Ghost — Anna Austen Leigh

The moon is bright tonight and it stirs whatever in me would once have been blood. I flit through the mansion blocks of Mayfair, through walls, restless, searching.

In one apartment, a girl’s giving a man head, half entangled in sweat-scented, twisted bedclothes. His eyes are vacant, as if he’s slightly bored by what’s going on, while she frowns as if it’s a matter of life and death. His hips thrust a couple of times and I hear him grunt, and a little spunk leaks from the corner of her lips, but I pass on. This isn’t what I’m looking for.

Another flat smells of new paint, it’s unfurnished except for a sofabed and a suitcase. A man sits on the sofabed, emptied metal takeaway trays beside him, jerking his cock as he watches porn on his laptop. The sound is tinny, so that when the woman screams in that way porn actresses do, the speakers crackle and whine. I pass on.

The next flat is empty. I’m about to pass on when one of the pictures catches my eye. They’re all antique erotica; this one is a Japanese shunga, a man with a twice-life-size cock just about to enter a woman from behind. The artist seems to have caught that moment when the head of his cock just pushes and spreads the flesh of her labia, before he thrusts in, that little moment of suspense. For the first time this evening I feel aroused.

I spend a while looking at the others. There’s a Mughal miniature of a moustachioed warrior straddled by a woman with an extravagant nosering, her orange silks wafting in the air. There’s a wonderful engraving of such complexity it takes me a couple of minutes to work out which arms and legs belong to which people, and just how many there are in this spawning, writhing heap.

I pass on, eventually. This apartment building is awash with sex. Two women lying in each others’ arms, their bodies replete and open and warm. They smell of wine and sex. I’ve missed that moment. I speed up now, still looking for what they just had, what I need, something genuine.

A man lying underneath a hyperactive woman who seems to be doing push-ups as if for a mad personal trainer, while he lies as still as a corpse. Another man fucking a woman from behind, his face taut with effort, perhaps the effort of not ejaculating too soon; her breasts jiggle with each thrust of his. A banker type, his tie askew, puts his hand on a younger man’s thigh. I can see where this is going.

And then at last, in a studio flat right at the top of the building, I find it. A young woman undressing, who, just as she takes off her sweater, catches sight of herself in the mirror. She holds her breasts up in her hands, squeezes them together, smiles at the sight of her enhanced cleavage. She steps forward and touches the surface of the mirror, and mists it with her breath. She turns, looking at the curve of her back, at her buttocks. She opens her legs, trying to see her sex between them.

It’s as if she’s never done this before. I see her hand make its way down her belly, down to part the lips of her sex. Her nipples are hard. She smiles. She raises her hips so she can see her gleaming labia in the mirror.

I follow her to her bed, where she lies back, her legs wide open, looking between her knees to the mirror. I watch her watching herself as she toys with her clit, teases her pubic hair into spirals, opens herself wide to the mirror.

I’m between her and the mirror. She looks right through me.

When she comes, it’s like a whirlpool, a storm raging, a cold wind. I can feel every nerve in her body, every beat of her heart. And just for a moment, she shivers, and I wonder if she’s somehow pierced through the veil that divides our worlds and actually seen me. But then she pulls the duvet lazily over herself, and it’s time for me to go.

Time for me to go, while the only light is electric, before the sun comes up.

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Read Anna’s other sexy stories published on Every Night Erotica, here.

Anna Austen Leigh has already published two erotic novels, The Diligence de Lyon, an escapade set in the eighteenth century world of the Grand Tour, and Pilgrim for Love, a Chaucerian pilgrimage with a raunchy, happy ending. She also publishes on Smashwords, and is now working on an erotic romance set in the Napoleonic Wars. . You may find Anna here: http://erotic-history.blogspot.com.