My Fucking Afterlife

Authors note: This story is my entry to the Literotica 2022 Halloween Story Contest. Enjoy the entries and, of course, vote!

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I hopped onto the circulation desk and sat facing the entrance. It wasn't peak hours, but I was bored and this was kind of my spot. The electronic doors opened and a freshman guy entered. I just knew. For one, it was still early in the semester, and secondly, he paused to take in the massive lobby area. His eyes wandered around the open atrium, the entrances to the historical collection rooms on either side, the open mezzanine levels above, the central stairs leading to the lower levels, and finally to the desk and me.

"Umm, where would I find biographies?" he asked. He wasn't bad looking at all, but he needed to dress a little better to draw a girl's serious attention. I pegged him as an engineering major.

I pointed to the stairs. "Down a level, around to the left and about 3/4 of the way back. Keep going until you see 921 on the end of the shelves. There will be a bunch of them."

He didn't reply. They never do.

Tina, behind me, asked, "General biographies or something from our special collections?"

"Oh, uh, just general ones. I've got to find someone to write a report on. Steve Jobs or somebody like that."

"Okay, sure." I heard her typing away. "Okay, it's down a level? And, there will be a map on a pedestal in front of you. You're looking for... let me look again... 921."

"Great! Thanks!" he said and wondered off.

"Fucking hell, Tina," I said. "You work here. Learn the fucking Dewey Decimal system and the fucking layout of the library, why don't you?" I voiced a frustrated growl, all for naught. She didn't hear me either. I was in a mood. There just wasn't anything to do. Or, rather, there wasn't anything new to do.

As I was grousing, the doors opened again and Tim entered, all 6'6" of him. I knew he was on the basketball team, and I knew just about every glorious inch of his body. But he didn't bring along a fucking girlfriend. That was extremely disappointing. I mean, help a girl out, Tim. Any of them would do.

Well, just triggering the memory of him fucking a girl stirred a certain desire in me, so I did my thing. It never paid off, but you never know. It's not like my life is like Groundhog Day. My nipples, bless them, responded to my lusty thoughts. I scooted back on the desk a bit, spread my legs and set my feet on the edge. My shaved cunt was right there for him to see, lick, finger or fuck, all nice and pink. And he did what they all do: walked right by without a look.

That's my fucking afterlife.

Life. Ha. Some life!

Here's some interesting bits. I died naked. Nope, wasn't wearing a stitch. Apparently, if you die not wearing a fucking stitch and you become a fucking ghost, your afterlife is spent fucking naked. I can't speak for other ghosts. I haven't met one. But the frustrations of ghostly life quickly take a toll. Without any other real means of expressing that frustration, I'm left with the regular use of course language. I didn't used to say fucking this and fucking that, but now I do. You're fucking forewarned.

Now, I gotta say. I'm a hot little package. I'm 5'5", a former High School cheerleader - toned and blubber free, with dyed dirty blonde hair, TV-ready whitened teeth, piercing blue eyes that lean a little grey, button nose, pert tits that jiggle but don't bounce, and a nice tan all over except for a patch of white skin you know where that would horrify my mom if she ever saw how small it is.

I know. I'm sounding a bit self-absorbed. Well, just you wait!

My nails look great! They're shiny red with a strip of silver at the edge. And, lucky me, I shaved just hours before I died because I was going on a date. Well, not much of one, really. Because I was going to have sex, then. So, listen up. If you're going to fucking die and be a ghost, make sure you look good beforehand. You don't want to walk around for the rest of your fucking afterlife with hairy legs, do you?

I've got something even better. I. Don't. Age. How's that? Yep. Things are shaping up that I'll be a hot little package eternally. Fucking awesome, right? Only, no one can appreciate me except me.

I'm going to whine some more. Maybe the idea of being a ghost will haunt you.

Those TV shows or whatever have it all wrong. I'm not a pale, wispy see-thru apparition. I don't have chains or a sheet with eye holes or rotting body parts. And, now having had time to think about it, I'll invite you to think about it to. I wish I could fucking hear you think. I need the company and the help.

Starters. Let's say I was wearing them when I died. Why would I have clothes? They didn't fucking die. Just li'l ol' me. So far, I haven't bumped into any other ghosts, naked or not, so I'm not sure on this, but me, myself and I had a rigorous debate and concluded that whether in life or death, it just makes sense you enter it naked. Fuck Hollywood and their PG ratings.

To my eyes, I look just as real as a ghost as I did before I died. I can't really see all of my back side or really check out my hair, but I think it's all the same. Mirrors and reflective surfaces don't seem to work. Nope, no unusually long canines, either. I checked. I can poke my skin, and it'll bend and turn pale or red or whatever. But I can't feel a fucking thing. You understand my fucking emphasis, right?

I've got forever to think of my life's regrets, but here's an unexpected one. I was never into science because like, why should I? Right? But now, I have questions. I'm sitting on the desk. That works. I can walk on the floor. I can walk on steps. I can't float around all spooky like. So, I can walk on stuff and sit on stuff. That's helpful.

But what holds me up? I mean, it's not like I want to pass through the earth and end up in fucking China. But, if I did, it doesn't make sense for me to fly off into space, or sink right back to here. So, there's a gravity thing in play. I don't understand gravity either, but it's at least a scientific thing that I can trust in. So, gravity works on ghosts but matter stops me from falling to the center of the earth, I'm thinking. As bored as I get, it kind of interests me.

Why? Well, not just because I'm fucking bored. If there's a law of gravity, and matter supports me, what the fuck is up with whatever the law of matter is? I can walk through closed doors. See the inconsistency? What the fuck is up with that? I mean, it's helpful because I can't open them either.

Let's review. Feet work on floors. Hands, too. All of me works on floors. Or desks. I've tried everything and all good.

Hands don't work on doors. Or doorknobs. Or anything else other than general surfaces where I'd normally expect to be able to walk or sit.

Makes no fucking sense.

But wait, there's more! Because you know there's more to being a fucking ghost. I can pass through a closed door, but I can't pass through a wall. I mean, why the hell not? Door? Yes. Wall? No. smh! That's "shaking my head" for any illiterates.

Okay, and here's another bogus abuse of reality. I can pass through doors, but I can't pass through exit doors. The library is literally my world.

You take those few facts and then maybe you'll understand. I'm in a library, where I might become the most learned ghost every, and I can't read a fucking book. Imagine that. I can read, don't get me wrong. But I can only read whatever pages are open. I can't turn the fucking page. Some of these books might have answers for me. Science. Religion. Physics. Whatever. Fuck them all. And fuck me.

Now, I'm not completely without access to news. Laptops can be helpful. Just like pages pass through my fingers, I can sit, like, "in" somebody's space while they do their thing. I get no gratification out of it, if that's what you're thinking. It's just weird to see bits of two people in the same place. What idiot made these rules?

Yeah, yeah. I don't have to sit. I could stand. I don't get tired. I don't sleep. But laptops are easier to read when you're sitting, so I sit. And that's how I keep up with the date, the news, and the usual shit that happens in the world that I happen not give a fuck about anymore. Bored. Maybe I do give a fuck. I keep hoping for confirmation that Betty White really died. Hashtag fake news?

And then there's smart phones. You ever wonder what people do with their smart phones? Of course you do. They do the same things you do with yours when other people can't see. Well, the library is apparently where you go to avoid prying eyes on your cell phone. I pry, because I fucking can.

Relationship drama, for example, makes fine reading, I've got to tell you. Better, the students here are pretty horny! I mean, I know what I did, but other than girl talk, I didn't have a sense of what was really going on. The stories I could tell.

Well, those stories are mostly what keeps me alive, pardon the pun. It's not like I can work myself into an orgasmic frenzy, because some cosmic dice roll dictated that ghosts can't feel anything. But, hey, a lot about sex is mental, and I can at least see my body respond. Sometimes. Like when watching Tim, the basketball player, stuff his amazingly long cock down a girl's throat in the bathroom.

Like I said, I pry. And I'm not shy about it. Non-participatory sex is pretty much the fucking highlight of the ghostly life, and I'm drawn to it wherever I can find it. And fuck campus wi-fi for blocking porn. So annoying.

The upper floors are all open desks and workspaces, but the lower floors have these little cloistered study desks where the horny go. I didn't have to wait to be a ghost to find that out. And that's where those who with some imagination go. You know... sexting. Selfies. And thank you, FaceTime. A video is worth a thousand words is it not? You betcha.

So, it's just naked me, being wherever I want to be as long as I'm in the library. The exit doors somehow know not to let me out. Who the fuck made these rules? I haven't figured that out, and all I'm left with is that ghosts are stuck where they fucking died. And the library is where I fucking died.

I liked Roger. I mean, I didn't like his name. Roger? But you don't choose a guy for his name. I think. Anyway, he's a good guy. Helped me with some of my homework. Good to look at. Considerate. Liked to dance. Liked to show this hot little package off to his Frat brothers, which is fun. But he didn't just do that when I was dressed for a date or half trashed. A good guy.

Liked to fuck. He wasn't arrogant, but once I understood how good a fucker he was, I understood his confidence in approaching me. Big beautiful dick and big balls. I can't say big beautiful balls, because are they? Really? No. But damn, when they slapped me as he was fucking me, yeah. Big beautiful balls.

Sometimes, roommates got in the way when a girl wants to play. Urges have to be met. What to do? Find some bushes at the edge of campus? Find a golf fairway at night? Well, been there done that. But... hey, the library is fucking convenient for indoor sex. And unlike Tina, who gets fucking paid to work here, I did my homework.

There are places in the bowels of the library where people just don't go. It's the last of the subfloors. There's not a book there I'd want to read in my desperate condition. Yawn. It doesn't smell musty. It's got the same dim LED lights as on other floor, but not much goes down there, except girls like me.

It's great for sex, or at least for those like me with a little imagination. I, of course, am setting the world record for running around naked in this library, but real-life me probably has a firm hold on second place. It's like this. Go to that spot where you figure your stuff is safe. Your purse. Your cellphone. Your backpack. Right? Drop them there. Then drop your clothes. Then text your boyfriend, who by then is waiting to meet you at the entrance, that you're actually in the lowest level. Naked. If he can find you, he can fuck you. To encourage him, I texted a photo of my clothes and stuff, which I had put on a bookshelf. Game fucking on!

It's quiet down there. He wasn't being sneaky like he should. He was running this way and that, and I could duck as I wanted. It took him 15 minutes before I let him (Duh!), find me. When you're running around in a public space, it's pretty fucking exciting. But you're not running around to avoid your wet cunt from getting pounded with cock.

He found me, lust and amazement, a good look, written on his face. He pulled me to him, reaching around me to grasp a breast and finding my clit with the other. Then he whispers into my ear, his breath hot on my neck, in a menacing but promising way, "I'm... going... to... fuck... your... brains... out."

Yes, please. I want that.

Still squeezing my tit, he manages to drop his shorts and underwear. He bends me over to brace myself against a book shelf and just takes me. I mentioned I was wet? No foreplay needed. Just the satisfaction of his fat cock with a big mushroomy head pounding inside of me, while his balls emphasized the point with each thrust. Cervix, say hello to your best buddy.

Some books fell between the shelves. Some books fell and struck my feet. I didn't care, well, much anyway. I said some things that you just don't hear in polite conversation, and I said them loud enough to be heard. Having run around the place naked and not seeing anyone, I wasn't suddenly worried about others hearing me.

As good as it felt, Roger's a guy. It doesn't last forever. I politely informed him that I sensed he had an urgent biological need that might efficiently be met by ejaculating his semen inside my vagina. You know me better than that. Just a few sincere words, really, and he did just that.

Roger, bless him, was a cum factory. Maybe some girls don't like that? I fucking did, and I took delivery. The throbbing of his cock, the heat of each spurt of cum, the sense of fulness within me... It was phenomenal. He did almost all the work, but I had to catch my fucking breath it was so great. Just the way I like it.

There is, of course, that frequent problem among womankind. I didn't get to orgasm. Fuck that. Lie down on the floor, dude.

His majesty wasn't so majestic, so I paid homage to lift his spirits. Roger was good for that. Fucking good would be closer to the point. I was a wet, cummy mess as I straddled him. He didn't mind. He knew about this chapter. I got to enjoy myself, and he got to play with my tits, watch me writhe on top of him and spout wisdom like how good I felt on his cock and how sexy I looked.

I wasn't in a fucking hurry. I know the way my body works. It takes some time. And, of course, I wasn't in any hurry for his beast of a cock to withdraw. I mean, any fucking cock feels good. But on that point his did the job the best.

There's a lot that goes into building to an orgasm, when you think about it. It's the stretching from his girth, the places inside he touches. It's the pacing. It's the heat where your bodies touch. It's the added senses when a guy understands how to grasp, lick and suck at your nipples. It's the breathing, the grunts, the moans. It's the way he looks at you wondrously. It's that mental mind-fuck risking the mixing of the creative forces of life itself. Maybe more so when cry for him to cum inside you and you don't even love him.

That night, three and a half fucking years ago, my orgasm built while he fucked me, a 50/50 chance with him, less with other guys. He felt it and began rocking his hips in a way that pleased me more than satisfying his own need. My vision started get a little starry as my orgasm approached, a little dizzy, and then there was this throbbing in my head. Yeah, that fucking good. That fucking huge orgasm that was almost upon me was certain to give me an out-of-body experience and...

I can't tell you how weird it is to see yourself separate from your body. Mind blowing. And then, wait. There's something wrong here. You watch your body collapse on him. His name was Roger, by the way, it's not like he was a fucking stranger. Anyway, you don't feel a thing. What the fuck kind of orgasm is that?

Roger... Roger thrust into me a final time, and I could see that from his expression that he had exhausted himself inside me. And I'm glad he did. It would be unfair for him to roll my dead body off of him without at least having that.

He was alarmed. I was alarmed. He tapped my cheeks with his palm. He shook my body a little. He put a finger on my carotid artery. He called my name, panicked. It turned out he knew CPR. He tried. But I knew. I was fucking dead. From fucking.

He dressed quickly, and I could tell he debated what to do about naked me, given the situation. He did the right thing and called 9-1-1 from his cell. Suffice it to say, there was a whole lot of coming and going, a lot of people checking out my not-so-hot looking, approaching room temperature body.

The police arrived. They made Roger talk a lot, saying the same things over and over. It was pretty fucking obvious he was telling the truth based on the mess that had come out to say hello. No bruises on my neck, yada, yada, yada. They took pictures of naked me, for once not a turn-on in my life, or, afterlife, I guess. Anyway, eventually off my body went on a gurney under a nice white sheet. I followed them, of course, until I got to the library exit and hit an invisible stone wall.

Worst of all, there was no explanation. "Blah, blah, blah, medical examiner, blah." What the fuck happened?

It wasn't a week before one of the librarians - a real one, not like Tina the hapless - brought her husband down to the spot. "Here. Right here." There weren't a lot of other words expressed other than the fuckity fuck language I use when I fuck. I watched as a married, mid-30's couple stripped and fucked where I died, while making morbid jokes. "Give me all you got, Steve. Let 'em see how good you fucked me when they see all that cum." Yeah. She must have seen the crime scene.

Watching them kind of gave me a warm feeling inside. Like I said, I'm kind of drawn to it, moth to the flame? Dead moth to a flame? But it made me appreciate life, too. I mean, they were almost twice as old as me, and they had a kinky good time. So even if I had lost at least another 15 years of good sex... I was happy for them.

Not! I didn't fucking feel that way. I was hoping that if I could make happy thoughts about the situation, the universe would regret its huge fucking mistake and correct it! It did mark the beginning of my live-porn addiction, so there's that.

It was the very next day when a fake librarian came down, with a girlfriend wearing that fucking goth crap. I'm not into girls, but they were. It didn't stop me from watching or catcalling or, frankly, learning how girls do girls. I didn't judge them, and the universe still didn't correct it's fucking mistake. Still hasn't. I've moved on from trying to bargain with the void. Given my present state, I'd do a girl if I could. Yep, ghostly living, the undiscovered path to fucking enlightenment.

There were other voyeuristic occasions before Roger came back. With a girl. We weren't an item. I couldn't hold it against him. She was attractive. Tits too big. Not as hot as me.

"So, this is where it happened?" she asked.

Dumb fuck. He had just pointed at his feet and said, "Here."

"It is kind of creepy down here," she said.

"No, not really. Not when you're having sex," Roger said suggestively.