Spirit Lovers 2 Read online

  ‘How, how did you know I was a …?’ My voice was small and slightly slurred with the effects of the champagne. He must have heard me and Liz talking. It was the only way. Roughly, in his arousal, he pulled me up and led me to the bedroom standing me in front of the mirror. He smiled. He was going to make me come again.

  The light shone in his eyes and I felt deliciously terrified. He pushed me on the bed, straddled me and I knew he had me in his power. I suddenly realised who, and what he was when I saw that monstrous, enormous erection. He smiled at me and stroked it lovingly. ‘See, little virgin,’ came his devilish smile. ‘Not many women get the chance to ride on this.’

  Excited and awestruck at the same time, I closed my eyes realising that this would indeed be the most extraordinary fuck, worthy of me saving myself.

  He moved up the bed, grabbed one bouncing breast and rubbed his prick over it. I didn’t dare open my eyes. My own arousal was swelling between my legs again as I felt the tip of his monstrous cock scrape against the hardness of my nipple. He trapped my arms above me and I felt him move down, ready to enter me. He paused, rested the tip of his cock against my sex and then, only caring to satisfy himself, he rammed it into me.

  The sensation was gratification and torture all at once. He moved out and rammed into me once again. Never had I imagined I could feel so full and so utterly, gorgeously, totally fucked. As he thrust in, again and again, like a battering ram I felt the shaft of him bruise my clit. I gripped the covers of the bed, feeling his burning cock ramming into me until I raised my hips again to feel a blasting, mind blowing orgasm and felt his hot salty come shoot into me.

  I dressed quickly, knowing I couldn’t stay. This was no ordinary encounter. There wouldn’t be another drink on another day; there would be no swapping of telephone numbers, no getting to know you. ‘I’ll see you down in the lift,’ he said silkily. ‘Let it never be said that I’m not a gentleman.’

  He guided me on my unsteady feet, back to the garden. The last thing he said as he turned to go was, ‘some women would sell their soul for what you’ve just had. I don’t suppose you’d like to consider it? You’re very beautiful. I could offer you whatever you wanted in the world. Anything you want, just name it.’

  ‘Thank you but no,’ I said turning, anxious to go. And as my words floated on the evening air, I looked back to find he had disappeared.

  My mind was shattered by the mind blowing sex, like nothing I had ever imagined. I had been impaled on the biggest phallus any woman was likely to enjoy. I felt chosen, special, but I knew I’d taken a chance and had been on a journey to the edge of something very, very dark. I was standing still in a complete daze, in the black night air, when I heard Liz’s footsteps running up the path. ‘Thank God you’re still here and OK. You are OK aren’t you?’ she panted, taking in my wide-eyed expression.

  ‘Fine,’ I managed. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Oh thank heaven. I felt guilty rushing off. And then I remembered what my nan had said about going three times anti-clockwise around a church and scared myself half to death. They say that’s the way you conjure up the Devil. Did you do it, after I’d gone? Did you go three times round?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And did anything happen?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Liz. It’s just a rubbish superstition.’ I turned to glance up and take a last look at the penthouse but it had vanished, just like my demon lover. ‘You know something weird?’ I grasped Liz’s arm and turned to go. ‘I think I’m finally over Brad. After all, he’s just an ordinary man, isn’t he, nothing special. He’s history.’ The air was freezing, and I was a virgin no more. My liberation was complete. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

  The Washstand

  by Elizabeth Coldwell

  As soon as I saw the washstand in the window of the antiques shop, I knew I had to have it. I’ve always had a passion for Victoriana – probably the result of too much Alice In Wonderland when I was a child – and I’m slowly filling up my flat with it. The washstand, with its heavy mahogany legs and blue-patterned china jug and bowl, would be the perfect finishing touch for my bedroom.

  I peered more closely, looking for a price tag and failing to find one. I pushed open the door and went inside. A bored-looking blonde was standing behind the counter, buffing the nails of one hand with the thumb of her other.

  ‘I’m interested in the washstand in the window,’ I said, managing to distract her from her personal grooming. ‘Can you tell me anything about it?’

  ‘Sorry, not really,’ she replied. ‘Mr Hoskins is the man you want to speak to, but he’s on his lunch break. He’ll be back in about half an hour.’

  That was no good. I was supposed to be showing my portfolio of illustrations to a prospective client in ten minutes; I’d only wandered into the shop because I had some time to kill. ‘You don’t happen to know how much it costs, do you?’ I asked.

  She went over to the window display and hunted out the price tag, which was attached to the leg of the washstand. ‘Forty-five pounds,’ she announced.

  I couldn’t believe it; I almost asked her whether she’d misread the label. I’d seen others, in poorer condition, selling for five or six times as much. It should probably have crossed my mind then that it was rather too good to be true, but I was too busy celebrating my fortune at discovering the bargain of the century. ‘I’ll take it,’ I said.

  I made out the cheque, arranged for delivery, and still reached my appointment with minutes to spare. Half an hour later, I was on my way home with a commission to provide the illustrations for Amanda The Naughty Panda, and everything was perfect. Or so I thought.

  The washstand was delivered a couple of days later, by two inarticulate young men who proceeded to drink me out of coffee and waste an hour of my valuable drawing time by poking through my work and chatting about The X Factor because they had a slack morning. My annoyance was dispelled by the sight of the washstand in pride of place in my bedroom. I think I wasted most of the remaining day arranging and re-arranging the rest of the furniture to make my new purchase appear the focal point of the room.

  I should have slept soundly that night, worn out by my uncharacteristic burst of spring-cleaning, but no sooner had I dropped off than I was woken by a sudden sound. It was as though someone was pouring water into a bowl. I’d obviously left a tap running somewhere, I told myself, but when I checked, all the taps in the flat were turned off; not so much as a drip. And the noise had stopped. I sighed and padded wearily back to bed.

  I thought no more about the trickling water, but the next night it woke me again. This time it seemed to run for longer, and was accompanied by splashing sounds. Perhaps the problem was not with the taps, but with my pipes. I lay awake for a long time, worrying about the possibility of leaks and the expense of getting them repaired. In the end, I got out of bed, found a torch and peered in every cupboard in the flat that pipes ran through. I found nothing but a beautifully-lagged hot water tank and a spider the size of a ten-pence piece, which sent me shrieking back to bed.

  By the third night, I was beginning to feel ratty. I was so tired I’d actually fallen asleep at my drawing-board that afternoon. I snuggled under my duvet, promising myself I would ignore any noises, but in the end that proved impossible. This time, accompanying the splashing I had heard before was a low, tuneful humming. I sat bolt upright. The other noises had been annoying, but this was genuinely frightening. There was nowhere the humming could be coming from. I lived at the end of a terrace, and the flat below mine was on the market and had been empty for the last three months. I couldn’t be hearing a neighbour because I had no neighbours.

  Which meant there was someone in my flat. I reached for the mobile phone on my bedside table, intending to call the police and demand they get over here as quickly as they could. But when I pressed the keypad and the face of the phone lit up, I had the shock of my life. In the dim light I could see the intruder was standing at the washstand, his back to me. And he was stark nak
ed.

  In that moment, my terror was replaced by another, equally primal emotion. Lust. I couldn’t see his face, but the rear view he was presenting me with was pretty stunning. His back was lean and gently muscled, his thighs sturdy and his arse mouth wateringly firm. I don’t know who the hell you are, and I haven’t got a clue what you’re doing in my flat, I thought, but I really, really wish you’d turn round.

  I watched him for another couple of moments, soaping his broad shoulders and rinsing them clean. Then a car went past in the street outside, belting out bass-heavy music at full volume. At which point, my mysterious intruder simply vanished.

  I rubbed my eyes, then crept over to the washstand. There was not a trace of water or soap in the bowl or on the wooden surround. Perhaps I’d fallen asleep without realising it and had some kind of lucid dream. If not, then there was a ghost in my house – and a hot one at that. I climbed back into bed, too tired to worry about it any more, and was asleep within moments.

  The next evening, I got my answer. I’d spent most of the day working on the book illustrations, ‘til I’d grown tired of the cute little panda with the pink ribbon in her hair. Then I reached for a new sketch pad and began to draw what was really interesting me – the man I had seen the night before. From memory, I captured the strong lines of his back and arse, all the while wondering what he looked like from the front.

  I decided to have an early night, retiring with a mug of hot milk, honey and nutmeg. My sister, Suzanna, swore it helped her to get a good night’s sleep. But I had only just finished the drink and turned out my bedside lamp when the splashing started again. Once more, I used my phone to illuminate the room.

  He was back. Still naked, still soaping that magnificent body of his. Snuggled under the covers, I watched as he reached for his flannel. Then, to my delight, he turned to face me. My first thought was that he was older than I had been expecting – somewhere in his forties, with an appealing if sharp-featured face. Though I’d never had any particular leanings towards men of that age, I felt strangely as though he was someone I would have liked to know better in real life. Then my gaze moved lower, taking in his broad chest with its little pink nipples, flat stomach and thickly-furred groin. His cock hung, limp but promising, and he took hold of it, clearly intending to give it a wash. Suddenly, a police siren blared out somewhere on the main road. With the peace disturbed, the apparition dissolved, just as it had done the night before.

  Almost without being aware of what I was doing, I pushed my nightdress up and slipped a hand between my legs. In my mind, the naked stranger took up from where he had been forced to leave off, soaping that nice, long cock of his. My fingers strummed my clit as I imagined him caressing himself in an increasingly intimate fashion. An orgasm rippled through me, gently satisfying. Afterwards, I slept as well as I had in ages, and though Suzanna would have put it down to the milky drink, I knew better.

  Nothing happened the following night. At least, nothing I saw or heard. It was a Saturday, and the students who lived four doors down were throwing a party. Their music wasn’t particularly loud, but it encouraged me to sit up watching films rather than going to bed early, and I woke some time around dawn, having nodded off on the couch. I felt unaccountably annoyed, as though I had been deprived of a longed-for treat.

  Sunday night, however, more than made up for any disappointment. I had just put out the light when I heard the familiar sounds of water being poured into a bowl and a man’s voice humming a jaunty tune. Regular as clockwork, my ghostly visitor was making his nightly appearance. As he had done before, he spent time washing his back before turning his attention to his front. To my delight, just as in my fantasy, the soaping of his cock turned from mere hygiene to something much more intimate. He stroked along the shaft with long, deliberate movements, until it stood hard and proud. I watched, entranced, as he pushed back his foreskin, freeing the juicy, red head. He played his fingers lightly over it at first, lubing himself up with his own pre-come, and then he began to wank himself in earnest.

  For a good five minutes, his fist flew up and down his cock, tugging and teasing. Occasionally, he rolled his balls between his fingers, causing him to hiss through his teeth in pleasure. I squirmed under the covers, rubbing my thighs together and feeling my pussy tingling as I watched him. It was just as exciting for me as having a flesh-and-blood lover doing the same thing. Steadily, he moved to the point where his climax was inevitable. Just in the moment before he threw his head back and his spunk shot out all over his hand, I could have sworn he looked directly at me. His expression of lust mixed with wicked amusement was burned on my eyelids as I brought myself to my own orgasm. When I opened my eyes again, he was gone.

  I knew then I needed to go back to the antique shop and try to find out more about the unusual piece I’d bought.

  Luckily, when I stepped through its door the following morning, there was an elderly, grey-haired man, who I took to be Mr Hoskins, behind the counter.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he enquired.

  ‘I do hope so,’ I replied. ‘I bought a Victorian washstand from you a few days ago ...’

  I didn’t quite know how to explain what was happening without him thinking I was somehow deranged. I bought this washstand, and every night I see the most gorgeous naked man standing there. And now he’s started playing with his cock ‘til he makes himself come. Yes, telling him that would surely get me escorted off the premises.

  ‘Ah, yes, there’s a rather interesting story attached to that piece,’ he said. ‘It came into my possession from an antiques dealer in Essex. He told me he sold it to a middle-aged woman only for her to phone him up a couple of days later demanding that he come round and take it away again. She was adamant there was something wrong with it, but he couldn’t find anything. A month or so later he sold it to an elderly couple. They brought it back within a week. In the end, he was desperate for someone to take it off his hands. That’s why I was able to sell it to you so cheaply.’ He smiled benevolently at me.

  ‘And that’s the story?’ I said.

  ‘Well, the second buyer apparently used the word “haunted”, but I don’t believe in any of that nonsense... You’re not going to ask me to take it back, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I’m perfectly happy with it.’ I made to leave the shop, then turned back with my hand on the door handle and asked, as innocently as I could, ‘When you say haunted, what do you mean, exactly?’

  Hoskins smiled. ‘As I said, it’s just a piece of nonsense, but people do seem to be interested in that sort of thing. Apparently, the washstand belonged to something of a philanthropist. His wife died young and he never remarried. Instead, he devoted his life to saving fallen women. One night, as he was getting ready for bed, his heart gave out and he simply dropped down dead where he stood. The story goes that his spirit still haunts the washstand as he tries to complete his night time preparations.’

  I thought his spirit had done a pretty good job of completing them the night before, but I didn’t say anything. Still, if he’d put on anything like the same performance for the other people who had bought the washstand it was no wonder they’d taken it back. I suspected not everyone would enjoy having a ghostly exhibitionist in their bedroom quite as much as I did.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘it probably is nonsense. But at least it’s an interesting story to tell visitors when I show them the washstand.’ I thanked him for his time and left.

  I mulled over the story Hoskins had told me all the way home. I couldn’t help thinking I had made some connection with the ghost the night before, and I wanted to know what happened next. Would he wank himself off for me every night, if he knew he had an interested audience? I supposed there was only one way to find out.

  That night, I waited patiently ’til my visitor appeared again. I let him reach the point where he’d just taken his cock in hand and was beginning to stroke it to full hardness when I sat up and announced, ‘I can see you, you know.’
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br />   I expected the apparition to vanish at the sound of my voice. Instead, he came close to the bed and replied, ‘I had become increasingly certain that was the case. I hope I have not offended you with my behaviour.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, not quite able to believe I was having a conversation with a man who had been dead for over a hundred years. ‘To be honest, I was enjoying it. But I need to know exactly why you’re doing it here, now, in my bedroom.’

  He smoothed the covers and sat down beside me. ‘I do it because I must. Let me tell you about myself so you will understand better. But first, I must know your name.’

  ‘Ros,’ I told him.

  ‘Ros, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Geoffrey. And I have no idea just how long I have waited to find someone who would see me and appreciate that I mean them no harm. I only ever intended to do good with my life. When my Nancy was taken from me, I found solace in helping other women who had never had the opportunities or good fortune she had experienced. Then ...’ His voice trailed off, and I sensed he was unsure how to continue.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I met a girl, Amy, in Whitechapel. She called herself an actress, but in truth she sold herself to the stage-door Johnnies who frequented the music halls of the East End. I felt the same love for her as I had for Nancy, strong and physical, but though I did my best to persuade her to give up her profession, she could not – or would not.’

  Instinctively, I put a hand out, placing it sympathetically on top of Geoffrey’s where it rested on the covers. I had expected him to be cold and insubstantial, but instead a vital warmth seemed to flow through him.

  ‘And so I began to live a double life,’ he continued. ‘By day, I would continue to do all I could to give the women who walked the streets the chance of a better life. But at night, I would pay Amy to come to my home and lie with me. She was there, the night I passed over, lying under the covers, watching and waiting as I washed and prepared myself for her. All I knew after that was the sharpest pain. And since then I have found myself forever repeating those preparations, unable to leave this earthly plane.’