A woman seeking an old house with solitude so she can focus on her writing encounters neighbors she can't ignore. An interracial ghost story.
CHAPTER 2: JACOB
If that appearance I encountered in the hallway was what scared the other buyers of the house off over the years, it had a different effect on me. Could it have been the wine? Or, was it my already peaked arousal? Or, could it merely have been that in the short time since my arrival I had committed to new experiences and opportunities for both my personal and professional lives? Whatever I saw, it had quite an effect on me.
After the apparition disappeared, I continued to my bedroom, turned off the hall light but stood there. I turned on the hall light, again, and checked the hall. It was, of course, empty. I closed my bedroom door for perhaps the first time since moving in. Even lying in bed, I gave a nervous giggle at the idea. Did I think a closed door would stop an apparition … a spirit … a ghost? I lay on top of the sheet, still naked, a comfortable buzz in my head from the wine, a warm hum still flowing throughout my body. It wasn’t my imagination, I was flushed. Did I believe I saw that in the hall? Did I think it was real? I didn’t know what to think, but my fingers weren’t being limited by what I might think. My fingers were rolling and teasing my nipples, my other hand and fingers stroking lightly over my stomach, abdomen, and down over my pussy. My legs opened, knees raised and splayed to the sides. The light from the moon and stars sent shadows through the French door with the softly moving sheer curtains. I wondered if the shadows were him. Him? Shadow? My mind flashes to the shadow that passed before the mirror when … when … when I teased, taunted, and pleasured myself. My God … was the shadow him? Had he watched me? The voice I heard in my head, that deeper voice … was that him? Who was him? My eyes searched as the shadows moved but my fingers continued my light arousal. Why didn’t the appearance, the thought of the apparition, scare me? Instead, the idea of the apparition suggested a reason for the feeling I had always had about the house, the feeling that the house had an energy, an energy that seemed to feed me and fuel me.
So, with my mind pulling forward what I had seen, or thought I had seen, in the hallway moments before, I brazenly, greedily probed my pussy with two fingers as my other hand twisted, pulled, and pinched my erect nipples. And, it felt so brazen … so exhibitionistic … so lewd. Was I displaying myself to him … to it? Was I flaunting my need? This time I didn’t look in the mirror for an exhibitionistic feeling. This time I imagined him.
* * * *
As I entered Book Space, Marge’s bookstore and sometime realty office, the bell attached to the top of the frame dinged as the door opened and again when it closed. There were three other women in the shop, all middle-aged or older. Marge turned from one of the women, a bright smile coming over her face at seeing me.
“Ladies,” she said to the others in the store, “I know you gossips have heard someone has purchased Gateway House. Ladies,” she moved to me and took my arm in hers as the other women gathered in front, “this is Lexy Dorman, our new town celebrity.”
One of the women gasped. She was maybe a bit too old for the makeup and hairstyling and a couple buttons too many opened on her blouse for her weight but was clearly her accepted image. “THE Lexy Dorman?”
The other women gathered closer, their collective eyes moving from Marge to me and back to Marge for the answer they all seemed very intent on hearing. Marge patted my arm and her face glowed with the apparent honor of being the first in the community to appear to be my friend. “YES! THAT Lexy Dorman. And, NOW she’s living right HERE!”
It was almost embarrassing … almost. I smiled until I thought my face might start hurting. They fawned about my books, how much they all loved them, even the last two. They all seemed in agreement that they were not up to my standard but weren’t as bad as the reviewers said. I had apparently moved into a hot-bed of my fans. So, I gushed back to them.
“You are so nice.” I paused to appear that a thought just came to me, “Since we’re going to be such friends, I’m sure you have ideas for me …” They all nodded excitedly. “Ohhhh, I know … what do you think about maybe being written into a scene of a book? You know … a full de***********ion of yourself, even you name, if you want?” Oh, that hit the spot. I’d never done anything like that but this was a small town and fitting in was going to be different than the anonymity of the big city.
Finally, I took my opportunity. “Can I steal Marge away for a few moments?”
Marge was puzzled, then worried. She led me into the back where she had her office that obviously shared function for both the bookstore and her few realty listings.
“Did something happen?” After closing the door and we both sat, her behind her desk and me in a visitor chair in front, she nervously blurted it out. “Did something happen in the house to you, too? You aren’t wanting to back out of it, are you?”
I chuckled to reassure her. “No, no … I love the house. I love the peace, the views, I even love the way it creaks and talks in the wind. The sounds remind me of my grandparents’ house on the farm.” She leaned back into her chair relieved. I smiled at her. “I want to know more about Gateway. I know it’s old … back to the mid-1800’s … but who built it, who lived there, what was it for? I mean, a house like that in the middle of nothing else like it? There is no indication of a big, sprawling farm, orchard, or vineyard.”
Marge rose, turned to her 4-drawer file cabinet, and pulled out a file pocket. She cleared off space on her desk and started pulling documents, clippings, and pictures out. The original owner was Jonathan Hardaway. He was a sociology professor from back east and had been teaching at the University of California for some years. He had been caught by the diversity of people in the region and the lack of opportunity for some. He had an idea that received little acceptance so he put his idea into action. He believed that people weren’t limited by what family they were born into or the economic condition they were brought up in. It was an idea that wouldn’t get serious consideration for generations. To prove his point, he used up all his savings and inherited wealth to move and build an estate. The grounds included the house, the only piece still remaining, a dormitory, barn, and shop building. The dormitory would house up to a dozen young men. The other buildings and the house would be classroom and skills training. Each young man would go through aptitude testing and then focused skill training. At the end, there were 10 young men.
“The end? When was that?”
A sad sigh escaped from Marge. She dug through her files and notes. “Less than a year.”
“A year?” Why so short, I wondered. “Did the locals object? Was he driven out? What happened?”
“There’s some notes in journals I’ve recovered that indicate Gateway was received with mixed feelings. Remember it was an even smaller town back then. Some didn’t like the intrusion of suddenly having about a dozen young men of mixed heritage brought into the area. Some, though, saw it as a potential source of labor and skilled tradesmen, if Hardaway was successful. No … fire. Accounts and journals indicate that it was horrible.” She stopped as if she didn’t want to say more.
“How many?”
She sighed, “All.” She glanced up at me, “All the young men died. Documents point to the boiler of the furnace in the dormitory. It was a particularly cold night … the thought was that the furnace had been stoked too high, it ruptured sometime during the night, fire spread quickly in the wood structure … the boys … they were trapped. Some were found in the remains still in their beds.”
I stared at a blemish on the desktop. It was unimportant but something to hold my eyes rather than Marge’s eyes. “It moved that fast?” I finally looked up, “How many at the end? What kind of boys were there?”
She shrugged, “Who knows for sure. Indications are between 10 and 12. There were notes that he had a mix for his study: white, black, Hispanic.” She looked up at me, her brows squeezed together showing puzzlement. “Why the sudden curiosity about this? Again, did something happen?”
I leaned back into the chair, again. Yes, I saw a young black man in my house last night as I strolled around naked. No, I don’t think so. I met her eyes with a reassuring smile. “No, just interest. The house shows obvious style and character. It had to have been designed and commissioned by someone with something in mind. I already feel a connection with the house.” Is it possible what I saw last night was real? Are such things real? Are they especially so where there is a concentration of tragedy? It is said that battlefields can have an energy … like Gettysburg. Is that what I experienced? I stood and took her offered hand in mine. “Thanks, Marge. I might want to work the house into a book. Kind of a period piece. Would you mind helping me with background?” She, of course jumped at the idea.
As I touched the door knob, though, I stopped and considered another thought. I turned back to her. “Marge, did you find any record of what became of Professor Hardaway?”
“Yes, I did.” She moved a couple of the spread-out documents. She picked up what she was looking for. “It was reported locally that about 5 years after the tragedy he was committed to a mental hospital down in Sacramento. It was the closest hospital of its kind. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
* * * *
All day and into the early evening, I looked for signs, both listening and watching. I had only noticed the apparition once in the hallway. Or, was it only once as I remember the shadow in my bedroom? My God, the fire had consumed 10 to 12 young men. On this property. I stayed busy with my normal activities and routine. Nothing happened. Of course, I had been in the house for weeks before last night happened. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I was just losing it with all this quiet and solitude. Maybe wine and orgasms caused it. I shook my head feeling silly. I perused my latest ***********ion of local wines, ***********ed a Merlot from a vineyard just to the east, opened it to breath, and went upstairs to change. If nothing is going to happen, I may as well stay with my routine.
In the bedroom, I turned on the light in the closet, kicked off my sandals, pushed the shorts down my legs, and pulled the t-shirt up my body and over my head. I stood looking in the mirror at the other end of the closet (yes, there, too … I like mirrors). I smiled but it came out a bit sad. I still have a great body. I could still attract men. After all these years of blaming all men for the one who betrayed me, wouldn’t it be nice to feel a man between my legs pressing into my pussy? My toys and fingers have been good, but … I shake my head vigorously. I *********** a baby-doll negligee with thong panty. It’s a light red and very sheer. The thong is so sheer my shaved pussy slit is visible. As I tie the single fastening bow below my breasts, my nipples are clear. The hem falls to my butt without completely covering it and the part in front leaves the thong exposed. I raise a hand to cup a breast. Maybe the men here are different. I sigh and return downstairs barefoot to the wine.
The stairway is off the entry. With lights blazing in the house, I have a thrill as I pass the open front door and the window with curtains open. It isn’t really so risky, though. I could reasonably move around naked all day for the likelihood of being seen but evening is my time to fully relax, to read, or to muse.
I fill the glass, much more than the normal serving size, return the cork to the bottle, and exit the kitchen. I move into the room I use as a library which is cluttered with fiction, non-fiction, and of course my books along with various magazines. This room is where I can be diverted by any number of subjects. I keep my work-space upstairs spartan to focus my mind and organize my thoughts while writing. Now, though, I ignore all the books and magazines. I want to go about my new life but last night and what I learned today from Marge fill my mind. I am filled with mixed feelings and filled is a good concept of it. I cannot settle, relax, empty my mind, which is my intention at this point in the evening. Even if my intention is to use the wine as a slight buzz to settle me for sleep or to explore my body with fingers or toys, to bring the feeling of euphoric pleasure, it is to leave behind the other things of the day. It isn’t going to be so easy tonight. I feel consumed, burdened by what I have learned.
The switch at the door turns on only two floor lamps. It provides a soothing, subdued atmosphere for reading or getting lost in thought. A second switch turns on focused strip lighting for searching the shelves. I am standing at the window which overlooks the grounds to the north of the house and only then does Marge’s more detailed comments about the property sink in … the dormitory and other attached buildings were right there.
I turn and look, searching really, around the room. If I am not losing my mind, what was it about last night that brought the apparition out? But if it was here once, isn’t it always here? And, if one, what of the other 9 or 11 others lost that night?
“Hello?” I venture it softly, uncertainly. Is this proof I am losing my mind? Is it even wise to want to attract an apparition, a spirit? If this house is truly haunted, is that a negative? Are spirits by nature in turmoil or angry or obsessed by something that they remain? I have felt an energy from the house. I haven’t understood it or accepted it before last night. There was just something about it, something new and unique, something that encouraged a feeling of excitement and daring. Even last night didn’t feel threatening.
I turn from the window and move into the center of the room. I turn fully around, inspecting all the shadows. “Hello? Are you here?” Nothing. “You showed yourself to me last night. Are you one of the boys who lived here with Mr. Hardaway?”
After a few moments, my eyes moving back and forth across the room, shadow to shadow, it happens.
The furthest floor lamp flickers and the room seems intermittently illuminated. I see, though, that it isn’t the lamp flickering in intensity but something interrupting the passing of the light into the room. A shadow appears … in front of the lamp … disrupting the flow of the light. There is substance without being substantial. Is that even a real thing? The shadow is intermittent, wavering in its thickness … density? … and it is that which causes the flickering effect of light. Like last night it has the impression of less human figure than a disturbance in the air, a smoky shadow that appears and then fades and reappears.
“I want to talk to you. Can we talk? Can you talk?” As the form before me begins to establish more substance, density, I can see it is the same one as last night. “You’re the one who came to me last night. Are you one of the boys who lived here?” The sense of smoky shadow shifts to a distinct image, though having a translucent quality, the lamp light behind it creating an eerie effect coming through its body. Gradually, even that effect reduces as the image’s density increases until it is standing 10 feet in front of me. But … no, standing isn’t right. My inspection over its form indicates that it is hovering off the floor without ankles or feet. I tear my eyes away from that disconcerting image and raise my eyes to his.
“Are you one of the boys with Mr. Hardaway?” He nods. “Are you the only one here?” He shook his head that he wasn’t. He looks shy and reserved and it was as I studied him and his reaction that it hit me. His eyes seemed to fight himself to show respect but they also continued to shift, repeatedly dropping to the floor between us but quickly shifting to my face but more frequently to my exposed body mutely covered by sheer, loose fabric. A chill goes through me. My intention to keep eroticism in my nightly routine to stimulate and motivate my erotic, X-rated, romantic novels has me unwittingly nearly naked and seductive before him. Not that it should be a new thing, if he has been watching me all this time, anyway. A small smile forms on my mouth at the thought. If he has been there, if he is the reason for my feeling watched, if he is the reason for feeling an energy in the house, he has witnessed my graphic nature far beyond being dressed in a sheer negligee.
He looks behind himself, again, like he did last night before dissolving into smoky wisps. I step forward urgently, “No, please … don’t leave … not just yet. There’s so much I want to know.” He hesitates before turning back to me, the little bit of dissolving reformed.
“Ma’am … I shouldn’t … we agreed … a long time ago. We wouldn’t interfere with the living, but …” He stammers it out, haltingly, the words seeming to struggle to come out correctly.
“But?”
“Ma’am … the Professor, Mr. Hardaway, said I was too curious sometimes. I could never resist coming to see who was living here.” He looks sad, ashamed and guilty, his eyes falling before looking back up. “I never meant to scare anyone, to cause them to leave. We’ve just been alone so long …”
“You keep saying ‘we’. Are there other boys? Is it just you boys here?” He nods.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I settle into an easy chair, my favorite chair for reading. To be honest, it was more of a collapse into the chair. I wasn’t just thinking I was seeing an apparition; I WAS seeing one and I was communicating with it. Each exchange between us seems to have a corresponding effect of solidifying its form. It still had no ankles and feet and continues to hover off the floor, but other features became crisper and defined. For instance, I could see his eyes self-consciously travel over my body while trying not to be obvious about it which was impossible. I became very aware. I quickly cross my legs and my free hand crosses my breasts, tucking it under my other arm as if holding it tightly to me provides more coverage than was real. I was still provocatively dressed in a sheer baby-doll that did nothing to hide my body underneath. A spontaneous smile forms on my mouth as a shiver of excitement spreads through my body.
We talk for a considerable time after that. I was going to offer him the other chair but he was floating before me. How tiring can floating be? I soon found the wine in the glass gone and I definitely need more. I thought I was handling all of this pretty well but I need more alcohol. I was talking, interacting with an apparition, a spirit, a ghost as if it was a normal thing to have happen. And, it wasn’t … not a normal thing at all.
“I need more wine. This is … well, it’s all very … difficult to absorb.” I gaze at him. “I don’t suppose you imbibe, anymore …”
He chuckles, clearly more relaxed about the exchange than I was currently. “No Ma’am. There are many things we miss about being … well, being dead.” He didn’t say it dreadfully but like a guy might about missing baseball after the end of the season.
I stand and walk out of the room to the kitchen where the bottle sat on the counter. I was very aware of him following behind me even though there was no sound of his non-existent footfalls. Instead, I felt it. I felt or sense him behind me, felt his eyes on my exposed body. I try to restrict my walk but find I can’t, that anything I did to minimize the movement only tended to make it more aware to me. I quickly pour more wine and gulp some down. I turn and lean against the counter, my arm crossing my breasts, again, and my thighs squeezed together with my feet crossed.
We continued to talk as I consumed more wine and the buzz has its relaxing effect. I soon find myself much more animated in our conversation, my body moving freely as we talk, my arm no longer attempting to cover me, my legs parting as I shift from one foot to the other, as I walk to *********** another bottle of wine and begin consuming it. I fill a warm glow spreading through me and only part of it was the buzz of the wine.
We have numerous barriers in communication. For one, we have about 170 years separating our understanding of the world. Things I take for granted like a simple move from Chicago and airplanes are unimaginable to him. Besides the technological and societal changes over 170 years is the relationship of a young black man to a mature white woman living in a house like this from his perspective. Hence, his persistent use of the term ‘Ma’am’.
His name is Jacob. There had been 10 other boys, young men, who died in the fire. There are seven who remain on the site. He can’t explain why the seven remained or why the others didn’t. What he did know was that they saw … felt … were aware … how devastated the Professor, Mr. Hardaway, was after the fire destroyed the other buildings. Jacob had been identified by Hardaway as a leader of the other boys and installed as such even over the white boys. It was an example of how advanced Hardaway’s thinking was for the time, not only in providing skills training but instilling equality thinking into them. After the fire … and their deaths … they found themselves tied to the location out of concern and devotion to Hardaway. Time no longer had meaning to them but after some time and after the others pressed Jacob about what they should or could do for Hardaway, he realized that some of them were not among the group. He didn’t know what happened to them. He said he wasn’t aware of a ‘light’ that people talk about as a guide to heaven. He never saw that. Was it his, their, concern for Hardaway that they missed it when the others saw it? He didn’t know. All he knew was that those that weren’t there anymore were the white boys and he didn’t know how that could be significant. Maybe those remaining somehow felt a strong tie to the Professor? He didn’t know.
They were desperate to somehow assist or comfort the Professor, that they didn’t blame him. Initially, there wasn’t much they could do, though. They felt incapable of communication or interaction. They shared among themselves but that was the extent of it. The others came to Jacob. What could they do? Jacob was determined. There were stories that everyone knew about spirits scaring the living by opening doors, knocking things off tables, etc. He decided it was just a skill to be learned like what the Professor had been working with them on. It became an obsession for them. It took a long time but they slowly made progress and, once they did, they understood how to improve. Soon … not soon, it was actually quite a bit of time … they solved the elements of matter so they could influence the physical world. Then, came the sounds.
The Professor was guilt-ridden and despondent. To help, it was they who tore down the fire ruined structures and pile the scrap for complete burning. The sub-level where the boiler was located was filled in. People from the town came regularly to attend to him, make sure he ate. They marveled at the progress he made in cleaning the property. Unfortunately, he was honest with the people. He always gave credit where credit was due so he told everyone that his wonderful boys were his help and he owed all the progressed to his boys. He began talking about his boys so much, even talking to some of them when people were present, that he was finally committed. It was a sad day when he was driven away from the property. Now, the boys truly were alone.
Buyers came and moved in, but, as Jacob said, he was too curious. Once they could interact with the physical world, it was difficult to be completely invisible and unobtrusive when being snoopy. The boys eventually made an agreement to not intrude on those living on the property. Jacob, though, being not only the most curious but also the leader would take liberties. As he did with me.
His story had me mesmerized. It wasn’t just an interesting story. It was being told by someone who was dead. I was captivated by another part of his telling it: his voice. His voice was very familiar. I knew it, had heard it before. Certainly, it must be a voice similar. When would I have heard a ghost’s voice? Where would I have …?
I straighten up, tensed by a thought, a memory, a … realization. “You said you learned to materialize, to influence the material, the physical, world.” He nodded. I could see his features perfectly. I hadn’t noticed until now how real, how physically real, he looks. His eyes were sharp, his mouth forms a shy, yet anticipating grin. “You said you learned to talk.” Obviously, that’s what we’ve been doing, girl. The thought in my mind, “Can you speak without being material? I mean, without taking on a form like … like this … like you are now?”
He steps closer to me. It wasn’t stepping … he glides closer to me. Now only 5 feet separate, I expect to get some scent from him, some natural musk, even something from his clothes, but he wasn’t really real, like a real person, I mean … My mind going in too many directions with too many colliding thoughts and suddenly aware of implications.
“Yes, Ma’am.” For a moment he looks awkward, then his expression changes as if he has made a decision and he looks determined but struggling to appear confident but isn’t quite. “Ma’am, you are … are very beautiful. You’re different than all the others. You belong here. We don’t want you to be afraid of us. We can protect you here.”
Oh, my God … I’ve heard some of those words in that voice. In the cloud of my lust last night. The shadow across the mirror. The voice in my head … it wasn’t in my head … it was him?
“You … last night … in my bedroom.” He holds my gaze quietly. “You … I was teasing, taunting my image in the mirror while I … the voice in my head responding wasn’t in my head, though, was it? That voice was you. That’s why the mirror blurred, went fuzzy … you were passing in front of it as you watched me. You were encouraging me, enticing me to … you were the voice goading me to be … to act … oh my God … you watched me last night!”
His black hand reaches out toward me. It stops just shy of my right breast and nipple visible under the sheer baby doll I wore. I have an overwhelming desire, need to coverup. But what’s the sense in that. I’ve been exposed this whole conversation and … last night …
His hand stops mere inches from my nipple. I can see his need, his longing, his eyes fixed on my breast. Without pulling his hand back, his eyes rise to mine. “I mean no disrespect, Ma’am. You are so beautiful. We died when we were so young and … some are inexperienced.” He pulls his hand away. “I am sorry, Ma’am. We’ll leave you alone if …”
I reach out. It wasn’t even a thought. What did I expect to happen? Would I grab him or would my hand pass through him? My hand grasps his hand, though. It’s solid, there is substance there. Though I intended to grasp him, doing so is shocking and my hand pulls back at the touch. He feels so real. Suddenly, everything about this night changes. Now, it is as if I am in front of a man … he feels like a man … and I am almost naked and … last night … he saw me … last night …
“Jacob, wait.” What am I doing? What do I expect from this? I not only remember a few of his words but now the conversation, his encouragement and my responses, play back to me like a high-speed playback: ‘You like watching me, don’t you?’ ‘Yes … I like watching you. I have since you arrived. You belong here. We want you here. We’ll protect you.’ ‘I’ll be the slut, then!’ ‘Be our slut. There is so much waiting for you.’
My mind is whirling. He’s a ghost … not real. Listen to yourself, I think. A ghost but I touch him. He may be a ghost but he felt real. I look into his eyes, he’s only a few feet from me. I softly touch his face and I do touch it. His skin is smooth and dark … black really, black as coal.
“You feel so real, but …” He chuckles and it sounds delightful. He’s regained his confidence with my touch. “Last night … you said, there is so much waiting for me, if I … I said I could be your … your …”
He reaches up and touches my face. I gasp at the touch and shudder, involuntarily. “You didn’t know you were talking to me.”
“No, I didn’t.” I take his hand in mine. I look down at it. This is crazy. What are you doing? “But the feelings were real. At the moment it was what I felt. You feel real, Jacob. Are you real? Real enough?”
I move his hand, my eyes still holding his, and gently place its palm on my right breast. I shiver and sigh, my eyes closing softly at the feeling of his hand on my breast over the sheer fabric. I hear his gasp as he feels the same touch. My eyes slowly open and he is watching me. This is clearly unexpected territory for him. To watch me was one thing, to be touching …
My mind might have argued with me, but I was past putting too much thought into this. I might not want a man but this wasn’t really a man. I pressed his hand into my breast and it squeezed me. I sighed, again. Oh … to be touched, again.
“Jacob … how real can you be?”
His eyes stay on mine. He is weighing my words, my reactions. Am I sure? Is he? “Are you sure, Ma’am?” I give him a nod. It’s subtle, even timid, but I’ve said it and I mean it. He pulls his hand from my breast and, for a moment, I am disappointed until his other hand joins at the bow tied below my breasts holding the flimsy gown together. My breath is instantly caught in my throat as I watch his hands take hold of the two loose ends … and pulls. The bow opens and we both gaze at the whiteness of my skin showing in the opening of the red, sheer fabric. His index finger touches the exposed skin between my breasts. It glides up my chest to my chin. The slightest of pressure raises my chin and face and his lips come down to mine. His lips are full and as his touch mine, a shiver courses through my body.
When he pulls back, my breath expels with another shuddering gasp. Oh … he feels very real! My breath catches in my throat more than it freely flows. My heart is racing like I attempted to run a couple miles. My mind can’t accept that this could be happening, and, as a consequence, my mind can’t anticipate what might happen next. My body, though … may body feels very accepting of what has just happened and whatever it is that will happen next.
Jacob is so real now in every appearance that I feel he IS real. His body stands a mere foot from mine. His finger leaves my chin, slides over my jaw to my neck, his eyes follow the finger as it travels over my collar bone to between my breasts and down over my stomach. I shiver intensely when it stops on my belly button before moving further down to my mound where it stops.
I’m watching his eyes as his are watching his finger touch my body. When his finger stops on my mound and his eyes rise back up to mine, my breathing is ragged and my eyes reflect my growing desire and lack of fear. He leans back into me, his face and lips coming closer and closer so slowly, so sensuously. My face is turned up to him, my lips part in anticipation of his next kiss. At the same time, both of his hands come to my collar bones. They graze my skin softly as they catch the edges of my opened, flimsy gown and push the edges to my shoulders until it falls like a whisper down my arms to the floor at my feet. Both hands softly, gently cover my breast and I moan into his mouth.
As he pulls back, he gives me a quick parting peck on the lips. He takes a full step backward where he stops and his eyes travel down and back up my now completely naked body. At the same time, I appraise him with much more intention. He is fully formed now, obviously by his physical touch. He is at least a full head taller than my 5’ 3” inches, maybe 6’ tall. He appears strong with wide shoulders and narrow waist even in the loose clothes. His skin is jet black. His hair short and nappy. His hands hanging next to his legs are huge but I have already felt how tender they can be. Continuing down, he still doesn’t have any feet, which is somewhat disconcerting as an image, but he stands still before me as if he did.
A thought occurs to me and I flush profusely. He seems to notice and looks into my gaze intently.
“I … you … you’ve seen me … in bed before last night, too?” He nods. Damn, he looks so real! I catch a reaction that he’s embarrassed to admit it. But he does admit it. “Others? I mean … you said there were seven of you still here … have the others … seen me … watched me, too?”
A smile forms on his lips and his shakes. His eyes keep going to my breasts but quickly return to my face each time. I am convinced by his actions and manner that he has strong desires but equally strong intention not to disrespect me. There is a timidity about his gaze and gentle touches.
“No, Ma’am. As I said, we had decided, agreed, not to intrude on the living, but …”
I smile, “You are too curious.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Sorry. We didn’t want to scare you away like the others. They have all seen you, of course. They’ve seen you around the property, on the balcony, on the porch. I am the one who ventured inside. They have seen you in your nightgowns at night through the windows and when you venture onto the porch at night. But I am the only one who has … watched you like last night.”
I watch him closely. Why I feel so comfortable, I can’t begin to understand. Even getting past the part of him being a ghost, he’s a stranger in my house and that should be alarming. But none of it is.
“The others don’t know?”
He laughs. I don’t know why, maybe because he’s an apparition and I don’t know what to expect, but his laugh is rich, hearty, and full. It makes me smile and fills me with delight. “No, they know. They weren’t happy about it, either. I managed to convince them to let me explore a relationship potential. Maybe you were different.” He chuckles, “You certainly are.”
His hand rises toward my right breast. His thumb and forefinger approach the nipple, then stop. My breath is caught in my throat … again. I take his hand in both of mine and bring it to my nipple. His fingers capture my nipple and I sigh.
I am still in disbelief as I watch and feel his fingers at my nipple as he squeezes and tugs on it gently. I take a deep breath and another sigh escapes with it. “If this isn’t a dream … if I’m not going crazy now …” as a moan rolls out as his fingers roll the nipple “… I want to explore this, too.” He looks up from watching his own fingers. Perhaps he is in disbelief of this happening, too. I continue as our eyes connect, “Jacob … it has been so long since I have wanted to be with a man since … well, never mind about that. It’s been a long time.” I search his eyes and face. “Have you … been … with a woman?” He nods and his hands shakes slightly. Nerves. He’s getting nervous. “But it’s been a very long time for you.”
He nods. “Time is different for us. But, yes.”
I crush into him. I feel his hands and arms around my back, his hands carefully gliding over my bare skin. “I want to, Jacob. This might be crazy, but I want to. Can we? Can you?”
What a silly question, can he. As I press my hips into his, I can feel that he can. I can feel his arousal pressing against me and my curiosity is inflamed. It is like nothing that has pressed against me in my life. I feel his nod, his willingness, his acceptance. I raise my face to him and he lowers his to me. As we kiss, again, my hand slides between our bodies. I press it against his stomach and feel his body underneath is as hard and taut as I imagined. I slide the hand over the belt holding his ill-fitting heavy pants. As it continues down, I feel the head of his cock underneath. He is very hard. I smile to myself with unabashed pleasure that at 47 years old I can still create such a reaction from a young man. I ignore the reality that it has been well over a century and a half for him. As I press my hand down, I am shocked at the feeling. How big is his cock? How long is it?
I break the kiss out of need to find out. I look at his face. His breathing is ragged now, too. His eyes have changed, reflecting need and desire. At least we are on the same wavelength. I drop my other hand from his face to his shoulders. I was right, they are wide and muscled. My hand drops to his chest and I sigh with delight. He feels like solid muscle. All this time, though, my other hand is squeezing and massaging the cock underneath.
I take a deep breath. I am acting like a wanton slut. I am sure women, certainly not respectable women, didn’t act this way, this aggressively. I don’t care, though. He’s seen me pleasure myself. He was there when I declared my sluttiness. He watched my explosion of sexuality. But … a stranger … a ghost … I must be dreaming.
My fingers undo his belt buckle. I glance up and see him suck in a breath and hold it. I sink down to my knees in front of him. I wonder, briefly, what his experience before was. A whore for the night? A lover? I doubted he had a lover around here. Did any act like this? Am I shocking his impression of me but his use of ‘Ma’am’ is unwavering …?
When I undo the buckle and open his trousers, I expect them to drop down his legs and pool at his feet. First, he still doesn’t have feet, but when his trousers begin to drop … they disappear. I look up and find his shirt has disappeared, too. Very weird. The clothes aren’t real. He is probably manifesting his appearance as it was when he died. I find my hands on his hips, his bare hips. It feels electric. Not really electric like a charge but in a sensory kind of way. His naked, hard body under my hands. I look up as my hands rise over his hard, tight stomach to his hard, broad chest. While my hands are above my head stroking his strong, muscular body, his hard, black cock is pointed at my face. Without thought my head moves forward only inches, my lips slightly parted, and I kiss the bulbous head. It twitches at my touch. Damn … it’s so big it doesn’t stand up straight but points at me. I am guessing a good 12 inches long … and thick. Longer and thicker than any of my toys. My hands slide down his body and take hold of it. I gasp when both hands are around his weapon and the head is still not covered. I open my mouth and take the head between my lips. I hear him gasp. It feels so real. It even twitches as my lips close around it and my tongue licks and swirls around it inside my mouth.
I can feel my pussy leaking. This is surreal. Nothing about this is normal or reasonable. This is beyond understand, comprehending. My body overrides any thought, though. Understanding … or attempting to … is for later.
I rise to my feet, my breasts sliding sensuously up his skin. I wrap my arms around his neck and he meets me in kissing. This time, we don’t merely kiss, we devour each other. I press my hips into him and I feel his hardness press into my stomach. He responds by pressing back and moving me back against the counter. God, I want him … I need him … I have to feel him inside me. This is insane, crazy, impossible. But I want it.
I pull my mouth away from his and bury my face in his shoulder, my breathing coming in ragged gasping pants. I hold him tight as my body shudder in his embrace. As I grind my pelvis into him, I could orgasm right now at the slightest increase in sensational stimulation. Not here, though.
I push him, take his hand, and turn to the door leaving the kitchen. How long have we been here? How long have I been exposed to his eyes? Oh God! Have the other been watching? Unseen, invisible … watching? Will they be watching upstairs when I give myself to him, plead with him to ravage me? Because I know that’s what will happen. I want him to take me, to ravage me. The X-rated romance novelist finally getting hers. I don’t care. I realize I really don’t care. Have I always been a slut waiting to come out?
I pull him along through the house, not bothering with turning off lights or locking up doors and windows. I pad up the stairs barefoot but my steps are the only sounds, yet I have his hand in mine. His feet … why doesn’t he materialize feet?
I release his hand once we enter the bedroom. I strip down the cover and top sheet, crawl into the center and lay down on my back, my thighs together. He stands at the foot of the bed. His cock still pointing at me, his muscled body looking beautiful to my lusty eyes. My eyes flick to the balcony opening. I see shadows appear that aren’t the moon through the curtains. I suck in a breath, pull up my knees and splay my legs open. One hand fondles a breast while the other slithers down my body to the space between my thighs. Exposing myself, offering myself.
“I know they are here. It’s okay. Only you tonight. I have to work into all this. Is that okay? Can they accept that?”
He looks around him. “Are you saying … you will include them all … in turn?”
I blush. The bedroom is dark, lit only by the hall light and the moon. Whether he … they … see my blush or not, it feels like a hot flush filling my body. I nod, “Yes.” I lick my lips. The hand between my legs has found its way to my pussy and a finger slips inside. “You must think I am awful, a whore, for behaving like this.”
Jacob crawls onto the bed between my legs. He bends over, moves my hand, and kisses my pussy. I feel his tongue probe over my slit, parting the wet lips before sinking into the hole. It is only a moment, though, before he is leaning over my body and kisses each breast. Then, “We know times have changed, Ma’am. We see how blacks and Mexican are more accepted. We see how women have power and authority. We haven’t had to react to it … until now … with you. We won’t have judgement. We can’t. We will be too grateful.”
I pull him in with arms around his neck. I kiss him hard. “Then, tell them to have patience with me. As I unknowingly professed to you last night, I’ll try to be a good slut for you … all of you.”
God, what was I saying? Would I regret this in the morning? I wanted this place to open a door to a new life with new experiences and potential. Damn, what could be more experiencing than accepting seven young bodied ghosts into my bed?
I look into his eyes. What is it about this whole thing, this whole situation that excites me so? “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m not a slut, Jacob. At least, I never have been.”
He pressed his hips down and I felt the head of his cock press against my pelvis, then slide over it as he rotates his hips forward. I gasp and moan. God … that feels so good. He sees the hunger in my eyes. He moves a hand down between us and aligns his cock with my drenched pussy. The head presses against my hole and he leaves it there. Its presence against my hole is driving me crazy.
“You’re so big, Jacob.”
He smiles and presses harder. The head pops past my hole, spreading me more than any of my toys. I gasp. He looks down at me with only the head of his cock inside me. “I’ll be careful, Ma’am.”
“Damnit … if you’re going to be fucking me … call me Lexy.”
He chuckles as he presses his cock a few inches deeper. I groan. “I’ll be careful, Ma’am”. He smiles at me. Despite what I am inviting to happen, I understand the inherent respect he/they will have toward me. “We all will. We’ll protect you, too.” Each short phrase, he presses his cock an inch deeper.
I wrapped my legs around his hips to raise my pelvis up to his steady entry into my clenching pussy. When he had all 12 inches inside, my mouth was flowing with a steady stream of moans, groans, and sighs.
“Oh, Jacob … oh my God … Jacob, you fill me … so much. I’ve … never had … oh, please … fuck me until I scream.”
He leans forward over me after kissing each breast, first. Then, he pulls about 9 inches out, pauses, and drives it all back in with a single mighty thrust. I scream in wondrous delight but he knows to continue and he does. Pulling out and thrusting back in, over and over, then faster and faster. I feel his cock bouncing off the walls and cervix as he drives deep inside. My eyes are closed and my mouth open. It feels like the thrusts in expel air from my lungs and pulling back pulls air back into them. I feel like I have been completely taken over by him and his cock.
His hands grasp under my knees and lift them up, then he presses them back toward me. His face shows he is watching my reaction as he folds me. Thank God for all those yoga and Pilates sessions. As he folds my body with my knees alongside my head, I am extremely exposed and open. He has had some experience and, in his day, it must have been an acrobat from a circus. I stifle a giggle at the thought but he diverts me by slamming back deep into me.
After minutes of wild fucking, he releases the hold on my legs and they sag onto his shoulders as he remains leaning over me, wildly thrusting. Each thrust brings a gasp, groan, or moan from my throat. My eye lids flutter and my eyes are unfocused. My breath is stuck in my throat more than not. It truly seems his thrust help expel air trapped in my lungs. My fingers dig into the sheet, my head turns back with my mouth wide open, my toes curl, and legs stiffen as my body tenses. This wild, deep fucking that fills my pussy completely is beyond anything I have felt and my body is quickly at the crest of an orgasm. I want to cum with him, I want to share it with him, but there is no stopping this.
I didn’t even feel the shift. He is braced with one strong arm as he plows into me while the other moves the fingers to my exposed, engorged clitoris. He presses on it without missing a stroke and my body jerks up causing his cock to bounce off a new location inside me. When his thumb joins his finger, my clit is squeezed, then rolled … my orgasm crashes over me with the force of a sensual tsunami.
My body convulses as the orgasm seems to have no limits or end. As if it shoots through my body and bounces back like a highly charged sensual echo that rolls over and over through my body. As it eases just a bit, I can feel my nipples and clit throbbing and tingling. I can feel my pussy spasming around the cock buried inside it and only then do I recognize that he has paused in his fucking but he is still deeply buried.
When my muscles stop twitching, but before my breathing begins to calm, he puts my hands to his neck and tells me to hold on. I look at him puzzled. My legs are still over his shoulders, now my hands are interlocked behind his neck. He thrusts a few more times. My pussy squishes in responses I am so filled with my own juices. He backs up, gives me a smile as one arm slips under my back, and stands up off the bed. Stands or hoovers? I don’t care. My body falls with gravity as I can affect little else besides keeping myself from crashing to the floor. He thrusts into me as he moves us to an empty space of wall where he presses me up against it. My mouth is getting dry from the panting and verbal exclamations. Pressed up against the wall, he pounds into my pussy, again. Unrelenting, powerful, deep, and consuming.
My grip on him was sagging but his hands are under my butt and my back pressed into the wall. His thrusts cause my body to smack and bump into the wall. My eyes open wide as his pelvic bone crushes my exposed clit and, in that moment, I can see multiple, distinct shadowy images moving around us in the room and my mind registers them with certainty as not moon-lit shadows from the shifting curtains. The other boys are here, maybe all of them, watching as I am consumed by one of their own, by their leader. That realization sends a psychological jolt that sends me into another orgasm.
In the midst of this orgasm, though, Jacob sags down, releasing on leg from his shoulders, then the other without removing his cock. He clasps me in his arms and my legs rise to encircle his hips, and he stands. He walks us back to the bed and rolls us several time until we are securely on the bed and I find myself on top of him. His cock is still inside me. I take a moment. I know what he wants and I fight with my body to gather the strength and control over it. I raise my upper body and pull my knees under me so I am sitting on his cock and hips. FUCK. It impossibly feels like he is deeper than ever. I lean forward while panting for control, his cock slipping inside me as I do, and kiss him between gasps.
I separate our lips by only inches. Our eyes are locked on each other. His are searching mine. I give him a weak smile. His eyes are bright and energy filled. Does he not tire? Do they not experience the same physical fatigue and exertion even when they have taken a material form?
I slide my hips back and forth on his cock in a weak effort to fuck him. “Oh, Jacob … you’ve brought me to wonderful orgasms twice. I want you to climax, too.” His smile makes me think there is something he knows that I don’t. He pinches both of my nipples.
“Turn around on me. Face the foot of the bed, then. Fuck me like you want me to cum.” He smiles.
I look over my shoulder. There is nothing there, nothing but shifting shadows. “They are there, aren’t they? Watching. You want me to fully display myself to them.”
What am I turning into? A shiver crawls over me as I do exactly as he requests. I shift my legs and hands as I rotate on his pole. What a strange feeling it is. I glance over my shoulder at him and his hands stroke my back. My hands move to my breasts as I slowly rise on his cock and back down. My eyes move around the room in front of me. I can’t see anything for sure, just shifting shadows. I rise and fall faster and my hands leave my breasts, one bracing me on his thigh and the other entangled in my shoulder length hair. In the mirror before me I can see my body rising and falling, his cock visible, then buried back inside me. I can see my D-cup breasts bounce and sway as my fucking increases. And … I can see the mirror image occasionally becoming fuzzy or blurred, then clear, and I know what that means now.
I am bouncing wildly on him, the cock inside hitting me wildly and occasionally glancing off my cervix. I feel like I might explode … again. The tension in my body increases. I see in the mirror my hand rising to a breast, the other hand moving down to my crotch as I rise and fall.
Jacob rises behind me. His hand around my waist for support as his mouth comes closer to my ear. He whispers, though there is no need except to tease me. “You sense them, don’t you?” I nod. I am fucking him with everything I have and his words add more excitement. “You are being watched by the other six while you fuck me.” I moan. My eyes are searching but there isn’t anything there. I am close to cumming, another orgasm is cresting as he teases me with his words. Are they there? Is he just taunting me for effect? I am bouncing on him wildly; my hips and stomach shake by the impact and my breasts flop and sway. I am so close.
When he speaks, again, it isn’t to me. “Now! You see she is willing. Show yourself and kiss her.”
My eyes bug out at hearing his words. More shocking, and arousing, is the materializing of the other six boys in front of me, all gathered at the foot of the bed, only feet away. Three more blacks and three Hispanic. They might be roughly the same height but my mind isn’t prepared to absorb detailed information at the moment. They are all dressed in similar old-fashioned work clothes. I stare in disbelief and overwhelming arousal. I am fucking one. I am obscenely fucking on the hardest, biggest cock I have known as the others mill around in front of me. The exhibitionist feeling of walking around the house in a negligee is suddenly nothing compared to this feeling of open display before a group of young men whose hungry eyes are taking in every part of me, I am displaying and they are taking in what I am doing.
The first one, a Hispanic, steps to the foot of the bed and with one knee on the bed, takes my head with one hand behind it and kisses me on the lips as his other hand fondles a bouncing breast. One by one after that, each of the others comes to me, some fondling a breast or both, or slipping a hand to my crotch. As the third of the young men kisses me, my orgasm releases. I shake and moan but never stop rising and falling on the cock as the remaining young men touch and kiss me.
I am still shivering in orgasm, my hips slowing in motion, and I am connected in sight with each of the eyes of the men in front of me. I feel Jacob jerk and swell inside me. I feel him spasm as he jerks deeper, holding my hips against his. The feeling is as if he is cumming … but I don’t feel his cum shoot.
It is all too overwhelming, though. I sag as my eyes slowly close. My image is the young men rushing to catch me as I sag to the side.
* * * CHAPTER 3 will follow * * * Thanks for reading.