My name is Bella, I live in Denver, Colorado, and I had sex with a ghost. Not just any old ghost, because that would be amazing, but not quite amazing enough to be worth telling the world about. No, dear reader, I had sex with my father’s ghost.
Let me start from the beginning, for I understand that incredible claims require extraordinary burden of proof.
I was born in Denver 26 years ago, the first and only child of my loving and caring parents, my mother Martha and my father Kevin. They were originally from Rapid City, South Dakota, but decided the big city would be a better place to find opportunity and raise a child, so as soon as my mom got pregnant, they packed everything and drove south. I love Denver, and I am ever so grateful to them for the move. It’s the right mix of hipster, modern, cool, and yet outdoorsy and wild.
Ten years passed, until the day my father starting having headaches. Three weeks with no reprieve convinced him to see a doctor. After a myriad of tests, the diagnosis left no mercy nor hope: cancer, 6 weeks left to live, at most. It turned out to be 4. Really, three. The last week, the drugs had already killed the man I knew, only his body left behind, his pain and his haze. When he passed away, I was heartbroken, but relieved.
My mom took more hours at work, she gave me everything she could, and even though it was never easy, over the years, we made peace with reality. Without dad, Denver was my home, but not hers. Once I found my way to college, she moved back to Rapid City, sharing a large house on the outskirts of town with my aunt Mary. I stayed behind, in my childhood home. I studied in Denver, I found a job in Denver. Colorado is home and will always be home. The memories in this house are bittersweet, but it’s home. I am a creature of habit more than anything, so I stay.
Very little changed since my younger days. I changed the art on the walls of my bedroom, and, well, I bought myself a magic wand. Whenever I end up single and in a dry spell, it is a life saver. It literally keeps me sane and away from craziness. I named it, and I put a little heart sticker on it. No, I am not telling you the name!
Now that you know everything there is to know about me, I can tell you the story, the story of the time my dad’s ghost fucked me. I was in my bedroom. It was a warm summer afternoon, as the sun was about to set down and a gentle breeze on its way to make everything cooler. Everything but my arousal. It had been weeks since the last time I had sex. I was going wild with lust. Maybe ovulation, maybe loneliness. Suffice it to say, that day, I needed an orgasm more than one needs air and water.
I laid on my bed, fresh sheets and a cozy soft pillow, no fabric on my skin, as naked as the day I was born, but oh so much cuter, and less whiny.
I let my fingers slide on my pussy, gently finding their way inside me, one hand caressing my feminine core, the other pinching my nipples, teasing them, rubbing them with my fingers, bringing my breasts to my mouth for biting, for sucking.
I let out a sigh, then another. I was home alone, and I didn’t care if the neighbors heard. I could be loud, and that day I meant to be. It was not a day for holding back, it was a day for release. No act too shameful, no pleasure too guilty.
I bit my nipple so hard I let out a moan of pain. And pleasure. I let go for a moment, caught my breath, and realized I was oh so fucking wet. And my finger had slid deep inside of me, and I realized it felt oh so good to be penetrated. To feel full again. Oh how I missed the sensation of a cock in me. Oh how I wanted one.
And that’s when it happened, dear reader.
I felt a gush of pleasure, a rush of sensation, an electric jolt inside me. It felt as if a hard throbbing cock had penetrated me. I was full. Much fuller than my fingers ever could. I couldn’t explain it. I was most definitely alone. I would have known if there was a man on top of me. “Oh fuck” I exclaimed.
Nobody spoke. But I heard it. I heard a voice. I heard my dad’s voice. Voices are the first thing one forgets of a loved one passing away. But after all those years, I knew my dad’s voice as I heard it. He told me he loved me. “What the fuck”.
I wasn’t above smoking a joint. Or two. But that day, I hadn’t smoked. I hadn’t drank. I hadn’t used any drugs of any kind. And yet I was sure I had heard my dad tell me he loved me. And I was sure I had felt my dad inside me. Sexually.
“What the fuck?” I half screamed half moaned.
And again, he spoke. He told me he loved me. He told me he had never left us, just moved to a different echelon. He was not a body, but his soul was still his soul. He was still my dad. Just in spirit. And he told me how beautiful I was. And how much he had missed me. And that he wanted to feel me close. “Just for tonight” he begged me. “You know you need this as much as I do” he pleaded.
As fucked up as that may sound, he was right. I needed pleasure. I needed to cum. And, he was right. I needed to be fucked by a man. Even if that man was a ghost. Even if that ghost was my father. I caved. “Just for tonight” I moaned.
I saw his smile. He laughed, of that soft laughter of his. And he gave himself to me. As man and woman. As father and daughter. We fucked. He was a passionate, fierce, animalistic lover. I was reminded of my youth, when sometimes I’d hear things from their bedroom, things I had not understood then, but that I did now.
He was deep inside me. Hard as a rock. His cock throbbing inside me. My entire hand was inside me. Thrusting so hard it almost hurt my wrist. Slapping. As if my dad’s balls were slapping against my pussy. I was wet. Soaking wet. I could see a wet stain on those fresh sheets that only an hour ago had given me so much joy. I could smell my own scent. I was horny. I was panting. Gasping for air.
My dad’s hand choked me. I felt yet another jolt. How did he know I loved being choked? “Fuck dad” I moaned. “Kiss me” he retorted. He wanted my mouth. I gave everything I had to him. I gave him my body. “I am yours, dad. All yours”. I melted away, I was but putty in his hand, I was his. Like I had never been a man’s.
He held me tight. He fucked me deep. I felt his body press against mine. I felt his mouth on my neck. I kissed the air, my tongue twirling in empty space. But I felt his breath. I felt his taste. And I felt him inside me. I felt his cock twitch as he came. “Fuck dad you’re cumming. Fuck you’re cumming inside me dad” I moaned. Was it crazy? Maybe so, but I felt his cum gushing inside me. I was not one to let men cum in me raw like that. But for my dad, I broke all my rules. I welcomed his cum. “What if you knock me up?” I teased him. He laughed. He said nothing.
And then I came. I came so hard I pissed my own bed. And, spent, I laid down in my own juices. For what felt like forever. My dad next to me. Smiling. Breathing softly. And then I fell asleep.
When I woke up, he was gone. I was alone. Had I dreamed? The stains on the bed said otherwise. But I was, once again, alone in my home. As if nobody else had been there. I knew better, but how could I convince anyone?
Will he ever be back? Come again?
I don’t know. But I know he was here. I know what we did. I know I fucked my dad’s ghost.
I know I love my dad, as a woman loves her man. And I know that every time I masturbate in this bed, I will wait for him to come and fuck me again.
*I would love to thank u/Bella_Babe95 for inspiring this story. This fantasy would not exist if not for her sense of humor and good cheerful spirits*
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/l3nzdw/mf_inc_mast_mention_of_pee_my_dads_ghost