Chapter Six Feels So Good
Johnny Miller is a giant ghostly vibrator.
He doesn’t know he’s doing it, I’m sure.
He’s being a gentleman, which I feel a little surprised at, seeing as how he comes off rough around the edges, and tonight when he appeared, he was in a black leather jacket with “Hellcats” written across it.
Even when he’s in a plain white tee and jeans, he looks like a brunette James Dean. (Well, a grayscale one.)
He didn’t make any comments about slipping into something more comfortable. He isn’t trying to grope my ass or sneak around to my side boobs. His hands glide up and down my back and neck as I lie on my bed, moaning like a girl on one of those porn cam sites.
Devon gave me a massage a couple of times. Five minutes max.
Johnny has been going for... Well, I don’t know how long. Don’t care, either. I’ll stop when he’s tired.
“Do ghosts get tired?” I ask.
“Sure. Tired of being lonely. Tired of questions. That sort of tired.”
“What about sleepy?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t want to tire you out.”
“You’re not, sweetie. You feeling any better?”
“I feel amazingly better. It’s so good. I don’t want it to end. But don’t worry, I’m not selfish. You don’t want to sit here all night, rubbing my broken back.”
“On the contrary, I think I’m an asset to your recovery. I could go a while longer.”
“Yes, please,” I moan shamelessly, and Johnny chuckles.
“Your wish is my command, princess.”
“If that’s true, be my partner in science for a minute—if it’s not too weird.”
“Weirder than a ghost giving the woman investigating his murder and living in his house a back massage? Nahhh.”
“You know how earlier I patted your shoulder, but I went through it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can that happen again?”
Johnny’s still for a second, and then—the pressure is lighter, and then deeper, sinking into me. For a moment, we’re both silent, locked together, his hands inside my skin, like he’s passing through walls, only I’m the wall.
A broken, panting, squirming wall.
“Too much?” Johnny asks, and his voice is panting, too.
He doesn’t even need to breathe. “Is it hard?” I whisper. I don’t know how much effort it must take to change states of solidness, to hover in this odd limbo of passing through someone’s body but not.
More silence. “You want the truth?”
“Absolutely.” Poor guy. Gosh, I wonder if he’s really afraid I’d exorcise him, or that I won’t help him “cross over,” and he’s doing everything I ask, even if it is painful. “I want you to be totally honest.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m trying to be hard, or anything, but this tingling sensation is spreading beyond my hands. Everywhere. And it’s very... stimulating. Pain-relieving and then some, you might say,” he says in a careful voice.
Oh. Hard.
Hard like that, Amber.
I’d be offended or grossed out, except that every time he presses towards my hips, my pussy practically purrs out loud. I’ve already been plotting to make myself come in the shower once we’re done.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not going to fantasize about my tall, dark, and delicious version of Devon, the Devon I shape with my imagination. I was planning to think about some old Hollywood heartthrobs.
“I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position,” he murmurs.
“I’m not complaining. But, uh... But you can stop now. I should hit the shower. My back feels amazing. My head is pain-free. Thank you. So much.”
“Good. Say, uh... You eat yet?”
“No.”
“I noticed you have some pasta and things in the house. You want baked ziti?”
I would give you a blowjob if you gave me cheese and carbs right now.
That’s what unfiltered Amber almost said.
Thank God, Amber with a brain is also here. “I would love that. Want to watch a movie with dinner? A lot of the oldies are streaming for free these days.”
“Sure... But I want to see something new. I feel like I’ve been in the past forever, with just little glimpses of the world when I hear the radio, and when my relatives would bring paperbacks to leave here.”
“Paperbacks. Books.” I spring up—okay, spring is a stretch, but I get up, passing completely through Johnny as he stood behind me.
The sensation is enough to make my entire body throb like I just had a legit orgasm, the kind I have to deliver by myself after a glass of wine and with a favorite toy in hand.
“I have a ton of books. Help yourself. They’re all in the boxes in the bedroom closet here.”
John beams at me. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he says.
Shit, he’s cute.
And dead, Amber. What kind of life would you have with an undead boyfriend?
There’s a question you shouldn’t have to ask.
But I’m in Pine Ridge, and Johnny says there are plenty of supernatural creatures around, so maybe it’s one that others have already asked and answered.
“I’ll go get that shower,” I practically stammer, and escape into the bathroom.
Baked ziti. The dish I would have made for Nancy. I don’t have the time and ingredients to make it from my Ma’s recipe, like I did back in ‘54, but Amber has jars of sauce, boxes of hard pasta, and bags of shredded cheese.
It’s ten minutes until a poor man’s version of Ma’s heavenly dish is in her oven, and I go back to Amber’s room, to the closet.
Not my fault I hear a sudden grunt and groan from the shower. Not my fault I hear a gasp of “Johnny!”
On instinct, I push my head through the door, torso following in a panic. What if she’s hurt? What if her legs spasmed instead of her back, and she’s hit her head on the faucet, and she’s bleeding out in my bathtub?
Instead of coming upon a grisly accident, I end up behind Amber, who is standing, glistening and naked, in the shower with the curtain folded back just a few inches.
Her back is towards me, and her hand holds the handheld shower between her thighs.
She bends forward slightly, and I go invisible, because my cock is winning.
I know I should leave.
But she’s calling my name as she leans forward, the spray of the shower right between her thighs, playing pointedly over her pussy. I float up, angle myself down so I can see better, get a glimpse of the pouty brown and pink treasure her fingers are buried in.
“Johnny, God, you feel so good,” she whimpers, soft, hardly a whisper.
My cock is so hard it hurts.
Amber. You look so good. Bet you feel even better. Let me make you feel so much better—that’s what I want to say.
Instead, I jerk myself away from the bathroom, and fling myself through the nearest wall, making for the shelter of the nearest tree. In seconds, my hand is wrapped around my cock, and I’m beating my palm against my hardness, the image of her body in my mind, her voice in my head.
I know I’m going to cross over soon, but maybe I could enjoy the time I’m here—if Amber likes that idea.
“Amber. You feel so good,” I hiss into the September night, and come hard, a cloudy, warm burst that fades into nothing.