Read Part One of this sexy tale before moving on this sexy conclusion.
The 10 p.m. cup of espresso he’d downed should do the trick, Bentley thought, with a mixture of self-satisfaction and eagerness. He’d be able to keep himself awake, while feigning sleep, until the wee hours.
At around 11:30, his usual bedtime, he simulated the behavior of a man who was ready for slumber—down to the conclusive act of turning out the light. He knew the full moon would give him plenty of light for observing what he hoped to, through squinting eyelids.
For over an hour and a half, he let his mind wander this way and that, over personal reminiscences, important dates in rock-music history, mental lists of places he’d like to visit someday. Inevitably—especially under the circumstances—his thoughts took the shape of horny fantasies. While making sure not to let his gingerly self-fondling under the covers disturb the illusion of a body at rest, he contemplated a series of luscious women: women who arrived in his mind’s eye with glistening pussies, their pupils glinting while they licked their lips with lust, their nipples yearning for kisses and their round, bare arses welcoming squeezes and nibbles.
He contemplated afternoon tea with Jean, and his cock throbbed nostalgically as he relived their recent adventure, feeling again the sticky wetness of her juice on his fingers, and the exquisite sensation of her mouth on his shaft.
Then he contemplated the photo of Priscilla in the miniskirt, having memorized every detail. He imagined dragging his fingertips along the trail of exposed panties offered by her flirty stance, and he imagined breathing into a hair-framed ear while cupping a perky little breast in his hand. He imagined her wriggling in his grasp, and kissing him with wine-warm lips.
It was becoming harder and harder for Bentley to stay still—because Bentley was becoming harder and harder.
It was then that he heard a subtle noise—like a light summer breeze, but inside the room. He froze, his hand still clutching his erection, and slowly cracked his eyelids open.
Priscilla (for even in her colorless, translucent state, there was no question that it was she) stood naked at the foot of the bed, in a posture of unabashed lewdness—her knees slightly bent, her thighs generously spread.
Her hand jammed into her crotch.
Her appearance was that of the twenty-seven-year-old she’d been at the time of her death, thirty years before. Though a Priscilla who was Jean’s age would have been no less attractive to Bentley, it seemed fitting that she had been preserved as a relic from her time. And, as the photo had amply conveyed, she had been one hell of a gorgeous twenty-seven-year-old. In the flesh (so to speak), her vitality (so to speak) was all the more powerful. And it certainly didn’t hurt that she was finger-fucking her gorgeous nude pussy for all she was worth.
As his cock became further bloated in his hand, the pressure of Priscilla’s spectacle overcame Bentley: it seemed literally to pry his eyes open wide.
She went immobile when this happened, just as he had a moment earlier. Her own widened gaze locked on his.
“Please,” croaked Bentley. “Don’t go.”
A smile spread across Priscilla’s gossamer features, and the interplay of her undiminished excitation and her blossoming aura of happiness made her erogenous beauty all the more breathtaking. She resumed diddling herself, mouthing kisses at Bentley while she bobbed around, lighter than air. Bentley sighed with relief and then he, too, resumed his self-gratification, drinking in Priscilla’s peerlessly captivating performance.
Suddenly he saw motion from the corner of the room, where a door led onto an open porch.
As Jean tiptoed in, pocketing her key in the form-fitting bathrobe that comprised her only garment, Priscilla froze anew. Jean paused to admire her long-departed friend, who returned her affectionate stare, and Bentley saw Jean’s eyes tearing up for a second. Then she nodded ceremoniously at Priscilla, and climbed into bed with Bentley.
The bathrobe key pocket had obviously held a condom, too—and it was on him scarcely before he knew what was happening.
“Fuck me, Bentley.”
Jean’s words acted like a charm on the ghost, causing her to shiver with anticipation. She ran her left hand over her delicate-as-moonlight breasts, while once again lending her right hand to her pussy.
Bentley flipped Jean over so that the satisfying flare of her ass was poised as his feast, while Jean’s face pointed toward the foot of the bed. This gave her a first-class view of Priscilla while Bentley lifted the hem of her robe and softly slapped her bottom, three, four, five times, revving her—and himself—up.
Jean scrambled onto her knees, raising her haunches to give him better access. He rose to his knees as well, and he saw Priscilla leer with approval when she got an eyeful of his sweat-glistening, wiry body and his rubber-sheathed rod.
He clasped Jean around the waist and reached underneath to pet and fondle her—spreading her wetness around and titillating her into a dripping, fuckable stew, making her squirm blissfully in his arms for quite some time. At last he plunged into her gaping hole in one smooth stroke, not stopping until her arse was flush with his balls.
Then he started to work it—work his rock-hard prick in Jean’s warm, appreciative cunt. For her. For him.
And for Priscilla, who was dancing her spectral ass off in a masturbatory frenzy, conducting a concert in her cunt with every nonexistent muscle engaged.
The couple’s hips soon synced themselves to the gyrations of Priscilla’s; the ghost’s rhythm appeared to hypnotize them even as they fucked. Bentley felt like he was in a dream when he shuddered into release and orgasmed richly inside Jean’s pussy, with his hand riding her clit and her walls clenching around him in their climactic throes.
A moment later, they gasped together in awe as Priscilla hooked her fingers inside herself with the skill of an athlete, posing—becoming a statue of erotic tension for an instant that seemed to last forever. Then she convulsed with pleasure and squirted ghost-girl come like a fireplug, puddling the floor as she gushed and gushed, her face stretched into a silent howl of rapture.
It was possibly the most beautiful thing Bentley had ever seen.
It was also inspiring.
He let his cock slip out of Jean, replacing it with his fingers. She wiggled her ass while he explored her . . . groping, searching.
All of a sudden she shrieked, her bottom quivering in double-time as she, too, catapulted into a squirting orgasm, drenching the sheets with her joy.
“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh fu-hu-hoo-hoo-huck!” Jean was giggling uncontrollably, her whole body evidently atickle with ecstasy.
And Priscilla threw back her head in her own bout of soundless laughter, which she punctuated by blowing kiss after ghostly kiss at her friends.
She was still blowing kisses as she faded into nothingness, leaving only a sweet little puddle to mark her place for next time.
Jeremy is a favorite author on Every Night Erotica click here to read more from him.
Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off , the erotic story collection Spark My Moment, and most recently The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio. His quirky, libidinous tales have appeared in over fifty anthologies, including three volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series, and he has read his work live at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile.. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.