Peter's Ghost

She had to crawl forward a little and then kneel up in front of him. He stared at her with astonished eyes. Bernadette was seeing him again that brazenly handsome face and the luxuriant long blond hair of which he was surely vain. He had green eyes deep set in the sunburned skin meeting her stare with the same intensity.

A terrible weakness came over her. Something within her softened and warmed, and the softness seemed to grow., infecting her cold heart and dead spirit. Quickly she hut it off. But some understanding was coming to her.

She could touch him and she became stronger and more powerful but if he touched her she became warmer and softer. Softness and weakness Bernadette would not allow.

" You will show yourself to me," he said with the barest trace of a smile. Before she could think what to do, he let the strands of her pale, translucent hair flow through his fingers and she was standing free by his bed and a wave of humiliation passed through her. It was as if a paralyzed man was being manipulated and molested by his nurse. Her long dead heart thudded so loudly she wondered if he could hear it?

"No," she whispered, her form fading into insubstantial ether till only the outline of her shadow lay across his bed.

"I very much enjoy your endowments," she related to him, her voice coming from above his belly. " I like to put my hands between your legs and to caress you with my fingers.

"And let you see me? Maybe. But let you touch me? No. I do not believe I will do that."

Peter felt the gentle, cool press that forced his knees wide, the not-quite-cold caress of her invisible fingertips on his inner thighs, squeezing his calves firmly. He knew her cold lips would be upon the ridged length of his cock soon. The cold should have shrunk his erection as the touch of that temperature did to any man, but Peter had been having this "dream" for many nights, so he knew her cold breath would not have that effect on his manhood at all. She was in a special category all her own, mortal rules did not apply.

For several weeks he would wake in the morning to the feeling that he was not alone in his own bedroom. But no one was with him; the bed sheets beside him were undisturbed, nothing in the room moved around. He took extra precautions to lock all the doors in his old Victorian, added new locks to the tall windows around the chamber and the salon downstairs but night after night his sleep was disrupted.

One night the quality of his dreams changed dramatically. He woke in the early morning hours before dawn broke to the last violent eruptions of an incredible ejaculation. He came like he had not experienced outside of a women's body since he was a teenager.

Seminal fluid splashed across his chest and across his bedcovers. Peter knew he had gone to sleep in his pajama bottoms, fully snapped up but woke to his bottoms unsnapped and around his damp thighs.

He would have thought he had unsnapped them himself and masturbated himself off but when he woke he found his fists firmly grasping the rungs of his headboard. His fingers were stiff from holding tight to the wooden rungs, the shin on the tops of his knuckles so cold there were nearly frosty. Peter flexed his fingers to warm them, experiencing the needle sharp pain as his fingertips felt like a touch of frostbite. Peter rubbed them together and blew his warm breath on his hands before exploring his body. It was strange to discover his semen gushed across his chest and stomach, his penis flaccid and laying like a poor deflated soldier next to his balls. Peter had not had a wet dream like that and at thirty had not done so since he was a fifteen-year-old boy.

He scared the shit out of himself. He was embarrassed and felt humiliated. But he told no one about it because 'they' would send him to the funny farm if he mentioned it.

As the nights went by, Peter woke sooner and remembered more of the nocturnal assaults and he came to know these were real and not just his imagination.

All the encounters, and they were not every consecutive night were real. But his assailant was not. He knew she was not real, though she left behind his ravished and chilled body and the slight scent of mint.

Once when he met Gertrude from the office in Sam's for an after the sales quarter drink that turned into a lets-roll-in-the-sheets party he thought he felt 'the' presence on his living room sofa, since initially they had made it to the bedroom. Later when he and Gerty moved the party all the way into his warm overstuff mattress he thought he felt something momentarily. But Gerty jumped up and raced for the living room and had her clothes thrown on and was out the door in five minutes. Gerty told him later that she felt a cold frost begin to squeeze her heart while she laid on his bed and she could not get out of there fast enough. Also, she was never coming back.

Peter now knew she had a name Bernadette and she would not leave him alone.

Tonight he had seen her form somewhat. Long pale hair, though what color it was when she lived he had no idea. Her body was voluptuous, not small or emaciated like a modern girl. Peter had no clue what time she was from, but she was liberated and explosive in her temperament.

Peter could feel Bernadette drawing near to his groin, he twisted and thrust his hips as she came nearer, struggling to find some relief for his straining cock in the miserable squatting position his legs were in. "Balls first," she said, " a good tongue bathing will do you good."

Peter groaned and rolled his hips towards her. He could see nothing between his thighs, though dawn had broken and pale light came through his tall curtain-less windows. He could feel her cool tongue lap at his soft, salty shin. She shifted his balls letting them slide out of her mouth, then lapping them fast again, trying to cover them as the taste of warm flesh and salty tang intoxicated her. Peter wiggled and danced, as he was licked taunt, his extraordinary muscled legs flexed up and down. All of his scrotum received her merciless attention, it was suckled and nipped at.

Peter could no longer bear to watch, he closed his eyes and he threw his head back and moaned loudly.

As if Bernadette could not wait any longer for his cock, she drew back and closed her lips on it, plugging to the nest of his curling pubic hair in a fury of sucking back and forth. Peter moaned sharply. It was like icicles caressing his cock but the cold did not shrivel his organ, the needles pained but did not pierce him. He felt teeth gently graze his taunt skin. It was unbelievably stimulating.

Bernadette moaned at the delicious wetness as his cock expanded a bit more in thickness, the smooth tip pumping against the cool roof of her ghostly mouth. Peter's hips pumped shamelessly now, grinding up and down in the rhythm she set.

He knew a last sane moment that this was crazy and he must really be out of his ever loving mind, but then in another single nano-sec, a last excruciating thrust and a sliver as cold as a glazier traveled his sharp nerve endings, his penis shot out a huge wad of salty fluid. Again and again. With a forth eruption his nerves gave out and his body collapsed against the down pillows.

Peter must have slumbered a few moments. He came back to himself, on his bed, his fist still clutching the railings above his head, glad that he had something to hold onto in his ecstasy. He wondered if it had been a visit from his nightly ghost? Or was he indeed losing his mind. The torment was worth the ecstasy, but what if he is losing his mind? Peter lulls his head over to his alarm clock. His ghost always manifests herself after three am. Peter had eighteen hours till paradise returned to him.

Did you like it? Would you like Bernadette to come in the wee hours to torment you? Please leave a comment.