Blithe Little Spirit

Blithe Little Spirit

This story is loosely based upon the fine 1945 film by David Lean, Blithe Spirit. In that film, the ghost of a man's first wife shows up to haunt him and his second wife. It's a fun film, well worth seeing, but was made almost 80 years ago, in a time when studios required films to be wholesome and clean. This story lends itself well to all sorts of naughty possibilities with only the slightest tweaking.

And who doesn't enjoy a little tweaking?

While this story follows the basic plot of the film, I have taken significant liberties with it, much as my characters have taken liberties with each other. So while it may begin and end at similar places, the identity of the characters is tweaked, and the way they arrive at their pre-determined destiny is new journey.

This family-friendly version of the story contains descriptions of close family members engaged in entirely inappropriate activities that some may find either disturbing or hot. This family is VERY friendly! If family members fantasizing about or taking liberties with each other or otherwise behaving in naughty ways offends you, then you probably should stop reading right about... now.

All characters in this novel are fictional and are eighteen years or older. Any resemblance to any real person, living, dead, undead, or under the age of eighteen, is in your own dirty little mind. Sadly, most of the events portrayed in this story are not based on true events. I wish.

If you are still reading and are not offended by SILF or BILF or pseudo-necrophilia and believe siblings or family members—living or dead--behaving in very naughty ways is hot, I hope you enjoy this naughty ghost story.

Trick or Treat!

One commonality all ghost stories share is tragedy. Without tragedy, ghosts would be no more interesting than living, breathing people. Tragedy has sent them to the spiritual realm. How that spirit handles their transition to the Great Beyond determines the nature of their ghost story. A pissed-off ghost makes a scary horror story, but ghosts may also be benevolent, warning of danger or otherwise protecting or comforting the living.

Some, on the other hand, seek in the afterlife the experiences they craved in life, but were denied by tragedy. This can create very naughty ghosts.

This one started at a dinner party our yuppie friends threw. My wife and I and our friends were thirty-ish, that awkward age when people leave their youth behind and become parents of their own, as several of our friends had. Parties no longer are about drinking and scoring. Some of them have themes, as did this one. This was the Roaring Twenties: braless flappers and men wearing straw hats, drinking some concoction that was supposed to be bathtub gin. It tasted like it came from the toilet instead, but strong enough to kill germs.

It was Halloween.

The main event was the medium. Spiritualism boomed in the Roaring Twenties, as people reached out to loved ones killed in the dual nightmares of the Great War and the Spanish Flu, which, in 1918, killed millions who survived the war. Thunder rolled, bolts of lightning lit up skeleton tree branches outside. On that dark and stormy night, we revisited this eerie part of the past.

Everyone suspected the Madam Desiree was a fraud, if not a stripper. If the neckline of her dress plunged any lower, we would have seen pubes. I was hoping she'd kick the crystal ball off the table, jump up and strip naked, but she instead had us all hold hands in a candlelit parlor while she went into a trance.

"Is anyone from the spiritual realm here with us tonight?" At first, only distant thunder responded. She repeated the question several times, growing louder and more plaintive; perhaps ghosts are hard of hearing.

About the time our last traces of interest had lapsed, the table our linked hands rested on lifted, crashing with thuds to the floor, first on my side, then the side opposite me. An impressive enough display from a grizzled gypsy woman, more so from a woman whose regular salary is dollar bills tucked in her garter.

"They are here. Does anyone here wish to speak to someone who is no longer with us? Perhaps someone who died in France or succumbed to the flu? Or any other loved one."

My wife glanced at me, but I remained mum.

"My grandmother died last year," Winnie said. I stifled a yawn.

After Winnie and her grandmother bored us all with dull, vague stories and my wife caught me peeking at the medium's rack several times, Madam Desiree's body began shaking as her trance went to another level.

"I see a teenage girl: pretty, blonde, maybe 18 or 19. An innocent face. I cannot hear her, but she's reaching out to someone here. Reaching toward someone to my right."

My wife looked at me again. I was on Madam Desiree's right. Janice squeezed my hand and cleared her throat, but I kept my trap shut. I wasn't getting sucked into this nonsense. I still had my hopes up for a table dance.

That's when Madam Desiree began having an epileptic fit. It started off well enough, eyes rolling back in her head, boobs shaking and threatening to escape from her dress—a tad more orgasm than supernatural contact. Perhaps Madam Desiree has a thing for college girls. Who can blame her?

She flung forward onto the table, precariously close to her crystal ball, jerked back, then collapsed onto the floor. There she spazzed in either the hottest orgasm ever or a medical emergency. Defying all known laws of physics, her breasts did not pop out of her dress.

Then she fell still.

"Someone should do something!"

This was a time for heroics. I stepped up. "How 'bout CPR?"

Do you compress a chest over the sternum or over the heart? Seemed like it should be the heart, which in this case was conveniently located under her ample left breast. My hesitation gave Susan a chance to protect her breast. "I'm a nurse—I'll do it."

Logical, if unlucky. But, as long as she didn't die, a little girl-on-girl action would liven this party of the dead up a bit.

Before Susan could begin molesting Madam Desiree's bosoms or begin hot lesbian mouth-to-mouth, life returned to the medium. Her dark eyes fluttered open, and she sat up. "What happened?"

She held up her arms as all the husbands jockeyed for position to help her to her chair. "You saw a girl reaching for someone," Janice helpfully filled her in, "then went into a trance and..."

"We thought you were dead," Ginnie, the host, said. Or at least that her boobs would stage an escape.

"Yes, it's coming back to me," Madam Desiree said, hands in a slow wave over the table, her voice low and ominous. "A girl—close. Reaching, trying to grab hold of someone. Sometimes spirits try to cling to someone... and if they grab hold of someone—well, you don't want them to do that."

Ginnie, her voice fearful and breathless, asked, "What can happen?"

"They can possess the unwary. Haunt something belonging to them. Spirits don't just haunt castles and old houses. They can haunt items or even people."

This medium had talent—she kept everyone on the edge of their seat with her tale, half of them buying her ghost story. She knew it, too, so she kept up the Halloween hokum.

"Does anyone feel her? Is she in this room?"

Janice shivered. "It suddenly feels cold—does anyone else feel it?" My eyes darted down to her chest for a nipple check. So did every other husband. Sure 'nuff, she was cold.

Madam Desiree, fully recovered and enjoying having us eating out of her hand, left us with this dire warning: "Beware! Once a spirit clings to an object or person, removing them can be very difficult—and very dangerous."

I didn't mean to kill my sister.

Technically, I didn't. The coroner ruled it an accidental death, which indeed it was, but starting a chain of events which lead inexorably to your kid sister's coffin being lowered into the ground leads to dwelling in a pit of self-reflection and blame.

For her 18^th birthday, I took Beth camping up in the mountains. Beth was a tomboy, introverted and shy, more comfortable in nature than in groups of people, and camping was the kind of activity she craved.

My favorite part of this camping spot was the swimming hole, which features a huge rock on one side with 2 diving spots: one high and the other higher, 25 feet above the deep pool of crystal-clear mountain water.

"I bet you're too scared," I said, as I jumped from the higher point.

"Does it hurt?" she called down as my head surfaced.

"Only if you chicken out," I taunted her.

As she leaped, she screamed, "I hate you!"

Her head popped to the surface, her expression of pure panic.

"Oh, shit!"

Not waiting for more, I started toward the landing zone. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, but she didn't seem fine. Treading water, she turned from side to side, wild arms reaching as if trying to grab hold of something. "Help me—my top came off!"

That last part came out as a whisper. The swimming hole draws quite a crowd on hot summer days like this, and who could blame her for wanting to avoid a feeding frenzy of helpful sharks?

Beth bought this bikini for her birthday, and it looked fantastic on her. Perhaps a bit too fantastic from a brother's perspective. Why a girl that pretty was so shy around guys puzzled me, but if she'd worn clothes that showed off her body more, she would have been the most popular girl in school. Instead, she hid everything beneath baggy, boyish clothes.

Even I was taken aback by how sexy she looked in the bright blue bikini that matched her eyes—the thought of how she'd look without it, or the top, at least, sent chills down my spine. The prospect of all these people swimming and sunbathing seeing her topless bothered me; more than that, a big brother needs to help his kid sister. Besides, the crystal-clear water offered superior viewing opportunities than through distorting surface ripples.

"You check around here—I'll search downstream."

Eager to see—I mean, help—I dove into the deep pool. The only thing better than bare breasts is bare breasts underwater. And nothing is more alluring than sister breasts, uniquely familiar and accessible, yet forbidden. Beth's were too firm and nubile to have given in to gravity yet, but buoyant, her young flesh drawn taught by icy mountain water, I couldn't help leaving a string of bubbles as I said aloud, "Holy hell!"

Swimming close as I dared to her kicking feet, soon as I passed, she dove to check the rocky crevices around her as I followed the most likely path downstream. Why hadn't I sent her downstream, where I could at least keep an eye on her while pretending to search the LZ? Now she was behind me, so I turned back to watch her slender yet powerful legs propel her to the bottom, searching everywhere. After a quick look around, I did the same nearby, half-searching and half-peeping. Her breasts flowed with the water.

If I found her bra first, I resolved to stuff it in my trunks and hide it until just before she gave up hope, when I'd do one last heroic dive for a miraculous recovery.

The quicker I found it, the better my viewing opportunity would be.

Beth dove deep again, reaching for something near the rock wall near her splashdown point. A flash of blue in her hand, she turned to wave to me before heading back to the surface. Sadly, I flashed two thumbs up to her, sure she would misinterpret the signal.

That is when everything went wrong.

Still looking at me, and me at her, Beth pushed off the bottom for the surface, not glancing up. She didn't see the rocky outcrop halfway up.

Her head smacked the rock, and her body went limp. The blue bikini caught the flow and headed toward me, but I ignored it, making a bee-line to her. Blood stained the water red. Near the surface when I reached her, I lifted her head clear of the water, brushed away hair clinging to her face and towed her toward the nearest spot where I could lift her ashore.

"Somebody help!"

Strangers rushed to help pull her from the river. There she lay on the bare granite, topless.

She wasn't breathing.

They dragged me up beside her, and I gave her an urgent kiss of life. I turned to look at her chest. I felt her chest for a heartbeat. It was still.

Her nipples were hard.

I tried again to kiss life back into her. I blew all the air from my lungs. "Come on!"

Water gurgled past her lips, then shot out of her mouth, and she began coughing and gagging, justifying my gawking at her cold-hardened nipples while she was dead.

"Give her some privacy—does anyone have a towel?" Silence. "We'll give it back!"

A heavyset teenage girl squeezed into a too-small bikini handed me a towel, which I draped over her.

"Breathe! Go on!" I rolled her onto her side to pound her back, which unleashed another gusher.

"Why didn't you ask her what that girl she saw before she went into her trance looked like?"

"Because she was making it all up?"

Janice gave me the eye. "How do you know? Didn't you wonder for a second if that girl was Beth?"

"No, because there was no girl. It was an act—a pretty darn good act, but a scam nonetheless."

It was a lie, of course. For a split second, the possibility Beth was reaching out to me from beyond the grave sent a chill down my spine. Janice wasn't the only one to feel that chill, but no one checked out my nipples. In fact, warm as the night was for Halloween, I hadn't warmed up since.

But there was no way I would let onto that.

"If communicating with spirits was real, wouldn't you like to see your sister again?"

"Of course. She should still be here. Heck, she'd only be 28—still young. But I won't because we can't because there is no such thing as ghosts. But you believe it, don't you?"

"Maybe a little." Nipples don't lie.

"If you're still nipply, I could warm you up!"

"You could..." She turned away and leaned back against me. I warmed a breast in each hand.

"Oh, get a room, will ya?"

Strange, but it sounded nothing like her. She must be in a playful mood to be making voices. Me, too, after thinking all the way home about nothing but...

"I love your breasts."

"Lucky for you, because you're stuck with them for life!"

"I'm gonna gag."

I whispered in her ear, "Are you feeling okay?"

"More than okay. Let's go to bed."

At the hospital, the doctors credited me with saving Beth's life. She had a concussion, needed a half-dozen stitches in her head, and for a while everyone thought everything was fine.

Aspiration pneumonia occurs when someone inhales bacteria into their lungs with water or vomit or something else. A couple of days after I pulled her from the water, it set in. Not some normal kind they could treat with antibiotics, but some resistant, killer strain. After a week of trying to save her, the doctors gave up. Mom didn't want her to die in a hospital, and since hope was lost, we brought my sister home and kept a vigil by her bedside. 1 month and 16 days after Beth's 18^th birthday, on a warm Halloween day in 1989, she quietly passed away in her sleep.

I won't say that night was the horniest I have ever been, but it had been a while. I had married well. After over 5 years of marriage, Janice still set my heart and loins afire. She is half-Japanese and half-European American, a truly amazing combination. Her parents gave her the best of both: a perfect body, long black hair, black almond eyes and lips to die for, with skin the color of porcelain.

But it wasn't just looks. I may be the only man in America to marry a woman who does not consider a wedding ring a lifetime excuse to not suck dick. Janice still sucked mine. Don't get me wrong, she isn't perfect. She does not like to swallow, and only will swallow on my birthday and Christmas. When I informed her that Orthodox Christmas takes place 2 weeks after our Christmas, I bumped it up to 3 times per year on a technicality, but since she blows me as foreplay on a regular basis, I'm not complaining.

That Halloween she had dressed as a sexy flapper witch, and I refused to let her out of her costume yet. I hiked up the skirt and practically chewed her black lace panties off. For reasons known only to her, she turned the tide and yanked off my pants before I could start snacking on her. I had been hard for a while, so it felt wonderful to be free and her tongue licking my throbbing shaft.

As she took me into her warm, moist mouth, I heard, "Well, this is embarrassing."

Was it my imagination? Too much liquor before a fake medium planted an image in my mind? The joint we passed around out back? It sure wasn't Janice, for the words were way too clear for her to articulate with my cock in her mouth.

But her lips and her tongue made quick work of any rational thought. I already wanted to come, and she was just getting started. The only thoughts inside my head were of sheer ecstasy and trying not to blow my wad too soon, before I enjoyed the world's sexiest Japanese-American witch sucking on my knob for a while.

Whether because of her playful mood or an ability to read my mind, after taking me deep inside, she started giving me quick licks all around, kissing my balls—anything to delay the inevitable. When sure the eruption danger had passed, she sucked me some more.

"I'm going to come!" An understanding is an understanding, and Christmases were only 2 months away, so as she pulled her mouth away, I pulled down the top of her little black dress. She aimed it at one chocolate-kiss nipple, which I proceeded to cover with a prodigious layer of cream. Rubbing it in circles while she continued to crank on it with her hand, the volume shocked me. She giggled as I moaned.

"Oh, my god. Really?"

I gasped, "What?"

"I didn't say anything."

As I answered, another wave hit me. "I thought I... OH! I thought I heard something."

"This is too much."

I heard it clear as day. "There!"

"What?" Janice looked genuinely confused.

Auditory hallucinations. The words popped into my head, which is pretty much the last phrase you expect to think of when you are wrapping up a climax on your wife's breast. I glanced around the bedroom, half expecting to see some shadow move or a figure wearing a white sheet, but there was nothing to see but the room and my hot wife dripping cum down her tit.

I enjoy eating my wife. No straight guy wouldn't, and I suspect a lot of straight women envied me for doing so. I do it frequently, not just as an oral sex trade-off, although fair is fair. I lick her with gusto and enthusiasm, and she rewards me with multiple orgasms. She has never shaved her bush, nor does she need to, because she only grows a cute little patch that's kind of oval.

With that dark oval filling my field of view, one hand on her non-sticky boob and the other with one finger up her ass, I tore into her like a madman. Her thighs gripped my head like a vise, which is great because I was scared to death I might hear some hallucinatory heckling while Janice was busy moaning and biting her lip. If there were any voices, they were not in my head, and her sweet little thighs muffled them.

There were no voices. It had just been my imagination. And right about then, my imagination was limited to a hip-thrusting, back-arching, near-screaming orgasm. And that is exactly what happened. With a handful of my hair in her fist, she shoved me deeper, and then her whole body started shaking and writhing. The sweet taste of success!

"Okay, I have to admit, that was impressive."

Janice was still panting, and I was looking at her face when I heard those words. Her lips did not move.

What in the hell was going on? I must be losing it, I answered in my head.