That’s me, wet and windswept – we are having gales outside right now, 50+ mph gusts and all that, but it’s not raining, I’m wet, well, just because of what has been going through my head lately: sex, more than usual, and it’s crept into my dreams, wild ones, naked as usual, running, dancing, touching, being touched, but never climaxing – it’s so frustrating – it’s been too long since my last passionate, blood-pumping romp; he was a loser, at least I found that out later, but he was alright in the sack, if unimaginative, not like my fantasies, my dreams, hey, do any of you elder-statesmen remember Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, my parents had an LP (you know, black, with visible grooves) of theirs from the early seventies, it had a “naked” woman dressed completely in whipped cream – well, last night I dreamt I was that woman; it was so vivid I could actually feel the cream all over me, with her it was probably some kind of foam that she wore for hours while they attempted to get just the right photograph – I had the real stuff with just a touch of sugar, and no bathing suit or whatever like she probably had underneath – I practically swam in it and it was heavenly, all that was missing was chocolate
must stop there for a moment, but no periods, not allowed today, because I’m up, and up for it, too bad you aren’t here right now, because when I get like this, there is no stopping me and if you were here, I’d be all over you – you wouldn’t have a chance, you could pretend that I was wearing that whipped cream, or maybe you brought it along, I’d like that, I do have some honey down in the kitchen, you could pour it all over me, and then I’d wrap myself all around you and we’d share it before we removed it from each other (orally), yes, I love the taste of honey on a salty sweaty body (yours, perhaps)
but getting back to that whipped cream, what an amazing feeling, maybe you would join me, and maybe we’d – you know – before our ‘dinner,’ yes, swimming in it, in each other; it’s images like that which have made me a wreck and kept my panties damp, crimson today, like my mood, my desire, why aren’t you here right now, we could have such fun, ahh, it’s sad that I live in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, populated by the blue-rinse brigade – my special friend is nearby, but it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to be here, because I might do something I would regret later – so that’s your cue – you should be here, right in my chair, I’d be in your lap, doing (you know!), and thinking of edible paraphernalia, whipped cream, honey, cooking oil – yes we would be doing our own cooking, and then maybe some chocolate ice cream later – are you staying for dinner?
I’ve been sitting here working all day, and all I have been able think of has been taking my clothes off. Sometimes, I just find wearing clothes repulsive. I know that sitting on a wool desk chair will get uncomfortable fast, not to mention that I’d get cold rather quickly. Still, they have to come off, at least for a short time, until it gets old, or I start turning blue. (I can put a towel on the chair.)
Excuse me ……………
Ah yes, that’s better. I love this feeling of freedom – and the answer is, no, I do not have a webcam. I don’t do pictures, in any case.
Well, what now? I know – I’ll watch you. Call me Big Sister, as I watch your everyday lives, walking around, working, taking care of the kids, however you spend your day or your night. Yes, the night is more interesting – don’t mind me, I’ll just sit here quietly in the corner as you make love to your partner. Pretend I’m not here – OK, if you get off on that, you can imagine I’m there, naked, in a dark corner of your bedroom. Don’t worry, I have very good night vision; you can have the lights off.
Rough stuff? No, I’m not interested. I’ll be looking out the window, watching my friend, the moon, traverse the sky. Oh, that’s better, gentle kisses, a little bit of tongue action. Now, you’ve got me. Wait, don’t hide under the covers. I don’t have X-Ray vision. I’ll turn the heat up a little, as you turn up your heat. No, don’t hurry on my account. I like it slow, and the slower you go, the more excited I’ll get. I might even, yes, do that, along with you. Don’t pay any attention to my moans. Oh, that was good! I like it when someone does that to me. That should get you going. Mmm, that too, I never would have guessed that a tongue in my ear would have that kind of effect.
You’ve forgotten me by now. I’m still here, but I might just move a little closer. I want to feel your heat – yes, right here on the edge of the bed. The moon glistens on your sweaty bodies, and I have to restrain myself from giving you a hand. The rhythm picks up. You are getting serious now – and so am I – the air is thick with the sultry musk of your copulation, and I’m breathing it in like water vapour in the desert. Ooh, careful – maybe I’m in the way. I’ll just kneel on the floor and lean my head on the edge of the bed – I’m closer to the business end there, and that’s what I want to see. Oh, ride’m girl! That’s my favourite position – on top and in control. Her thigh is only an inch or two from my cheek, pulsing, throbbing. He’s ready – I can tell – his feet are tensing … That’s right! Let it out. I’m not into pain, but noisy is fine, “Yes, yes, yes!” YES! Let the neighbours hear it. Oh my, now I’m sweating, too. Language, dears! OK, you can shout as many expletives as you wish. Getting closer – me, too – hmm, never heard that one before. Three backs arch in unison – and, and …. (pregnant pause) …. YES! blessed release …. oops, he popped out, careful! Oh! He got me right in the face. Warm and slimey. It’s OK; I just wasn’t expecting it. I’ll just wipe it somewhere out of the way. There, he’s back in now, where he belongs.
I’ll just lean here against the side of the bed while you finish up, and savour the post-coital aroma of your bedroom. Yes, of course you may do it again, but I have what I’ve come for. (Hehe!) I might just listen, however.
Ah, I’m back at my desk, sitting on a wet towel. I’m still warm, though, thanks to you.
I’ve been rabid the last couple of days, obsessed with sex even more than usual, sex in dreams, wet dreams, I dream a lot, even when I’m awake, just sitting here working, now writing, tap, tap, tap, on my keyboard, doing one thing while thinking about the other,
today it’s dreams, dreams and aspirations, but mostly dreams, I’ve been thinking about publishing, that’s an aspiration obviously, and although I’m an editor, I don’t really have the right connections in publishing, and I don’t have anything substantial to submit, a nice long serious short story or novel, Hahn has stalled, while I re-consider where it is going, I’ve got a general plan, but I started the next chapter and it just felt so stale, what to do with Alleyn’s cousin, and Hahn’s three other consorts, bringing them in, but I feel like Liz needs to get back to the real world, to get her back in touch with her real feelings, to become mortal again – I know how it is going to happen, but it seems so far away in the story, so much to write between now and then, and what I’ve written doesn’t connect with my dreams, the topic of this rant, and I feel that my best writing comes when it exists in my dreams (waking or sleeping) first, before I try to commit it to paper (or hard disk),
now that was a Freudian slip (that I’ve fixed), a hard dick, see, I’m still thinking of sex way too much, too much for my own sanity, and of him, always of him, I blame him, too, and myself for letting it happen this way, of course, I still love him, and without him I’d be writing nothing at all, not about Alleyn, not about Hora, not fantasy, not my fantasies, nothing, so I guess I have him to thank as well as blame – you may blame him for what I inflict on you, for what you dream, because that’s what I do to you, help you (make you?) dream, to help you fly, to let go of the ground to fly into that land of dreams where we become immortal
powerful, and every story has a happy ending, if we want it to, do you want a happy ending or an ending at all, just the promise of a future, like sex, not a one-nighter, the kind that you know you will have again with your lover, who is always the best, the best for you, that gives you the most complete satisfaction, who completes you, not incomplete like me, except that I need you, my reader, to give me the semblance of completion, that’s the next best thing, dear reader, love me, love my work, and we’ll get along just fine (doesn’t this sound so depressing and shallow?), but we keep going, keep dreaming – do you want to know what I’m dreaming now, he’s at my door, waiting for me to finish this, stepping behind me, hands on my shoulders, massaging my neck, he knows what I want and how to give it to me, kisses the top of my head … excuse me, but my muse wants to inspire me now, so I’ll just slip into something more comfortable, or maybe nothing at all, my rentboy is here, yes, my muse is a … okay, I’ve got to stop writing now, he’s (stop that!) … I’ve got to go …
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!
@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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
That is sad.
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.
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.”
“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.”
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.
My virginity is still intact. Nipples and I didn’t actually do anything, not even after we hopped into my bed together at six.
“I was worried about sleeping alone in a haunted house,” she whispered, her head cradled between my breasts.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I reassured her, “after we’ve slept a little.”
We didn’t speak about it right away. Honestly, I didn’t know how I felt about it. It was nice, but I wanted more than she could give me. I supposed both of us would have preferred male company, not that I had ever experienced it before. I’ve never even had a real boyfriend. Judging from her Facebook page, she’d had several.
The weather was rotten outside, a mixture of rain and snow, so I showed her around the castle, the modern parts, as well as the indoor sections of the ruin. As I had a recital to play in a month, I spent a couple of hours practising before dinner, while she composed.
Facebook: Sandra Claussen wants to be your friend.
It came in just as I was finished practising. Had Arlen really told her about me, or was she just friending me because I had posted on Arlen’s wall? I felt more loyal to Nipples, but I decided to accept anyway. I needed to learn more about Arlen.
Sandra Claussen: Are you free to chat?
I had a nasty habit of forgetting to keep myself invisible while I was online.
Eirica Johnstone: For a little while. Must cook dinner soon. Guests imminent.
Well, one guest.
Sandra Claussen: Arlen suggested I make contact with you. He says you are an up and coming pianist. A sure thing. Eirica Johnstone: Well, here I am. What can I do for you? Sandra Claussen: Can we meet sometime to talk? Are you ever near Leeds or York? Eirica Johnstone: You may have to come up here, or to Glasgow. I have a recital coming up and don't have much spare time. Sandra Claussen: How about after New Years? I could come up for a weekend. Would really like to meet you.
I wasn’t sure how long Nipples was staying, but I needed to be back on campus the second week of January.
Eirica Johnstone: How about in Glasgow on the 15/16? I don't have a spare room, though. Sandra Claussen: Any chance I could come the week before? Arlen says you have a spare room at your home. Can't stay long. Term starts on the 11th. May I come there? Eirica Johnstone: Is it urgent? If not, how about Feb?
I didn’t want them to overlap.
Sandra Claussen: Jan is better for me. Viva in Feb. Would like advice on portfolio. Eirica Johnstone: Can't Arlen advise you? Sandra Claussen: We have a difference of opinion. You could mediate. Performability issues. Eirica Johnstone: I have a guest, and I don't know when she is leaving. Possibly that weekend, if not before. I don't know yet. Sandra Claussen: Would you let me know? I'd really like to meet. Arlen says I would like you, and that you would be good for me. Eirica Johnstone: In what way?
That was disturbing.
Sandra Claussen: He says you have a level head and are not afraid to speak your mind. Eirica Johnstone: OK, well, I'll let you know. Must see to dinner now.
I never expected to hear from her. I don’t know why I said she could come. While I had a few moments, I took a quick look at other emails, namely a couple from Arlen. I’d left him high and dry:
Arlen Stewart: Eirica, I'm a little uncomfortable about telling you my fantasies. Maybe some other time. A Arlen Stewart: Eirica, Are you there? Why the sudden silence? Not tomorrow, maybe Tuesday. Eirica Johnstone: Dear Arlen, I'm sorry, I was interrupted by Nipples last night and we were up late with, you know, girl talk. I'll try for Tuesday night, but Nipples has been struggling with insomnia. We have ghosts here, and she is nervous about them. Will email if I can. If you will tell me one of your fantasies, I'll tell you one of mine. Deal? I know, you want to know what makes me tick. I'll think about that, too. Love, Eirica
I took a quick look at Sandra’s Facebook page. Personally, I think Nipples’ opinion that she’s a lesbian doesn’t quite tell the whole picture. In the photos, Sandra was certainly free with her body, posting photos of herself that even I wouldn’t dare, although that doesn’t say much. Certainly, she shows off more than Nipples. I noticed also that Aoife Stewart was among her friends, and featured in some of her photos. Like Nipples, I suspected more than just an ordinary friendship. This was the first picture I’d seen of Aoife, and now I understood Arlen’s fascination with Sinead. They looked remarkably alike, as if Sinead was her younger, prettier sister.
Sandra’s website was much slicker than Nipples’, and she had won many more awards. I listened to a few of her clips, and resolved to help Nipples tart hers up, at least to Sandra’s standard, if not better. That was something I could do for her.
“What you doing?” Nipples asked, interrupting me.
“I think we need to whip your website into shape.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just had a look at Sandra’s. She’s obviously spent a lot of money on it. It’s rather slick.”
“Aoife set it up for her. She’s a web designer.”
“Well, I think you need to give her some competition. I can help.”
“You can set up web pages?”
“It’s amazing what you can teach yourself, kicking about alone in an old castle.”
“I’m up for it, if you are?”
“We’ve got a few weeks to get a good start on it. By the way, I just got a message from Sandra. She wants to come meet me. She seems to be in a hurry about it, too, something about her portfolio. Apparently, she has a disagreement with Arlen about it.”
“I think she’s heard that I’m up here. When doesn’t she want to come?”
“On the ninth, staying overnight. When were you planning on leaving?”
“The ninth. I have a tutorial on the eleventh, so I’ll need to give myself a day to prepare.”
“So you will probably overlap. Do you want her to see you, or not?”
“I want her to know that I’ve spent the better part of three weeks here, and she only gets two days. Maybe we could pretend we are lovers or something. Make her jealous.”
“We’ll see about that. You may tire of me in three weeks. Hey, I was just about to upload my pictures from last night, shall we trade?”
“Sure, let me get my laptop.”
Minutes later, I’d loaded up her photos on my computer. “Hey, you really have a good eye,” she said looking at mine. “I wonder if you could take some better pictures of me for my website. This is an ideal location.”
“Well, if you’ll take some of me, too. Most of what I have are arm’s length self-portraits. I could dig out my father’s tripod, and take some of us together as well. It’s in one of the attics, so it may take some time to find.”
“That’s great! Let’s take some tomorrow.”
After dinner, we sat down and worked on her website up in my bedroom by the fire until she fell asleep on my shoulder. Arlen wasn’t there, so I thought I’d catch up on my Facebook. I uploaded a few of the pictures that Nipples took outside, then noticed that Sandra was online.
Eirica Johnstone: Hey Sandra, do you have a moment. Sandra Clausen: Hi, how are you? Eirica Johnstone: I'm fine. 9th is OK if you want to come. You'll probably overlap briefly with my other guest, but that is fine. Sandra Clausen: That's great. I'll need directions closer to the time. Should I bring anything? Some music, obviously. Anything else? Eirica Johnstone: Nothing I can think of ...
At that moment, I noticed that Amelia was also online.
Tell me about yourself, aside from what's on your website. What do you think of Arlen? Sandra Clausen: Give me a few minutes and I'll send you an email. Amelia Solent: Mind if I bother you for a minute?
My heart raced. Not only was I being contacted by a famous composer, but she was one of Arlen’s old flames.
Eirica Johnstone: Yes. Nice to meet you.
Then I replied to Sandra that I’d wait for her email.
Amelia Solent: Arlen Stewart spoke very highly of you. Can I make a request? Eirica Johnstone: Sure. Amelia Solent: Don't hurt him. Many have. Eirica Johnstone: Many? Amelia Solent: You know what I'm talking about. Women. Students. He gets too involved and can't let go. Eirica Johnstone: I'll try not to, but I'm not one of his students. Amelia Solent: That makes you even more dangerous to him. I'm not trying to be mean, but I've seen it all, and he usually comes running to me when it all ends. Eirica Johnstone: He said he didn't stray. Amelia Solent: That doesn't mean he doesn't get involved. It's sweet, but it also leaves him a wreck afterwards. Eirica Johnstone: But aren't you one of them/us, too? Amelia Solent: I'm different. Eirica Johnstone: How? Aoife must hate you for a reason. Amelia Solent: She hates all of us. Eirica Johnstone: Not Sandra Claussen, apparently. Amelia Solent: She's different, too, I guess, but in a different way.
Eirica Johnstone: How?
Amelia Solent: It's neither of our business. You'll find out soon enough. Has she contacted you yet? Eirica Johnstone: Yes. I was just chatting with her a moment ago.
Nipples stirred, but turned away from the screen.
Amelia Solent: She checks everyone out. That's her way. Don't be surprised if she gets physical. Eirica Johnstone: Physical? Amelia Solent: She may come on to you. Probably will. That's why we all hate her. Eirica Johnstone: Why does she do it?
That partially explained Nipples attitude towards her.
Amelia Solent: It's a control thing. She's trying to break the bonds between Arlen and his other women. Eirica Johnstone: How many of us are there? Amelia Solent: About 20. Sandra's gotten to about half of us. Some are untraceable, and some are too far away. She got to me when I was invited out to a concert there. I felt so dirty afterwards.
Eirica Johnstone: You mean you gave in? Amelia Solent: She took me by complete surprise, and I was having problems with my husband at the time. He didn't want me to come. (He doesn't like Arlen.) Eirica Johnstone: What happened? Amelia Solent: We went to the Slug & Lettuce after the concert. Arlen had assigned her to take care of me. We got plastered, and I awoke in her flat, naked, with her on top of me. Eirica Johnstone: What did she do to you? Amelia Solent: We had done something … sexual, but I don't remember what. One thing just led to another. She was very nice to me, though. I think that's the trick. She makes it hard to hate her afterwards, and then she reminds you of it for months. Eirica Johnstone: I thought you said everyone hated her. Amelia Solent: It's a weird kind of hate. I hate myself for it more than I hate her. Perhaps, it's fear.
Sandra’s email came in.
Eirica Johnstone: I'll be careful. She's coming up here in 3 weeks. Amelia Solent: Will Nipples still be there?
How could she have known? Of course, she was friends with her, and all Nipples friends would know by now. “Yes. They’ll overlap briefly.”
Amelia Solent: I feel sorry for Nips, she took it the hardest. They had an affair for several months. Now she's even more confused than she was before. Eirica Johnstone: Nipples is a lesbian? Amelia Solent: I really couldn't say. Before Sandra, maybe, now? I don't think so. You would know better than I. I haven't slept with her. Eirica Johnstone: How did you know? Amelia Solent: She told me this morning. Eirica Johnstone: Nothing happened. Amelia Solent: You surprise her, but she admires you, just like she admires Arlen. You can trust her, but don't believe everything she says. She's a little blind in some ways. She thinks you're beautiful. Eirica Johnstone: Really?! Amelia Solent: That's what she told me. Let her down gently, will you? Eirica Johnstone: I like her, too, but I'm not … like that. I think we'll stay friends for a long time, though. Amelia Solent: Must go. Hubby is calling. Be careful. If you hurt Arlen, I will hurt you. I mean it. I can do that. Eirica Johnstone: I'll be careful.
That was intense. Nipples stirred again, rubbed her eyes and sat up.
“Time for bed?” I asked.
“Goodnight,” she yawned, kissed me on the cheek and left.
That left me alone to read Sandra’s message and to plant a seed. First, the seed. I sent the picture of Nipples in her nightdress to Arlen. I needed to see how he reacted before I sent something more racy, and maybe eventually one of me.
Sandra Clausen: Dear Eirica, By now you have read my bio on my website, so I assume you want a more personal story. I lived a fairly normal childhood, going to a girls school in Harrow, while studying music at the Purcell School with Alan Sickert. I've wanted to write music since as early as I remember, studying piano with my mother and then cello from the age of six. I've won a lot of awards, but I'm sure you don't want me to list them all – you've read them on my website, of course. I write mostly for large forces, orchestra as well as chorus. I'm deeply moved by good vocal music, and with my instrumental roots, I'm hoping to write opera and theatre music. I don't know if you are aware, but Arlen's wife Aoife is a wonderful poet and writer (although unpublished), and I am hoping to collaborate with her some day. I admire her poetry especially. If you want to read her work go to her beautiful website (she earns her living in web design) at aoifeocallaghan.org. Arlen has been pushing me to write some smaller works for piano or cello, and that is why he directed me to you. On the personal side, I am a vegetarian and into Celtic mythology. I'm also a witch, a real one. I hope that doesn't scare you. I'm a white witch, and that means that none of my spells are cast with malice. I have a familiar, too, a cat named Giuseppe. (He was a Trappist monk in a past life.) I will bring my tarot cards along, if you don't mind, but I'll leave Giuseppe at home. (He hates being away from familiar places.) Looking at your Facebook page and website, I can see you aren't a Bible-basher, but do tell me if you would rather I didn't bring them. The 9th is a full moon, which is good for divination and casting spells. Maybe I can show you what I do. I believe that we meet various people in life for a purpose. I met Arlen four years ago, you just met him, as you've just met Nicole. You may have already had contact with Amelia Solent, who seems to shadow me, pretending to be Arlen's protector. I don't know what she holds against me, but do take what she says with a pinch of salt. Nicole and I are rivals within the department, so some animosity between us can be expected. She resents the acclaim I receive, despite being a year behind her in my studies. I have tried to be as nice to her as I can. I would be happy to answer any of your questions. And do tell me more about yourself. Blessed be, Sandra
Phew! Dare I believe there wasn’t a subtext there? A tarot reading wouldn’t be a bad thing, and the ghosts will torment her if she tries to do anything nasty. They’ve always protected their kin. Reading between the lines of Amelia’s correspondence, Sandra won’t do anything worse than try to seduce me, luring me to want to do what she wants me to do. I can handle a grope, I guess, if that is what is needed to get me closer to Arlen.
Eirica Johnstone: Dear Sandra, Yes, I've been in contact with Amelia, but I actually met her several years ago in Paris. She doesn't remember that, though. She had written a competition piece, and I had a half hour with her tutoring me on it. It doesn't matter to me that you are a witch. I've lived my entire life in an ancient castle with more ghosts than you can count ...
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Nipples slipping in through the servants’ entrance again. “I left my nightdress in here last night,” she said, sniffling.
“You’re afraid to sleep alone?” I asked, sensing the real reason for her visit.
She stared down at her hands. “Yes.”
“OK, but I just want to finish this email … you don’t mind if I sleep nude, do you? I didn’t exactly ask last night. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. You do what you like.”
“OK, just hop in bed, and I’ll join you in ten minutes.”
“Do you mind if I just lie on the sofa until you are done?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
As I turned my attention back to the email, I watched Nipples undress, and then slip on her nightdress. Her movements were supple and catlike, something I found aesthetically pleasing. She was a kind soul in a waif-like body … with big nipples. Facing towards me as she took her blouse off and then her bra, she allowed me a good view of those nipples. They were as if she were permanently aroused, with large purple aureoles. What would they be like if she really were aroused?
Her milk-chocolate skin was shiny and smooth with little body hair, while her hair hung to her shoulders in loose small curls, and I suspected that one of her parents was white. Lying on the sofa, she watched me with a pleasant, but apprehensive smile. What was she thinking?
I had to finish off my email:
... They keep me company at night when I am alone here, which is almost every night that I stay in the castle. I look forward to the days when children will play here again. In the meantime, I spend as much of my time as I can at uni. As I am just finishing my D. Phil., I have little contact with the other students, so there isn't much in the way of rivalry. I don't play the same repertoire as the others anyway. As you undoubtedly know, I love new music and hope to spend my career performing it at every opportunity. I'm also the Chief of my branch of the Johnstone clan, so I have inevitable duties from time to time. We're outcast, so we don't have much to do with the main clan itself. There was a feud several centuries ago, the reason for many of the ghosts here. My offspring will inherit my title as well as the castle, but that's far in the future. As far as religion goes, organized religion doesn't begin to explain our world, not with my experience of the supernatural, at least. We can discuss if you want, but it is something I live with every day. I'm not sure what else you want me to say. I like Arlen because he's so shy, but has so much boiling under the surface. And I really enjoy his music. I'm looking forward to playing his piano pieces next month, and if he can swing an orchestra for his piano concerto, that too. I'll see you in a few weeks. Love, Eirica
Was that soupy enough? I closed my laptop and looked at Nipples, who still watched me, wide awake. “This is a lovely fire,” she said, “so warm and comfy.”
“I always have one in here during the winter. I often have trouble sleeping without the dancing light and the soft crackle of the embers.” I stood and pulled my jumper off, stripping down as she watched.
“Sandra and I used to be lovers,” she said bluntly, as I sat on the end of the bed, waiting for her.
“I know. How did you know I was writing an email to her?”
“You mouth the words when you type, and I just guessed who might want to know that kind of information about you.”
“I hope you aren’t upset. I’m just playing her at her own game. I think she wants to know why Arlen is so obsessed with me. I suspect you do to. Amelia just wants me to back off.”
“Amelia just wants him for herself,” she hissed more vehemently than she intended. “She’s never been able to let go of him. They correspond at least weekly, daily if she is upset about something. More often in the last couple of years, since Sandra has been around. She doesn’t trust her?”
“You don’t either.”
“Not any more,” she shrugged. “I loved her once, but she tried to wedge herself between Arlen and me.”
“What is there between Arlen and you?” I asked bluntly. No sense in beating around the bush.
“I think we’re kind of soul mates. He lusts after me. I like to think we were lovers in a past life.”
“But not this one?”
“It can’t happen. I’m not really sure about what I want in a relationship. Sandra showed me what I didn’t want. Sandra will pretend to be a dyke as long as it suits her. Eventually, she’ll want a man to give her children, someone with enough power to help her career. Besides, I’m not sure I want to date someone who is older than my father. I want to fall head-over-heels in love. It doesn’t matter who that is.”
“Me?” I asked, nervous that I was leading her on.
She hesitated. “I could never give you the children you want, and besides, behind that uninhibited exterior hides a raging heterosexual. If I were to give myself fully to you, it would be with the knowledge that I only loved part of you. OK, maybe I love you, but I have my feet planted firmly on the ground.” She paused and then asked, “What is there between you and Arlen?”
It was my turn to hesitate. Did I trust her enough to tell the truth, or even a variation of it? The truth might send her packing. The truth might hurt Arlen, but like Sandra, I needed to teach him to want me enough to give me a child or two, without leaving his wife. “I’m still playing it by ear,” I answered. “I don’t want to get in the way of his marriage, but I like him a lot. It’s a physical thing, as well as intellectual. I admire the way he thinks, but I have this intense desire to get inside him, to be part of him.”
“I’ve never heard it put that way,” she remarked. “Most want him inside of them?”
“At one time, I did. Sandra does, Amelia does … I think she has, actually.”
“Take a look at the pictures of her two boys. The younger one looks like her, but the older one … you make your own judgement.”
That put a twist on things. “He said he never strayed.”
“I think it might have been before his marriage. She was already dating her husband, but I think something happened. She became pregnant just as she finished her degree. I don’t think he has strayed since, but I could be wrong. He knows what it could do to his career.”
If that were true, could I trust Arlen? Thinking about it a moment, I realized it didn’t matter. Unprotected sex with a man who slept around didn’t thrill me, but I would deal with the fallout afterwards. “What about his marriage?”
“I think he worries about that, too, but you know what I think about Aoife and Sandra. If he did stray, it would just make them even. I think getting out of that marriage would be good for him anyway. She controls him too much.”
“Sandra says Aoife is a great poet, and she wants to write an opera with her.”
“So? It doesn’t mean they aren’t sleeping together.”
“Maybe.” I looked at the clock: 2 am. I spun around, chose a side of the bed, and flipped off the light. Nipples walked over and lay on the other side, facing me. She was still wide awake. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she smiled, looking me straight in the eyes. “I just like looking at you. Do you mind?”
I wouldn’t look away … five seconds … ten … thirty. She smiled wider. A ghost passed the foot of the bed, but I dared not look. If I was in a nightdress, I would say that Nipples undressed me with her eyes, but they bore deeper, way down to my sex. Touching her would have broken the spell.
Another ghost floated behind her. Mum had told me that when they had sex, the room was full of ghosts. Intimacy drew them close; sex drew them closer. Nips didn’t need to touch me, as my body submitted to her gaze. Did she feel as I did? Could she feel my breath, hear my heart racing? What was she doing to me? A minute … two … ten. I flushed as a bead of sweat dripped across my chest. More ghosts … female. I felt one let her hair brush my back. Could Nips not see them?
The breath of a spirit circled her head, glowing eerily in the half light of the fire. A male ghost cupped my breasts in his hands, squeezing lightly. Nips would see the indentations of his fingers if she chose to. He caressed my hips, my thighs.
A door in the hallway squeaked shut, distracting Nips, and unleashing my molten ecstasy.
“What was that?” she gasped, but I was too far gone. I couldn’t catch my breath. “Are you OK?”
“Rather,” I whispered in my best Oxbridge tongue. I couldn’t fake Scots now. “What did you just do?”
“Are you all right? Do you have a fever?”
“I’m fine,” I said, rolling onto my back. “Better than fine.”
“What was that noise?” she asked.
“Just a ghost closing a door.”
“The room was just full of them. Couldn’t you see them?”
“I was just lying here thinking of you, looking at you.”
“You should be careful how you look at me. You attracted the ghosts, and they joined in.”
“Joined in what?” she asked, frowning.
“You didn’t feel it?”
“I just had an orgasm.”
“Hmm. I didn’t,” she replied, sounding disappointed.
“You gave it to me, with a little help from one of the ghosts. He was doing what you were thinking.”
“How do you know what I was thinking?”
“I don’t, but the ghosts did. There was one circling around your head, a woman behind me, and a man touching me. There was another near then end of the bed.”
“Are they still here?” she asked, looking around.
“I can’t see any, but you don’t see them if you are looking. They are here … watching. Ghosts are great voyeurs. My mother said this room was full of them when I was conceived. The women of our clan are sensitive. We can feel them, sometimes even hear them. They like it when I wander the castle with no clothes on, so they can touch me. They won’t touch my clothes. I’m one of their kind, a Johnstone.”
“What’s it like to see ghosts?” she asked.
“They come in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some, I can see in their full form, although translucent. Some are just a shimmering, like the one that floated around you. The one by the end of the bed was a shadow in a dark room. The one behind me was just a brush of her hair, but I couldn’t see the last one at all, the one that groped me.”
“There are many here, but I recognized the touch of his hands. I’ve felt them before, while replaying a fantasy in my head. He’ll come to you if you invite him.”
“How do I invite him?” she asked. I wasn’t sure she believed me.
“Firstly, you have to be friendly. If you want to feel his touch, you’ll have to strip down. If you are under the covers, you might feel the press of him against you, but you won’t feel his skin, nor will you feel him inside you.”
“Should I do that now?”
“If you want him now, yes, but you will attract others, so you mustn’t be afraid. That’s when a pleasant encounter can become a nightmare. You may sense others, and you may hear things, a distant scream, a door closing or opening, a shadow or a shimmer. They are just ghosts, but they are my family. They must become your friends.”
“Are they tortured?”
“Some are, they died a hideous death or of loneliness. The one who dances around you lost a love in childbirth.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. If you open yourself completely to him, you will learn more about him. It may be that he will think you are his love come back for him, or maybe a little of her soul will find her way into you. Perhaps it was the touch of her hair I felt on my back. There may be others drawn to you by the colour of your skin. There have been black servants in this household. Maybe one of them will come to you instead. I can’t be sure.”
“How do I know he won’t be violent?” she asked.
“The others will keep him in line. They will defer to my authority. They remain here under my sufferance.”
“You could banish them?”
“Yes, but they keep me company. You are safe here as long as I breathe.”
She sat up. “OK, I’m ready,” she sighed, pulling her nightdress off over her head. “You said I had to be friendly. How do I do that?”
“Just don’t start if you hear or see things. Keep your eyes open so you can see them if they want you to. Don’t be afraid. Go with the flow. Now lie back and tell me about your fantasy, just until you sense them. You are sharing a secret pleasure with them, and they will come.”
“Does it need to be someone in particular?”
“Not necessarily, but have a good image in your mind.”
“Would you mind if it was Arlen?”
“Whatever turns you on.” I did mind, but I thought maybe it might give me more insight into her feelings about him.
“OK, here goes,” she whispered, laying back. “When I first started studying with Arlen, he used to stare at my breasts. I’m not even sure he knew he was doing it, and for a while it bothered me, although I became accustomed to it. Men have stared at my nipples since puberty. One day I had a particularly frustrating lesson. He was berating me for how little work I had prepared. I’d had a tough week and just couldn’t produce anything. I came in a nervous wreck, and it wasn’t long before I was reduced to tears. I don’t blame him; I was fragile and just crumbled. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he said, ‘I’m just pushing you because sometimes one needs a little shove.’ I was wearing a halter that day, and I caught him glance into my cleavage. I think he saw more than he expected. Perhaps it was that he realized he had a hand on my bare skin. I can’t be sure, but he turned beet red and backed away. Maybe it was my reaction to his touch. It was before my relationship with Sandra and completely unexpected. He tried to hide it, but I know he had an erection, and that made me even more excited. That’s when I put my hand on his arm. I don’t know what I intended. It was late in the afternoon, and we had lost track of time. Aoife was away on a course, and the building was more or less empty. No one would have known.”
Nipples stopped for a moment. I sensed a shimmer in the corner, but then she continued.
“He stopped as if he didn’t know what to do, so I had to show him. Lifting my hand from his arm, I touched his thigh, sliding it up and down his leg, closer and closer, until I found his zipper. He sat paralysed, waiting for what I would do next. I unhooked the clasp and pulled the zip down slowly. Still frozen, I began to unbutton his shirt from the bottom up. Opening it, I caressed his nipples, then leaned over an tasted them. Only then did I feel his hands underneath my halter, search for my breasts, my nipples …”
She gasped. A ghost had touched her. One shimmered around her head caressing her neck. Nips eyes were open, but she wasn’t seeing the room.
“I … he … pulled my halter over my head and licked circles around my nipples. I don’t know …” another gasp, “… I don’t know how we made to the floor, but I’d removed his shirt, and found myself kneading his bare buttocks … ohhhh … my panties … ughnnn … skirt … we kissed … his hands … I stroked his … I held him tight … legs locked around him … he …”
Nipples could go no further, as her ghosts took her into orbit. The room shimmered with an assortment of shades, twinkles, and as she approached her climax I heard a scream (perhaps of ecstasy) come from the ruin. She opened herself completely to him, as he kneaded her breasts, throbbed between her thighs, culminating in a long high-pitched squeal of pleasure from the deepest reaches of her soul, and a wet orgasm, leaving a small puddle on my duvet.
After a minute, she sighed. Turning to me, I saw a tear dribble down her cheek. “I’m not sure I want to do that again,” she sobbed.
“It’s too late,” I said. “Once you open yourself to them, you can’t go back. They will be curious about you. What happened?”
“I was a servant girl, perhaps a slave, born in Africa, somewhere near the east coast. My master loved me, but he knew that I could never be anything more to him that just a servant. I was 14 years old when I died in childbirth. My son lived and went to work in Kingston.”
“Did the girl possess you as the spirit pleasured you? Was he her Master?”
“I don’t know, but it didn’t matter. My son was a white boy with Johnstone blood.”
“I don’t understand the significance,” I said.
“That white boy was an ancestor on my mother’s side. My mother’s name was Irma Johnson. We’re related.”
“Sister!” I declared, putting my arms around her. It didn’t change anything. “What did you find unpleasant?”
“I learned too much about myself, and about them. They prodded and poked me, and found my Johnstone blood. They wanted to know too much, and I couldn’t stop them while my Master distracted me. I’m scared.”
“You’re kin. They won’t hurt you. They were just curious, rediscovering an unknown line. They are still all around us watching. Have a look.”
Nipples turned and gazed around the room. She found a shimmer in the corner, a shadow by the fire, a light breeze near the window. If she would have looked in a mirror, she would have found a twinkle dancing around her head. I knew there were more, but they didn’t betray visible manifestations. The woman with the long hair was behind me, as she often is.
It took me a short time to calm her down enough to fall asleep, again nestled between my breasts. I was in the line of her Master, a man who probably raped her ancestor in the name of love. I should have cried in shame, but I knew there were many men like that in my lineage.