Sheila Hagen's Room and Other Stories

By Vanessa de Sade

Sheila Hagen’s Room and Other Stories is a collection of six character-driven erotic stories about real women exploring their darkest sapphic urges. From voyeurism in a rundown British costal town to oral sex in a Cocteauesque castle in old Hollywood; or exhibitionist hijinks in a seedy nightclub in pre-world-war-two Berlin and the locked room of a psychiatric ward, Sheila Hagen’s Room is a bold and striking book that will both arouse and enthral you and take the erotica genre to places that you would never have believed possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Nov 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781785389955

Vanessa de Sade

Vanessa de Sade is a thirty-something full-figure gal who likes to write hot stories about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. She is the author of several popular novellas plus the collection, Rubyfruit Jungle.

Book preview

Sheila Hagen’s Room

The resort was dying, even when Susan was a little girl, and, despite a valiant two months of defiant summer weather when visitors thronged along the bunting-bedecked promenade and the ancient roller coaster click-clacked to the screams of tipsy girls, come October the beach would be engulfed in a voluminous fog-bank that shrouded the whole shuttered-up town in its damp despondency. Susan still remembers the taste of it, cold and sulphurous on her tongue as she walked to school on dark winter mornings, the sound of the invisible sea like a weeping phantom in a washed-up shell, the mewling of unseen gulls melancholic and forlorn.

Her father, a struggling academic trying to supplement their inadequate family income as a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman, had bought the house on Ocean Boulevard hastily and the family now repented at leisure as more and more buckets accumulated to catch the perpetual drips from the damp-stained ceilings, the worn stair carpet slowly eroding away under weary feet that tramped in the cold and the damp from outside, smoky fingers of fog leaving translucent snail-trails of moisture on the ill-fitting window panes, her father’s incessant cough her lullaby on wild and stormy nights when the timbers creaked and stray roof tiles went slithering off into the angry dark.

At sixteen she left school and took a job at the local Woolworth’s, incongruous in her pink nylon overall behind the moribund holiday goods counter, alienated from the other girls by her big glasses and unfashionable pale brown hair, worn in a long unglamorous plait in an era of spiky feather cuts in vibrant Bowie tangerines. She hated the work but was quietly diligent at what she did, organising her counter so that goods could be quickly picked up and paid for, and she soon came to the notice of her superiors, who, in a grandiose but foolhardy gesture, promoted her to the inauspicious role of floor supervisor just six weeks before the closure of their branch and the death of her bronchial pale-skinned father who gave up the ghost at precisely twelve midnight on October twenty-eighth 1973, two days before her seventeenth birthday.

Susan and her mother struggled on, taking on whatever work they could, but the town was in its death throes and wages, when obtainable, were predictably low, and after over a year of struggling her mother made the decision to let a stranger into their home and take in a lodger. It must be a woman, and a respectable lady, a business woman, her mother stated as they sat in the dim light of the dining room, a sheaf of unpaid bills on the table and a November gale moaning outside while the roof timbers creaked like an insomniac’s bedsprings. And it must be your room, Susan, for it is the most respectable in the house. We can move you to the box room until blue skies smile upon our stricken home once more.

And thus Sheila Hagen joined their household, a drab, austere woman of forty-three years who held a position at the savings bank, five foot seven in height with mousey brown hair the colour of wet straw and possessing only two well-worn tweed suits, one in a pale purple heather mix, the other a drab and colourless oatmeal, which she adorned for church on Sundays with a single cairngorm brooch on the left lapel, the rest of her worldly goods fitting neatly into the one small suitcase that she kept beneath her bed.

Susan soon became accustomed to the soft creak of her footfalls next door as she lay in the darkness of her tiny room, but she couldn’t help noticing that in the dark she could also see Sheila Hagen’s shadow passing to and fro through the cracks in the thin wood partition that divided her chamber from their tenant’s, and, intrigued, she wrapped herself in her faded mint-green candlewick one stormy night and tiptoed out of bed and put her eye to the fissure in the wall, a peepshow version of her old room blossoming before her rapacious gaze as she beheld Sheila preparing for bed, the tall woman oddly indecent in just a bone-white girdle and matching long-line brassiere, clumsy suspenders holding up her dark brown stockings as she meticulously folded her clothes and hung her heather suit in the dark walnut wardrobe.

Freezing in just her pyjamas beneath the threadbare bedcover, Susan found she had to hold her breath to try and still the pounding of her heart which was hammering like a bird trapped in the intricate framework of her ribcage, unable to tear herself away from the flickering bordello drama that she knew she should not be watching, as Sheila Hagen rolled down first one stocking and then the other, wriggling expertly out of her girdle to reveal full white briefs that showed the unmistakable vee of her dark bush beneath.

Surely such a woman as this will sleep in her underwear and she will don her nightgown and restore her modesty at any moment, Susan thought to herself, her heart still hammering, but at that very moment, in the dim almost undersea light of the tiny green bedside lamp, Sheila Hagen reached behind herself and unhooked the multiple fastenings on her brassiere, her unexpectedly large breasts tumbling out like a waxy avalanche, skin like frost-kissed snow, big puckered nipples the hue of ripe cranberries, already stiff in the chilly room, huge areolas the size of old copper pennies.

I have surely died and gone to heaven, Susan breathed. For if ever a plain woman could transform into an object of outstanding beauty Sheila Hagen has just done so before my very eyes. And then the women stood up and stepped out of her knickers, her bottom like a marble Venus sculpture in the British Museum, her skin so white that, even in this light, Susan could make out the spider webs of translucent blue-green veins like the contours of an old map, faded with age.

This Venus cannot possibly turn to face me, Susan prayed, her eyes eating up Sheila Hagen’s big white ass as the latter bent to pick up her underwear and place it neatly in the wash basket. I cannot be so blessed. But hardly had the words formed in her mind when Sheila turned, her long-legged body a luminescent Art Deco statuette, nipples standing to attention like dark glacé fruit, her plump high-riding cunt boasting a bush as thick and sleek as a wild animal’s pelt, the same moss-like fur nestling like a predatory beast in the dark hollows beneath her arms as she unfastened her tresses and finally donned her nightdress, leaving Susan besotted and more aroused than she had ever been in her short and uneventful life.

* * *

The years passed slowly, laboriously, and saw Susan begin her own tentative employment at the bank, blossoming under Sheila Hagen’s guidance as she worked her way up the ranks, finally taking on the post of manager when her mentor retired and went to live