Gender: Male Age: 75 Location: Salt Lake City
|Introduction: Fucking A Ghost For Fun And Profit|
You don’t believe in ghosts and other imaginary creatures? You would if you had sex with one, I bet. Anyway that is what happened to me. After I had my wild adventure I have thought long and hard about finding a way to join my beautiful little supernatural seductress. I miss her…
The last place in the world I would choose to work would be in a cemetery. However it was the only job and I was almost out of money so I took the only work I could find. No way would I choose to work among grieving relatives and freshly buried stiffs. Don’t get me wrong, I am as sensitive as most people about death and dying. If it is up close and personal it is horrible. On the other hand, if it ias someone else involved then it’s sort of, gee, too bad and pass the sugar please.
But I sure as hell did not care to make a living by working around the dead. I’d rather be a hamburger flipper for Big Mack or something. But “landscape technician” was the only job available and I needed to work to eat.
When Big Solar Electronic Industries decided to “relocate” to India that meant two hundred and fifty of us all got the axe at the same time. I lost my car after I missed one payment. This meant I could not even move to another city where I might be able to obtain employment.
The good looking young women, and some of the not so good looking got all the fast food jobs around and us guys got what was left which were slim pickings, indeed. I put in applications and handed out resumes like they were welfare checks in California.
Unemployment doesn’t really pay enough to live on, so when I found out about a job as a landscape technician at the cemetery, I became one. I wore Frisco Jeans and an Izod polo shirt to work in, the most plain costume in my wardrobe. I rode a big mowing machine all over the beautiful green vistas that the permanent residents weren’t able to appreciate and trimmed the edges of the walkways with a power edger. I picked up loose paper and made certain that there were no unsightly wilted flowers on the graves or loose candy wrappers blowing in the breeze. That was how I met her.
The job was an undemanding one intellectually. I mean, just how much thought do you have to put in to pick up the trash left behind by the grief stricken friends and relatives of the deceased? The dead certainly didn’t cause any problems. Or that was my impression before I met her.
I had bent over to remove the week old flowers from a holder. They were withered and as dead as all the permanent residents there. Just as I started to stand straight I heard a soft, melodic woman’s voice say, “How sad, the dead flowers are removed from the homes of the dead they were placed to honor. How very sad. The poor flowers.”
I quickly stood and turned around to see who was talking to me. I looked down at a tiny woman who appeared in her early twenties, or perhaps even in her late teens. She had those perfect features poets describe as “ageless” and normal males call wonderful. She wore no makeup whatsoever and hadn’t even a ribbon in her flowing in waves, raven black hair that hung way down past her waist. Oh, My God, what a tiny waist she had. I mean, Barbie, eat your heart out.
Her very fine chiseled upper class English features were so striking that even lipstick would have been too much. Her glowing porcelain alabaster skin was pale. It looked as if the sun had never touched it. As if reading my mind, she said, “I so seldom seem to be out during the day, you know.” Then she looked at me and smiled and said, “But no, how could you know?” Wanton angel was the description my feverish mind conjured up.
All I was capable of was to stand there benumbed and stare at her perfect, beautiful, almost flawless features. Her dark as midnight hair blew in gentle in the breeze, tag ends lifting and waving, to come to a rest as the gentle winds blew for a moment and stopped, only to blow another gentle breath once more.
The simple nearly transparent shift she wore was loose fitting and hung on her in soft folds that left little to the imagination. It was of such light and diaphanous material as to show more than it covered. It was very obvious that she had nothing on under it. There was a faintly dark smudge of a tiny black triangle where her legs made their juncture. Pink aureoles peered faintly through the thin material at me. I ached as I stared at the most exquisitely beautiful, exotic and completely erotic creature I had ever seen.
“Thank you for your admirin’ stares. They are welcome to my thirsty soul.” She stared up into my face and smiled, not a sluttish leer as you might expect from someone dressed as she was, it was a friendly kind of smile, such as one that which would be bestowed on a dear friend or even a long time lover.
Then, with no coquetry at all she said, “I must go now. Meet me back here at sundown, unless bein’ in th’ presence of th’ dead bothers you?”
“Oh, not at all.” I assured her. “I haven’t much money, but what should I bring?” Oh Christ, if she said expensive Champaign, I was going to steal some if necessary. She had already stolen heart and my very reason. All I knew for certain was that I had to possess her. No matter what the cost, I’d willingly, even with eagerness pay the price.
“Bring nothin’ but thee.” she told me with a smile.
“Where are you from?” I asked her, desperate to prolong the moment. “Your accent is so charming. Is it Scottish?”
“O’er th’ hill an’ a bit awa’ frae here,” she answered, pointing in the direction of the ocean, not too many miles distant.
I looked down and tried to think of something, anything to say to just be with her for another moment. No female ever affected me the way she had. But when I looked up, she was gone, like a puff of smoke. She had completely disappeared in the blink of an eye. I looked all around and couldn’t see her anywhere. There were no large stones anywhere that could hide her, not even a tree or a small bush. But she was gone.
In a daze, I finished my work the next day and put the tools away. Then I bagged the trash for pick up later in the week. As I washed the dirt off my hands I began to wonder, had I been hallucinating? No, I couldn’t have been seeing things that weren’t there, I was positive. She was real. My tiny little erotic princess was real as I was. She had to be more than my imagining.
I washed up left after one last look around. I locked the front gate and hurried home to my one room apartment a mile away. It was a dismal and dreary place. On the other hand it was cheap and near work. I almost ran home. Dusk would be right eight o’clock and I wanted to shower and shave and put on a nice change of clothes. I needed to look my best for her, my mysterious angel. For in my mind, an angel she was. As O Henry and Tarkington had written back in the thirties, “I was smitten of her beauty.” In the space of a few scant seconds she had become a grand obsession with me.
I returned to the cemetery just minutes before sun down and impatiently waited for her. Actually I was close to a half hour early. And If I could be early, why couldn’t she? I paced and waited for her. The sun came to rest behind the horizon and had finally begun to disappear when I heard behind me, “Ah, I see ye hae been anxiously awaitin’ for me. That’s good.” Only the way she said it, it sounded like “guid.”
“Are you Scottish?” I asked again, wanting to know everything about her.
“Aye that I am. But did ye come to talk or to act? I much prefer a man of deeds to one of words.” With that she shrugged out of her simple shift and stood naked before me in the falling dusk. To just say she was beautiful would be the understatement of the century, this or any other. She was perfection. Somehow, I became naked also. I don’t remember undressing, but I do remember I was bare as when I was born and her cool, pale perfect body was nestled hard against mine.
I was throbbing with a desire I had never felt before. My whole being was charged with an erotic urgency. I was gentle as I pressed her down onto the grass on her back. “Wait,” she whispered as I started to enter her. She slipped down and took me in her mouth and worried my penis, as a puppy would chew on a slipper. Her tiny teeth sent needles of painful pleasure through me and when the moment came, she took me whole in her mouth and drank deeply.
Then, still smiling wantonly, she sat down on me then and took me in a still semi erect condition within her and engulfed it as no woman has ever done before or since. It seemed almost instantly I was painfully hard again and tightly trapped. She leaned forward and said with demanding intensity, “Fook me. Fook me hard as if your very life depended on it. It does, ye know.”
A part of my feverish mind wondered what she meant by that odd statement. But I thrust the thought aside and rolled her over on the grass and “fooked” her for all I was worth. I hammered and pounded my way inside her like a man demented. It seemed as if we went on forever and yet it seemed we were finished almost as soon as we started. I imagine we must have wildly coupled for at least a half hour or so. I exploded inside her and gradually became soft again. Slowly I felt myself start to slip out. I started to push to keep it in her because I knew that in a few moments I would be able to start all over again. That was the effect she had on me.
She pulled herself away from me and said with a giggle, “Twice is plenty enough. There’s no time for th’ third helpin’. I must be off.” She scrambled to her feet and disappeared. As she vanished she told me, “Th’ gown I’m leavin’ ye for good fortune. Spend it well. She disappeared, quickly receding into the night’s gloom as if she had never been there with me just seconds before.
I jumped up naked and looked around for her. She was gone. Sad, I dressed myself again. Then I saw a white something near my foot. It was a white bit of cloth I recognized as her dress. As I bent and picked it up I heard a dull “clink” sound. I investigated and found that in the pocket of her dress were three silver coins of Scottish mint. I recognized Mary, Queen of Scots and her temporary husband, Lord Darnley.
“David my lad,” I told myself. “If these things are what I think they are, you just became the most expensive whore in history.” I grinned my unbelief at the whole situation. There was a feeling of unreality as if I had somehow stepped through Alice’s looking glass.
“And worth every schilling of it.” a bell like voice seemed to tinkle from afar. Then there was a little more laughter and then all was silent again.
“Jesus. What have I gotten into here?” I asked myself. I was starting to get more than a little scared. I thought of her saying, “ Fook me, fook me hard, as if your life depended on it. It does, ye know.”
I took the dress and the coins and hurried home. To be more accurate, I ran home like a bat out of hell. When I got there I made a cup of coffee and examined the coins. They were black with age, but they were definitely old Scottish coins. For a while in High school I collected coins and read up on all of them. The Scottish Ryals with Mary Queen of Scots’ likeness on one side and Lord Darnley’s on the other were among the most valuable in the world to the ultra wealthy collectors.
Finally I went to bed and to sleep and dreamed of the tiny beauty and her great passion. The next morning I dressed and went to work by way of the strip mall that was located midway between my apartment and the cemetery. I stopped just long enough to grab a quick snack and a coffee for later.
Old Max, the foreman was already there and busy at work. “Max, Do you know anything about a woman in a white dress that hangs out at this cemetery? She has a Scottish accent.”
“Who’s been telling you about Annie Wentworth? I thought that old tale had been laid to rest. What did you want to know?” He had a strange, almost guilty look about him.
“Well, anything you can tell me,” I didn’t want to seem too eager. I waited while he collected his thoughts.
“Well, it’s really a tragic story. Sir William Wentworth came to this country in the early eighteen hundreds, when California was still a part of Mexico. He was an Englishman of noble blood who married a Scottish woman and lived near the town of Glasgow. His wife died of something or other, leaving him with a young daughter to rear. He was a dour man who had no laughter in him and a young daughter who was as lively as spring rain, all sparkles and laughter. As the story goes, she was a bit of a wild one. Anyway she met a young Mexican dandy who wanted to marry her. Old William ran him off and threatened to kill him if he came around again.
Undeterred, the young man returned to visit her a few nights later and climbed into her room/ There he undressed the very willing girl. The story goes that just as he put it in her, Angus came roaring into the room and shot the young man dead. Unfortunately, the bullet went through the intended victim and killed his daughter, Annie Wentworth, as well.
She was supposedly buried on these very grounds somewhere in an unmarked grave. In those days, as now, the Catholic Church would not allow murderers or fornicators and a select few others to be buried on hallowed ground. Some time later, crazed with remorse, William Wentworth placed a marker at the head of his daughter’s grave. Then he shot himself and died, falling across the grave of his daughter. Later the marker was stolen and now no one knows where that grave is located.
“Legend has it that every so often she comes back from the grave for an evening of sex that borders on the verge of depravity. If the man she chooses refuses her or doesn’t perform well, she kills him. If he performs well, to her desires and expectations, she will give him one, two or in one instance three old Scottish coins, according to how well he has pleased her. There have been some mysterious deaths here in this place over the years. All were young men in their prime. No matter what the cause of the deaths they all were attributed to wild and beautiful Annie Wentworth.
“Do they look like this?” I asked and showed him one of the coins I had been given.
His face turned white as all the blood left it. “Where in hell did you get this?” he demanded.
“From a very beautiful young woman who knows how to disappear into thin air.”
He looked at me with respect and said, “You must be very hearty indeed, to rate one of those.”
“She gave me three,” I told him with an arrogant pride and showed him the other two.
He reached into his front pocket, pulled out a protective folder and opened it and showed me one just like my three. “I thought I was doing myself proud to get this one” he told me with respect. “There were two just before me that died supposedly of heart attacks. They looked like they had been scared to death.”
“What are your plans now?” he asked me.
“Well, for one thing, to be here this time next year and see what happens. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Then I went to work.
Next month is the anniversary of my meeting with that beautiful phantasm and I intend to be right there, waiting for her. Right now I wonder what it would take to be rewarded with four coins? But I know this, I intend to find out or die trying.
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