by K D Grace
Ghost With The Most
by Lynn Lake
The last thing I wanted to do for Halloween was go out to a party. After last year’s bobbing for rotten apples in a drafty “haunted” barn had given me a truly frightful case of pneumonia. But my husband can be very persuasive, when he’s whining.
‘C’mon, Barbara, it’ll be fun – this time.’
‘Can’t we just go out trick-or-treating as an angry divorced couple?’ I deadpanned.
‘It’s a ghost party! A one-sheet-to-the-wind affair! A spook soiree! You’ll love it.’
I swallowed a forkful of lasagne and stared across the table at the cute little redhead. His blue eyes were twinkling like the stars outside. But much like the prospects of interplanetary travel any time soon, I remained unconvinced. ‘A what?’
His grin brightened even more. ‘Everyone has to dress up like a ghost, wear one simple sheet … and maybe a few accessories. It saves money on expensive costumes that way. And all the money saved goes to charity – the Scare the Kids Foundation.’
‘If you want to scare a kid, just show them our bank account.’ I chewed moodily on a hunk of lettuce. ‘And just what costume have you conjured up for yours truly?’
His twinkle turned to a wink. ‘You’re going as sexy ghost – the ghost with the most!’
A tingle of interest shot through me, down in between my legs. I tongued a tine, gazing at the handsome devil-may-care. ‘Boo!’
October 31st was cool and damp, with a fresh layer of snow on the ground. Not exactly the perfect weather for dressing down as Cassandra the Slutty Ghost.
But Greg was not to be deterred. He’d lovingly contoured a simple white sheet into a spirited costume that was tight across my chest and tapered at my waist, short across my thighs. He’d made holes for my heavily-shadowed eyes and a Cupid’s bow opening for my red-painted lips, ear holes from which silver hoops dangled from my shapely lobes. On my feet: shiny, white, knee-high leather boots.
I was putting the “ho” back in ghost. And to top, and bottom, it all off, Greg insisted I wear nothing underneath the thin, skin tight bed sheet. My nipples almost poked holes of their own in the costume, my butt cheeks just about spilling out the bottom.
We stared at me in the mirror.
‘You’re scaring me stiff,’ hubby laughed, sliding his arms around my waist from behind.
He wasn’t scared, just stiff. I felt his excited erection press in between my barely-covered buttocks. His hands glided up my stomach and onto my breasts, lips kissing my cottoned neck.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ I warned, ‘or you’ll stain your own sheet, become the ghost of Fuckpad Motel.’
His costume consisted of the obligatory linen cut with eye and mouth holes, slits down the sides for his arms, a black tie painted on his chest. He had black shoes and black socks on, and was supposed to be the ghost of Enron, or Lehman Brothers, or some such defunct company.
Presently, he was just an aroused apparition pumping his appendage into my butt cleavage while tuning in the great beyond on my nipples. I tilted my head back onto his shoulder and went, ‘Woo!’ as his tongue slid into my ear and twirled about. There was a dampness rising in me not of the grave.
‘Oops, better get going!’ he suddenly yelped, looking at his watch. ‘You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, honey!’
He flew out of the room, leaving me floating.
The party was being held at an old red brick mansion on the other side of town. The place backed on to the river, was fronted by acres and acres of snow-covered lawn. It had been someone’s home in the hoary past, but was now home to a women’s university club, available to be rented for parties and charity events.
It was swarming with ghosts, materialising out of cars and levitating up the stone steps of the mansion, into the marble-floored reception area. There were regular ghosts, holy ghosts, Casper ghosts, green ghosts, ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, a “ghost of a chance” (fuzzy dice around its neck), and somewhere in the sea of bedclothes, the host ghost himself. Greg and I threaded our way through the shrouded masses, over to a bubbling punchbowl set up on a table literally groaning with Halloween treats.
And as I stood there waiting for my husband to ladle me out a cup of witch’s brew, I felt the disembodied eyes of a whole raft of other ghosts on my hot-sheeted body. My nipples had picked up an extra quarter-inch from Jack Frost nipping at them on the long walk up the driveway, and they and I stood out like a whore in heaven.
Greg noticed, and grinned. ‘Let’s see if we scare up some place a little more private,’ he suggested, that mischievous twinkle back in his eyes.
We departed the crowded room and made our way down the main hallway. Then turned off into a narrower, darker hallway. I didn’t even have time to say ‘Eek!’, before Greg pulled me into a closet and closed the door. The party had suddenly gotten a whole lot more intimate.
His mouth met mine in the pitch-black, and I flung my arms around him, giving him the gho-ahead. We hungrily kissed one another, two spirits communing. He pressed up against me, his cock throbbing into my belly, his hands creeping up my chest, clutching and squeezing my breasts.
Greg shot his tongue into my mouth. I spoke in tongues back, twining my slippery mouth organ around his. He kneaded my tits and pumped his cock, the pair of us frenching with a fearsome intensity, before the overexcited apparition dropped his head down and mouthed one of my nipples through my sheet, the other a yearning bud.
I shivered with delight, as he tongued and sucked on my stiffened nipples, dampening the cloth and my pussy. I ran my hands down his woven back and grabbed onto the firm mounds of his butt cheeks, groping them.
He grunted hotly into my chest, mouth full of buzzing nipple. I wanted this lascivious ghost to haunt my pussy, but now. ‘Fuck me!’ I breathed.
He dropped a hand off a tit and I heard the rustling of linen. Then felt something meaty press in between my legs. I quickly gathered up his shroud and clutched his bare buttocks, as he plunged the cowl of his cock through my pussy lips and sunk elongated protoplasm inside me.
This was no phantom erection; it filled me up beautifully. I moaned like a sexy spectre, Greg pumping his hips, fucking me, hands all over my tits, mouth covering my mouth. He banged me up against the closet door, more than a bump in the night. I flung my arms up in rapture … and ensnared my fingers in webbing. ‘Eek!’ I screamed, for real.
Greg flicked on the light switch, and we both stared up at the tangled web my hands were weaved in. It wasn’t spray-on cobweb, and that wasn’t a rubber novelty spider creeping down its skein towards my wriggling digits.
Greg jerked my arms down and we fled out of the closet, he going one way down the hallway, me the other. I didn’t stop running, and wiping my hands off, until I’d flown up two flights of stairs and through a bedroom and out on to a balcony.
I breathed deep of the cool night air, panting like the ghost of Lassie. A wrought-iron railing ran around the small, third storey window landing, and I held onto it, staring out at the hushed, snow-blanketed landscape glowing in the light of the moon.
Finally, I got my breath back and my legs back under me. Just as some clouds scudded across the face of the moon, dimming the luminous surroundings considerably. I was about to turn around and retrace my steps to the party, when all of a sudden a pair of strong hands grasped my heaving breasts from behind, and a strong cock pressed into the goose bumped flesh of my buttocks.
‘Maybe later, Greg,’ I murmured. ‘When I’ve had another four or five drinks from the witch’s tit downstairs.’
But the man wasn’t to be deterred, grinding his erection into my butt cleft and roughly squeezing my tits. I tried to turn around to face his lust head-on, but he kept me pinned forward, pushing me bodily against the railing. His fingers crawled up to my nipples and pinched them. A thrill streaked through me like the stroke of midnight, and I warmed all over with the heat of his passion.
His mouth found my earlobe
and nibbled, then bit. He thrust his tongue into my ear, and swirled; hands kneading my breasts, fingers rolling my nipples, cock churning my cheeks. I tingled from ghostly tip to toe.
And as my ardent lover erotically worked over my inflamed body, I lazily looked down upon the snowy scene below. Ghosts had gathered beneath our balcony, their white faces tilted upwards, watching our amorous antics. The clouds parted and the moon beamed, illuminating our exhibitionism for them.
Fortunately, the spooky voyeurs couldn’t see right through our costumes and identify our faces. But their rapt attention served to heighten the delightfully wicked sensations I was feeling, Greg pinning me to the railing for all to see, fondling and frotting me with an urgent intensity. ‘That’s the way, baby!’ I cooed.
He bit into my neck, and I moaned. He speared in between my legs and up against my pussy, and I gasped.
I’d never felt him harder, longer, thicker, more roughly impassioned, the sexy exhibition obviously turning him on to new heights, as well. He rocked me back and forth in his arms, the railing creaking. It could’ve broken, and we could’ve fallen through – and floated, for sure.
His hands barged through my arm slits and onto my bare breasts, and I squealed with otherworldly joy, melting like a spirit into the ether under the man’s mauling hands. ‘Fuck me!’ I hissed. ‘Fuck me right here out in the open with all those horny ghosts watching us!’
He instantly pulled his hands off my tits and gripped my hips, jerking me back a pace, bending me over. I clung to the railing and spread my legs, arched my back and wiggled my bum, a white flag of total surrender to the studly spectre.
He showed no mercy, shoving up my skirt and plowing his cap into the dewy black fur of my pussy. His aim was uncanny, splitting my lips and driving deep into my tunnel, every inch of his hard-on surging inside me. Until he banged up against my bottom, then began banging me in earnest, stroking in and out of my steaming cunt.
My body and the railing quivered in rhythm to his powerful thrusts, as he fucked me with his fulfilling cock. I stared down at the ghostly assemblage below, biting my lip, my eyelashes fluttering. There were at least twenty or more peeping phantasms now, watching our every sexual move.
But I didn’t care if those imitation wraiths really could fly, right up to our perch to get a close-up vision of the action. All Hallows’ Eve is the night for wickedness, and there’s nothing more wicked than having costumed sex in front of a ghoulish gallery.
Greg slowed his stroke, gliding his cock back and forth in my pussy, slow and sure and sensuous. I rutted my bum against his groin when he was buried full-length, wallowing in the swollen, shimmering sensation. Then, when he pulled slowly back to the tip of his pole, I clenched my pussy muscles and clutched his hood between my lips. Until he sunk shaft deep inside me again.
He upped the tempo, fucking me faster, harder. The guy had obviously been working on his technique, waiting to unveil it just for this special occasion. Because his slow-to-medium-to-fast rhythm was stretching me to the limit, making me flare like a candled pumpkin. What a delightfully dirty treat to give his best girl on Halloween!
My head spun and body burned, the rattling railing gone damp in my hands. As Greg cocked me in a controlled frenzy, our silent audience of attendant ghosts watching. He slammed in and out of me, hitting my G(host)-spot head-on with every deep-pussy thrust. I shuddered on the end of his pounding cock, heated heady orgasm welling up from the velvety friction point and rushing through my trembling body.
‘Yes! Yes!’ I shrieked.
There was wooing and hooing from down below, certainly no booing, as Greg drove me almost completely over the edge, wave after wave of joy radiating through me. I came like I’d never come before, again and again.
Until my man pulled out, and I clung to the railing, dancing like a skeleton with the aftershocks of ecstasy, my sheet soaked. I sucked cool night air into my gasping lungs. Then I slowly rose up, and saluted the crowd by lifting my arms in my sheet in a “boo-like” manner, giving them a final glimpse of skin, a flash of figure.
I turned to take my lover’s hand, so we could return to the party.
But there was no one there.
I stumbled inside the bedroom – empty.
I staggered down the hallway and the two flights of stairs, encountering no one living or dead along the way. I found Greg in the marbled reception area, chatting away with a bearded ghost. The rest of the spirited guests were talking and drinking and laughing, filling the room with white noise.
‘There you are, honey!’ Greg yelled, grabbing my sheet and steering me over to the bearded ghost. ‘This is Dr. Phillips of the University Paranormal Department – a PhD in PSI. He was just telling me about the actual ghost that’s supposed to haunt this house. Tell her, Doc!’
The man adjusted the pince-nez on the end of his cottoned nose. ‘Yes, well, as I was saying, this mansion was originally built in the early 1900s, for the mistress of Lord Edmund Beaverton. She was a skank, to be sure, even by Edwardian standards. She used the house for the purposes of ill-repute and non-stop partying, while giving his Lordship the decidedly cold shoulder.’
The professor fondled his beard, stroking the whorled strands slow, then fast. ‘And it is rumoured that his Lordship, suffering from one colossal case of blue balls, yet haunts this house in search of comely maidens to, uh, relieve his pent-up earthly desires.’
I glanced nervously over at Greg, as we drove home from the party.
‘Have a good time, honey?’ he asked.
‘The best,’ I murmured.
‘Good. I knew you would.’
‘Um, Greg … you explored the mansion, didn’t you? I mean, you went up to the third floor, out on to one of those bedroom balconies – didn’t you?’
He looked at me, his blue eyes twinkling like the stars. ‘No. Why?’
I gulped.
‘Good Lord, honey, you look as pale as a ghost! You didn’t see Lord Edmund, did you?’
I stared out at the luminous, snow-shrouded landscape, a shiver running down in between my legs. ‘No, I didn’t see him …’
Flaws
by K D Grace
‘I don’t do love spells,’ Sally Haddon said.
Mick gripped the arms of the chair with white knuckles. ‘Your website said you specialize in sex magic.’
‘Love spells aren’t necessarily sex magic.’ She crossed long legs and smoothed the flounces of a burgundy gypsy skirt over shapely thighs. She was a far cry from the old hag he’d expected.
‘But you don’t understand. Darlene isn’t like other women. I believe – no I’m certain – we’re meant to be together.’
Sally moved to stand beside him, taking his chin in her hand, turning his head from side to side as though she were inspecting him for flaws. He thought she had given him a static shock from the Turkish carpet, but the energy coursed through his jaw, down over his stomach to surge in his penis, which suddenly felt tight in his trousers.
‘Have you had sex with her?’
He tried to pull away, but she held him firmly, her gaze like iron. ‘I haven’t … We haven’t … But I want … ’
‘When was the last time you had sex with anyone?’ She tightened her grip on his chin. ‘I’ll know if you lie.’
His heart galloped in his chest, but his straining cock didn’t seem to notice the definite frisson of fear that prickled his spine on little spider feet. ‘Three years.’
She pulled her hand away and nodded to his lap. ‘Go home, watch some porn, have a wank. Trust me; it’s not worth the risk of a love spell.’
He shifted uncomfortably around his bulge. ‘You make it sound like putting a curse on someone.’
‘Not much difference, really.’ She poured them tea in china cups and sat back on the sofa. ‘There are so many variables in a love spell, so many factors that, if not properly figured into the equation, can backfire in very nasty ways. That you’ve not had sex recently will complicate the situation furth
er.’
‘If you won’t help me, I’ll go to someone else.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Any reputable witch will say the same. If you find a disreputable one, well things could get really ugly.’
‘Haven’t you ever been in love? Don’t you know what it feels like?’ God, he sounded like such a whiner.
Her face softened and her grey eyes were like sea water. Slender fingers stroked the silver pentacle that hung between her breasts. Then she stood quickly. ‘Come with me. Perhaps I can help you after all.’
The old Victorian house was exactly the kind of place where he imagined a witch would live. At the top of the stairs, she opened french doors and beckoned him inside. The room was the round tower he’d seen from the front garden. Beyond tall slender windows was a profusion of foliage from oak and willow trees. It felt like his childhood tree house.
The floor was covered with exotic carpets. There was a mountain of cushions and pillows piled at the centre. The witch lit candles around the perimeter of the carpeted area. Outside sunset streaked the sky melon and mauve.
‘What you need is a clarity spell.’ She lit the last candle and pinched out the match with her fingers. ‘I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll let me cast a clarity spell, if you’ll let it run its course, see what you need to see, then I’ll cast a love spell, if you wish.’
She offered him her hand.
‘It’s a deal.’ He took her hand and moved into the circle. Dusk settled around the flicker of the candles. The world inside the circle of light effervesced and danced, awash in strange liquid silence.
‘The boundaries between worlds are permeable at dusk. It’s the time to catch a glimpse of that which we might otherwise miss. If you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse of Darlene as she really is. You might catch a glimpse of yourself as you really are.’
He baulked, standing frozen just inside the circle. ‘You didn’t tell me we’d be navel gazing.’