Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
WARNING: This work contains sexually explicit descriptions of sexual acts and acts of sexual violence.
Wicked Jackie
Chapter Two
As he slipped naked beneath the covers of my bed, I noticed he wasn't cold, as I'd have expected him to be. His feet were cold, of course. It was cold in the castle in general, and it was a rainy night outside, after all.
But then, what did anyone really know about the particulars of having a ghost in one's bed? Ghosts weren't supposed to have physical form, were they? Could anyone honestly discount the validity of this account, based on solemn assertion that ghosts who ask to come to bed with you are always as cold as the grave?
I thought not.
He even shivered a bit as he warmed himself under the covers. I rubbed his shoulders as soothingly as I could, amazed at the protective instinct he was generating within me. My god, this boy had been dead for two-hundred and twenty years!
"Warmer now?" I asked my supernatural visitor.
"Yes," he whispered. His voice still trembled. "I just didn't want to be alone out there."
"You've been alone a long time, haven't you?" I wondered if he knew how long. I wondered if he knew he was dead.
"A long time," he repeated. "And, when you've gone, I shall be alone again... for all time."
"Who said I was leaving?"
"They all leave, eventually," he said pitifully.
"Perhaps I'll begin a new trend."
He snuggled against me, burying his face in my chest. "Just hold me, please. Just keep me warm."
I did. I wrapped my arms tightly around him, massaged his back, stroked his hair. It all felt perfectly natural.
I hadn't held anyone this way in a long time, man or woman... not since college. My few physical relationships had ended badly, and I'd avoided further entanglement. I was extremely vulnerable to seduction -- by either sex. I'd just stopped letting anyone get close enough... until now.
And now I held a dead boy in my arms -- two centuries dead. A beautiful dead boy, if those portraits were to be believed, or had Etienne Berrand exaggerated his beauty? If only there were some light! I thought about lighting a candle, but any move I made away from my new bed-partner was countered with pleading tugs on my arms. "Don't go!" his gestures called out to me.
I satisfied myself by once again tracing his features with my hands. I felt the same chiseled nose, the mouth that could smile so ironically, so cruelly, yet convey such innocence, the eyes... His eyes were actually still wet with tears! No, Etienne's brush had not lied, those many years ago.
Sensing no objection, I moved my inspection downward, getting the feel of his body. I ran my hands over his pectorals, feeling his nipples harden as I brushed them. I felt his flat belly, his muscular thighs... he was erect. Was there no human response his ghostly body could not duplicate?
My own arousal was growing. This was what I'd wanted since I'd first seen Jackie's face in those pictures. To hold him in my arms, to show him that someone sympathized. Did he know that? Was that what brought him here?
As I brought my exploring hands around and felt his firm buttocks, Jackie began to move beneath my grasp. He moaned gently, appreciatively.
Encouraged, I brought one hand to his inner thigh, caressing lightly. I felt the soft hairs of his upper leg, the hollow as I approached his pelvis. The flesh that contained his testicles still hung loosely. I rubbed it gently, and they began to pull upward, stiffening.
I took his penis and began to massage it gently. His own hands rubbed my neck and shoulders and tangled in my hair. What would happen, I wondered, if I kept up? Would he have an orgasm? I guessed a body that could produce tears could also manufacture semen. He was certainly an interesting ghost.
I wasn't to be allowed that experiment, however. Wordlessly, he pulled my attending hand away and pressed himself against me. Taking hold of my chin, he kissed me. The tongue that explored my mouth was warm. His breath was sweet. The gentle pressure of his fingers as me moved them up and down my back and thighs inflamed me.
He moved his kisses away from my mouth, working around my face, my forehead, my neck. He kissed and nibbled my ears, thrusting his tongue in and out. My breath was ragged. I pulled him tightly against me and thrust my hips against his hungrily.
"Take me," he whispered into my ear, "please." He rolled onto his stomach, guiding me with one hand, pulling me on top of him.
I straddled him a moment, rubbing his back and buttocks.
"Please," he said insistently. "Now!"
One shouldn't refuse a command from beyond the grave, I thought. I pressed myself between his buttocks. The resistance I met was fair, enough to be stimulating. He'd done this before, though, it seemed. I didn't need lubrication of any kind, either. Perhaps that was a by-product of his occult nature.
I moved within him and began slowly pumping in and out. He lifted his head from the pillow, his body writhing beneath me. "Yes," he whispered. "God, yes!"
I hooked my chin over his shoulder, and he turned and kissed me savagely. His teeth brushed my lips.
"Faster now," he commanded. "Harder! It must be harder!"
He seemed to want to be hurt. I obliged, some part of my nature tearing free of my inhibitions and allowing me to assail this poor unfortunate spirit. My frustrations at broken relationships, my anger at manipulative lovers, my pain at discovering I'd been used -- all poured themselves into my thrusts.
All the pain I'd ever known channeled itself into Wicked Jackie through my pounding organ.
As orgasm struck me, shaking me with an intensity I'd never known, I bit fiercely into his neck. My fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his belly, scratching gashes into him.
Jackie screamed, an unearthly sound of a soul in torment, and I joined him.
Exhausted, I collapsed against him. Suddenly, I realized I had collapsed against only the bed. My lover was gone. Had he ever been here? My brain reeled, and I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Morning came, damp and misty outside the castle walls. Outside my castle walls, I thought with a sense of pride as I woke. I lay there a few moments, enjoying the simple sensation of being, collecting myself.
I remembered the previous night. A dream? If so, I could tell by the familiar feeling in my testicles that the accompanying orgasm had been real. The sensations had been so intense, though. The heat of his body, the tightness of his anus, the taste of his mouth.
The bitter taste of his blood as I'd bit his neck. A taste still in my mouth. Blood, like the blood I'd undoubtedly drawn when my nails raked his poor stomach.
What a dream. I lifted the heavy quilt and started to get out of bed. Something dark on the sheet caught my eye, something reddish, fading to brown.
Stains of blood. Hours old. From just where my lover's stomach would have been.
It had not been a dream.
TO BE CONTINUED
From: monolog@aol.com (Monolog) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Wicked Jackie: A Ghost Story - Part 3 Date: 23 Feb 1995 02:17:47 -0500
WICKED JACKIE
A Ghost Story
Chapter 3
WARNING: This work contains sexually explicit descriptions of sexual acts and acts of sexual violence.
I got dressed and wound my way down the tower stairs to the great hall. Mrs. Palmer was busily laying out breakfast.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked.
"I don't know. I had -- some strange dreams. Must be the atmosphere of the place."
She eyed me for some time, still parcelling out dishes and silverware. I noticed there was already a fire in the fireplace. She'd been up for some time. I wondered if she'd heard anything last night.
"Must be," she said casually.
"Did you... have any dreams?" I asked her.
She smiled. "Not a one. Surprising, really. Usually, looking at those paintings has a profound effect on my imagination." She crossed to the covered serving tray she'd left on the sideboard. Steam poured out as she uncovered two perfect omelets.
"I actually didn't sleep much," she went on. "I woke up around four. I don't know why."
Four o'clock. That must have been about the time...
Mrs. Palmer was staring at me. "I don't suppose it might be because Jackie was here, might it?"
I didn't know what to say. I was embarrassed to think she might have heard the sounds of my encounter. Despite the blood I'd found on my sheets, I was still trying desperately to convince myself it had only been a vivid dream. I could not have made love to a ghost last night!
But she knew. Somehow, through some spiritual connection, forged before I was even born, no doubt, my housekeeper knew that Jackie had been here. What was going on in my new residence?
"All right," I said. "I'll come clean -- if you will."
"I?" she said, registering mild surprise. "Why, my dear, what might I have to come clean about, as you put it?"
I seated myself at the table and began working on that perfect omelet. "You have seen him, haven't you?"
She laughed quietly. "Of course. Jackie always appears to those who have any sympathy for him... and to those he finds attractive."
I looked at her when she said that, seeing her in a new light. The difference in generations often precludes us from seeing the beauty in those we know. She was not an unattractive woman, by any means. As a young girl, she must have been...
"Are you having trouble imagining it?" she asked.
"Not at all," I said truthfully.
"Don't worry. I don't expect to turn the heads of men your age." She sat down and began working on her own breakfast. "I'm quite comfortable with being old, really. It's a relief, in many ways. I've never been one of those who wanted to live forever, and I've accepted the differences that come with age -- good and bad. I knew it wouldn't be me he visited."
Again, I was unsure how to reply. I was comfortable with my own sexuality. I'd had encounters with men and women, only a few of each, and I'd never felt pressed to declare an allegiance. I never intended to make any commitments, after all.
Still, it was odd to have her know, at least be able to guess, what had happened last night.
She was guessing my thoughts even now. "Don't worry, my dear. I abandoned all notions of propriety in such affairs long ago. What happens between human beings as sexual creatures -- it never makes sense. Why try to write rules for a game you don't understand?"
I nodded.
After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "Did you notice the resemblance?"
"Hmm?"
"Between yourself and the portrait of Etienne?"
"I hadn't really considered it. I suppose it's possible..."
"Oh yes, definitely. The same color hair and eyes, about the same build. Jackie must be excited to have you here."
She talked about him so matter-of-factly. As if he were her brother or nephew. As if he were about to come down to breakfast and join us.
"How many times have you seen him?" I asked.
"Who can count? It's been years, of course. The castle was sealed by the Ministry during the seventies. Before that I was away in London, teaching."
"When did you first see him?"
"I'll never forget," she said. "I was fourteen. It was my birthday, and my father had been called away on business. I was furious. I cried and moped about so that my mother got angry and we argued. She whipped me with a birch switch -- me! All of fourteen -- an adult! And on my birthday.
"I ran from the house and came here to walk in the garden. It was hardly a garden anymore. It was as dilapidated then as it is now, but it was my secret place. I'd come here and read my books, and imagine being mistress of the castle. I'd sit for hours and daydream.
"That day, though, I was so miserable. I lay down by the dried out stone pool and wept and wept. My backside was sore, my pride was hurt. My birthday was ruined.
"That's when I heard the footstep behind me, such a gentle step. I looked up, slowly. The first thing I saw was my own reflection. That shocked me, and then I realized I was being silly. It was only my reflection in the water of the pool. And then I was shocked all over again, for I remembered that the pool was dry.
"Only it wasn't dry now. It was full, as it had been centuries ago. The water was clear, and water lilies drifted lazily on the surface. As I looked around me, I saw the whole garden had come alive. The flowers were in bloom everywhere, the boxwood hedges were manicured. It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen!
"Until I turned to see the source of the footstep. And then, truly, I was confronted with the most beautiful image of my life. I'd never known the like, and I still haven't to this day.
"It was a boy, a young man, really. His skin was like marble, his hair a perfect golden, his eyes -- oh, Lord! I hadn't known what life was until I saw those eyes. They burned with their own inner fire, and yet they were the coolest blue. They were so knowing, as if they possessed the wisdom of the ages, and yet they reflected the innocence of a newborn. He smiled at me.
"I knew who he was, of course. I'd seen pictures of Wicked Jackie, the infamous Earl of Kipton. I'd never realized, though, how beautiful he was. Here I was, with my first schoolgirl crush, on a boy who'd been dead almost two-hundred years! I wasn't afraid at all, just overwhelmed. And perhaps I fainted, for what happened next seemed to take place in another world..."
"Hello, child," the ghost said. "What are you doing in my garden?"
"I -- hello, milord," I breathed. I must remember my manners! I executed a small curtsy. "I didn't mean to intrude. I -- "
He came up to me and took my hand, kissed it gently. His lips were so warm, so soft. "Intrude? How could I call your coming here an intrusion? I always welcome beauty in my garden. That's what a garden is for, isn't it? To create a safe place for beauty?"
I blushed, I knew. I could feel the heat in my face. Did he really think I was beautiful? He continued to hold my hand.
"Do you feel safe here?" he asked.
"I -- " there was no point in lying to him. He'd caught me here already. "I come here often. It's so different from the outside world."
He nodded. "That it is. I imagine you've parents you must escape, a young thing like you."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Parents who don't understand you."
"Yes."
"Parents who beat you."
"I -- "
He pulled my hand to his chest dramatically. "The truth, now!"
"Yes."
"Did they beat you today?"
"Yes," I whispered. "And it's my birthday!"
He gasped. "A crime! Shall I have them both cast in my dungeon?"
I giggled.
"I can, you know." He cupped my chin and gazed into my eyes. "What a pretty smile you have. And the rest of you is quite pretty, too."
"Thank you."
"What a pity for such beauty to be marred by -- a switch, was it? Leaving great red welts behind it?"
I winced at the memory, and at this beautiful young man having any knowledge of my shame. "Yes. It was... it was a birch switch."
He shook his head and pouted. Then, suddenly, quietly, looking about, as if to check for onlookers, he whispered, "Show me?"
"What?" I demanded.
"Show me. I want to see where you were whipped."
"Sir!" I protested.
"Oh, it's all right," he assured me. "We're quite alone here. The servants may be watching, but they're most discreet." He brought one hand to the back of my neck and caressed me gently. "Show me," he whispered.
I looked around me. There was no one around, as he said, but surely he couldn't be serious!
"Please," he urged me.
It was too much: the strangeness of meeting him here, his beauty, the violence of earlier events. I was intoxicated by it all. Turning away from him, I lifted my simple skirt to my waist. I had no undergarments on.
I could feel his eyes on me. Then his hands followed, tracing the lines of the welts where the birch had bitten into my flesh.
"Such cruel marks," he sighed, "on such perfect skin." He continued the light touch of his fingers against my backside. I knew it was wrong for him to touch me that way, but...
"Such perfect beauty," he muttered. Before I could respond, before I knew what was happening, he knelt. With one hand on my midsection, he pulled me gently backward. The warm, soft touch of his lips, which my hands had known only moments before, now came to my nether regions. He was kissing the welts where the switch had fallen!
I tried to move away, but his grip on me was firm. I didn't want to move away that badly, either. His attentions to me brought me pleasure, awakening sensations in parts of my body I hadn't realized existed.
I sighed, and I realized I was leaning forward, pushing myself against him, encouraging his ministrations.
This was wrong, I thought. I mustn't allow it! I stood erect, my skirt dropping down again, restoring my modesty.
My beautiful boy rocked back on his heels, amused.
"Sir," I said. "Your advances are not proper."
He laughed. "I should hope not!"
"Sir!"
He stood and advanced on me. He was not tall, but he was taller than I, and he looked down at me. "Damn propriety!" he said viciously. "It's done nothing to improve this world."
I was shocked by his language, but not so shocked as I was by what he said next. "Take off your dress."
"What?!"
"I said," he repeated calmly, "take off your dress."
"I -- "
Suddenly the laughter was gone from his blue eyes. He was hard and angry. The charming young man I'd met was gone, replaced by some beast, some predator.
"Don't waste my time with your notions of plebeian morality, child. You don't even know how to appreciate your gifts. I'm going to teach you, and I haven't time for nonsense!"
He said again, "Take off your clothes."
"But we're outdoors," I protested. I'd resigned myself to the situation. He wanted me. He would have me, but --
"Damn it all!" he roared, and pounced on me.
He forced me backward, my buttocks hit the stone bench by the pool hard. His hand locked around the fabric at my chest and jerked hard. The rough material gave way, rending, tearing. I felt the cool air of approaching evening on my bosom.
He shredded my garment and cast it aside. Tears streamed down my face. "Please," I begged.
"Do not plead!" he spat.
Then he looked at me, naked, quivering beneath him, and his face softened. "It isn't becoming," he said gently. "A naked woman has as much dignity as a clothed one -- more! She does not hide her beauty. She does not pretend mediocrity. But if she pleads, she demeans herself. A woman of stature does not need pleas."
I did not feel like a woman of stature. I was shivering, naked, before a man I didn't know whether I despised or desired.
"Are you a virgin?" he asked me.
"Of course!"
He laughed derisively. "Of course. Your virginity is your destitute father's only possession! A drunken miscreant, with no accomplishment in his life, but that he curbed his own lust long enough to keep your maidenhead intact."
I didn't understand what he was saying. I had a growing feeling of apprehension, though. He was looking me up and down in a way that frightened me.
"It hardly seems fair, does it? It's your maidenhead, after all. The disposition of it should be your choice, should it not?"
I didn't know how to respond. How did he want me to respond?
"Alas," he continued, "it never will be your choice. It will belong to your father, or to some slothly fellow of his choosing... or to some nobleman who fancy you take." He shook his head. "A pity, really, but that's the way of things."
He grinned a lopsided grin. "The least we can do is enjoy the situation, eh? And deprive him of his puny satisfaction?"
I realized he was unlacing the velvet tunic he wore. The ivory skin of his chest was open to my inspection. It was hairless, beautiful, but...
"Please," I whispered. "No!"
Again he shook his head. "It's really quite a burden, being the only one who knows what's right. Not right for you, of course. There is no right for you. I can't change that," he said as he slipped the velvet garment over his head. "But I can enjoy the situation."
He began removing his pants. His manhood sprang out, red and stiff and threatening. I'd never seen such before.
"Oh, no!" I sobbed.
Naked now, like me, he advanced and took me by the shoulders, holding me down against the cold stone of the bench. His knee came forward and forced both of mine apart. What was I to do? If I were to fight him, I would lose, and who would take my part?
I felt it touch me there. It was hard, and hot, so hot. He pushed. My maidenhead did not yield, and he pushed harder. The pain hit me, the burning pain. It was so much worse than the whipping I'd had earlier, for he was not being gentle.
He ripped me open. Looking down, I saw blood as it smeared onto him. The terrible pressure as he forced his way into my inner recesses made me cry out. He pushed me back. The rough stone abraded my back. The welts on my buttocks ached as they, too, rubbed against the bench.
He was humping furiously, driving himself into me. I could not catch my breath, could not adjust myself to any position of comfort, for his pace was too frantic.
His face reddened as his passion built. His hair became matted with sweat. He kissed me awkwardly, roughly. His teeth grazed my neck and chin and shoulders.
And then he was finished. I felt the wetness within me, and the pulsing of his member. His body stiffened and convulsed, and he sank down on top of me as I sobbed...
"As I say," said Mrs. Palmer, "I must have fainted. When I came to, I realized that none of it had really happened. I was still clothed, of course, and this wasn't the seventeen-hundreds. I'd surely imagined the whole thing. The shock of seeing a ghost... but had I really seen a ghost?
"And then I heard his voice. Oh, what a beautiful voice!
"'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'It won't be like that. That was a long time ago. I'm sorry you had to see it. I wish I could stop the visions of my past that follow me.'"
"I asked him why he'd come here.
"'Because,' he said, 'you wanted to be loved. I can sense that. You came here because you feel you aren't loved.' And he came forward to me, and put his arm around my shoulder. 'I will make you feel loved, if you will let me.'
"This was the same young man, I knew. The same one I'd just experienced that horrible vision about. He'd really done that to some poor peasant girl. He'd raped more young girls than there were hairs on my head, I was sure. And now he was asking me to let him love me.
"I didn't hesitate for a moment. I said yes!"
TO BE CONTINUED