The Haunted Victorian #2
The hand teased my pebbled skin, inching beneath my sleep shorts, and I squeezed my eyes shut. "This isn't real," I whispered into the dark, silent room. "It's not real."
I held in a gasp when the ghostly hand parted my lower lips, spreading the wetness I couldn't hold in if I tried. I slapped a hand over my mouth when a moan escaped me.
The contrasting temperatures, the icy fingers sinking into my heated core, eliciting pleasure laced with fear, had me whimpering and rolling my hips. They plunged deeper, two fingers, then a third, faster, so fast I could hear the noisy squelching of my pussy as they worked me over.
This wasn't a dream.
It felt too good. Too real. And it wasn't an abstract idea of a ghost: creaky floors and flickering lights, strange sounds at all hours. It was tangible. Visceral. It was touching me. And I was just… letting it.
The madness of the situation finally dawned on me. I gasped and sat up, ready to jump out of bed when the force of a second palm, flat on my chest, shoved me back down onto the mattress.
Get up, Dina! Scream! Run!
I thought those things, but I didn't move. I just kept rolling my hips. It was the most exciting moment of my life.
A slideshow of all the things that brought me here, to this house, to that moment, flickered inconveniently through my mind.
Loneliness. My old one-bedroom apartment, my only company, a sad spider plant that I over-watered with too much attention.
Working from home meant I had to go out of my way to meet people, but I hated small talk.
Even generic contentment felt perpetually out of reach.
Pent up with boredom, the dread of suffering through another day of the grind—wake up, work, cook food, go to sleep, do it all over again the next day—it was suffocating. Like being buried alive.
Soul-crushing and predictable. Boring.
I'm a data analyst. My job consists of moving numbers from one macro to another. Repeatedly. Then auditing them. Then I do it all over again.
But now I have secrets. Mysteries. A haunted house.
Wake up, work, cook food, go to sleep. I could do all those things.
But maybe I could also allow cold, ghostly fingers to pry me open, even if that meant I was going insane.
"Who's there?" I cried. "What is this?"
Silence.
Maybe it was just a desperate attempt to escape the unbearable weight of waking up every day. But it didn't really matter to me at that moment, because while I was scared, I was also ready to take it.
The fingers kept plunging, in and out. Faster now.
I was moaning, and I bent my knees so I could take it even deeper.
And then the other hand, which held me down on the mattress, pulled down my tank top and squeezed my breast. I looked down and could see the movement, the fabric bunching, my nipple exposed to the night air, hard and pointed.
This was real. But it wasn't real; how could it be?
Did I care? was my next thought, as my knees shook and I rocked my hips.
No, I didn't care. The hands worked me over, fast yet thoughtful and seductive, until a cold thumb pressed on my clit and thrummed. I screamed into the silence, legs shaking against the cold hands. I took it all.
When I came down, the hands didn't retreat. They touched me how I imagined being embraced by a lover. Cradling, nuzzling. A hand wrapped around the back of my neck, holding my nape, while a burst of tingling cool, like champagne fizz, danced across my lips.
I opened up and kissed him back.
And that was the night I met Eric.
Eric
"Damn you, piece of shit motherfucker!" Dina yells into the dining room, a place she's converted into a temporary home office. She lifts her laptop, poised to slam it down. I watch with amusement as anger colors her expression. Her teeth snarl, strands of her wild hair falling from her ponytail.
She lets out a slow, exaggerated exhale, then gently sets the laptop down.
"This is it. I'm destined to spend my days analyzing and calculating incorrect data because the internet is so fucking slow and took so long to catch up that I'm reading the wrong goddamn numbers over and over again!
" Her voice rises at the end of her tirade, but she takes another deep breath and sits back down in her chair.
I wish I could comfort her, or help in some way. Leaning over, I read the details on her computer screen, but they mean nothing to me. Greta didn't own a computer, so I'd never seen one before Dina moved in.
A lot changed when Dina moved in.
I was determined to hate her. To scare her away. A relation to the woman who terrorized me and many others, how could Dina, who looked so much like her kin, be any different?
But in those first few days here, with quiet determination, she moved around the house, cleaning out Greta's junk—our junk, things Greta stole from us—and got rid of it all. Each day, the house felt lighter, brighter. I felt freer.
I didn't know how cathartic it would be, having someone clean out the remnants of Greta's terrorizing reign.
And I watched Dina—with so much tension coiled inside her, she looked ready to pop—swallow down her frustrations, roll up her sleeves, and work through everything this house threw at her.
Piles of stuff, strange rooms with cold spots that made even me uncomfortable, trinkets belonging to the dead, mirrors upon mirrors which reflected more than what was visible.
But she had patience, and just kept going.
It was beautiful.
And she was beautiful.
A pin-up straight out of a 50s magazine. Thick curves, hourglass shape. A soft belly, tits and ass that jiggled when she walked. I couldn't take my eyes off her as she walked around the house, unaware I followed her every step.
She fixed and cleaned things and muttered to herself about how much work the house needed, and at one point, questioned her decision to come here.
I don't know if she meant it, but the idea of her leaving sent me into a panic.
I couldn't let her go, not after everything I'd endured.
Dina's arrival brought life back into the house. She couldn't leave. I wouldn't let her.
I hadn't planned on making her come. But when I stood over her, watching her sleep, something shifted inside me.
I went from wanting her gone, to hoping she'd stick around, to wishing I could wipe that sad look off her face.
She struggled with it at first—me, touching her.
She didn't believe I was really here. But I have ways of making myself known.
It's exhausting, and sometimes I exert too much, and disappear for a while.
I fall into some in-between place: an empty void that's as terrifying as being killed and chopped up into small pieces, then buried beneath a rose garden.
But I had some energy reserved, and I used it all on her.
Dina came so sweetly for me, and for the first time since she arrived, she began to relax. And over the next few months, we fell into a rhythm. Eventually, she no longer jumped in surprise when I kissed her or wrapped my arms around her in a hug.
If only she could hear me. See me. Touch me back.
I tug at one of her loose strands and trace my fingers along her neck. She smirks and leans into my cold embrace, but keeps typing on her computer. I know Dina needs to work to save up enough money to make this house more habitable. Like fixing the wiring, so she could have better internet.
But I want her attention.
Her jaw tics when I don't stop, but she doesn't tell me no. So I keep touching. The benefit of being non-corporeal is that it doesn't matter if she's wearing clothes. My cold caress trails to her collarbone. I squeeze her breast, flicking her pointed nipple through her shirt, making her shiver.
"I'm working," she sighs. But it's hardly a rejection. So I don't stop until she closes the laptop and pushes away from the table.
"Dammit, Eric." She looks up at the ceiling and sighs. When her shoulders shake with laughter, her tits bounce a little. It's distracting.
"God, you're a menace. I wish…" she starts, looking not directly at me, but to the side. She doesn't know where I'm standing.
I ignore the pinch in her expression, lips pressed together. Because if I acknowledge it, if I let her dwell, then we both have to think about the fact that this is the only thing I have to offer her.
Her lips are naturally a little red, but when she wets them, they shine like she's been sucking on a lollipop. I focus on her pleasure, on her wet lips, instead of the sad look in her eyes.
She looks around the empty room and shakes her head.
Dina doesn't finish her sentence. There's no point. There're a lot of things we both wish. But this is enough. It has to be.
She pops the buttons on her shirt open, one at a time, exposing her big round tits shelved in a lacy bra. I may not be able to feel physical pleasure, but the sight of her is still breathtaking. I remember what that feels like. Pleasure, release.
I can make myself get an erection, but I don't actually feel anything. It's more just willing my body to take a certain shape. There's no warm blood coursing through me.
Dina enjoys doing stripteases for me. I think it makes her feel less alone, because if she just sat in her chair and spread her legs, I'd be little more than a vibrator.
When the last button releases, I let her take her time, shimmying it down her shoulders. Then, tapping into my energy reserves, I push her onto the table. She squeals with laughter.
It's the greatest sound on Earth. She radiates like the sun.
And I take my time, so I don't end up in that in-between place, and by the time she's ready to come, I give her my everything.
Dina
Sitting cross-legged, I open the last two musty boxes. Over the last year, I've cleared every room of Greta's trophies except this one.
I've already emptied all the stuff that was stacked on the floor. I carried the big armoire out to the street and sold it online, along with a ton of other furniture.