House of Alteration: The Nursery

By Gregor Daniels

Led by a history buff, three friends explore Boston's Proctor house, which served as an unusual nursery in the early twentieth century, now converted into a rental property. But besides the creepy toys, hidden closets, and spooky rumors, Wes doesn't see what's so special—until his skin starts to turn dark. However, as parts of his body begin to swell and change color, none of his friends seem to notice.

In fact, they're acting like everything is going to plan!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregor Daniels
• Release date: May 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463500767

Gregor Daniels

Gregor Daniels is an erotica author that specializes in gender swap and erotic transformation fetishes. New stories are typically released weekly and feature a variety of themes. Have you ever had fantasies to be a girl? Then look no further ...Contact the author directly on Twitter to discuss stories, share your favorite ideas and fantasies, scenes, and characters, or to just talk about nothing in particular.

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Contents

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Copyright © 2020 Gregor Daniels

All rights reserved.

Only ADULTS beyond this point.

All characters are consenting adults at least eighteen years old.

Diversify your Boston experience by becoming a spiritual surrogate!

Scarlit operated the electronic lock. Once unfastened, the door gave a loud series of creaks as it swung open. The Proctor house, as they saw, was a small, Georgian-style residence in the middle of Boston, said to have been built shortly after the American Revolutionary War. Although not as famous as the Freedom Trail or the museums, it was definitely a piece of history.

Like stepping into the past, Scarlit proclaimed, taking the first step inside.

"Yeah, really far into the past," her boyfriend, Jared, said, as he flipped the switch for the light and ceiling fan.

Wes followed the two luggage-carrying history buffs inside. The Proctor house had been unassumingly renovated since its days of colonial America, possessing all the modern amenities. As a less-traveled landmark, it had been super easy to book on Airbnb a month in advance. And because of this, Wes didn’t see the attraction; there were other well-preserved parts of Boston that he was dying to experience. This was just any other house. There weren’t even like brochures or anything. All the historical facts had been pulled up on the internet by Scarlit.

He placed his suitcase next to a contemporary-looking couch. Tell me again why this place is so special?

Because of Miss Proctor, obviously, Scarlit said.

Obviously. Right.

Miss Proctor came much later in the story. As Wes had been told—on the airplane ride—the house received its name from an African-American woman who had lived in it from 1889 to 1956, and who, according to incomplete records, had borne anywhere from thirty to forty-three children. But the legend of Miss Proctor didn’t just end with her prolific offspring.

She believed her duty was to spread her bloodlines as far across the country—and even the world—as possible, Scarlit explained on the plane, showing Wes an old-timey black-and-white photo featuring the woman herself, surrounded by about twenty children of various ages. She slept exclusively with travelers and exotic men. And when her children were of age, she sent them out to live elsewhere. To spread the family.

So, she was like a hooker? Wes asked.

Scarlit laughed. "No. Well, yes, kind of. There’s no evidence she charged for the company of men. It was seen as mutually beneficial. They had sex, she populated the country with her descendants."

Like a dandelion.

Yes, like a human dandelion, Wes. That’s precisely it.

Is there a list of her children?

Not anymore.

To deal with so many children, the Proctor house had also been a nursery—although rarely used for any children other than Miss Proctor’s. Like everything else, Scarlit knew why: tax benefits. And since Miss Proctor slept with so many men of races and cultures, not all of the children shared her skin tone, which made it easier to lie about the origin of the infants. She’d even kept an entirely fictitious paper trail of birth records for each of her own children, in case there ever was an investigation into the nursery.

Scarlit had pictures of those too, though the real records had supposedly been lost sometime in the 1980s.

Wes fanned his shirt as they said hello to their home away from home for the next three days. Anyone find the thermostat?

No heating or air, Scarlit said, doing up her dark curls into a ponytail. It said on the rental page.

He groaned. Seriously?

"It’s old."

Totally antique,