Clitsy Weldon: The Extremely Erotic Adventures of a Teen Girl Detective

By Frank Watson

*** PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS A NOVEL OF EROTIC FANTASY INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY ***

From Frank Watson (author of "CHATEAU NOIR") & Rebecca Lynn Forest:

In the summer before her graduation, eighteen-year-old Clitsy Weldon trades her dull small town life for a few weeks of high adventure. Old neighbors, old legends, new friends, and mysterious strangers -- every one of them with secrets to be revealed. And the biggest secret of all may lie hidden somewhere inside a crumbling old mansion deep in the woods south of town.

*** NOTE: THIS IS A NOVEL OF EROTIC FANTASY INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY ***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Watson
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463253151

Frank Watson

*** ON SALE NOW! ***"Clitsy Weldon: The Extremely Erotic Adventures of a Teen Girl Detective" - a brand new erotic mystery adventure novel by Frank Watson & Rebecca Lynn Forest!***Frank Watson divides his time between Paris and London.He writes using his collection of vintage typewriters, leaving the tiresome chore of digital formating, etc. to a small but capable staff of young assistants who he refers to as his "angels".He considers them "indispensable"... and... "endlessly inspiring".Thank Heaven! ;)***And don't miss the "Innocence" trilogy from Ginny Carlisle:* "The Art of Innocence"* "Tropic of Innocence"* "Games of Innocence"(All Three On Sale Now! Here at Smashwords.com)

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CLITSY WELDON

Frank Watson & Rebecca Lynn Forest

Copyright 2018 GMB Books

Smashwords Edition

*****

Also available from GMB Books:

Chateau Noir by Frank Watson

The Art of Innocence by Ginny Carlisle

Tropic of Innocence by Ginny Carlisle

Games of Innocence by Ginny Carlisle

C L I T S Y W E L D O N

The Extremely Erotic Adventures of a Teen Girl Detective

Rebecca Lynn Forest

Frank Watson

(2018)

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright - 2018 - GMB Books

All Rights Reserved

The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

* This Book Is Intended For The Enjoyment Of Adults Only *

* * * *

For Frank, my Darkest Angel

For Rebecca, my Brightest Star

For all the girls who ride

And... for the Goddess Apophenia, who rules us all

* * * *

* * * *

She is of quicksilver. -- Conrad Aiken

Part of this is a dream -- but which part? -- Hali, the Dreamer

Nothing here is real, nothing here is right. -- BtVS

* * * *

C L I T S Y W E L D O N

CHAPTER ONE -- Old Neighbors

Oh, Moms, Clitsy moaned, running her hands over the front of her tight-fitting khaki shorts. I'll just die if I don't get my own vibrator like all the other girls have.

Diana Weldon looked up from the row of cucumbers she was weeding in the family's back yard vegetable garden. Clitsy? she declared, trying to look severe, "If you had actually died as many times as you claimed you were going to, you'd have been a dead 'nine-lived' cat before you even made it through a single day. Every day. She grinned then, wiping away the beads of sweat that had formed under the bangs of her sensibly short blonde pageboy. Still an attractive woman, Clitsy's mother looked very much the same as the author's photo on the back covers of the young adult" mystery novels she wrote in her spare time between parenting her three offspring and taking care of the Weldon's small farm.

"I mean it this time, Moms!" Tears of frustration welled up in the cute teenager's blue eyes as she bent to snap a not yet fully formed cucumber from one of the green vines. She fondled it in her palm petulantly, feeling its slender seven-inch firmness and its warmth from the summer sun.

Watching from the corner of her eye, Mrs. Weldon was well aware of what the vegetable probably felt like to her eighteen-year-old daughter, although she was pretty sure that Clitsy was still a virgin and that girl-handling an erect penis manually was probably all she had done with boys, if even that much. So far.

While undoubtedly a healthily compulsive masturbator, as evidenced by how many times she'd caught the girl entertaining herself in that personal manner in recent years, she was reasonably confident that a little petting with boys was the extent of her daughter's sex life, when not playing with herself alone in her bedroom or in her bath, or -- she almost blushed at the memory -- that one occasion, two summers ago, when she had surprised the girl wriggling around on a lounge chair outside on the family's back patio late one sultry night, dressed only in the filmy pink t-shirt she had worn to bed earlier, her hands busily teasing herself toward orgasm. Whatever in the world had gotten into Clitsy on that occasion, she couldn't imagine, other than the heat and the pressures of late adolescent girlhood.

She had certainly had to give her daughter a good talking-to about privacy that night. What if one of Clitsy's brothers had come downstairs for a snack, or happened to wake up and take a look out his bedroom window and seen his sister writhing and humping on her fingers out there?

Clitsy had been sent back to bed in tears after a brief spanking, promising to keep her secret girl-games more of a secret in future. And that included her latest obsession -- vibrators. Now her own fingers were not quite good enough for the hormonally charged young female. And vibrators had recently become all the rage among her classmates at school.

I'm just so bored, Moms! Clitsy declared. "With Tyre and Bart away at that camp all summer, there's just nothing else to do around here but jill off. And you know I've been sharing a vibrator with one of the girls at school all year. We were trading off every other weekend, but she's gone on vacation with her parents, and I'm left with all day to play and no toys at all! Please, can I buy one? That little store at the mall has some really cheap ones that run on batteries, though Emily says they're not as good as the plug-in one we've been using -- you know, that 'wand' with the fat padded head? The girls on the soccer team say they're really great for sore muscles, but Emily says that's not the main reason all the girls got their moms to get them one. The plastic ones at the mall cost a lot less, but she says they're really loud, so you can't use them when there's anyone else in the house. She has three brothers and one of them is always nosing around, which is why she got the quieter plug-in one, so she could use it whenever."

Mrs. Weldon finally stood up from her weeding and said, "Look, Clitsy. I don't really care about Emily's expert advice on electronic masturbation technology. The fact is, that you spent all your 'summer' money on burgers and milkshakes and movies in town with your friends before they all took off for the summer.

So if you want to buy yourself one of those expensive -- 'massagers' -- you'll just have to find a way to earn some money to pay for it yourself. You know the only way your brothers could afford to join their friends at that expensive summer camp was by agreeing to work as camp counselors all season.

The blonde teenager pouted and sighed, dropping her head forward between dramatically slumped shoulders, her bright blue eyes shaded by the short fringe of her mussed shaggy blonde hair, sweat-dampened from the afternoon heat. This farm where her family lived had not been a bad place to grow up, but life there had always been a bit isolating. Other than her social life at the high school there wasn't a lot of opportunity for making friends and discovering new activities. She wished there was another teenage girl in the neighborhood nearby, someone she could share the pains, trials and travails of young womanhood -- and maybe even a good vibrator, she giggled to herself.

But the Weldon farm was located pretty much out by itself, several country miles south of the small town of Slumberside. The only neighbors -- to use the term loosely -- were the large estate to the west of the Weldon farm, known locally as Homewood, with its well maintained house, stables and outbuildings that had always remained vacant, except for regular caretaker and groundskeeper visits, for as long as Clitsy could remember.

The only other house in the immediate area was the crumbling huge old haunted-looking Victorian mansion located on the overgrown wooded hillside even farther west, way over past the grounds of the Homewood estate, connected by an overgrown path that led though a dense section of forest and around past the stream-fed secluded pond that lay on the woods' far side -- and this was the mansion where odd Old Man Kayne, a reclusive and constant source of Slumberside gossip and speculation, lived all alone.

And that was it. Two big estates and Clitsy's small family farm, thick woods, and lonely country roads -- and all seeming very far removed from what a lonely teenager would call civilization. All Clitsy's friends lived up in town and had their own concerns when school had let out for the summer a few weeks ago: jobs, summer camp, or vacation trips with their families or more affluent friends. They were all pretty much gone until the coming fall, when high school would start again, leaving Clitsy feeling she might as well have been marooned on Mars as stuck in the sultry heat of the Weldon family farmhouse.

And not even her own vibrator to help while away the time.

It's still not fair, she whined as her mother squatted down to continue her weeding. I would have gotten that job as a part-time waitress in town if you'd have let me.

Her mother snorted a short laugh. "With that lecherous Mr. Crosby managing the place? Oh, sure, I'll send my only daughter over to him each day, have him put you in one of those skimpy-tight little uniforms he makes all his 'angels' wear? I wouldn't be surprised if he regularly slips something into the drinks of those poor girls at the end of their night-shifts and takes them out back to do who-knows-what to them. I wouldn't so much as let a daughter of mine stop in there in the middle of a bright sunny day for a vanilla milkshake, much less allow her to work there at night, even if you are eighteen. She shook her head adamantly. No ma'am, young lady -- you can play with yourself all night and all day, even play with your school friend's shared sex toy in the privacy of your own bedroom, but I do have a few standards as a modern mother, and 'working' for Mr. Crosby definitely does not meet them.

And besides, the woman added, noting her daughter's amusement at her mother's outrage. There are other ways to earn money around here. There always are. So just look around for some of them. Then she was grinning herself, as she pointedly looked around the small farmyard that surrounded them. See what you can find.

Clitsy knew what kind of work her mother meant. Housework at best, farm work at worst.

All at once Clitsy found herself feeling a little ashamed of her girlish self-centeredness. Her mother was, after all, just about the best mom ever, or so she was constantly being told by her friends at school who envied her mother's good nature and openness to letting Clitsy go pretty much her own way within the limits of good common sense.

Okay, Moms, she grinned, stepping forward to give her mother a hug. I'll figure something out.

That's my girl, her mother cooed, brushing away an errant curl from her daughter's forehead. And just one other thing.

What's that? Clitsy asked.

"Please stop calling me 'Moms?' Honestly, I don't know where the heck you got that but wherever it was, please put it back? It's... just... weird."

Clitsy laughed. Okay... we'll make it 'Mommy', then.

That's much better. Reminds me that, even if you are going to be a serious, mature, and all-grown-up high school senior this fall, you're still my sweet and innocent little girl. And that brought a hearty laugh from both of them.

Now, scoot! prodded Mrs. Weldon. I have to get these weeds under control or they'll be holding the cucumbers for ransom.

"Mmmmm... cucumbers! taunted Clitsy, giving her hips a small wriggle. Gotta take care of them! Especially if we want them to grow nice and big!" she giggled.

Mrs. Weldon launched a trowel-full of potting soil in her daughter's direction as the girl scampered off laughing. Honestly, that girl was turning out even more precocious than she herself had been in her late teens. She smiled and shook her head with a wry thought regarding her own experiences with cucumbers in her experimental youth. All warm from the garden, and with delightfully tickling little bumps all up and down their heavy length. She shivered, and found herself suddenly looking forward to picking time.

As Clitsy rounded the front of the family's farmhouse she saw her father's car just coming up the drive. She ran forward to greet the handsome man who was also the envy of most of her girlfriends at school. Young and handsome, and a successful part-time lawyer when at his small office in town, Mark Weldon had played the dark-haired lead in many female adolescent fantasies among Clitsy's set, according to what she had learned during more than a few late-night confessionals during sleepovers and pajama parties over the past few years.

Clitsy could well appreciate the effect her dad's good looks had on her girlfriends, though she always felt a little uncomfortable hearing the girls go on about it like they sometimes did. She supposed it was much like the little crush she herself had once had on her handsome young math teacher the year before. Thoughts of that particular 'older man' -- who was actually not much older than twenty-five or so -- had fueled some particularly lusty sessions of self-love that junior year. So it was probably natural that her dad had the same effect on some of her estrogen-charged friends.

Clitsy ran up and hugged the man as he stepped from the car. Dad! she cried. "My favorite Dad!"

Uh-huh, Mr. Weldon responded with skeptical good humor. Good to see you too, my... 'favorite'... daughter. Now, what are you going to ask me for? If it's money, then I'm fresh out.

Nooo, Dad! the girl responded, rolling her eyes and pretending to be offended. It's just that Moms... I mean, 'Mommy'... just said that maybe I could earn a little extra spending money by helping out around the farm. Would that be okay with you?

I don't see why not, her father responded with a smile. Just as long as you're not asking to be paid for the chores you're already responsible for.

Great! Mom said I should look around and see what jobs I could find. I'll make a list, and then run them past you two.

Very enterprising, Mr. Weldon congratulated. That's my girl. Now, I need to talk to your mother. As I was driving back from Beckton to see about the Millers' old surveying records -- you know, they're hoping to expand into that area just north of their place and they aren't exactly sure where their property lines are drawn. Well, anyway, as I was driving back I found poor old Mr. Kayne lying across the entrance of that long driveway that leads up to the back of his house from Beckton Trail Road. I almost didn't see him lying there, with the way the underbrush has grown up around that old stone gate. I guess he'd made the long walk down the hill to check his mailbox when he must have collapsed. I don't know how long he'd been lying there.

Oh, the poor man! gasped Mrs. Weldon, who had come around to join them by the car. Living up there in that big old falling-apart mansion all alone, something like this was bound to happen some day.

I know, but old people can be peculiar like that. Keeping to themselves all the time. He was in pretty bad shape when I found him. Thin as a rail. Don't know when he'd last eaten. I got him up and into my car and ran him up to the hospital in town. They say they're keeping him over for a few days anyway, maybe longer.

Clitsy screwed up her face in righteous judgment. I'll bet he didn't bother to thank you, did he? He's such a grouch. Remember that one time Barty and I went over there to climb one of his old apple trees? I thought he was going to have us arrested or skinned alive or something, he was so mad. And it was only a few measly apples.

I remember, sweetie, said Mrs. Weldon. But we mustn't hold grudges. And you were trespassing, technically.

Well, then... 'technically'... Old Man Kayne is a mean ol' butthole, Clitsy declared.

Language, young lady! chided Mrs. Weldon with a frown.

Well, anyway, Mr. Weldon continued. He was never conscious the whole time it took me to drive him up to Slumberside. I talked with Dr. Harris after he'd examined him and he said that things didn't look very good for him, and that the poor old fellow might not even make it through the night.

Clitsy became hushed at this further, darker news. Old Jonas Kayne was a notorious... well, butthole... but still, she wouldn't wish him -- or anyone else -- this much bad luck. And she certainly didn't wish him dead! She looked up toward the far distant low ridge to the west where the highest tips of the gables and chimneys of Mr. Kayne's rambling old mansion could sometimes just barely be made out, peaking above the low tree-line some miles away. Her father had always said that Jonas Kayne's house had once been quite a showplace -- the finest home in that part of the county before the somewhat more modern Homewood estate had been constructed some years later.

But that had been a long, long time ago, and old Mr. Kayne's property had long since fallen into neglect and the house especially into disrepair. She and her brothers had often in their younger years frightened themselves making up spooky stories about the house, imagining it to be haunted by all sorts of grim mysteries.

And, of course, ghosts.

And now, if old Mr. Kayne did actually die, there might at least be one ghost taking up residence there -- the ghost of a very mean old man. Clitsy shuddered and crossed her arms over her suddenly goose-fleshed young breasts, pert nipples coming erect beneath her tight sweat-dampened t-shirt.

Well, you did all you could, Mark, Mrs. Weldon said, taking her husband into her arms for a hug. You're a good man. A good neighbor. And you're a wonderful husband.

The three had started for the house when Mr. Weldon remembered that he had some other, perhaps happier news. Oh, I almost forgot! There's something going on over at the Homewood estate.

Homewood House? You don't mean someone's actually moving in? Diana asked.

Yep, her husband replied with a smile. Looks like we're finally going to get some new neighbors.

CHAPTER TWO -- New Neighbors

At Homewood House, in the days that followed Clitsy's father's happy announcement, there had indeed been much intriguing activity. Watching from the woods nearby, Clitsy had noted these comings and goings with great interest. Several large moving vans had entered the long circular driveway that fronted the elegant old Greek revival-style mansion to disgorge the usual boxed array of household paraphernalia.

A large collection of odd-looking heavy pieces of furniture had been carefully unloaded, all under the watchful supervision of a severe-looking woman with dark hair done up in a tight no-nonsense bun at the back of her head. Clitsy thought she looked a bit like a stereotypical librarian or perhaps an old-fashioned schoolteacher. The way she rode those poor moving-men, constantly berating them for imagined carelessness as they carried in the furniture. And the countless bulky wooden crates and cartons made Clitsy wonder what fragile treasures those containers might hold.

She watched in curiosity as a particularly strange item was lifted down from the third moving van to arrive that afternoon. It was a sort of wooden frame about four feet in height and width, and a bit longer in length, that held in place a blanket-wrapped shape that Clitsy thought resembled a four-legged animal of some kind. In the next moment her suppositions were confirmed, as a portion of the cushioning blankets slipped aside to reveal the elaborately painted head of a wooden horse or pony.

It's a rocking-horse, I'll bet, guessed Clitsy. And the presence of a toy like that indicated that the newly arrived family might include at least one child. Unless, of course, the owners were simply collectors of antique toys perhaps? It was too early to tell anything for certain. But some of the furniture that was being unloaded certainly looked like antiques. There were elaborately upholstered chairs, bedframes, and richly carved tables. And there were bookcases -- lots of bookcases! There were also many oblong and shallow wooden crates of various sizes that might contain pictures, paintings, or other decorative items.

But strangely, Clitsy noted, other than the big moving men, and severe-looking woman who appeared to be in charge here, there were no other people around. No family seemed to have arrived as of yet.

Then Clitsy found herself nearly cheering out loud when three horse-trailers rolled up the driveway later in the afternoon and continued on around past the house and then to rear where she knew Homewood's long-empty stables were located. Horses! Her new neighbors had horses!

Clitsy had always loved horses, but her own family had only ever kept one pony at their farm, and that had been when Clitsy was not much more than a toddler. And her father had sold that one after owning it little more than a year. She had never been old enough to try riding that animal, though her parents had caught her trying to mount it by climbing the railings of its stall on several occasions.

Since then, Clitsy's riding activity had been limited to horses owned by friends in other towns whenever she and her family would pay them a visit.

Now here were at least three horses within easy walking distance of her home! If only the people that were going to be her new neighbors were friendly and might let her ride one of them now and then. It had been absolutely ages since she'd gone riding!

Evening twilight was beginning to settle in, the moving trucks had all been emptied out and sent on their way, and Clitsy was reluctantly getting up from her seated position on the soft bed of pine needles that had been her watching place there in the cover of the forest's edge, when she heard another type of vehicle approaching, coming up the Homewood driveway. This was a long black limousine that purred around the white-pebbled drive to ease to a stop at the Homewood mansion's front door.

The severe librarian woman came down the front steps to stiffly greet the new arrival, who was now stepping from the limousine's back seat, the vehicle's door respectfully held open by a uniformed driver.

The limo's single passenger proved to be a teenage girl of about Clitsy's age.

The girl had long honey-brown hair that flowed down nearly to the middle of her back. She wore jeans and a white peasant blouse. She was small and slender and walked hesitantly up to the front steps, pausing to give an uncertain look upwards at the imposing front of the mansion, looking from one third-floor window to the next, left to right, then taking in the second floor windows, and finally the windows of the ground floor.

Carrying a small pink suitcase in her right hand and a matching backpack draped across her left shoulder, she walked somewhat wearily up the stone steps to where the librarian woman waited to greet her. The two seemed reservedly familiar with each other. They exchanged a few words -- though not smiles, Clitsy noted -- and then the woman held the open door aside as the girl entered before her.

The heavy oaken door was slowly closed from within. The limousine pulled past the house, circled round the driveway, and then drove off the way it had come.

And that was all there was for Clitsy to see.

So there was at least one member of this new family her own age. That was good. Though Clitsy felt there was something odd about the girl, as well as the whole situation. All that furniture, etc., and the horses, and yet the only occupants of the house so far seemed to be one teenage girl, and one strange older woman who might be a housekeeper? Or maybe the girl's aunt? Certainly not her mother! So where were the rest of the family?

Clitsy felt a small shiver as the dusk grew suddenly chilled, the tight thin t-shirt and brief cotton shorts she'd worn in consideration of the day's warmth now leaving her feeling nearly naked in the growing twilight. A breeze was picking up as well. Her mom's dinner and a hot bath seeming like a good idea, Clitsy made her way back through the cloaking trees toward the woodland path that would guide her toward home, where she would wonder the rest of the evening about this little mystery -- her new neighbor, the young honey-haired girl in the big old mansion called Homewood House.

CHAPTER THREE -- Dreams of Homewood

Clitsy was flying!

At least that's what it felt like in her dream. Completely separated from her squirming young body, clad in that night's pajama outfit of a pale blue tee-shirt and matching cotton panties, now damp with the summer's night-heat and her own more secret humidity, she flew free of the bedcovers she had kicked away early on.

In her bed that night, in the darkened frilly pink bedroom that had remained largely the same as it had been since her early girlhood, Clitsy's dream was more vivid and troubled than her usual nightly forays along the many tunneled corridors of her female subconscious. Most commonly her dreams centered around the boys at school, or certain movie or TV stars who happened to have aroused her interest during the preceding day.

But tonight it was the landscape around the Weldon farm that was the setting for her nocturnal wanderings -- the densely wooded hills, the secluded stream-fed pond to the west, past the Homewood estate, as well as the imposing shadow of Mr. Kayne's old mansion even further west -- everything swirling into an almost incomprehensible muddle.

Then suddenly Clitsy found herself standing where she had been most of that afternoon, watching the front of Homewood House from her hiding place at the edge of the bordering woods. She could smell the damp scented mix of oak leaves and pine needles and the peppery green perfume of the thick surrounding undergrowth, all sweltering in the late summer heat. She could feel the warm soft dampness of mossy loam on the forest floor between her bare toes.

Bare toes? She looked down to find that indeed her feet were bare, though early that afternoon she had certainly been wearing socks and sneakers. Then she became aware of a more startling fact -- it wasn't just her feet that were bare. Clitsy discovered to her alarm that she was in fact completely undressed, the warmth of the humid air playing freely about her nakedly exposed flesh.

Clitsy hugged herself in shame and embarrassment, her left arm across her still developing breasts, her right hand swooping down to cup the brief golden nest of soft tender fleece between her coltish thighs. She was even more embarrassed to find that the fingers of her right hand felt a definite dewy wetness there at the very center of that mossy tuft of curls which lightly mantled her young pubis. She was absolutely naked, outside in open daylight, and she was all... worked up... over something!

It was true that Clitsy had masturbated out-of-doors a few times in her life, but she had only done so near her home and always at night -- either outside on a bench or a lawn-chair in the family's garden, where she loved the smell of the rich earth and the green growing things as she teased herself, or that one time