the yard and house was the big lake and I knew the beach I’d played-on as a tot cut a swath of sand between the grass and the water, though I couldn’t see it yet… I could remember running on that emerald-green lawn, chasing the enormous steel-colored dog and being chased by the huge dog. I could picture myself running in the sand with the waves of the lake lapping at my feet. This was where it all happened. I’d been here with my mom, the man with long red hair and green eyes and the huge yellow-eyed dog. And when the car-doors opened and I got a breath of the fresh lake-shore air, I felt as though I’d been slapped in the face. At that moment I knew it wasn’t a dream, or something I imagined.
When I turned to the house-keeper, an ancient woman who’d worked for the family since my father was a boy and asked her, “I’ve been here before, haven’t I?” The old woman reacted as though she’d been slapped in the face. “I wouldn’t know,” she said, but I knew she was lying when she added, “But it was your great-grandfather who built this place, so it’s been in the family for generations.” The house-keeper never volunteered information, unless she was feeling nervous.
“I remember,” I said, feeling as though she’d actually confirmed what I already knew was true. “I remember the swimming-pool, surrounded by rock.” We were on the opposite side of the house from the pool, so there was no way I could see it. “And there’s a statue, a…” it was a bit fuzzy, remembered staring up at something, shielding my little eyes from the sun. I wanted to say the statue I remembered was a dog, but the big steel-gray dog was already so alive in my memory, not still and cold like the vivid image that had just popped into my mind.
“It is a wolf,” came the crackling voice of the butler from the front of the car. “It stands guard over the lake-side entrance to the house.” I almost laughed at the searing glare the house-keeper threw (through the rear-view mirror) at the old man, but I was afraid if I did, somehow the butler’s words would cost him more, as I knew the old woman would give him a good tongue-lashing about confirming my memory.

The second the car had stopped under the awning I threw the door open and ignoring the yells of both the housekeeper and the cook, I started running, though a bit slowly at first, over the lawn in front of the house. I’d been cooped-up in the car for nearly five hours (spending most of that time trying to find creative ways to hide the little hard-on that kept popping-up and tenting my pants) and while it felt damn good to stretch my legs, I had to work myself up to my to a decent pace. I pulled in deep lung-fulls of air, tasting and smelling and feeling the amazing difference in the air. Fresh off the lake, the air was clean, crisp and it seemed to energize me in a way I never felt in the city. I ran and I ran, feeling even freer than I had earlier that last-day-of-school. Freer than ever. Finally I came to a corner of the house and ran around it at full-tilt. The sides of the house weren’t as long as the front, though I still ran quite a while before coming to another corner. I took that one at top-speed too, but what I saw made me slow my pace considerably. My eyes took control of my mind from my feet. I could see the beach and the pool and…
…And true to the butler’s word, there it was. Twelve, maybe fifteen feet high, staring out over the big lake, was a huge, tarnished, iron cast of a wolf. It’s stance was not necessarily threatening, nor was it overly welcoming either. Off beyond the wolf-statue was the swimming pool (though empty and dirty, not filled with shimmering clear water as I remembered) surrounded by boulders of stone taller than any man I’ve ever met. And I could just about pick-out the spot on the beach where we built the sand-castle so many years before.
So there I was, young dumb and full of cum (as they say), at the dawn of summer, living on a two-hundred acre estate on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was so far from anywhere that only standing at a window on the very-top floor of the house, could I see land that didn’t belong to my father. The house itself was incredible. It was a bit cold and dark, but walking in the main entrance was incredible sight. The large hallway stretched half-way to the back of the house, where it stopped and formed a loft for a great-room below, with floor-to-ceiling picture-windows looked out on the lake. In the entry-way there was a grand staircase off to the left and to the right were several huge oak doors leading to the library, the formal living and dining rooms and to the kitchen. Upstairs there were at least a dozen bedrooms and at least half of them had their own bathrooms. Not to mention the half-dozen baths and half-baths on the main floor. But the best room in the house was the great-room with the huge windows over-looking the lake.

I spent the next few days exploring outside the house and the nights wandering around inside the house. Outside there were acres and acres of woods, with a river on its last leg before emptying into the big lake, running right through the middle. There was an old horse-barn and carriage-house that hadn’t been used in years, as well as several tool and wood-sheds and a boarded-up well-house. Inside, among the formal rooms, I found dozens of little closets and cubby-holes and even a few hidden doors leading to hidden rooms or corridors between the rooms. The cellar was enormous and I had to wonder if it some of it actually ran under the yard. Though full of cobwebs, which I can’t stand, I found dozens of little rooms, some set up as workshops, others full of boxes and crates, there was a seemingly well-stocked wine cellar and what must have at one time been a root-cellar. But the creepiest thing about the whole basement was the huge furnace, which looked like an upside-down octopus, with a hell of a lot more than eight tentacles.