Return of Peter's Ghost

Peter groaned and rolled his hips towards her. He could see nothing between his thighs, although dawn had broken and pale light shone through the tall curtain-less windows of his old Victorian bedroom. Peter's erection was swollen and painful. His release was coming, he could feel it. It was inevitable, a driving force of arousal.

"God", he growled deep in his throat. Then it came. Ejaculation burst from his cock across his belly and chest, his blood roared in his ears so he did not hear his own hoarse moan.

Peter slumbered back against his pillow a few moments, trying to catch his breath and steady his heart rate. Slowly he came back to himself. Peter Gore was lying in his bed, his beefy knuckles clutching the headboard railings. He was glad that he had something to hold onto in his ecstasy. He thought about his nightmare again, reliving the sensations he had just experienced. He wondered if it had been a visit from his nightly ghost? Or was it just an incredibly vivid dream and he really losing his mind? Peter knew he could not talk to anyone about this. He remembered in the movie Field of Dreams when someone as cool as Kevin Costner was trying to explain to his neighbors that a ghost lived in his cornfield. Yeah, just like that! Ol' Kevin barely got out of that movie hardware store without being tossed into a straight jacket and being hauled off to the funny farm. Peter didn't figure he was in for a reaction any different than that.

Nah, Peter hardly knew anyone who didn't already think he was half crazy. KaCee at work might believe his old house was haunted, she would believe he had a ghost. But a sex ghost? Nope. She would laugh herself silly over that. Then it would be all over the office. THEN it would be the time for the straight jacket and the guys in the white jackets to come get him.

The guys at work would listen to his explanation of a ghost who came in the night to have sex with his body and they would ask what he was complaining about. Phil, whose wife had put him out of their bedroom years ago, would be begging to sleep over. Gene and Duane would he asking for details, to fuel their own erotic perversions. Peter knew this was not really funny, his house was haunted by a sexual predator.

Peter had to ask himself if he wanted her to stop. Though he doubted that he had any real control over her anyway. What could he do? Lock the door? No wall, door or window presented any impediment to his ghost, whatsoever.

The torment was worth the ecstasy, but what if he is really was losing his mind and it was all in his imagination?

Peter glanced down at his chest. He had a ribbon of cum across his belly. Shit. That ejaculation was real.

Peter got up, took an extra hot shower and dressed for work. The further from his house he got the further he was able to push away thoughts of the strange ghostly aberrations haunting his bedroom. He knew he was safe at work and in his car. He was safe during the day.

Peter worked downtown, in one of those ultra modern steel and glass structures so popular in the corporate world. It made the business world homogenized and impersonal. Every male wore wool or poly-blend business suits, white cotton dress shirts (though pale blue and tan stripes slipped in on occasion) and the requisite silk tie completed the corporate dress code. It was as static a uniform as if he were in the army or navy. The uniform made Peter as similar and homogenized as the building he worked in. He was the same as everyone else who was hustling out of the parking lot and into the building. His façade, in any case, made him look normal and sane.

Today, Peter sat in the little office he now occupied since he had promoted out of his large cubicle the previous spring. It was this promotion that had allowed him the luxury of purchasing the Victorian he now resided in. Peter sat and pondered the nighttime visitations haunting his bedroom. It had to stop, if for no other reason than he was not getting enough sleep to function on the job. Also because he had begun to question his sanity. It was also against his nature as a man and as a former Army officer to allow anyone or anything to manipulate him. He was certainly not going to allow that power in the hands of some ghost, be it a real ghost or just his imagination. It was going to stop tonight. Peter had an incredible willpower, he would prevail against her will..

Peter quit the office later than usual, and did not get home until after ten. Tired from several sleepless nights. He remembered his resolve from the morning, though. After a burger bought on the way home, and gobbled down leaning against the counter in the kitchen, Peter went upstairs and stripped the bedding off his high bed and trotted down to the sunparlor with its large over stuffed couch. He slept well on the old purple thing that his ex-wife had left him when she moved out. It was just as well she left it since the old thing suited Peter to a tee. He would sleep well down here.

Over by the old pantry door, Bernadette watched him come in, wolf down his odd-looking food and head upstairs. She had no idea what he was planning but she knew he had begun to resist her. And she knew his resistance was making her stronger by the day. His arousal and his passion was making her stronger, too.

Bernadette had loved sex when she was alive and being dead changed none of that. In life, Bernadette had been very powerful and never allowed anyone to thwart her wishes. She would not allow Peter to do that. She loved that Peter tried. She loved the challenge he represented. She loved his gorgeous body, he was athletic and fit and she knew he still worked out at a gym. Bernadette did not really understand the concept of a gym, men in her day rode houses and build buildings and their livelihoods made their muscles powerful. Peter was the first real man she had seen come through her house since she had died.

Bernadette was proud of his prowess and stamina. She thought the first time she aroused him, in his deep sleep that particular time, that he had long avoided a release and that accounted for his copious discharge, But on many successive nights Peter had proved worthy. She encouraged his performance and he made her stronger.

Bernadette sensed that he meant to resist her. Tonight.

Ha! The spectra laughed aloud at the absurdity of his plans.

Peter stopped in the process of descending the stairs. He thought he heard the tingling of wind chimes blowing in the wind and thought he heard laughter mixed with the chimes. He disregarded it, the product of his over active imagination. Not tonight. He would sleep tonight.

Peter tosses pillows and blankets on the purple sofa. He strips off the white dress shirt (the suit jacket and pants have been shed in his bedroom, along with his tie). Peter is comfortable with his own nudity so he drops his boxers by the parlor door and toes off his socks, as well.

Sleep is nearby, so under a warm blanket and his down comforter he drifts off.

Bernadette admires her houseguest for a moment or two. He is gorgeous.

This house is hers, not Peter's despite his possession of a deed. She has decided to allow Peter to stay in her home for a while. But only as a guest of her special attention, of course.

Bernadette wants to see more of him. She is stronger now, able to move small corporeal objects, so she slides the comforter onto the floor; then the blanket, too.

That would teach those damned things to get in her way.

The cool breeze woke Peter. He knew he was not alone in the dark parlor. He hopped over the couch back. Hiding?

She was coming.

Peter shrank back, crouching behind a low couch next to the back wall. It would hide him from her if she gave him a brief glance, but if she had a light she would find him. Peter had to wake up if he was dreaming. This felt real and real fear rimmed his senses.

He cast a wild look around.

Something brushed the wall beside him. Peter heard the whisper of an indrawn breath and flattened himself, closer against the wall, holding his breath.

A form dropped into darkness and plummeted against his chest. He struggled blindly when cool fingers closed around his throat and clamped over his month. He heard nothing beyond the roar of his pulse, telling him over and over that he was still asleep, but also his air was being cut off.

Lips as cold as ice nipped at his neck and sharp teeth bit at his shoulder. Peter knew he would have noticeable bruises in the morning, if this were real. He tried to push her away, but his arms sliced through empty air, no more substantial than a cool fog.

By now, Bernadette had her cold month on Peter's hard little nipple. She tugged at the skin while her hand pulled and tweaked the other nipple. Normally Peter had very little arousal from having his nipples played with, he much preferred to play with his partner's than to have his manipulated.

Perhaps it was Bernadette's cold flesh, which aroused him as no other had, or perhaps it was a deeper sensation as if her lips could simultaneously caress the surface of his skin and reach into the flesh of his muscles. It was incredibly erotic.

"Kiss me", he whispered hoarsely. He could not control himself. He wanted more.

He felt her lips kissing his lips, sucking gently at his tongue, while her cool fingers caressed his throat.

When her lips released his, her ghostly mouth latched onto his hardened nipple again, sucking and nipping it painfully. Her hand pinched his other nipple, it almost felt like she drew blood, but that too could have been his imagination. Every action she took on his body hardened his arousal. He thought it possible he might cum without her even touching his cock.

She floated lower, her mouth nipping at his belly, one hand braced his hip while the other caressed his ass, squeezing tightly then soothing with a cool caress. Sharp pain followed by numbing cold. Through it all his erection never faltered. Her cold flesh, a different kind of cold then he usually experienced did not deflate his manhood, continued to excite him. He could feel her strength growing as she made love to him.

Peter was held against the parlor room wall, as if magic hands supported him. He tried to free his arms to reach out to her, to try to touch her, but she who held him up would not allow it.

She was now suckling his cock, greedily, hungrily; her hunger painful and his need for release critical now. Peter was moaning and twisting as his cock was sucked and he sought a release he could not control. He cried bitterly as the pain grew worse. He heard her laughter as it echoed in the parlor and in the upper reaches of the old Victorian.

The hands that held his legs tightened, prying his thighs further apart. He felt her fingers rub his ass apart, felt her softening the tight bud of his opening. It felt as if a cold, cold phallus came inside his anus. He felt it in there, but did not feel it's insertion, his anus was simply empty one moment and full the next. It was an overwhelming sensation, painful but intoxicating at the same time.

Bernadette's lips continued to work his cock, sucking and squeezing tightly, her tongue curling over the wide tip, tracing the sensitive slit at the top of the knob. He felt the licking at the back of his penis and underneath, right down the length of his urethra. She could drift through his body with the same ease that she could drift through walls and doors. "She stroked his balls, he felt them being suckled and rolled in her cold, dead mouth.

His erection was beyond his control, Peter felt the fluid rising, it could not be contained any longer. He shouted as semen spewed from his cock and the roar drowned out any other sound in the room. Peter thrust against an invisible mouth for several minutes, till his testicles were empty. His head lulled back against his shoulder and every muscle in his body sagged against the wall, his eyes closed.

If Peter had really been imagining everything he would have been carried gently, lovingly to the sofa, where Bernadette would have laid the soft blanket around him and tucked it in, then threw the comforter over his relaxed form.

Peter was not yet asleep; he kept one eye on the pale silhouette as Bernadette dissolved into bricks surrounding the fireplace, from where he was left on the floor. Used and abused and discarded without a backwards glance by his inhuman terrorist.

Did you like it? Would you like Bernadette to come in the wee hours to torment you? Please leave a comment, if you feel like it and a vote would be lovely.