tagNonHumanGhost of a Chance

Ghost of a Chance


Author's note: All sex in this sardonic fictional VALENTINE'S DAY STORY CONTEST 2015 entry involves over-18 humans, dead or alive. Do not take it seriously. Some characters get hurt. Some deserve to.

***** Ghost of a Chance *****
the fucking spirits won't leave her alone

Cosmi did not believe in ghosts. They did not think much of her, either.

Another rotten day at the bank headquarters. Damn, she hated all those ass-kissers! Every lousy VP and division head only told her what they thought she wanted to hear, not the information she really needed to run this corporation. They thought the new president was a pushover, a sucker, an easy mark. Well, a little head-rolling would clarify their thoughts.

Cosmi penciled a satisfying list of sacrificial victims. They can kiss butt at the unemployment office, she thought grimly.

Enough with paperwork! She filed away the can't-be-avoideds and blame-someone-elses and made a snap decision. She quick-dialed her driver.

"Take the night off, Jamal; I'll fend for myself. Yes, I know... no, I don't take threats like that seriously. I'll be fine. What? ...Go HOME, Jamal! No arguments, not today. Bitch about it mañana, okay? Yes, goodnight."

Asshole, she thought. A well-meaning and over-protective asshole, and a damn good employee, but an asshole just the same. He obviously saw her as yet another available and vulnerable woman-thing, a weak link in the chain of evolution, someone -- no, some THING -- something to be protected behind a shield of male hormones and musculature and know-how.

Cosmi Jones, recently installed president of GloBel BanCorp, stood behind her sumptuous desk and straightened her custom-cut clothes, brushing at the sexy power-suit revealing just enough cleavage and leg flesh. Grandma had taught her well, she thought; get'em by the balls, and their hearts and minds will follow.

Cosmi's long, lean, curvy creole body strained her deliberately too-small suit. Her English laird father gave her altitude and attitude; her Aztec noble mother gave her beauty and bright brains; her own vicious hard work brought her success tempered with frustration. No, she had not fucked her way to the top, but anyone messing with her got fucked one way or another.

The executive elevator whispered down its hidden shaft past the main entry to the skyscraper's upper parking level. Cosmi strode to an inconspicuous street exit and hailed a random taxi. Civilization is fun, she thought, and fairly easy to hide in.

Some realities are easily escaped. Gather resources, move away, do new stuff and stop doing old stuff, re-invent yourself, sure -- so easy if you are not encumbered with obligations, family, job, friends, foes, all your personal programming. You can't hop fast if you're carrying a lot of baggage.

It ain't easy to drop all that stuff, either.

A bank president cannot hide. Neither can a beautiful, sensuous, spicy-smelling, well-dressed woman in a social setting. But the Panda Club's exotic depths swallowed her into anonymity, and escape of a sort.

Cosmi's mind replayed the day during her dark taxi ride from office to club. She barely noticed the flashing emergency lights a long block off her route. She knew nothing of the tragedy they signaled. Not yet, anyway. But soon...


"Oh fuck yes, yes, YES, YESSS!!! AAAHHHH!!!!"

Cosmi had no need to act; she really was enjoying the brutal, pounding animal-fuck Clark was busily inflicting on her heart-shaped ass. The Panda Club's private rooms were quite discreet and soundproofed; she could scream as loud as she wished.

Her screams did not acoustically penetrate beyond that small, lavish chamber in the bleakly modern club building, but something -- something mental, or spiritual, or just soulful -- something wafted through the lithosphere and permeated the nearby area, an area including the city morgue and the site of the tragedy her taxi had passed earlier.

Cosmi's screams or soul or whatever brushed against the auras of two freshly-minted ghosts.

Marc and JoJo had partied their well-heeled asses off. In the Ferrari, club to club, bubbly to mouth, line to nose, groin to groin (outside and inside), mouth to groin (very internal), all for the fun. Fun was all that mattered.

Except survival matters also, and Marc and JoJo failed there. Yes, both were quite intoxicated; no, Marc should not have tried to drive; yes, JoJo gave excellent blowjobs, even in moving vehicles; no, that was not a good idea, not when fatally distracted Marc rammed the fuel tanker. Boom!

Burn, baby, burn.

Marc and JoJo's mortal remains were not much to behold as they occupied the usual spaces at the morgue. Their spirits were in not much better shape than their crisp corpses, being diffused around the vicinity, awash in ethereal tides, casting a slight actinic glow -- a glow that intensified when Cosmi's screams or soul or whatever touched them.

What happens when you die? Some say this; some say that; Allah knows best. Right. I have a revelation for you, folks, so listen up.

Blood stops feeding your brain, which stops working. 'Mind' is what your brain does, so when your brain stops working, so does your mind. All the magic mana that comprises 'life' gathers itself into a little ball. If you are lucky, your 'mind', your memories and cognition, are stuck in there; otherwise, you are as blank a slate as the soul of a stillborn zygote.

Your newly-freed spirit polarizes and gravitates to realms and spectra of energy. Another spirit? Grasp it! A new wavelength? Taste it! A scream of lust and joy? Devour it! If your personality remains, it seeks connection.

Without connection, your spirit dissipates into the void, lost forever.

With connection, you can control much of your actions, your motions, even your appearance, although it is easiest to remain in a familiar shape.

Marc and JoJo's ghosts instinctively sought the source of their ethereal disturbance. Their ectoplasmic forms drifted across spacetime and penetrated the discreet walls of that private room inside the Panda Club.

The ghosts watched and critiqued the action.

"Hey, nice long cock there, and he's got pretty good hip moves."

"Yeah, but look at the babe. She's hot and she's taking the friction but she's not into it, ya see? Just look at her mind's eye, there."

Their glittering attention focused into a corner of Cosmi's brain. She was indeed elsewhere; not in the business world but not in the here-and-now sex world; not in her past nor present and not really projecting into the future. Cosmi swirled in some sort of perplexing no-time, no-space.

"That's fucked. She's just so... unconnected."

"Yeah, adrift. She's got no place to park her heart."

"Kinda clueless, ain't she? Otherwise, she's a smart one. Too smart, maybe."

"Yeah, so smart, so rich, so busy, so lonely... so what? Not our problem."

The spirits drifted away through n-dimensional barriers. They communed telepathically with quiet lust. But their signals and thoughts and spasms grew slower, dimmer, muffled -- until a freak emotional flash roused them.

"What was that?"

"I dunno. Where are we?"

"I dunno that either. Are we dying?"

"We're already dead but I feel like... yeah, we're falling apart. We've gone too far. We need to get back, and we need to anchor on something, somebody, some whatever. Who was that girl? She was like an electromagnet, remember? If we can get back to her, maybe we can hold together."

Marc and JoJo's ghosts gained form and cohesion as they retraced their escape route, magnetically drawn to Cosmi. They returned only a moment after their departure. That's how n-dimensional space-time works, folks.

The ghosts looked into the discreet room from its plush walls.

"Sure is a squealer, ain't she?"

"A squirter, too, looks like."

"Yuck, messy! Hey, that's piss! She's faking!"

"You think this place has maid service?"

"For what it costs, it had better."

"What it- hey, how do you know what it costs? We never came here!"

"Uh, well, that was before..."

"Don't bother lying to me! I see it in your aura!"

"Hey, all that's in the past now. It's dead and gone. Just like us. So don't dwell on that, okay? How about we figure what's next? We have to stay with this girl, don't we? Or else we'll just blow away into nothingness and I'm not ready for that yet. So, how do we connect with her?"

"How should I know? I'm just as new at this ghost business as you are. How do ghosts usually stick to people? They haunt them, right? So we've just got to haunt her."

"You make it sound easy. I bet there's rules of haunting. Are we stuck in one place? Do we have to haunt her right here all the time? It might be hard, getting her back here when we want."

"Let's follow her around if we can. We'll see where she lives and works and plays, where she spends the most time. If we have to be stuck in one place, we'll haunt her there, okay?"

"That's a plan. Hey, you're getting pretty cohesive, pretty together! You hardly look dead at all! All this energy is doing you real good!"

"You're pretty fine, too. Mmmm, you know I love that ass... wanna fuck?"

They did indeed fornicate. Two ghosts fucking -- imagine a stroboscopic erotic ectoplasmic mixmaster, wobbling. Something like that.


Marc and JoJo's ghosts quickly learned the rules and liitations of haunting. Most public and private places were fine but flashes of nausea warned them to avoid sacred locations. Interestingly, Scientology offices and Mormon temples were no bother. But prisons made them puke.

Yes, they could follow her around, but they felt more comfortable when stationary. They studied her daily travels and determined her home condo to be the best haunt site.

They learned much about their trans-human existence. With practice, they could materialize to various degrees. Stage 1: voice only. Stage 2: they could be heard and seen. Stage 3: visible and audible, their touches could be barely felt but nothing more. Stage 4: can invisibly manipulate physical objects. Stage 5: full material presence, but only for a short time.

Each higher stage took more energy and lasted for briefer periods. But stage-5 full materialization was well worth the effort! They could indulge in physical pleasures: eating, drinking, smoking, drugging, hot-fucking, felching, and tickling. Even stage-4 allowed imbibing and getting stoned.

The ghosts strategized for a few ghost-days (about two minutes in mortal time) before materializing before Cosmi. They chose a strategic evening moment: she was testing a new multiple-action vibration-masturbation device that vaguely resembled the starship Enterprise after passing through a kinked wormhole. She saw their divine, naked bodies, and freaked.

Cosmi freaked even more when JoJo reached an ectoplasmic finger through her expensive toy and triggered a complex pattern of motions. The device's arms and extrusions wove an overwhelming web of satisfaction in and on her vulva.

"Oh fuck yes, yes, YES, YESSS!!! AAAHHHH!!!!"

Have we not heard that before? Cosmi sounded happy. And then some. A full-body erotic meltdown, actually.

Pain does not last forever; neither does pleasure. But they may linger a while. Cosmi's well-trained brain slowly kicked into gear some time after she finally recovered from her mind-blowing spirit-assisted mega-orgasm. She tried to process the inputs. She was playing, and then... figures appeared. Naked, beautiful humanoids; glowing, not fully solid. And the touch. And the... fucking impossible cunt-blast!

She looked across her expansive bedroom. The two forms had appeared there, just beside the view window. Nothing unusual was visible in the room now, but she heard clattering outside her open door, from the direction of the kitchen. Clattering, and murmuring, and cackling.

What had happened? She could not tell yet; insufficient data.

Cosmi crawled from her bed. She staggered in lingering post-orgasmic bliss to don the thin silk robe hanging from its hook on the hall door. Draped, she tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen.

To coin a phrase: What the fuck?!

Marc and JoJo were in stage-4 near-materialization; invisible, but they could use and abuse physical objects. They had recently drained two bottles of fine Rochioli '09 Chardonnay and inserted the empties into JoJo's nether orifices, one up her ghostly pussy, the other deep in her angelic anus.

Before drinking the wine, the ghosts had found and smoked a chunk of Cosmi's primo Ukiah hashish, and found and snorted just enough lines of coke, and had managed to splash their beautiful ectoplasmic selves with canned colas. How was that? Oh, a carbonation fight -- you know, shake the soda can and fountain your opponent. Spray each other thoroughly, merrily. Fun!

What did Cosmi see in her kitchen? By a misplaced table were the dripping outlines of two transparent featureless naked people, one of whom was laughing and prodding wine bottles -- HER goddam wine!! -- up the ass and cunt of a... a nude phantasm, moaning with pleasure. What the fuck?!

That last must have been out loud. The moaning double-penetrated figure looked at Cosmi.

"Hi there, girl." She turned to the figure holding the bottles inside her. "Oh baby, this is great! Twist some more, fuck yeah, like that, oh shit yeah." She turned to Cosmi again. "You gotta try this sometime, girl."

Both figures faded as the cola dried. All that remained were two empty wine bottles wiggling in the air. Empty, but their mouths were smeared. Yuck.

Cosmi stood and stared.

"Oh fuck yes, yes, YES, YESSS!!! AAAHHHH!!!! OOOOHHHHHHH!!"

An invisible scream ripped the air from the vicinity of the obscene vintage show. The bottles both cracked and fragmented; their necks were crushed to powder.

"Omigod omigod omigod omigod... oh fuck, Marc, oh shit, that was the fucking strongest I have ever cum, dead or alive! Fuck, do I have sphincters of titanium? Holy shit, baby! We gotta do that again!" The voice begged.

A male voice answered, "Gotta clean up first, JoJo babe. We can't leave our mess for this lady."

Cosmi regained her voice. "What. The. Fuck." She spoke deliberately now.

"Oh, hi there, Cosmi. You don't mind if we call you that, do you, Miz Jones? Or Prez Jones, whatever you prefer -- up to you. Umm, just a minute, we'll clean up here. Go on, Marc, get the fucking mop."

"You're giving orders now? C'mon, we'll do this together, same as always."

Cleaning tools flew slowly from mop closet to the kitchen center and back. Furniture was straightened. Invisible hands performed all work. A door swung open and shut; the refrigerator invisibly produced two bottles of Anchor Steam Draft. Caps prised off; bottles upended, drained, and glided to the recycling bin. Loud invisible belches accompanied sharp gastric scents.

"Oh yeah, that's better. Okay, we're done with physical stuff, so we can show ourselves now." A woman faded into stage-3 visibility, looking like a wingless naked angel, all her body details soft and diffused, but with crazy eyes. "I'm JoJo. And this," she waved as a similar male figure materialized beside her, "this is Marc."

"Hi there, Cosmi. We're dead."

Cosmi mouthed, "What the fuck?!" but only subvocally.

"We're sort of your, umm, angels, yeah, we're your guardian angels, gonna make everything alright for you, yeah." JoJo sounded uncertain.

Cosmi could finally speak. "Why me? And how?"

"You didn't know it but you were nearby when we died, and then you kind of called us while you were cumming, and we sort of drifted in on you, and then away from you, and now we're back, and I guess we're bonded or something."

She thought it best not to mention the part about vanishing forever into the void if the bonding failed.

Marc cut in.

"We have a deal for you, President Cosmipola Marina Jones of GloBel BanCorp and points beyond. We're here to be your spirit guardians. It's not that sappy shit you hear about it. We won't set you at peace with the world. No, we want you to enjoy every last nanosecond of existence! And if you can't go that far, then dig it: True Love. Endless, ecstatic love. We'll find that love for you. Whether you want it or not, you will be happy."

Cosmi's well-trained brain kicked into higher gear.

"Wait. A couple things. First, what, you're dead? You're angels, or just ghosts, or what?"

A near-angelic shrug crossed JoJo's misty features. "Well, we're ghosts, yeah. But we're just as good as angels! We can do all sorts of stuff. We-"

Cosmi interrupted.

"Fine. Hold that thought. Next: deal. You said deal. A deal implies a quid pro quo, a this-for-that. You're offering me happiness, pleasure, even love? Let's say that I might accept. That's a mighty slim might, by the way. What's the exchange? What do you want from me?"

"Your presence is all," Marc answered. "It's true. We do feel a bonding. I can't tell you why or even really how but it's real. All we ask is that you put up with us being around here. And yes, we can do things for you, to help you be happy."

"What? You're going to fuck me? Or fuck with me, like earlier? Or what?"

Marc and JoJo exchanged glances.

"Ah, well, it's not like you're not attractive or anything, but you're not really our type, is she, babe? And with how we are, any fucking would have to be done in only a few minutes, and that wouldn't be a lot of fun for anyone. We just can't stay materialized and visible real long. Oh, we could probably fuck without the visibility kicking in for a while, but that's not the main thing, no. The main thing is that we can find love for you, real love, mortal love. Just as we have real love for each other."

Marc's ghostly hand reached for his spiritual mate. His ephemeral hand glided over her beatific breasts, down her lovely torso to heavenly hips and angelic ass, and around to her cherubic crotch. Her creamy thighs spread before his seraphic touch.

"Oh baby," JoJo moaned, "you always do it to me..."

Marc's indistinct body moved behind JoJo's, cradled her, spooned her, merged with her -- fucked her good! A symphony of sparkling flashes coruscated across Cosmi's eyes. She looked away, stunned.

Cosmi's well-trained brain argued with itself. What the fuck am I doing? Am I really negotiating with two sex-fiend ghosts? Ghosts that already worked their way through my hash and coke supplies, and good wine, and who knows what else?

Is this for fucking real? I'm having a weird dream, right? I'll wake up and I'll find...

She looked at the kitchen table. She never left snorting gear lying around. She never left a mirror on the table, traces of white powder visible, silver straws -- and she never used a candle to light her hash pipe. Insubstantial ghosts would prefer a candle to matches or lighters, would they not? No, she never left the table looking anything like it did now.

The coupling ghosts' fornication lifted their aspects into the air. Their glowing forms floated around the kitchen, visually shifting with blinding speed between cotton-puff softness and HDTV-quality hard detail.

Their incandescent simultaneous orgasms nearly blew out Cosmi's eyes.

The ghosts screamed with pleasure. Cosmi screamed too, but not from joy.


The ghosts re-emerged into visibility. They hunched together on the kitchen floor; Marc was obviously puppy-fucking JoJo with deep, rhythmic thrusts. The female ghost's very womanly, supernaturally beautiful body exhibited cycles of vagueness to razor-sharp clarity. She looked at Cosmi.

"Oh fuck, that's nice. Uh, we can't really do that. Go away, I mean. No, we can't really leave. We're here. We'll be here. We'll stay here, around you, just you because... 'cause we just will, that's all. Oh fuck, yeah, uhhh..."

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