A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)


12. Epilogue

Arlen and I spent the night naked, first in his room, then mine, where we slept on sticky sheets. We showered together in the morning before I gave him his tour of the old castle. I was pregnant and happy. I wasn’t sure then, but Hamish’s arrival nine months later confirmed it.

Although Amelia regarded me suspiciously, they made love in Arlen’s bed on the same sheets we had soiled the previous night. I liked her a little, but there was a little rivalry there. Although we kept in touch, we were never the friends we could have been.

Sandra and Nipples met us in Glasgow for my concert, but Nips came back to my castle with me the next night and never left. Arlen finally slept with her the night I premièred her violin sonata on the same concert as Charlie’s trumpet piece.

Josh was conceived the night I premièred Arlen’s piano concerto. By then, Sandra had already moved in with Aoife and was also pregnant, and Charlie had also slept with him. Together Arlen gave Nipples and me six children, three boys and three girls, who lived together in Dunrig as full brothers and sisters. It was a lively household, with several children joining us in our bed, usually naked, as clothing was always optional in the castle during the off-season.

After Arlen died, only Hamish understood why Nipples found me a husband to share with her.


11. Arlen

I arrived at the station almost half an hour early for Arlen’s train. Having not slept all night, I decided to just go when I was ready and wait there in the café. After all that to-ing and fro-ing about what to wear, I realised that I was dressed exactly the same as when we first met: no excess skin, no deep cleavage, and nothing from his fantasies. If he could have found his way to the castle on his own, I might have answered the door nude, but that would have been playing my hand too soon.

We were going to have sex, and he was going to make the first move.

After a peck on the cheek and a brief embrace, we took the long walk up the drive to the castle. This wasn’t its most imposing aspect, but with the thaw, the woods were soggy and the burn had overflowed its banks. The silence was awkward. I was certain he wanted to discuss his music, while I had only one thing on my mind.

“I hope you didn’t mind that Amelia is coming tomorrow. The flights were all booked up for the weekend. I just thought that with all your spare rooms, she could join us.”

“It’s not a problem,” I’d repeated for the n-th time. It meant that we would have little time alone together, and it also forced my hand. Tonight had to be the night. I hadn’t ovulated yet, and hoped it would come soon. I wasn’t sure I would have the opportunity to take my temperature later.

“This is quite a place you have!” he exclaimed as the castle came into view.

“It’s a bit of a noose, but I’d never leave it.”

“What do you mean by a noose.”

“It’s expensive to keep up. The profits from the visitors centre and rent on the leaseholds only just covers its upkeep. We have a Celtic festival and a few concerts on the grounds during the summer. I do my best to stay at the university when people are around.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“I’ve got the ghosts to keep me company, and if I’m not practising, I’m online chatting or …” I almost admitted to having a twitter account.


“Emailing someone.” That was safe.

“So how many rooms are there?” he asked as we walked closer. The weather was unseasonably warm for January, so he unbuttoned his coat.

“116 altogether,” I replied, “but a number are old servants’ rooms or part of the ruin. Don’t open any doors that have heavy iron handles or are cold.”

“I wasn’t planning on exploring without your permission.”

“Visitors often can’t sleep at night because of the ghosts, so they roam around. I think Nicole wandered around almost every night, ending up sleeping on the couch in my room a few times until the ghosts accepted her.”

Arlen shifted his luggage to his other hand, having refused to let me help him. “What if your ghosts don’t accept me?”

“They won’t haunt you, if that is what you are thinking. They’ll go about their business, but sometimes they make noises – doors closing, occasionally shrieks and other noises, like lovemaking.” I had to slip that in.


“Yes, you might hear them in the hallway.” We entered through the tradesman’s entrance. It was the closest to the drive, and I didn’t want Arlen to become too exhausted. We climbed upstairs through the servants corridors, emerging almost magically into his bedroom. “This is your room. Mine’s the next one along. Remember to keep adding coal to the fire. We lose a lot of heat through the chimneys, and I wouldn’t want you to get cold at night.”

“This is quite a room!”

“It was mine when I was young. My mother liked to keep me close at night in case I woke up. If the truth be told, she spent more nights awake than I did. She used to sneak in and sit by my fire as I slept. There’s a secret door directly through to my room in the bookcase on that wall.” I stepped over to it. “Pushing that book releases the catch.” I demonstrated.

With a noisy clank, the door opened. “Not very subtle,” he remarked. “I’m surprised she didn’t wake you.”

“The mechanism has been out of alignment as long as I can remember. If you want to be silent, you need to enter from the servants’ door, I showed you in the hallway.”

“I wasn’t planning on accosting you during the night,” he chuckled.

I shrugged, not expecting him to have said anything else. “Do you want to settle in, or should I show you around? Are you hungry? Did you have lunch on the train?”

“Let’s look around, and if there is time, I’d like to hear you play my pieces.”

“There’s plenty of time. We’ve got the whole evening together. Nicole showed me how to cook something for your dinner, which I’ve planned for seven.”

“That’s sounds just fine.”

Leaving the door open between our rooms, I showed him into the main hallway. “My door is there, of course,” I said. pointing to the door at the end of the hallway. “If you need anything, just come in. I can’t always hear a knock.” He’d get a free show, too! He knew I slept naked.

“There are six more bedrooms this way,” I said, leading him back towards the main staircase, “and more upstairs, but we don’t heat them. You can also reach them by the back stairs. Above them are servants’ quarters.”

“How many servants do you have?” he asked.

“None now. I had a nanny when I was young, but she slept on this floor, and there was also a cook and housekeeper. They slept on the floor above. A century ago, the family had a staff of thirty. Now much of the work around this place is taken care of by the estate. We shouldn’t see much of them until Easter.”

We turned and walked downstairs. “This, of course, is the main foyer. This floor has ten public rooms. The parlour on the left has the best view of the gardens. I spend most of my time there during the day. Next to it is the library, but I don’t use it much. If I need to study, I’ll usually do it in my bedroom. It also has a nice view of the gardens. On the right, there is the old parlour, which leads to the old wing and through there to the old keep and state rooms. Those are unheated, so I wouldn’t advise going there at night. If it is warm tomorrow, we can take the visitors tour before we go meet Amelia’s train.”

I directed him through to the main state room. “This is amazing. Is all that land yours?” He couldn’t resist staring at the vista, rather than the room itself.

“As far as you can see,” I replied, exaggerating, “well, as far as the river.”

“That’s still quite a holding.”

“My family is one of Scotland’s oldest.”

“But you aren’t part of the main Johnstone clan?”

“There was a major split in the 15th century, when we were on two sides of a rebellion. Ours lost, but remarkably we were able to hold on to our land. The feud came later. I don’t know all the history. The estate stewards take care of all that. I just live here and play my piano.”

“Speaking of which …”

“The next room on the right is the music room. It has an old pipe organ at one end, but it’s out of use.” The opposite end featured my Steinway.

“This is like a concert hall!”

“We can seat 150. My mother used to invite people around to show off my talents. I still play an open concert during the summer, and chamber music groups often hire the hall for concerts in season. I think we have four booked this summer. Would you like me to play for you now? I can show you the kitchen and dining areas later if you wish, although we’ll probably eat in the parlour by the fire. The dining hall is too large for two people.”

I spent the next two hours playing through his piece for him, adjusting tempos and dynamics, but mostly he was happy with my work. I left him alone while I cooked dinner, lasagne, which was a long way from battered fish and chips. Nicole said it was one of his favourites.

After eating, I joined him on the couch in the parlour by the fire. “Tell me about Amelia,” I said, trying to get conversation moving.

“What’s there to say? She studied with me right when I began teaching. We became very close, and was hurt when I chose to marry Aoife.”


“I don’t know. She was dating someone from London at the time.”

“I heard she was pregnant when you married.”

He flushed. I’d struck a nerve. “She was.”

“Everyone thinks he’s your son.”


“Your harem.” I might as well let everything out in the open. “I have to admit that the pictures I’ve seen don’t lead me to believe otherwise.”

He stared down at his hands. “Yes, he is my son.”

“I thought you never slept with your students.”

“Not while they studied with me.”

“Did Aoife know?”

“Yes, we had an arrangement.”

This was getting interesting. “What kind of an arrangement?”

“Aoife needed a husband for family reasons. She’s Catholic.”

“What does that have to do with it?” I asked. “So am I, technically.”

“She’s a lesbian, but her family doesn’t know. They were trying to marry her to a local boy, but she had a girlfriend.”

“Where’s this girlfriend?”

“Long gone. I was too much in the way.”

“Is that why you don’t have any children?”

He chuckled to himself, opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

“How many children do you have?” I asked, making the obvious leap.

“Twelve, soon to be thirteen. Laura Liu is pregnant.”

“How many of your students have you slept with?”

“As I said, none while they were my students, but most of the ones you know. Both Amelia’s children are mine.”

“You still sleep with her, don’t you?” I accused. “You are going to rendezvous with her while you are here.”

“That was the plan,” he admitted, folding his hands across his chest.

“And Aoife doesn’t mind?”

“It gets me out of the house.”

“So she can sleep with Sandra?”

Arlen shot me a look. He didn’t know. “Aoife offered her our spare room. She stays with us as often as three times a week, but plans to move in during the summer. She isn’t getting along with her parents. I don’t think they are happy about her being gay.”

“I’m not sure she is. Gay as a fancy, maybe, but she is moving in for the kill on you. She wants you.”

“How do you know that?”

“We all do.” There, I put in on the table. “I don’t know why, but every one of us is very possessive of you.”

“Everyone wants something,” he shrugged.

“Like what?”

“They think that they can sleep their way to a career through me.”

“Can they?”

“They do it through their own talent.”

“But you do nothing to dissuade them?”

“I’m just … I’ve …” he stopped, playing with his wedding ring. “I have needs that Aoife is unwilling to provide.”

“And your students just conveniently fall in love with you?”

“Do you realise that Nicole is in love with you?” he asked, attempting to retake the offensive.

“What makes you think that?”

“Haven’t you been following her on Twitter?”

“No.” It hadn’t come up, and I hadn’t thought of searching for her. Twitter. Arlen was on Twitter. Did he follow me?

“I suggest you take a look. She is head-over-heels-forever-and-ever-amen in love with you. I’ll never forgive you if you hurt her.”

“I think she’s in love with you, too.”

“Maybe, but it isn’t the same. She wants to spend the rest of her life with you. You should have read her tweets from the train after she left here. That kiss sealed the deal.”

“But she knows I’m not gay,” I objected.

“She doesn’t care. She even said it: you don’t need to have sex with her.”

I needed to dump that subject. I liked Nips a lot, but not in that way. I could live with her, though. We were good together, very good. “You’ve been spying on me. What else do you know?”

“I’ve read your tweets, too. You want to have sex with me tonight. You want me to get you pregnant. So does Charlotte. So does Nicole. Surprisingly, they also want me to get you pregnant. I don’t understand why.”

“Sandra, too?”

“She isn’t quite so vocal online, but as you observed, she’s moving in for the kill. That’s why everyone hates her. As you now know, she’s actually a very nice person.”

“She is, but are you resigned to making that commitment? If you had to pick only one of us, would she be that one? I can’t believe you are going to be able to continue sleeping around after she moves in.”

“Amelia is the only one I have continued sleeping with. The others were just a couple of times, until they left Leeds for new pastures.”

“So you aren’t very good in bed. They all dumped you after the sex? That’s disappointing.”

“They never actually dump me. I just cease to become useful to them. I don’t have much self-control, so if they came back wanting more, I’d probably give it to them.”

This was my chance! “So if someone did this to you,” I said, dragging a finger up his thigh, “you’d leap into their bed with them.”

“It depends on who it was,” he replied, struggling to remain calm.


“It would probably take more.”

“So if Nicole unbuttoned your shirt …” I started at the top.

“If Nicole breathed on me …” he gasped. His lust for her was plain. Arlen was like a coiled spring, and mentioning Nicole had started his juices flowing.

I straddled him, finding him already firm between my legs. I untucked his shirt and stroked his chest. “… and if Charlie …”

“I’m going to break my rule with the horny redhead,” he grumbled. “As soon as she is ready.”

“And me?”

“I was already following you on Twitter before I met you. I’ve wanted you forever, even before I met you.”

“Why?” I asked, tracing his lips with my finger. He’d been stalking me.

“I’d heard you play in London.”

He’d been stalking me for almost two years before I met him. “So it is just my talent that attracts you?” I leaned back and unbuckled his belt.

“That made me notice you,” he gulped. “I found you on Twitter by accident.”

“So it wasn’t a blind attraction?”


“You just want to fuck me?” I said, fondling his zipper.

“I want to give you whatever you want? I assume that one thing you want. You aren’t going to have my children any other way.”

“If I asked you to give up Amelia, would you?”

“No. Amelia is different.”

“You are in love with her,” I accused, finally popping the button that held his bulging trousers closed.


“That’s why Aoife hates her.”

“And why Amelia’s husband hates me.”

“So Sandra is Aiofe’s revenge?” I slid off him, so I could remove his trousers.

“I guess so.”

“Why haven’t you touched me yet?” I asked. He was almost naked, but I, unusually, was fully clothed.

“In my fantasy, you undress yourself for me.”

“So it always goes according to your fantasies?” I replied, straddling him again.

“Yes,” he chuckled.

I lifted my blouse over my head. “Did I do this?” I asked.


“With this blouse?”

“You were dressed exactly like this in my fantasy.”

“What did I do next?”

“Do it, and I’ll tell you.”

I reached down and sucked hard on his right nipple, rolling my tongue around it. “Did I guess right?”


I unhooked by bra and slipped it off my shoulders. “This next?”


“Maybe I want you to remove my trousers.”

“It’s in my fantasy.” He unbuttoned them and slipped his hands down my bum inside my panties.

I shifted to the side so he could pull them off. “Don’t forget the socks!” I teased, kneeing before him to remove his.

“I haven’t! I’ve got a plan,” he smiled, sliding down to the floor, grabbing my calf and slipping my sock off. He took my big toe in his mouth, sucked on it, and licked the bottom of my foot. In ecstasy, I leaned back onto the rug, as he did the same to my other foot, before licking the insides of my thighs.

I was in heaven, and he had hardly touched me, but I gushed when he fondled my bush, caressing as I convulsed under his touch. I reached for him, as wet as I was.

The others didn’t leave him because he was bad in bed, but because he was mind-blowing. Once you let him have his way, no one else would ever be good enough. That’s why his harem could never stay with their husbands.

The ghosts watched us, silently approving.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, lowering himself on top of me. He knew I was a virgin, of course. Fitting him in was a stretch, but feeling his weight on my chest, I clasped my legs around him, throbbing, thrusting, crescendoing to a climax.

I screamed with delight as I felt his warm flow fill me.

“You screamed in my fantasy, too,” he whispered as we relaxed.

10. Sandra

“Just follow my lead,” I said. Nip’s train was due only a quarter of an hour after Sandra’s, so we decided to make it all a single trip. She betrayed no desire to see Sandra, but was resigned to the fact that the rendezvous would last only a short time. I wanted to see how they regarded each other, to determine whether it was hate or jealousy, or as Charlie put it, disdain.

As Sandra bounced off the train with her cello, I realized she was the opposite of Nips, bouncy, vibrant and flamboyant. My gaydar remained completely silent, whereas with Nips it sung a low hum. Their embrace was cordial – no hate or jealousy evident – but it didn’t last long, as though neither wanted to be seen with the other. Despite my warning, Sandra was under-dressed for the weather, which had again turned cold. Before she could settle in, though, we rushed to the opposite platform just in time to meet Nip’s train.

It was time to play with Sandra’s head. Nips and I embraced, and I leaned in for a kiss – a real one, full on, tongues. I hadn’t planned that last part, but it just seemed natural, a la Britney and Madonna. Nips wanted it, abandoning herself, pulling away just in time to board her train.

How did I feel about it? I was sorry to see her go, very sorry, but kissing a woman like that? I don’t know. My heart fluttered, but my head said, “Hold on.”

“Are you two … ?” asked Sandra as the train rolled out.

I just shrugged, leaving it ambivalent to make her wonder. After a frigid walk back to the castle, I set her up in a guest room. It was slightly larger than Nip’s room, and not as welcoming. It also had more ghosts, including some spirits that even I found disturbing. She saw it right away.

“This place certainly has a history,” she exclaimed, pulling off her coat – floppy dress, Docs, commando, as far as I could guess. It would be true to type.

“The castle has been around a long time,” I replied. “It’s bound to. We were right on the front line of the wars with the English, too.”

“I don’t think I’ve been in a place with so many ghosts.”

“You can see them?”

“No, but I can sense them. They don’t bother you?”

“They’re family, and I’m their living royalty. I’m one of them.”

“I could get rid of them for you,” she offered.

“I’d get lonely without them.” I couldn’t imagine the place completely empty like that.

“You know, you should be careful with Nicole,” she spat out bluntly.

“What do you mean?”

“Did she do the staring thing?”

“Yes, but …”

“But what?”

“The ghosts intervened. They distracted me before I opened myself to her.”

“Those eyes are difficult to resist. I couldn’t.”

“What happened between you?”

“We just fell out of love. There wasn’t even an argument. That’s the way she is. She knows exactly what she wants, and as soon as you don’t fit, she drops you. She will, you know.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not sure it was ever love, just infatuation. Say, are you interested in a Tarot reading? I’d like to learn more about the ghosts.”

Again, true to type, but what could it hurt? These parts were full of magic, soothsayers, witches – I probably would have been one if my mother had allowed it. “Why not?”

“Um …” she stuttered. “I prefer to do them nude. It gives me more contact with the spirit world. It would be better if you were, too.”

“That didn’t take you long,” I laughed.


“They warned me about your tarot readings.”


“The harem.”

“What do mean by that?”

“All the women that surround Arlen. You know who they are. They’re all your friends on Facebook. Everyone has an opinion, and it’s hard not to listen. I’m sure they all contacted you as soon as you began your studies with him.”

“What would they know about the tarot anyway? It’s something I do often, with many people. I’m not seducing anybody with it.”

“What about Nicole?”

She chuckled. “She seduced me. Ask her, but I’m not sure she even knew she did it. I don’t think she turns on those moon eyes on purpose.”

This wasn’t starting well. I wished she wasn’t so fake or conniving. In normal clothes she would be pretty, if not beautiful, and there was nothing gay about her. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“If you ask Nicole, she’ll tell you. I’ve got nothing to hide. I don’t understand why nobody likes me. I don’t want anything more than anyone else has – someone to love and cherish, someone who fulfils me and inspires me.”

“Aoife fulfils you?”

“She inspires me,” she scowled. “She’s a brilliant poet.”

“Arlen does, too?”

“Arlen inspires all his students.”

“Especially the women.”

She shrugged. “His female students have been more successful than the males. Amelia is amazing, and Laura Liu. We overlapped a few years.”


“She might be the best of all of us. I freely admit that, but she doesn’t promote herself well.”

“Not like you.”

“People think there is a rivalry between us. I win the prizes she doesn’t enter, but she doesn’t enter many, so it looks like I’m winning them all. We had a relationship. It ended. It was sad. The world turns. My feet are firmly planted on the ground. Nicole’s head is in the clouds.”

She was right about that. Despite moments of lucidity, Nipple’s thoughts were always elsewhere, deep in whatever she was writing, soaring the heavens, talking to ghosts, or contemplating the universe. That’s what I found so endearing about her.

After dinner we sat down on the floor in my bedroom. Sandra said she felt more comfortable there, as the ghosts seemed more cordial. “Have you ever had a tarot reading before, she asked, slipping out of her dress, no underwear, as expected. Her body was magnificent, statuesque, what every man dreamt of, and without the façade, she seemed more human. Her ankles weren’t half as “English” as Arlen had implied.

“Why do you do that?” I asked, ignoring her question.


“The costume.”

“People never forget me, and it’s comfortable.”

“There are other ways to achieve that,” I said, unbuttoning my blouse.

“I got sick of being a pretty face. People remembered how beautiful I was. Did Nicole tell you I was Miss Devon and runner up for Miss England?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“I was only a couple of votes away from going to Miss World, and I did it all for my parents. After it was over, I didn’t want any of it. This was my way to get people to look at me, not my body. I want people to hear my music, not fantasize about my breasts.” She shuffled her cards.

“I’m not sure this accomplishes the latter. Enough hangs out to get Arlen’s juices flowing, and I can’t see anyone else being any different.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He has fantasies about your breasts, and still insists he’s not a breast man.”

“When did he tell you?”

“We correspond regularly.”

“He confides in you?”

“We share fantasies.” Nothing wrong with being honest.

“He’s never told me anything.” She sounded hurt.

“You are a student. I’m nobody.”

“I wouldn’t say that. He talks about you at every opportunity. He’s in awe of your talent. I think he might be writing a piece for you. He’s certainly encouraging all of us to do the same.”

“It’s because I play new music,” I replied, stepping out of my panties. “That’s not uncommon. Everyone here wants to write for me, too.” After nearly a month with Nipples, I had lost what few inhibitions I had left.

“I think it’s more than that.”

“Whatever. Let’s get started.”

Sandra pulled out a card to represent me, the Princess of Disks. “You seem grounded, but spiritual,” she said, “and quietly beautiful, in possession of hidden knowledge.”

I tried not to react, as she shuffled the deck again and set it down for me to cut.

“Do you have a question, or should we just get a general sense?”

“General.” I wanted to know about Arlen, but couldn’t admit it.

She laid the first card on top of the Princess – the Magician. “I’m not all that surprised. You ooze art and talent. The Magician is an alchemist, fashioning a gold from iron. Many great musicians get it in their readings. She laid the next card across it: The Fool. Here is something working against you, either someone you can’t control through your gifts, or your own failings. The fool may be one who possesses that talent, yet has no knowledge of how they came by it or how to use it.

She set down the next four cards. Lust below, Love behind, The Lovers above, and the Princess of

Cups ahead. “This is a powerful reading,” she mused. “It looks like you are leaving love behind to satisfy your lust, only to find love again, and this woman may be the one who facilitates it, or maybe you will fall in love with her.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Whatever. If there is love, there is love. She’s one who has her head in the clouds, like Nicole, maybe. She lets her heart move her.”

Four more cards, three more women and the King of Wands.

“This is weird,” she remarked. You’ve got a man and a load of possessive, creative women. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Women for you, against you.” She laid down a few more cards. “Hmm, I can’t read this. Maybe it’s the ghosts. How about tea leaves or coins?”

“Coins?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I feel like I need to do something.” Something about that reading frustrated her.

“How about alcohol? That sometimes works.”

“I don’t drink,” she replied.

“No meat, no drink, sleep around. Strange combination.”

“I don’t really sleep around. Everyone wants to say they’ve slept with me. I’m not a virgin, but …”

I picked up my camera and snapped a picture.

“Hey! Why did you do that?”

“I take nude photos of all my visitors.” I laughed, snapping another as she reached for my camera.


“Take one of me!” I said, handing her the camera.

She looked at the two that I had taken. “You can’t use them for anything. I have a contract with the Miss Devon competition. No nude portraits. I could end up in the tabloids, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“I’ll be careful. You can take as many of me as you want. Nobody’s likely to do much with them.”

She shrugged, took a picture, examined it, and handed the camera back to me. “Arlen thinks I should write you a piece. Why should I?”

It was my turn to shrug. “I’ll play it?”

“He says you can play anything.”

“He says you write what you want, and it doesn’t matter if a pianist can play it. He wants me to show you what can’t be played.”

“Fair enough. We’ll play through some stuff tomorrow.”

Sandra decided to make it an early night, so I sat down with my computer, first sending one of the pictures of Sandra to Arlen, with the strict admonishment not to show it to anyone else. Next, I poked Charlie. I couldn’t explain why I was horny, but I found the tarot reading terribly unsatisfying, especially with the beautiful Sandra sitting cross-legged across from me.

Charlotte Weeks: Hey!

She used the normal text chat mode. I wondered if she did that when there were others around.

Eirica Johnstone: Sandra just went to bed, and I’m incredibly horny. She’s fucking beautiful with her clothes off, almost enough to make me consider …

I didn’t really want to finish that. It wasn’t something I wanted to consider.

Charlotte Weeks: Pity about her personality.

Eirica Johnstone: She isn’t so bad, maybe a little stuck on herself. If I was a guy, I would have been all over her.

Charlotte Weeks: You could have been. She swings both ways.

Eirica Johnstone: She doesn’t have the required appendage.

Charlotte Weeks: A dildo can be a wonderful thing.

Eirica Johnstone: I’ve never used one. Are you alone?

Charlotte Weeks: No. My BF’s here studying. He has a tutorial tomorrow.

Eirica Johnstone: I guess sex is out of the question.

Charlotte Weeks: I think we might have some later. It doesn’t take much to get him going.

Eirica Johnstone: I meant US!

Charlotte Weeks: I’m not sure he’d understand.

Eirica Johnstone: I guess not. I’m still not sure I do either. What are you doing now?

Charlotte Weeks: Composing. I’m writing a sexy piano piece for you.

Eirica Johnstone: Sexy?

Charlotte Weeks: It’s all I think about when I think of you. I’m wearing BF out.

Eirica Johnstone: Glad I’m good for something, at least.

I wasn’t going to get anything, and I was quickly losing interest.

Charlotte Weeks: I love what you do to me.

She didn’t say she loved me. That would have been too much.

Eirica Johnstone: I’m glad I …

A piercing scream interrupted me.

Eirica Johnstone: BRB!

I slapped my laptop shut and hopped out of bed. In seconds Sandra came sprinting through my bedroom door in tears, wearing a white cotton nightdress. She threw herself up against me, crying, not caring that I wasn’t dressed.

“What happened?” I asked, holding her in my arms and stroking her hair.

“He touched me,” she cried.

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“It was probably just a ghost. They’re harmless.”

“It hurt! His hand was like ice, and he touched me …” she broke off pointing between her legs. “… and he grabbed …” She put a hand on her breast. “He hurt me.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, just …”

“Just what?”

“I burned a candle,” she sobbed.

“An ordinary candle?”

“It was a simple spell for clarity. Nothing really. Just a white candle spell. He might have raped me!”

“He probably wouldn’t have gotten that far,” I reassured her. “They only repeat things from the end of their lives. I suspect he’d died before he re-enacted anything that would damage you. That’s usually how it happens. You’re safe in here.”

“How do you know that?” she sniffled.

“I’ve slept in every room on this floor and some upstairs. I know most of the ghosts intimately. Your spell must have irritated one of them. I’ve never had one become physically violent. Sometimes they might invade my dreams, and that can get sordid, but I know how to cut them off. Make friends with the other ghosts, and they will defend you.”

“How do I do that?”

“I do it through sexual fantasies. It worked with Nicole, too, but all you need to do is open yourself up to them completely. One most compatible with you will tell you their story.”

“They’ll talk to me?”

“It’s more visceral than that,” I explained. “They’ll let you see their memories. They can’t consciously do anything outside of re-enacting their death or significant events, but they can allow an intimate view of their lives.”

“Then he could have raped me!”

“The worse thing they can do is scare you or show you gruesome images. If he touched you, it would have taken extraordinary strength on his part. Few ghosts are that strong. He couldn’t do much more that what he did.”

“Why do you use sexual fantasies?”

“It attracts the gentler ghosts, the ones who attended my conception, the ones …”

“Attended your conception?”

“Mother said the room was full of them, quietly egging on my father, who wasn’t sensitive to them. He died when I was very young, so I don’t know if that ever changed. Those ghosts touch me as they touched their lovers, usually sparing me the last part of their re-enactment – their death.”

“Tell me about them,” she said, her eyes widening with wonder.

“There is one who caresses me with her hair. I can’t see her, but her touch is intimate. A man makes love to me, but stops just after climax, because that was when he died. Another comes as a flicker of light in the corner. I think she burned to death in the fire. She’s a curious one, wanting to watch. She’s a voyeur, and she was probably spying on her parents when her nightdress caught fire. She’s here now.” I pointed to the corner beside the fire.

Sandra searched, but I couldn’t see recognition in her eyes.

“She’s probably curious about you,” I added, “and about what you and I might do, since I’m standing here naked, and you have a history with other women. She’s probably hoping you will share my bed tonight, just to see what it is like. I don’t think she has watched two women before.”

“You are putting me on.”

“It’s just a guess. She was very interested when Nicole was here, although we didn’t do anything. Maybe she had some unnatural urges when she was alive.”

“It’s not unnatural!” Sandra objected. “It’s purely natural, and only vaguely mentioned by one writer in the bible. It’s only love!”

“Even so, it probably wasn’t discussed openly while she was alive. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen when she died, and as far as I can tell that was about a century ago.”

Sandra looked again. “Is she still there? I don’t see her.”

“She is. These ghosts are very particular about who sees, hears or feels what. I can call some of them just by thinking certain things, but they will only reveal themselves to you if they want to, and if you open yourself to them.”

“Unless they decide to terrorize me,” she grumbled.

“You terrorized him first. That sacred candle probably struck a chord with him. Perhaps a loved one died in a fire, or maybe he was exorcised. You’ve got to be careful with candle magick in places this old. I wouldn’t even attempt it here, if I had studied the old ways.”

“You should have warned me.”

“All I knew about was the tarot. If you were Wiccan, I would have expected you to know better how to interact with ghosts.”

“I’m not, really, it was a spell a friend cast for me.”

“But you are sensitive to ghosts.”

“Not as sensitive as you are, apparently.”

“I’ve lived with them all my life. I would be lonely without them. If I came to your home, I don’t know what I would see, although I’m familiar with the ghosts at Uni.”

She sat on the side of my bed. “Do you mind if I stay in here tonight? I’m not sure I can face my room again in the dark. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“You can join me in my bed if you want. There is plenty of room.” I missed having Nipples purring next to me already. I slept deeper with her there.

“I won’t do anything,” Sandra promised.

“That’s settled then.”

For a short time, I worried about having cut Charlie off so abruptly. She had her boyfriend there, a boyfriend whose existence had been barely mentioned. She didn’t need me.

Although we fell asleep on opposite edges of the bed, we awoke entwined. “You snore,” she murmured, pulling me closer. Again, I was glad that she wore a nightdress. There was too much beautiful skin pressed against me for my weak sensibilities. Was that what Aoife saw in her? Or Nipples? Was I that shallow, or was there something deeper in this woman?

I could feel my ghost caressing me with her hair. “No!” I whispered.

“What?” Sandra asked, opening her eyes.

“Just talking to a ghost,” I replied. I was saving myself for a man – a certain man.

We lounged about for another hour, and then rose for breakfast, which was my responsibility. Sandra couldn’t cook to save her life, and ate out most meals at Uni. We spent the morning struggling through her cello sonata. Arlen was right. She made the pianist’s task needlessly tiresome. Her music was much more difficult than it sounded, and we discussed several ideas about easing the pianist’s burden. As a cellist, she was quite good, perhaps a better performer than Nipples.

We walked into town for lunch, planning to finish in time to meet her train. “Would you mind terribly if I stayed another night?” she asked.

“Is there a problem?”

“I just wanted to get a better handle on you.”

“A handle on me? What do you mean?”

“Everyone is talking about you, and I want to know why.”

“Who is talking about me?”

“Arlen’s harem, as you called it. They either love you or fear you.”

“Why do you think that is?” I asked. I hadn’t noticed that much discussion of me on Facebook. It must have been in private.

“You don’t carry the taboos that we do,” she added. “Arlen is obviously enthralled with you, but none of us can see why, other than you can play rings around any pianist in the country.”

“I don’t know about that. It isn’t a competition. Besides, you know Arlen. He has his limits, no students, and he’s married.”

“I’m not sure how meaningful that is, but yes, he is. You, however, aren’t his student. Besides, you must have heard the rumours by now, that Amelia’s son is his.”

“I’m not sure that’s relevant to me.”

“Still, nobody knows what he sees in you. You aren’t particularly beautiful. You speak your mind, perhaps a little too much. You can’t cook …”

“Better than you, missy, that’s not why he’s interested in you, besides your muffins.”

“My muffins?”

“Your breasts. I think he’s got a breast fixation, and with you he has a paradigm.”

Sandra blushed. “I still can’t believe he told you that!”

“He tells me lots of things, but he’s completely silent on certain subjects.”

“Like what?”

“What he is actually thinking … what he thinks of me. He won’t tell me if he has fantasies about me, in spite of the fact that he’ll tell me in detail about ones of the rest of you. He also won’t say anything about his wife.”

“I think we have every right to fear you,” she said, resting her chin on her palm. “He doesn’t open up like that to anyone else, except maybe Amelia. It’s hard to tell with her. She’s very private. I think Arlen still holds a torch for her.”

“You’re probably right about that. He still has fantasies about her, and they are in regular contact.”

“He is in regular contact with all his former students, regardless of whether they are in the harem. He’s good in that way. He looks after all of us. He may even look after you, if you play your cards right.”

“He’s either a rake, a polygamist, or … a pervert … or just very naïve.” That didn’t change how I felt about him.

“But that’s why we all look after him, too. We, or at least his former students, try to keep him from getting into trouble. His current students don’t really have the opportunity, or the experience, except the postgrads, Nicole and myself. I’m not sure how active Nicole will be in that respect, but I know she cares about him. The others, Charlotte, Dana, and Peri, don’t really know how deep this runs. Since we don’t know you, we can’t gauge your loyalty.”

She paused for a moment, and sat back in her chair. “If you hurt him, we will destroy you.” That was more than a threat. It was a promise.

It was my turn to pause. I took a sip of tea as I tried to figure out how to react. If I seduced him, would that hurt him, or is it what he wanted? Would having his child bring on the jealous wrath of the others or just Amelia. Would he want to leave Aoife? I wouldn’t let him do that. “I think you made your point,” I replied coldly. “I suppose someone had to.” I should have tried to reassure her, but I wouldn’t stoop to that. I had no plans on hurting him, as long as he gave me what I wanted.

Which I knew he would.

“So what did you want to do this afternoon?” I asked, not wanting to continue the interrogation.

“Walk for a while, explore the village, the castle grounds … and maybe the ruins, if you’ll let me.”

“Of course. The grounds are pretty boggy right now. We’ll have to stay on the paved footpaths.”

“That’s fine. I think I’d also like to compose a little later on. I feel the urge.”

“Whatever you want. There’s another piano in the library if you need it. I was hoping to practise some myself on the Steinway. I’ve got a recital to play in a couple of weeks.”

“Do you mind if I come?” she asked. “I’ll come up on the day and leave the following morning.”

“Yeah, but you might have to find yourself a place to stay. Nicole might be sleeping on the floor of the digs, and it will be too late for a train back here.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

I wondered how many more of the harem would choose to come. It didn’t take long to find out. Amelia was the first ask by email later that afternoon, and she wanted to come on Saturday and stay with me in Dunrig. That was the night after Arlen arrived. We wouldn’t have much time alone together. Would she be upset if he slept in my room? Of course, she would. So would the rest of them.

Liz Lamm was coming over from Boston, but Laura was too close to delivery to fly in. I already knew Charlie would come, but I was surprised to hear that Dana and Peri would join her on the train and share a room at McFadden’s (a local guest-house) with her.


“I took your advice,” Sandra announced the next morning, having slept in her own room.

“Did it work?”

“Yes, to a point.”

She smiled. “I got to know one of your ghosts … rather intimately. He captained a ship and came here when he was on-shore. He was quite a man.”

“Did he … you know …?”

Confused, her wheels were turning. “Oh! No!” she laughed as my meaning clicked. “He was in love with a servant girl here. They eventually married. He was a dream though.”

“You could see him?”

“I could feel him inside of me as if we were one. That was quite … um … stimulating. He shared his memories with me … all of them.” She giggled again.

“I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

“I did have an unsettling dream later on, though.”

“That might have been last night’s ghost getting revenge. What happened?”

“I was wandering through a church, maybe a cathedral, looking for you. Some bishop was leading me around. I would pass something, and it would burst into flames. Anything fabric or wood. It was weird.”

“Did you find me?”

“No, but Arlen was there, and Nicole, a few others that I knew … lot’s of people I didn’t know. I wonder what it meant.”

“It was probably just the ghost planting a little fear in you. It’s probably harmless.” I didn’t dare tell her what I thought it mean. I’m glad she didn’t find me in it. I would be one more thing she ruined. She had already hurt Nicole, but how would she hurt Arlen? Coming between him and Aoife? It wasn’t always that obvious. What it did mean was that she hadn’t a clue how many lives she would destroy.

It made me feel sorry for her. She wasn’t really a bad person, just socially clumsy, and unaware what her beauty did to people. People like Aoife, Arlen or Nicole. I was glad to finally put her on the train, so I could get back to Uni. I had a lesson and a couple of seminars during the week before I went back home to prepare for Arlen’s visit.

During all the weeks of becoming intimate with him online, I still didn’t know what I would do when he arrived. Dare I try to mimic one of his fantasies? I didn’t know what he craved about me, or how he pictured me. Naked? I could send him a picture. I certainly had plenty now. That didn’t seem right. Where was the mystery?

Had I destroyed Nicole’s mystery, or Sandra’s? I had to. They were in the way. Amelia was in the way now. How could I have allowed her to come visit while he was here? Changing my mind would be suspicious, and it might make Arlen decide to stay in the city. That would ruin everything.

9. Distance

Arlen was quiet most of the next week, during which I divided my time practising, playing duets with Nipples, and walking the grounds with her. The mild weather had begun to melt the snow. She also made a stab at teaching me how to cook, teaching me a few dishes that I might serve Arlen when he arrived. She had the patience of a saint.

I couldn’t chat much with Charlie either. Nips had taken to spending the evenings gabbing with me in my room until either we passed out from the alcohol, or fell asleep, several times waking with her next to me in my bed.

What I wanted desperately to speak with her about was Arlen. How should I greet him? Should I be his fantasy? What should I wear? She wouldn’t want to hear that, and she wouldn’t want to hear about Charlie either. They didn’t see each other much at Uni. Nipples and Sandra were the star postgraduate composers, while Charlie was a lowly undergraduate, a talented trumpeter, and only a part-time composer – basically a non-entity. A flash of jealousy scarred Nipples’ face whenever I mentioned her. She knew about us, somehow.

Sandra was a different story. Something seethed underneath, and Nips wouldn’t discuss her at all, other than repeated warnings to be careful. I had to formulate an action plan for that visit on my own.

Amelia sent me a number of emails, mostly asking about Nipples. Was she all right? Was she eating enough? Was she lonely? Was she having a good time? Did I like her music? If I didn’t know better, I would have thought there was something between them, but aside from some online contact, Nips claimed they had hardly met, other than for a short lesson while Amelia was in town for a première.

Emails came irregularly from Liz and Laura as well, enquiring about my plans with Sandra, but also warning me about the fragile Nicole. Both were concerned about their visits overlapping, even by only a few minutes. The seemed to know too much, as though they all discussed us behind our backs.

When it came time for Nipples to leave, I felt an attachment to her, perhaps motherly like the others, but more profound, as if she was someone who needed my protection. I would miss her and contrived to invite her up for Easter break to rehearse her violin piece, if nothing else. Dunrig was at its most vibrant during the spring, with flowers bursting into bloom below the cherry trees. We would have to make way for the tourists, but other than Easter Sunday, the early season was clear, although the Estate staff would be all over the grounds like a rash, tarting the place up.

My annual recital was early in the summer – hopefully I would be five months pregnant by then – but I hoped she could come. Perhaps if I played her piano Preludes, she might be more inclined to come north. Aside from the tourists, June was the most idyllic month at Dunrig. Even the ghosts made themselves scarce unless I summoned them. Nips would like June in the castle.

I missed her already, and she hadn’t left yet.

8. Nude Christmas (some adult, swearing)

Nipples and I agreed that we wouldn’t dress for Christmas day. Neither of us were religious, so we decided to rebel, sticking to the warm rooms of the castle, although we allowed ourselves slippers, so our feet weren’t cold on the stone floors, especially in the kitchen. Nips cooked a soufflé for our Christmas dinner, not turkey, as I hadn’t thought to order one ahead.

Well, it wasn’t entirely nude. The weather closed in during the day and a cold breeze blew in through the chimneys of the unoccupied rooms. We allowed ourselves robes while moving through the house, but at dinner, we proudly ate starkers, and drank port in the parlour until we fell over.

@ClanGoddess87: I am so fucking drunk. Can’t move. Nips wants sex. Told her to find a ghost.

@hornyredhead91: Wish I was there. Too much family around to have some fun.

@ClanGoddess87: Hop on your ma

@ClanGoddess87: gic carpet … Oops! Cn’t bluddy typ.

@hornyredhead91: are you calling me a cunt?!!!!

@ClanGoddess87: you wish!

@hornyredhead91: wanker!

@ClanGoddess87: good idea, send me a nekked pic and I’ll rub it on my cunt till I cum.

@hornyredhead91: sweet! Send it back when you finish, so I can do the same.

“What you doing?” Nips moaned.


“You on Thwitter? Can I see?”

Before I could say no, she passed out, saving me a lie.

@ClanGoddess87: Nips in neverland, fucking lightweight


I awoke with my iPhone buzzing against my chest. Nipples had placed my robe over me to keep me warm. It took a few moments to remember through a dense fog and splitting headache what caused that buzzing.  I looked at the screen, hoping she hadn’t read it.

“Uh, hello?”

“It’s me,” someone whispered, “Charlie.”

“What time is it?”

“Noon. I just wanted to say I was thinking of you.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything,” I groaned, “except sheep.”

“Sheep are for men. You should think of a warm stallion between your legs.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oops, gotta go. Bye sweetie!”

I parked my iPhone and turned over to go back to sleep, but I smelled frying bacon. Nips was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She’d been quiet but friendly since her encounter with her ghost. Most of all, she composed obsessively, not even taking her violin out of the case to practise. That left me plenty of time to learn Arlen’s music. I’d resolved to memorize the entire work, a feat akin committing Bach’s entire Art of the Fugue to memory, something I’d failed at while an undergraduate. It would be worth it if I succeeded, but I could resort to the printed page if I had to. There was no shame in reading modern music off the score.

Nips had become an enigma, like a ghost herself, only half there, perhaps half in love with me, while the other half pined for Arlen. The ghost had shaken her, yet she hadn’t bothered me in my room. Did they commune each night? They couldn’t converse; the ghosts in my castle were destined to repeat, although Nips could delve more deeply into the ghost’s past, if she released herself. Maybe she had found another ghost to satisfy her. There were many here, and even I haven’t found them all yet, and I’ve never even told her about the one that came to me our first night together. He would make a good story for Arlen. I owed him one, so I reached for my laptop and started typing.

Eirica Johnstone:

Dear Arlen,

I was intrigued my your last fantasy. It was much more explicit than you led me to believe at first. You may be as explicit as you want to me. You may even write a fantasy about me, if you wish … that is, if you fantasize about me … perhaps it is only with me. I must admit that I was hot for sex after reading your story. I couldn’t resist touching myself. Does it bother you if I tell you that? If so, I’m sorry, but I have no one here to slake my desire except Nipples, and I’m not inclined that way.

So now it is my turn. One of my frequent ghostly visitors was the cousin of a Laird a half a millennium ago, before the start of the feud. Perhaps he started it; I can’t be certain. He took a liking to one of the Laird’s daughters, his youngest. It wasn’t uncommon then for liaisons to begin at a young age, and theirs began very young. Still young himself, he was more than twice her age.

At the cusp of puberty, she was ripe for the picking with burgeoning breasts and an aching heart. He favoured her at family gatherings, and even attended church to sit near her. Bright and innocent, she found him intriguing, especially when he offered to accompany her on a ride to visit a cousin of the same age in the next village. She should have been chaperoned, but the Laird was a trusting father. Too trusting to a worldly relative.

Not long after they were out of sight, the cousin voiced his bawdy intentions, and she, believing he loved her, indulged him. As he gently fondled her breasts, the fire took her, and she swooned into his arms. Seeing an opening, he loosened her bodice, but that wasn’t enough, for she imagined she loved him. Stroking his cheek, she invited a kiss. There in the field and in the sight of God, he deflowered her …

I paused. This was a little too Jane Austin, but perhaps that might fire Arlen’s passions.

“You hungry?” Nipples asked from the door.

I was hungry for more than food, but it was perhaps fortunate that I hadn’t explicitly described the ghost’s advances. That would only be conjecture, but Arlen didn’t know that. The cousin’s ghost couldn’t know what the girl felt, only his own desire. I closed my laptop and leapt off the sofa for breakfast. Nips was a much better cook than I, who was useless without a chip-pan. Indeed, she was as fine a cook as she was a composer. I would have liked her to stay with me, if only for the cuisine. She wasn’t much company when she was as mad for composing as she was this holiday. With her as my chef, though, I was likely to gain a considerable amount of weight.

As was her way these days, Nips wolfed down her breakfast, half-dressed, and retired to her manuscript paper, leaving me to continue my email.

(Eirica Johnstone, cont’d)

… Their visits became regular, and the ruse of meeting her cousin was never discovered. After several months of weekly passion, they became more adventurous, stealing hidden caresses in dark corners of the castle. He was a favourite of the Laird, so his frequent visits were not uncommon.

One day the cousin arrived earlier than has normal time, finding the daughter alone in the stables. The Laird had ridden to the village to mediate a dispute. They stole into the castle, which was otherwise empty, to her bedroom, the room in which I slept as a girl. Afforded the luxury of a warm fire, he undressed her slowly, gently caressing her private parts, her breasts, then her thighs while releasing the knot on his breaches.

Meanwhile, her father returned. Finding that she had neglected her duties, he came looking for her, entering her bedroom moments after her cousin’s penetration. The Laird’s rage was unbridled, as he threw the cousin off of her with a single blow, sending him crashing into a stone wall. If you lift the rug there, you can still find a dark stain where he bled to death.

When I was a girl, his ghost visited me often, touching me as he touched the girl, forever destined to repeat his crime. I have never seen him his shade, yet even now the memory of his tender advances fires my lion. He caresses, and when I am ready to receive him, he penetrates. Alas, he left her then, as he does me now, yearning for the touch of a man.

I’m sorry. That is perhaps too intimate an admission for this conversation. I must go now. I look forward to our online rendezvous tomorrow evening.

Love, Eirica

Did the gore at the end ruin the mood? To be completely honest, the cousin was discovered at the moment of climax – where he also leaves me – but I thought that I would leave Arlen wanting more at the end.

“What are you doing?” Nips asked from the door.

“Writing an email. I just sent it off.”

“You interested in reading down a new piece?” she asked.

It wasn’t just a new piece. It was one that she had written for us to play together, and she wanted me to travel down to York later in the year to première it. After a few notes, I saw in her what Arlen did. She was brilliant. Every note made sense and sounded new, like no piece I had ever heard: mildly tonal, but fresh, not traditional. I loved it, and heartily agreed to perform it as soon as we could agree a date. After my recital all I had left was my thesis, which wasn’t due until next September. Spending so much time alone, I was ahead on it, having already turned in my first draft to my supervisor.

After a couple of hours playing, we walked into the village for some supplies. Nips was inspired to cook a large meal the next evening, to be accompanied by a serious amount of alcohol.

Arlen Stewart:

Dear Eirica,

You certainly have some interesting ghosts there. Are you making them up for my benefit, or are they fantasies you have dreamt up for your own … how shall I put this discreetly … night-time desires?

Aoife is away with Sandra tonight reading some of her poetry at a local bookshop, so I’m on my own here, thinking of you. Why do I think of you? I don’t know. I remember your friend Sinead, and then I think of you. Do I have fantasies about you? I won’t go there. I do have a fantasy about Sinead, but I won’t tell you about it. Explicit wouldn’t begin to describe it. It is simple really: she plays me like her harp, cutting off my clothes with her fingernails. The sex is rough, and the fantasy takes over. I can’t control it. That is why I must stop.

I will understand if you won’t tell me any more of your stories, since I haven’t kept up my side of the bargain.



He’s mine? He was thinking of me? My heart fluttered. That was the closest he had come to saying he loved me. But I knew he didn’t. I was reading too much into it. I didn’t love him either. Wanted him? Yes. Love? No.

Eirica Johnstone:

Dear Arlen,

I’m not sure why you insist we fire emails back and forth instead of chat. I’m at home alone in my bed (naked), and you are home alone, too, waiting for my replies.

The ghost fantasies are real. This castle is full of ghosts, real ghosts, who I have gotten to know well, since I was young. They come to me when I am bored. They pleasure me. They keep me from becoming lonely here, as you do. Shall I tell a fantasy about you? No. That would be too revealing.

What is it about Sinead that possesses you so?


Arlen Stewart:


I prefer email so I can collect my thoughts and send you careful replies. To be honest, I had a bad experience with chat. I said things that I would never say personally. She got the wrong idea, and what started as sexual banter became a virtual love affair, although neither of us was in love with the other. She started sending me lurid pictures and urging me to reciprocate, but I couldn’t do that. And I can’t do it now with you. I would go too far, and that isn’t fair to either of us.

Sinead reminds me of Aoife. They look similar, both being Irish, and what I don’t get from Aoife, I imagine I can get from Sinead, and it goes much too far, further than I could imagine going with a real woman. She haunts my sleep, and my only antidote is you, thinking of you, your honesty, your innocence (whether true or imagined). I am consoled by the idea of you.


Eirica Johnstone:

What do you mean by the idea of me?

A chat window popped up. Charlie wanted a video chat.

Charlotte Weeks: You decent?”

Eirica Johnstone: I’m in the middle of something.

A message from Arlen hit my inbox.

Charlotte Weeks: Maybe later?

Eirica Johnstone: Might be very late.

Charlotte Weeks: Poke me when you are done. Doesn’t matter what time.

I opened Arlen’s message.

Arlen Stewart: The idea of you is just that. We hardly know each other, but we choose to confide our darkest secrets to each other. Yet neither of us can know if the other is telling the truth. I like to believe it is the truth, but we will only know for sure next time we meet. The rest of you I create for myself in my head, just as you do for the idea of me, although you have additional interpretations from Nicole and anyone else who has contacted you, Amelia, Sandra, maybe Liz or Charlotte. They have the most web presence of my students. You would like Liz. The two of you are quite alike in some ways. She is a fabulous bassist, and I’ve composed several solo works for her. It’s sad that she has all but given up composing. She showed promise. You and she look somewhat alike, too.

I took a quick look at Liz Lamm’s website. Maybe she looked a little like me, but older, of course. I delved into her photos and found one with Arlen from her university days. Her hair was shorter then, and yes, she did resemble me then. Her daughter, however, looked more like me. That was scary.

Eirica Johnstone: Maybe. Would you like another story?

Arlen Stewart: If you wish. I like your stories, even if they have gruesome endings.

I considered for a moment, then typed.

Eirica Johnstone: A Lady of the castle partook of many affairs, while her husband was off fighting the English. She had one lover in particular who visited her on a regular basis. The Lady looked a lot like Nicole, although her corset kept her nipples in check …”

I attached another nude photo of Nicole that featured those nipples.

(Eirica Johnstone, cont’d):

… Her lover was enthralled by them, much like you are enthralled by Nicole’s. In time, he sired twin daughters, but the war ended while they were still infants. The lover was cast out in favour of the returning Laird.

After many years, the lover met a pair of twin sisters at the house of a nearby nobleman, and unable to decide which he loved most, he slept with both of them. Both were infatuated by him and summoned their mother to decide who would marry him, not telling her his name. Thinking them too young to marry, she put the girls off, using every ruse she could to delay meeting this stranger.

Just before their sixteenth birthday one of the twins fell pregnant. The other, however, was again visiting the nobleman, awaiting the arrival of her mother and pregnant sister. The lover stole away with the sister during the afternoon for a few moments of intimacy in the library, giving in to their carnal lust. The height of their thrall penetrated the door to the foyer just as the mother and sister arrived. Recognizing the voice, the party burst into the library catching them in the act.

To her horror, the mother recognized him as the father of her twins as well as the father of her daughter’s unborn child, entirely unknown to the lover. The Laird, who was late arriving, was enraged. He struck down both the lover, his daughters, and his wife with his sword.

To this day I often hear the lover and one of the twins consummating their love in the hallways, forever banished from the bedrooms. She screams, and then it is all over for them.

Arlen Stewart:

That is sad.

Eirica Johnstone:

It is. May I ask you a personal question? What do you really see in me? You seem to be enamoured by nipples and breasts with most of your students. Mine aren’t much to look at. You must think me hideous.

Arlen Stewart:

Eirica, I would never classify myself as a breast man. You have more intangibles than any of them, except perhaps Amelia. But to be completely crass, I love the way your hips move when you walk. You have pretty eyes, and I think I’ve mentioned your legs and ankles. Talent goes a long way, too.

I think that’s it for me tonight. We have some visitors this week, so I’m not sure when I’ll be back on. Maybe we can finalize the details for my trip up there next time.

All the best,


My hips? That was unexpected. I would never have thought any man would like my hips! I looked at the time and opened Facebook to see that Charlie was still on. I poked her. It was almost 2 am.

Eirica Johnstone: Can’t sleep?

Charlotte Weeks: My brain is doing flip-flops. Video?”

Eirica Johnstone: Sure, why not?”

I draped my robe around me before sending the picture. “What’s up?”

“I’m feeling really weird about what we’ve been doing,” she confessed.

“We have gotten a wee bit carried away,” I agreed. “I’m not sure I would act the same if you were right here in front of me.”

“Me, too. I like you a lot, and it feels so natural when we do it online, but then I spend the whole next day thinking about it, that is isn’t right, but that I want it to be right. I just keep going around in circles.”

“Maybe we should stop,” I suggested.

“No, but if I’m thinking about you more than I’m thinking about Jamie, something has got to be wrong.”

“I won’t be offended. I don’t beat myself up about things like you do, but I do feel strange about it.”

“No. It’s just fucking with my head, but I don’t want to stop.”

“Potty mouth!”

“Prude!” she cackled.

I loved her. Not the physical kind of love: wanting to hold her, touch her, make love to her. I thought we inhabited the same wavelength, the same psychological space, despite our age difference. “What do you want to do about it then?” I asked.

“I want to be friends, not cyber-lovers. I’m not saying that we have to stop the sex, but I’d rather be virtual fuck-buddies than pine over you every minute we aren’t online.”

“You like that word don’t you.”

“I like to fuck, actually.”

“Jamie must be away,” I sneered.

“It’s that obvious?”

“You’re being careful, aren’t you?”

“You’re one to talk, virgin!”

“Abstinence avoids mistakes.”

“Abstinence is a mistake!” she howled at me.

“Hopefully, I’ll find out soon.”

“Have you two been sharing more fantasies?”

“We were just on. He fancies my hips – not my hips in particular – the way they move.”

“He told you he fantasized about them?”

“He won’t tell me any fantasies regarding me. But I asked him point blank what it was about me that attracted him.”

“And he said, ‘I love the swing on your back porch, baby!’” she joked in an American accent.

“Not exactly,” I scowled. “He said he liked the way my hips moved when I walk. And he likes my legs, eyes and ankles.”


“He thinks English women have stumpy ankles. He told me that a few weeks ago.”

“So he thinks I have stumpy ankles?” She waved one in front of the camera.

“He didn’t mention you in particular. They look fine to me.” I heard a noise in the servant’s hallway. “I think Nipples might be having a walkabout,” I whispered.

“You realise I’m never going to be able to call her Nicole again?” she cackled.

“I find it hard, too. Anyway, sleep well, and don’t think of me … or don’t think of fucking me … or do. Whatever helps you to sleep.”

“I know who you’ll be thinking of.”

“Maybe.” I heard another noise. “I’d better go. She could walk in any second. Bye.”

“OK, bye!”

I waited. Nothing. I tweeted,

@clangoddess87: Had nice chat with hornyredhead91 tonight. Nips’ is spying on me. Wish she’d just come in.”

@hornyredhead91: You love her, silly.

That began an avalanche of comments, speculating on whether I was a closet lesbian, whether I really loved her, or was using her, or loved Arlen, or was using him.

I was trending, but I didn’t want to hear any of it, so I slapped my laptop shut and climbed under my duvet. The floorboards creaked as Nipples stole back into her room.

For the first time in ages, I felt alone.

7. Horny Redhead (Adult)

I awoke in the morning with my laptop closed between my legs. I hadn’t even been able to close things down before falling asleep.

Charlie sent me an email with her twitter handle. @hornyredhead91

I clicked to follow her.

@hornyredhead91: has discovered a cure for insomnia. Thanks Eirica. Luv ya!
@ClanGoddess87:  can't wait for an encore.

She could discover my true feelings about Arlen now, but I didn’t care. I suspected she already knew them and shared them. It was time to push Arlen further, so I emailed him a nude photo of Nipples, who knocked on the door just as I clicked send.

“Did you hear all the ghosts last night?” she asked, still wearing her nightdress. “They were rather noisy.”

“Were you doing anything?” I asked. “Were they interested in you?”

“I think all the commotion was in the hallway. Didn’t you hear it?”

“I must have slept through it,” I lied. “What do you want to do today? We could put up a Christmas tree. There are some for sale in the village.”

“That’s a great idea! I forgot that Christmas was on Saturday.”

“I don’t usually bother when I’m on my own.”

Finding a suitable tree in the village took a short time, during which I obsessed about Arlen. I couldn’t wait for him to say something about Nip’s picture. It might be the closest I could get to talking dirty with him. My mailbox was empty when we arrived home, and again after dinner.

@ClanGoddess87: Why doesn't he say something about her picture?

My following was quick to respond. Several said that I should give him more time. Some said I’d gone too far, and the smart-alecs wanted me to post the picture for them to decide.

@hornyredhead91: Maybe he would rather see you! I would.

Her reply filled me with dread, not for what she said, but because she said it. Should I tone down my tweeting until after I achieved my objective? I couldn’t. That was part of the fun. It was part of my exhibitionist nature: the buzz of the risk.

During my Facebook crawl, I discovered Charlie was online. I desperately wanted a repeat, but I withheld my approach. She didn’t, not entirely.

Charlotte Weeks: You there?”

She didn’t request a video chat.

Eirica Johnstone: Just going to bed. I'm not sure I have the energy to stay up 
late tonight.
Charlotte Weeks: Me, too. I've been thinking of you all day.
Eirica Johnstone: I've been doing the same.
Charlotte Weeks: You've been thinking of Arlen.
Eirica Johnstone: Are you jealous?

I was. As his student, she saw him regularly. My access was limited to his intermittent emails.

Charlotte Weeks: No. Last night scared me a little. I don't know 
what got into me.
Eirica Johnstone: Do you regret it?
Charlotte Weeks: Not in the least. Do you?
Eirica Johnstone: No. What scares you about it?
Charlotte Weeks: How much I want to do it again. I'm definitely a het, 
but this was so exciting.
Eirica Johnstone: You were right, though. I needed it.
Charlotte Weeks: I don't think Arlen is going to reply to your email 
this morning. That's not like him. He's never that overt.
Eirica Johnstone: What will he do?
Charlotte Weeks: Nothing. He will go on as if it never happened.

Charlie was right. I heard nothing from him until the next night, although another gaggle of his former students sent friend requests. These were mostly British, but much like the previous crowd. Most were successful musicians or composers, and had one or two children and an apparently absent husband. Did Arlen break up marriages?

As I checked them out, his email came in.

Arlen Stewart:
Dear Eirica,
I have another fantasy for you. I know you want something more explicit, 
but this is all I can muster. It is another that began as a dream and 
is structured like one, repetitive, as usual.
I am teaching a class, but only four students show up, all former ones 
of mine, but one current undergraduate. I won't say their names, as 
they will be meaningless to you. All are nude except one, who is wearing 
only a man's unbuttoned dress shirt – one of mine. “Are you good in bed?” 
she asks.
“I don't know,” I replied, as if such discussion is normal in a music 
class. “I'm not sure I am qualified to answer.”
“We could find out,” replied another, who stands and lays down on the 
table in front of me. It is only then that I realize that I, too, am 
nude. I decline the offer, but the first student insists. The student 
prostrating herself on my table is like a tiny china doll, and I am 
afraid to hurt her.
“We just need to get you started,” suggests a third woman, possibly 
the least attractive of the three, although I might be most attracted 
to her. I've never known why. She, too, stands and accosts me, 
dragging her hand down my chest to find my sex standing at attention.
“I think we need a survey,” the fourth comments.
“Yes, we must be scientific about it,” says the first. “You fuck 
the four of us, and then we vote on whether you're a good lay.”
The second woman squeezes me and insists on being first, requiring 
me to say what I'm doing as I do it. It happens quickly, and I take 
her roughly, standing against the wall. Meanwhile, the second woman 
waits patiently on the table. She wants me on top. “It's more traditional,” 
she explains. She is from a conservative Chinese family. She kneads my 
buttocks, as I squeeze myself into her. A very tight fit, I doesn't 
take long to climax, and I can't take much more. The fourth woman pries 
me off her and drags me to the floor before climbing on me. I find her 
more satisfying as she rides me hard.
The first woman was the youngest, and has a filthy mouth, yet she was 
the most cunning. As I roll out from under the fourth, she sits in her 
chair and waits … and waits. Meanwhile, I sit on the floor shivering. 
At first, I just want her to get it over with, and I become impatient 
as she plays with the button on her shirt – my shirt. She buttons it 
up to her breasts, which are small but fine, yet their enclosure balloons 
them within my mind. All I can think of is burying my face between them.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.

“I haven't seen anything worth getting excited about yet. I might as 
well not bother.”
“Please?” I beg. I needed her.
“Why should I,” she asks, tossing her ruby-red ponytail over her 
shoulder and un-crossing her legs just wide enough for me to see 
her ...” I can't say that. It is also a deep red.
“It's my pussy,” she says as though reading my embarrassed mind. 
“It isn't so bad if you say it aloud. Fucking is another word. It's 
just a bodily function. She swears a lot, and I try not to look 
at … it.”
“Say it!” she insists.
“I can't.”
“You won't know what you are missing if you don't speak to her.”
“Speak to her?”
“Come closer,” she bids, spreading her legs wider, but the shirt-tail 
covers it. “Say, come out to play little pussy.”
“Come out to play little pussy,” I oblige.
“She's a little deaf,” the woman says. “Come as close as you can.” 
I say it again, only a few inches away. I can smell her musky 
fragrance. “Why don't you release the lowest button so she can see 
you? But don't touch. You'll frighten her.”
I do it. Meanwhile, I ooze a drop of semen, which slops slowly to 
the floor.
“Blow on her. You might get her attention.”
At the touch of my breath, the little pussy convulses. The woman's 
legs spread wider.
“Taste her,” the woman bids. She leans back on her chair to let 
me closer.
I taste. It is bitter at first, but then I try deeper where it is 
sweeter. Her thighs close around my head. My greedy member drips 
more, leaving a dark wet spot on the floor. I can't see it, but I 
know it is there. She clasps her legs around me, pulling me deeper 
into her. I can barely breath. The spot on the floor expands. I'm 
kneeling in its slippery pool. The whole floor is covered an inch 
deep with my semen. Finally, she releases me, inviting me to unbutton 
the rest of the shirt with my teeth, tasting her, as I go.
The chair is gone and she is laying in the pool, my shirt, soaked, 
clinging to her torso. She rolls me over, so that both of us are 
gleaming with semen. I can't wait any longer, but I ease myself 
into her. She accepts me with a moan, whispering my name quietly 
in my ear. I glide in and out easily, faster and deeper, deeper 
than I have ever been into a woman. Her hair has come loose and 
floats freely in the pool, now three inches deep. Again, she locks 
her legs around me. I clench and then release as we float freely 
in the buoyant pool of semen.
Suddenly, all is dry, and she is laying on top of me, playing with 
the hair on my chest. “You get my vote,” she whispers, then I wake up.
I'm sorry that is so crude, but I couldn't describe it any other way. 
That took a lot out of me. I'm not sure I can give you any more of my 
fantasies. It does my head in. Charlotte told me she wants to play my 
trumpet sonata with you. Is that OK? She wants to write one for you, 
too. She's very good, and writes well for her own instrument. You might 
want to coach her on writing for piano, though. She writes difficult 
music at the best of times. Knowing you are a virtuoso might tip her 
off into oblivion.
I can't stick around tonight. Sandra is over for a late dinner, and I 
must be social. I've spent too long here as it is. All has gone ominously 
quiet in the other room. She is staying for Christmas, and I'll have 
lots of duties, so I won't be around until Monday or Tuesday. As they 
say, don't wait up. Enjoy your Christmas with Nicole.
Happy Christmas,

Damn! It was just getting me going. Why did he have to fade to grey at the end? And why did it have to be about Charlie? That must have been about her, but what could I do? She was there and I wasn’t. No more messages until Boxing Day either. How could I change his mind? Another fantasy? And Sandra was there! Now I was seriously jealous.

Charlie was still online.

I clicked on her link and typed,

Eirica Johnstone: Fuck me, please.
Charlotte Weeks: Why so sudden, sweety?
Eirica Johnstone: Arlen fantasizes about you and I am very jealous. 
Fuck me hard up against the wall. Be as dirty as you want.

I waited. No reply.

Eirica Johnstone: Please?
Charlotte Weeks: How do you know he fantasizes about me?
Eirica Johnstone: We send each other fantasies, The one he sent me 
must be about you: 'a current student with ruby-red hair' and a 
foul mouth. Speak dirty to me.
Charlotte Weeks: May I see it?
Eirica Johnstone: If you promise not to get him in trouble. I still 
need him.
Charlotte Weeks: I promise. Need him?
Eirica Johnstone: I plan on seducing him.

Could I have been more blunt?

Another silence. I took the opportunity to excerpt the fantasy portion of the email and forward it to her. I waited as she read … and waited. I was about to give up and log off, but she stopped me by replying.

Charlotte Weeks: Interesting. Can I see you? Are you naked?”
Eirica Johnstone: Of course.

I positioned my computer so she could see all of me before opening the video link. When her picture came up, she was touching herself. I watched until she swooned, flopping back onto her pillow, leaving me a close view of her soggy bush. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” I pleaded, lightly aroused by her demonstration.

“That was your punishment,” she said.


“I didn’t want to know that he fantasizes about me, although I hoped he did, and I wouldn’t have wanted you to know. It’s your turn, and you must let me watch.”

Suddenly, I felt self-conscious that she was watching. I massaged myself lightly. I was already damp, but I waited. “Tell me why we all want to seduce him,” I said, sighing. I was going too slowly, yet slower hurt so good, not in a painful way, but through self denial.

“There is something we all get from him,” she replied, shrugging. “Favouritism, I guess. Maybe professional approval. His students win all the contests, and he puts us up for performances. He has a reputation.”

“A … reputation?” I wheezed.

“The boys have to earn it, but each year, a new person catches his eye. He does nothing, but we always know when it happens.”

“How … do … you … know?” I gasped, searching for that spot, flinching when I found it. I couldn’t hold off much longer.

“I think it is different with each of us. I knew when … keep going …”

Keep going? I couldn’t stop.

“Well,” she continued, “we run together sometimes. If I wear lycra, he gets at erection before we start. If he wears cotton shorts, and I wait long enough, he’ll have a spot, sort of like in his dream.”

“Don’t you …” I sighed, inserting another finger. “Don’t you just think he’s a perv?”

“He’s a straight as you can imagine. He’d never touch me, unless I touched him.”

“Sex … ual … ly?” Not long now.

“No, just normal touch. I don’t think he does sex. He’s asexual.”

“His fantasies …” I couldn’t continue, tensing, panting, moaning, groaning, tensing, wound tight like like a clock. My vision blurred as though I was losing consciousness, then I felt it, an intense warmth at my core, then the spring broke, and I convulsed in ecstasy, not as good as the previous night, but good enough for now. “… aren’t.”

She giggled. “I didn’t tell you I was a voyeur, too.”

“I thought you said you’d never had cybersex before,” I groaned, relaxing on my back, hands still working, trying to prolong my orgasm.

“Not over the Internet.”

“You mean … in person?”

“I have a room-mate, and she fucks her boyfriend at least twice a week. It doesn’t matter if I’m in sleeping in the room or not. Once they start, it’s as if I wasn’t there.”

“Is she there now?” I asked, finally stopping.

“No, I’m at my parents. They’re asleep.”

“You sure?”

“What’s it matter? I’m locked in my room now. They don’t know what I get up to. I’m not sure they care that much. Do you want to fuck on Christmas day?”

“It depends if I can get away from Nipples. She’s still here.”

“Maybe we could make it a threesome.”

“I’d feel uncomfortable.”

“You mean her seeing you naked?”

“She already has.”

“Really? Have you had sex?”

“Not with each other … with the ghosts, but not at the same time.”

“The ghosts touch her, too?”

“They do now. I taught her how to open herself to them. She’s not afraid of them any more.”

“I want to come visit you. This sounds exciting.”

“Not while she is here. She’s very insecure, I think.”

“Maybe,” Charlie shrugged. “When, then?”

“I don’t know. Sandra is staying a few days when she leaves. After that, your term starts again.”

“How about for your concert?”

“I’m hoping Arlen will be here.”

“I’ll stay out of the way.”

“I want at least one night alone with him,” I stipulated, “but I may need more.”

“I’ll only be able to stay the night of the concert anyway. I have a seminar the next day. I’ll have to drive back early in the morning.”

“How do you know the date?”

“Arlen’s posted it outside his office. We may need to hire a bus.”

“I have plenty of room, but I won’t have the time to take care of everyone. Besides, I will probably stay on campus that night.”

“Arlen can’t stay there anyway. I can bring a sleeping bag.”

“We’ll see, once it gets closer to time.”

“Please? Just the two of us? Separate beds, no physical contact?”

“Maybe, but let me just see about my schedule. Nipples may want to stay with me, too.”

“Fair enough. I’d better get to bed. We have family arriving early tomorrow, and we are going to a carol service in the evening, so I won’t be on until late.”

I closed up and shut down. The ghosts were restless during the night, perhaps jealous that I didn’t need them. I fell asleep reminding myself that I was not Charlie’s lover, nor was she mine.

6. Fantasies and more of the harem (Adult, swearing)

In the morning, we decided to spend the day hiking in the grounds, as the weather had become more benign, a light snow replacing yesterday’s sleet. I managed to make her promise to spend the night in her own bed, so I would be free to email Arlen.

Arlen Stewart: Dear Eirica,

I'm really bad at this. Why would a woman want to hear a man's fantasy? 
And how can I tell you the fantasy in such a way that it doesn't sound 
ridiculous? What makes it worse, is that it is about a person you know, 
at least by reputation, if not personally. She may have contacted you.

Amelia Solent is the source of many fantasies, I'm afraid, and none are 
particularly complex. My foot fetish can be traced to her, as well as many 
other peculiarities. When she was a first year, she caught my eye immediately. 
Having her as a supervisee put me in regular contact with her, too. I've told 
you about her dress sense, and I began to dream of her regularly, wearing 
clothing with a variety of open spots, often centring around her breasts. I'm 
not a breast man, but they were magnificent, just the right size and shape, 
pert and firm. I suspected that the cleft between them was a natural phenomenon, 
unaided by a bra.

After a while I started dreaming (perhaps daydreaming) of her modelling bathing 
suits, again with portions missing, or portions that went clear when wet or 
dissolved in chlorinated water. In one fantasy, we modelled suits in tandem, 
each becoming more risqué. An exposed breast on hers was an exposed penis on mine. 
Some suits were various-sized mesh, through which nothing was hidden. We appeared 
from the changing room, embraced, swam a length of the pool to display each suit's 
special properties, embraced at the other end, and then debriefed before trying 
the next. The suits became progressively more risqué, and each phase of the fashion 
show more laden with the desire. The language of the debrief became more intimate 
and sexual.

One final, innocuous pair of suits, was plain white at first, but was laced with 
an aphrodisiac. We almost couldn't tear ourselves apart after the first embrace, 
but the chlorine converted the entire suit to the aphrodisiac, which absorbed 
into our skin immediately upon contact with the air. Our second (nude) embrace 
was laden with desire. We couldn't separate ourselves as I was on her, in her, 
throbbing, thrusting until both of us were satiated. In the debrief, we had to 
describe what we felt throughout, and as the discussion became intimate, so did 
we, repeating our sex with a full commentary.

The first time I had that dream, I awoke with a wet dream. Since then, I've 
tried to invoke the dream, but that never has the same result. Abandon is instead 
replaced by a refinement of detail, attempting to increase the passion. I never 
know at what point dream gives way to fancy, but trying too hard leaves me wanting.

My dreams are generally like that: repetitive, like a theme and variations. 
Running becomes running through a forest, which becomes running to save Amelia, 
transitioning to having sex with her – endless variations until some facet of it 
wakes me, possibly an attempt to take control and push myself to the point of orgasm.

Is that what you wanted me to write. It probably sounds childish to you. Or you think 
I'm a pervert. I just have an over-active imagination … but you already knew that. 
I'm sorry.


I wanted so much more. I wanted him to talk dirty, to savour crude words, to bring me to orgasm. I wanted him to describe every detail of his fantasy, but he stopped when he got to the good part. I wanted to share a piece of that orgasm. Begging for more wouldn’t work, and being crude myself might turn him off me altogether. And he didn’t mention the photo of Nipples. Disappointing. He was still a work in process.

Eirica Johnstone: Dear Arlen,
That was fascinating. I would have been interested in some more detail, 
perhaps like the debrief at the end. What was it about that that turned 
you on so much? You say you aren't a breast man, but it seems like 
everything you have told me about your attractions centre around breasts. 
I don't have Nicole's erect nipples, nor Sandra's large aureole's, and 
you already know that mine aren't as large as Amelia's. You must find 
me so disappointing.

His reply was almost immediate.

Arlen Stewart: Nothing to be sad about. I enjoy our discussions, and 
I don't find your breasts disappointing. (Forgive me fore being blunt.) 
I suppose they aren't what I find most attractive about you. That is 
your wit and your honesty. Physically, I find it hard to make a choice … 
your arse, maybe, your hips, they … no I should stop there. I like when 
you flip your fringe out of your eyes, and maybe the way you play with 
a lock by your right ear when you are bored. I shouldn't say more. That's 
too personal, and not what this is about.
About the intimate details, I find them embarrassing. The language of 
explicit sex is a major turn off for me, and it is even worse when one 
replaces it with euphemism. It's not my cup of tea.
Eirica Johnstone: What's wrong with personal?
Arlen Stewart: Nothing, I suppose. It just seems a little strange for 
someone old enough to be your father to be telling you what he likes 
about you. A
Eirica Johnstone: It doesn't matter to me.
Arlen Stewart: Nevertheless ...

He was quickly reverting to short choppy messages. I needed to open him back up.

Eirica Johnstone: You may tell me what you like about me. I won't take 
it wrong, or think you are a pervert. You may be a dirty old man, but 
never a pervert. What about me would send you spinning into your fantasy 

His answer took a long time to come.

Arlen Stewart: I don't really know. Those moments catch me off-guard. 
Maybe a short skirt, or bare feet. English women don't have ankles. 
Scots are much nicer. Your friend Sinead has nice ankles, unlike most 
Irish women. They remind me of Aoife's. Amelia's are exquisite. French 
women have sexy ankles. Sandra's are very English, but she makes up 
for them in other ways. Enough of that. It's your turn. You promised 
a fantasy. A

I was avoiding that subject, hoping to distract him. Coming up with something was a chore, so I went with the truth:

Eirica Johnstone: Arlen, I have never been good at concocting fantasies. 
Every one is different and, unlike yours, do not burn themselves into 
memory through repetition. The ghosts of this castle provide many stories, 
and some are of a fantastic nature. That is what motivates our interaction, 
One of our ghosts is a girl. I've never seen her, but I have felt her stroke 
me with her hair. She is the first to come when I am aroused. Even now, I 
feel her hair bristling on my bare shoulders. (Remember that I often sit in 
bed naked typing on my laptop between my legs.) If I allow her to distract me, 
I feel the hair slowly drop down between my shoulder blades lower and lower 
to the base of my spine. She was the playmate of the daughters of a Laird, 
and taught them this method of seduction. Soon, her soft hair caresses my hands, 
discreetly tickling the inside of my arms as she aims for my breasts.
I'm very ticklish under my armpits, and she is now making it almost impossible 
to type. I let her continue, as I know tickling me isn't her fancy. My breasts 
swell with her tender follicular caresses, and I want more, knowing that soon, 
I won't be able to resist her desire. My feet are also ticklish and I can feel 
her no matter what position I am in. I have never felt the caress of her skin, 
but her hair soon becomes my fetish as she slowly traces up the insides of my 
legs, aimed directly at the euphemism that I'll now avoid in your honour …
She trained the daughters well in this art, but I don't know what became of them 
as the Laird married them off young. Her hair tangles in my now-sticky pubes 
before she parts my … that's the embarrassing stuff, which you clearly don't wish 
to read. I feel it all, and she never fails to leave me unsatisfied. I've had to 
resort to moving my laptop onto my duvet as my legs are too sweaty and moist, 
dangerous for an electrical appliance.
To quote you, what she does to me is exquisite, but it is the same every time, 
as she is cursed to repeat her crime to eternity. The Lady of the Castle caught 
her seducing her husband in this way and battered her to death with an iron poker 
while the Laird watched in ecstatic horror, paralysed by his orgasm.
… paralysed, as I was on my soaked duvet. Unlike the other ghosts, she brings me 
to a soft squeal during orgasm, hopefully not loud enough to wake Nipples.
Speaking of her, we shared my bed last night. I could feel her nipples hard against 
my chest even through her thick nightdress. The ghosts scare her, but I think I have 
tamed them for her. My nocturnal nudity doesn't offend her, fortunately, and we are 
becoming quite comfortable with each other. More soon.
Love, Eirica

Love. I had to add that. He had to think of love, to connect me with the idea of it, even if had gone to bed waiting for my story. He replied after a short interval.

Arlen Stewart: I hoped you would like Nicole. She has a neediness about her that is 
endearing, but she is strong in a way that I can't describe. She could be a true, 
loyal friend to you if you let her. I'm sure she and I will correspond long after 
she graduates.
I must go to bed now. I look forward to more of your ghost stories. A

He didn’t comment on the story. Had it gone too far? Was I too graphic? I tweeted my dismay and poked around a number of my friend’s Facebook pages. That was when the barrage started. I received a number of new friend requests, all of whom were friends with Arlen, Amelia, Nips and Sandra, as well as each other, as the list accumulated. Four were in America, and one was in Hong Kong, Laura Liu. She was beautiful, with clear perfect skin, lovely eyes, and discreet, but well-formed breasts. She was young, too, perhaps a year or two older than Nipples. Her photo album was filled with arm’s length self-portraits, some seductive, many featuring those breasts while she lay on her bed in a variety of poses. As far as I could tell, she was unmarried, but was pregnant.

I Googled her, tracing her past her composer website to another site, one clearly dedicated to a man. There, the poses became more intimate, her breasts bared, a couple of full nudes. Her nipples were tiny purple circles gracing breasts that were firm but not large. Whoever the site was meant to impress must also have liked her tiny hands and feet. She couldn’t have been more than 5 ft tall, but one picture showed only her hand pressed against that of a man’s. His was large and hers barely extended past his palm, like a child’s hand.

If she was one of “us,” there had to be something that inspired Arlen: the feet, hands or eyes? Maybe. Certainly, she was obsessed with someone. Did she carry that same obsessive nature to other relationships? Is that what had snared him?

The Americans were all older. Several had families, but few exhibited a consistent set of traits that I could link to Arlen’s fetishes. One, Elizabeth Lamm, reminded me of a rough Amelia, with similar features, but dark hair like mine, shorter than me, but not overly thin. She played double bass in the Boston Symphony. There was nothing elegant about her, but I knew immediately what Arlen saw in her. She reeked of talent. I couldn’t think of another way to describe it. She was that block of coal that hid a diamond at the core. She had two children a few years younger than me. Her son reminded me a little of Arlen, being tall and blond. She clearly doted on her offspring, but her husband was remarkable in his absence, although she listed herself as married.

One of the others appeared matronly, with large breasts that she was unashamed to emphasize. She lived alone with her daughter near a beach in North Carolina. She had recently had a première with the Atlanta Symphony, so she was at least moderately successful.

As it was after 3 am, I decided to shut down, but there was one last request, one of Arlen’s undergraduates, Charlotte Weeks. I had to investigate. Like Laura, she was prolific with her camera and one-armed self-portraits. Otherwise she was the opposite of Laura: tall and gangly, quite flat-chested, with curly long red hair, often gathered in a ponytail. Less hung from her chest than from mine! That, I gathered, was due to her running, clearly her most avid pastime, and one to which she devoted another photo-filled blog. One of those was of her, scantily-clad, running beside who? Arlen. Yes, Arlen, who featured in many blog posts:

Running Lincoln with AS this year. He’s asked me to pace him this time, aiming for 47 min. That’s not much more than a jog for me, but I’d do it for him. Surely, he’s done enough for me.

She was what Arlen would have considered an exception. An English girl with ankles. Perhaps that was what attracted him. She swam, too. The site had a number of pictures of her in bathing suits: a wet suit (from a triathlon), a red backless racing singlet, and a red skimpy bikini, the last taken by Arlen in Nice. The caption explained that she was there attending a performance of Arlen’s Trumpet Concerto. In addition to composing, she also played trumpet. Was she the soloist? I couldn’t tell. Despite being under-endowed in the mammary region, she looked great in a bikini.

What disturbed me most was that she was awake and sending out friend requests to strangers (or friends of friends) after 3 am. She was still online, too, as she popped up in a chat box requesting a video chat.

Charlotte Weeks: You decent?

I hasn’t sure how to reply.

Eirica Johnstone: Not exactly.
Charlotte Weeks: Doesn't matter to me. Wanna chat for a little while. I'm an 
insomniac. You must be, too.
Eirica Johnstone: BRB. I need to put something on.
Charlotte Weeks: Cool. You sleep in the nude?

I slipped my robe on, clicked on video, and adjusted the picture. “Yes,” I replied, whispering. “I’ve got a friend sleeping in the next room, so I can’t speak loudly.”

“Cool. I do too – sleep in the nude, that is,” she said as her video fired up. She was dressed much as I was, in a silk or satin robe hastily draped around her – red, in contrast to my deep purple one. When I said hastily draped, I meant barely covering her – her cleavage open almost to her belly-button, the shadows making it look like she actually had some.

“I live alone,” I explained, “and don’t usually have anyone around to watch. I’ve gotten used to it over the years. What’s your excuse?”

“I find it sexually liberating,” she replied bluntly, the left shoulder creeping off hers as she typed on her computer. I wondered what she was typing. “I hear you live in a castle. You’re some kind of Laird, or something.”

“Lady, technically. A Laird is male.”

“Cool. I hear you are an ace pianist, too.”

“I’m fairly good, I guess. You play trumpet, right?”

“I guess I’m fairly good, too, but I’m more interested in writing music.”

“I figured, since you are studying with Arlen.”

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“I assumed that’s how you knew him. He’s one of your Facebook friends. That’s why I accepted your friend request.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Sometimes I think he wants me to stick to trumpet, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I think he feels uncomfortable teaching me.”

“Why do you say that?” Of course, he felt uncomfortable around all of “us.” Why should she be any different?

“I think he’s afraid to look at me, and he’s a little concerned about my philosophy of music.”

“In what way?”

“I often discuss my music in sexual terms. He’s a bit of a prude in that way, so I lay it on even thicker. You should see him freeze when I hug him.”

“You hug him?”

“All the time. He hates being touched, as if he is worried that the slight physical contact with a woman will give him an orgasm. Wouldn’t want that to happen!” she laughed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He could stand a good screaming orgasm. He needs to let out his frustrations.”

“What frustrations?”

“He just holds so much in. It’s cute. I think he would relax if he just had a good wank every once in a while. It’s healthy. I don’t think he’s getting any from his wife.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She just seems frigid to me … and she hates me.”

“She hates you?” I liked Charlotte already. “What makes you say that?”

“She refused to attend my première of his trumpet concerto.”

“Maybe she had some other commitment.”

“No she made a point of leaving just before I played, to go over some poetry with the dyke.”

“The dyke?” Again, I had to feign ignorance.

“Sandra, one of Arlen’s postgrads. I should have said fucking dyke. She tried to nobble me once, the bitch.”

“Nobble you?”

“Yeah, fucking tarot. She tells you that you have an unusual admirer, someone who can smooth out the rough road for you, that it is a mystic, and once she has you by the short and curlies, she implies that the person might be very close by. She prefers to read her cards in the nude, and does her best to get you to take yours off, too. Before I knew it, she had one hand on my breast and the other between my legs.”

“What did you do?”

“I told her to go have a fucking wank with someone else.”

“That stopped her?”

“Screaming it at the top of my lungs in the digs helped, too. Fucking dyke.”

“You like that word, don’t you?”

“She shrugged. It bothers Arlen. My friends used to swear a lot, so I don’t even know that I do it. I think it secretly turns him on, though. I use as much explicit language around him as I can. He’ll complain once, but after that, he gets quiet. I think he is picturing it in his head. I like getting in his head, and that is why I keep studying with him. You should have seen me when I played his concerto in Nice.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I described to him his concerto as a series of sexual positions. The first is a riding cowgirl, and he’s a bucking bronco, trying to bounce me off him …”


“I always explain it as being between us. That’s what the act of creation is. Anyway, he bounces me into a howling feral climax before we relax into the second movement. It’s a placid reverse missionary. I picture myself on top of him, as he throbs, accelerating to a delicate squeeze of an orgasm. The last one is him seeing me in a bikini, and he has to fuck me hard up against a wall. After the rehearsal, we went to a beach, and I wore the tiniest bikini I could find and demanded he take pictures of me.”

“I saw that one on your blog,” I chuckled.

“No you didn’t, wait just a second.” She sent a .jpg through. That one was topless.

“How’d you get him to do that?”

“It was a topless beach. Most of the other women there were topless, so I stood out until I took it off. That’s the best one, although it isn’t the one I sent him. That’s this one …” She sent it through, then four others. The first was her sitting across from him in the sand, legs spread, knees up, her right foot touching his ankle.

“I don’t think he’ll ever forget that one,” I admitted. This girl was playing the game better than I ever could.

“I won’t either. It’s the background on my laptop.”

“Can’t others see it?”

“I change it when I’m out of the house.” Her robe finally slipped off her shoulder, and she left it, barely concealing her breast while just clinging to her nipple.

“Do you ever forget?”

“Once in a lesson. Anyway, after the concert, he smelled of sex.”

“You mean he had his long-needed wank?” I asked, using her language.

“No. I meant immediately after the performance while he was giving me a congratulatory hug. He smelled as if he was sitting in his own soup, but there wasn’t an obvious spot. He hugged me again off-stage, and I could feel his penis firm against my abdomen. I wouldn’t let him go until he was rock hard and was forced to hide it behind his jacket for the next ten minutes as a queue of audience members shook his hand. I get horny just thinking about it.”

I was thinking the same thing as her robe released her nipple. Still she left it. I’d never before considered sex with another woman, not even Nips, but now I was feeling the caress of hair down my spine. My ghosts were assembling, but Charlotte wouldn’t know that. “Me too,” I whispered, unable to control my tongue.

The corner of her mouth curled slightly. “Do you ever accompany people?” she asked, drastically changing the subject.

“Um, not u-usually,” I stammered. “I’m more of a soloist.”

“Would you consider accompanying a trumpet if the piece was written for you?”

“By you?”

“Or Arlen. He’s writing a trumpet sonata right now. Would you perform it with me in London?”

That, I couldn’t refuse. “I guess, if you put it that way.”

“I would like to write you one, too,” she added.

“Arlen’s writing one for me?”

“That’s supposed to be for me, but he keeps talking about this young Scottish pianist who is so amazing. I think he means you. This piece is for both of us, even if he doesn’t admit it. What I’ve seen of it so far reminds me of the concerto.” She reached up and scratched her right shoulder, dislodging her robe again, so that it hung just at the edge of her shoulder-blade.

“It’s about the two of us having sex?”

She chuckled, glancing down at her keyboard. “No. It’s about honesty. It’s about intimacy. He doesn’t know that yet.” The robe slid off her shoulder. “It’s about nudity and naked desire.”

“At the same time?” I asked, trying to ignore the video stream. I couldn’t believe how lovely she appeared in the glow of her computer screen. She was seducing me … and succeeding.

“That’s the second movement,” she asked, slipping her robe off her torso completely.

Still ignoring her, I asked, “Is there a third movement?”

“Yes, and maybe a fourth, but I haven’t seen either.”

“Do you know what they are about?”

“I suspect that the third is about giving.”

“And the fourth?”


“Did you plan this?” I whispered, hardly able to breathe.

“Have you ever had cybersex?” she asked, ignoring me.

“No. You?”

“No. Want to try it?” she asked.

“Yes,” the word was out of my mouth before I could even think about it. “I thought you weren’t a lesbian.”

“I’m not, but we aren’t doing it to each other – we are doing it with. I know you want it. Your nipples are showing.”

I chuckled, “Guess who’s in the next room.”

She cocked her head. “Who?”




She scowled, and then laughed, “I’ve never heard her called that! Thanks to you, I’ll never look at her the same again. You aren’t a lesbian, too, are you?”

“No … but you think she is?” I asked.

“Can’t tell for sure. My gaydar goes haywire with her. The dyke most definitely isn’t, although she thinks she is. She just wants to get laid by Arlen, and his wife is going to get him for her.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. Nipples, on the other hand, likes boys, but I think she loves women. Take your robe off. I want to see you.”

“You might be right,” I replied, slipping my robe off my shoulders, baring my breasts. “I’ve heard that from elsewhere, too.”

“Who?” she asked licking a finger. “Do as I do, and I’ll do as you do if you go first.”

I licked the same finger and traced it down my sternum, following her. I could feel my ghost’s hair on my shoulders again. “Amelia.”

“You know Amelia?” She licked again, wetter this time, and circled her hardening nipples.

“Yes, just on Facebook, but I met her several years ago. I played a piece of hers at a competition.” I sucked until my mouth was full of spit and let it dribble out of my mouth.

“Cool. I just sent her a friend request. Arlen thinks very highly of her.” She followed my lead, and again, letting it drip down between her breasts.

“I know. She studied with him soon after he took his post at Leeds. Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.

“Yes, why?” she replied, dipping a hand in the river of spittal running down her chest, and lathering her breasts with it.

“There are several here watching me – us. I would invite them to join in, but they can’t touch you there.”

“What do they do?” she asked, playing with her wet nipples again.

“They touch me,” I replied, pulling my robe off completely.

“Where?” she asked, doing the same.

“Everywhere. There is a woman who caresses erotically with her hair, and a few men who do other things.” I sat back, so she could see my bush, setting my computer down onto the bed between my legs.

Doing the same, she asked, “Why does the light dance around you? Is that the ghosts?”

“No. I have a fire in the fireplace. That’s the only light in the room other than from the computer screen. Generally, if you can see the ghosts, you can’t feel them.” As if on cue, I heard the heavy breathing of lovemaking emanating from the hallway.

“What’s that?”

“You can hear it?”

“Yes. Sounds like a woman, perhaps on top of a man.”

“Oh yes!” the ghost rasped loudly. “Don’t stop.”

“What makes you say that?” I hadn’t considered it.

“She’s gasping, but it isn’t laboured. What do they do to you?”

“They gang up on me when I’m horny. Sometimes I have to do something about it; sometimes they do it for me.”

“Are you horny?” she asked, lightly stroking her thigh.

“Very. They do that to me. One is stroking the other thigh right now, too. Like this …” I mimicked the ghost’s movement, so Charlotte would do it and feel it, too.

“What else do they do?”

“They lick me along the bottom of my pelvis.” I took another slimy lick of my finger and traced my pelvis for her.

“Eirica!” gasped a ghostly voice from the corner. That was the first time they had called me by name. The couple in the hallway increased in intensity, the woman moaning for more. “Faster,” she pleaded.


“Yes, I heard it,” she sighed. “You can call me Charlie.”

“Charlie, are you wet?”

“I’m so wet,” she gasped. “I have been since the moment I first saw you.”


“I don’t know why.”

“Charlie!” The voice in the corner moaned louder.

“Did you say that, Eirica?” she asked nervously.

I can’t describe the feeling of hearing her say my name: goosepimples, a rush of blood, a flutter of the heart. “No, Charlie. It was a ghost.”

The racket in the hallway progressed to a loud pleading, “Oh, yes, that’s it!”

“I want you,” hissed a different voice.

“Who?” she asked as we parted our bush in unison. The couple screeched in the hallway. They would climax soon, but I knew that was only half of it. The copulation would kill him and she would wail, but hopefully not until after we lost track of ourselves.

“Who?” I echoed for the ghosts, penetrating with a first finger, testing the waters.

“You!” came a chorus of ghosts. “Both of you!” breathed a clarifying hiss.

“Ah!” sobbed Charlie. Two fingers, deeper, faster, parting her legs wider.

“Ah!” I echoed. Deeper!

Charlie grasped her screen between her knees, and panted, her sweat glistening on her abdomen as she leaned back. Her tiny breasts seemed enormous, heaving in the dim light.

“We want you!” the chorus breathed louder.

“Charlie!” pleaded one. “Eirica,” gasped another.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Charlie as she pleasured herself. Deeper. Faster. Three fingers. I’d never pushed three in before.

“Oh yes!” screamed the woman in the hallway, unleashing the chorus into murmurings of our names, proclamations of desire, of need, even of love.

“Eirica … you’re … cheating!” Charlie grimaced.

“I’m a voyeur,” I panted, confessing my pleasure. I was as close as she was, and I, too, clasped my laptop between my knees.

“Eirica … Eirica … Eirica …” she panted, as if she knew what it did to me. She looked up, fixing her gaze on me.

“Charlie … Charlie … Charlie …” I wheezed in reply, faster and faster.

The woman in the hallway screamed in horrified terror, as we together convulsed in ecstasy. The man in the hallway was dead, but Charlie was still chanting my name, interrupted only by waves of pleasure. She had rolled aside, so I could only see her face and breasts still heaving, her mouth breaking into what she could manage of a smile. It was a disarming smile. I knew instantly why Arlen averted his gaze from her. It wasn’t her candour, her explicit language, her sex talk, or even her nudity. The smiles in the photos were nothing compared to the real thing, her sheer joy, and her love of life.

“Thanks,” she wheezed, finally. “I so needed that.”

“So did I.” It may have been my second orgasm of the evening, but it felt like my first ever.

“Was that you screaming?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied. She didn’t want to know the truth. I hoped she couldn’t hear the ghost sobbing in the hallway.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?” Charlie asked.

“No.” I replied. “It won’t be as good if we do it too often. Besides, I don’t want Nipples to hear us. She’s a light sleeper, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we woke her. Why don’t we do it again after she leaves, after your term starts. Maybe you could talk dirty to me. I would like that.”

“If I say I love you, don’t take it as me actually loving you,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“I love you, Eirica.”

“I love you, too, Charlie.”

“But I don’t love you.”

“I understand.” I didn’t have the heart to say that I didn’t love her either.

“Goodnight Eirica,” she sighed.

“Goodnight Charlie.”

I closed the connection, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to wait two weeks to tell me her dirty stories. I couldn’t wait to hear them either. The sooner the better … but long enough to keep it fresh.

This would never be repeated in the flesh.