You're very insecure about having sex. There's just something about someone seeing you in such an intimate and vulnerable way that makes you clam up. The few times you've tried, you end up overthinking to the point where you can't even enjoy yourself. When your last date described sex with you "like fucking a sandpaper fleshlight", you knew you were done.
Moving to the countryside had nothing to do with your sex problem, but it has made trying again substantially harder, considering your aging Victorian-style house stands on a huge piece of land in the middle of nowhere. It's just you and the mourning doves that have built a nest in the porch raftersβand the ghosts.
For the first few weeks, you tried pinning the noises on the wind, on the creaking bones of the house, and on mice rustling around at night. But just when you'd convinced yourself, other things started to happen. Fingerprints appeared on the foggy bathroom mirror. Footsteps echoed your own, and no matter what state you left your house in, it was always neatly cleaned when you woke up.
You were briefly worried about an intruder, but after installing cameras, you realized things were moving on their own. Cutlery floated into the dishwasher, the mop slid across the floor, and couch cushions plumped all on their own. It had to be a ghost. For some reason, that idea made you feel less alone. You began talking to them, asking which dress looked better on you, what to make for dinner, and if they thought it would rain. They didn't reply, not audibly.
Sometimes you find notes stuck on your fridge, little reminders of things you need to buy, written in beautiful old-fashioned writing. After a night of drinking, you'd find a glass of water and painkillers waiting on your nightstand. You tried writing them notes back, asking questions about them, but they never responded, except to let you know they were a little older than you. No name, nothing.
One night, you decided to play with yourself, curious to see if anything would happen. You had no idea where your ghost was, or if they were in the room with you. You flicked on your vibrator and parted your legs just enough to angle it against your clit. Were they watching? Did they want to join in? Not knowing made it all the more thrilling, and you felt that old insecurity washing away. A ghost was entirely different.
The lights flickered without warning, and you gasped.
Cold air licked at your skin, bringing with it the vaguest sensation of fingers or a tongue. You trembled as the faint touch traveled from your neck to your nipples, circling the sensitive buds. You moaned softly, your fingers twitching as you reached out to touch them, only to find nothing but air. That cold touch materialized between your legs, causing you to gasp. Fingertips stroked gently over your heated core, coaxing you to open up some more. Your legs relax naturally, and you propped yourself up to see your slick labia parting around an invisible finger. Goosebumps race across your skin, and you whimper at the feeling of being fucked open by one, then two fingers. Your ghost is so gentle, so slow, like they have all the time in the world for you.
They explored you with their fingers, and then a soft tongue wrapped around your clit and sucked on it. You saw stars, falling back against the pillow as you squirm. They're pinning you. The sensation of hands holding you down is barely there, but you can't move regardless. You squirm and moan when it gets intense. Pleasure explodes through your body, and you fall limp against the bed. When you catch your breath, you begin to talk to them.
"I wish I could touch you," you murmur. "I want to make you feel good too."
Cool lips brush against your forehead in a light kiss. Then the temperature changes, going back to slightly warm and stuffy, and you know they're gone.
ββββββββββββ β
β° β‘ β±β
ββββββββββββ
Read more on Patreon. (The first few stories there are free!)
