Ghosts that Linger

A man marched into the ballroom, skin clammy, clutching a half drunk glass of scotch and its parent bottle. The room was empty, cleaned and closed for the night. Almost all the chairs were stacked seven or eight high and the tables were all covered with plain white table clothes. After one in the morning not even the cleaning crew bothers to come into this place. I set the bottle down on a table and dropped into closest seat angrily, making sure to face the door.

“I said I wouldn’t do this to myself anymore,” he thought to himself as he tossed back another quick swig of scotch. “I’m over this. I’m done.”

He had said the very same things to himself countless times over the past few months. It had become a mantra to him, one that was supposed to break him from this viscous cycle. Now it was just dull noise, repeated ad nauseam in his head, feeding the growing shame, melancholy, and lust. He hated the way he felt, the way she made him feel. It was all her fault and she wouldn’t spare a moment on that thought. He put the glass down.

“I could leave…” began the thought, but it never coalesced and faded quickly. Once in the ballroom, he never left. He stayed for the whole experience, no matter how much it tormented him. He was as bound to this event as she was.

He stared at the clock. Nearly half past now. She would be here soon.

He took another swig. The ball of anxiety grew.

One twenty-three. He hunched over, rubbed his hands together. He wouldn’t do it this time.

One twenty-six. The storm in his mind had become wordless, flashes of memory and impulse crashed together.

One twenty-eight. The shame and guilt began to wilt as it was replaced excitement and anxiety. His cock began to harden beneath his slacks.

One thirty.

She arrived.

The ghost drifted into the room with nary a sound. Her form hung in the air delicately bobbing up and down, like a fairy in flight. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. It always did. She looked achingly beautiful, sensuality pouring from her being. Her wavy, auburn hair flowed like jazz downward and rested over one shoulder, ending at the rise of her bust. Her sharp, vibrant eyes and luscious red lips contained all the promised wickedness she had before. Possibly more now that she was free from the constraints of reality. Her body had all the curves and movements of a slow, flickering flame and the silken evening gown wound around her only accented this. He stared silently at her, mouth slightly agape, and she didn’t even notice him.

She floated around the entrance of the room, admiring all the photos on the wall and taking in the features of the space. She wore the same look of rapt attention and delight she always did when she first arrived. It was almost a childlike glee, the same look a little girl has when they get to dress like a princess. That was how she looked when they first met, several years ago. He took another drink and refilled the glass.

It was here, in this very room that they had met. He was one of the managers of the hotel, constantly buzzing about making sure that everyone’s needs and constant whims were met. She was the guest, arm piece really, of some young buck here for a charity ball. He could tell she wasn’t used to a place like this; she tried to hide her excitement, but her grin was too wide and her reactions a bit too enthusiastic. It took some of the edge off of talking to her. They had chatted briefly that night, and at the time she was just another transient figure to grace these halls. She stood out that night, but he barely remembered her the next day.

She returned though, quickly, and soon became one of the “it” crowd that frequented the hotel. She rarely came with the same man in the beginning, clearly using them for access in the evening and pleasure during the night. He only knew this because she told him, in tipsy confidence one night. Heh. That was the first time he realized just how much he enjoyed seeing her, wanted her. The men she escorted and later escorted her were all comely with expensive suits and molded hair. He spent half his nights trying to get his suit jacket to cover the soup stains some idiot waiter cursed him with.

He took a slower, thoughtful pull of scotch. She was dancing now, in the middle of the dance floor. She held her arms and moved as if being lead by some handsome man, even though there was nothing there but air. It was no mystery as to why she never wanted him. She had all the glamorous men, the men that fawned all over her, pleasured her, broke her heart spectacularly just to return and repent for it in mind-blowing ways. He was always in awe of their confidence, their ability to use romantic magic in ways that would so completely ensorcel.

“He could never do that,” he thought looking down at his hands and the bulge in his pants. To her he was just her friend, her playful confidant. She would tell him all the sordid details; the gossip, the pillow talk, the fucking. Always the sex. She would recount all the salacious details of her sex life to him and never once notice, or just let on, his growing lust and desire for her. And he played the loyal lap dog. He would listen to every word, banter back with her, and swallow his mounting jealously and longing all so she wouldn’t leave him. How many times did he tell himself that this was the better way? The worst was when she would point out how he needed to have some fun and find a lady himself. Then she would point out some ratty looking maid or bubbly, sugar sweet waitress and he would nearly lose it. That’s right. Those were his people, the unglamorous, the real, the common. She was on a higher pedestal, spending her time with the famous and elite, and he would be there to mop the floors in the end.

She looked at him. He sat bolt upright, his full attention on her now. She floated in space staring down at him and a wicked smile grew on her lips. He knew what was coming; he hated it, feared it, and wanted it so badly all at the same time. He stroked his member over his pants as his anticipation grew. She flowed like a stream over to him, clearly pleased to see his presence in this place. He swallowed audibly. This was the hardest part. She hung in the space before him, an angelic vixen, poised to complete a ritual he felt powerless to break. He rapidly fumbled with his pants, trying to get his cock out as quickly as possible. It had already left a little pre-cum in his tighty whities. She bit her lip playfully and touched one finger to his forehead.

The rush of imagery came on in a hot flash, and he gasped as they bore into his mind. It was her. Her memories, thoughts, and sensations. All the stories he had heard, all the sordid confessions flooded his mind and he was lost in sexual revelry. He began pumping his dick with a grateful moan.

He saw her then, half naked, hands of some unseen lover running over her curves, under the fabric of her lingerie. Her moaning invitingly at the touch.

Her in the shower, back to the wall, as another beautiful man knelt between her legs and lapped happily at her quim.

She was on all fours now, languidly sucking on a man’s cock while his wife watched on, toying with her pussy. The filthy language mewled by the woman would make just about anyone blush.

He saw himself laying naked on a bed, with her straddling him, the head of his cock poised to enter her.

A girl, barely out of her teens, is standing next behind her, alternating between swatting her ass with a riding crop and twisting one of her tender, red nipples.

She stood out in the open air on the roof, singing her orgasmic bliss as well-muscled man pumped his member in and out of her.

He was hunched over a chair, pants around his ankles as she gently glided one palm over his cock and twirled the other around his asshole, half a moment from penetration.

She was on her knees, head craned upward, with her tongue invitingly draped out. Cum fired outwards and splashed across the bridge of her nose, across her cheek and into her waiting maw. Her expression was scandalous.

The images came on faster, with more urgency. She poured her experiences into him unceasingly and he accepted it with matching eagerness. He jerked himself with increasing furiosity as the thoughts become more potent and tangible. Her memories and his fantasies began to blur, as he reached and orgasmic crescendo. His seed burst from him, flying through the air and passing right through her, leaving no mark. He pumped his load out, staining the carpet and his pants. The ghost soundlessly chuckled, pleased with the results. He looked up at her finally, spent and broken.

“I wanted you. I wanted you so badly,” he confessed tonelessly. “Why not me? Why never me?”

She bent down and kissed his cheek. There was no sensation, but he felt it to his core. She raised up then, and floated across the room excitedly towards another ghostly lover, some beautiful bastard that will fill her nights with passion and romance.

“I won’t do this to myself anymore. I’m over this. I’m done,” he thought.

He took another drink.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/1pn5il/ghosts_that_linger