They wanted to find proof of the
spectre of Kernhill Manor before they arrived at the fated house on the hill,
and hoped it was all superstition and fairy tales after. But they’d be laughed at if they didn’t at
least spend the night in the old abandoned manse, and there was nothing worse
than being laughed at (spoilers: that’s foreshadowing). Carefully, they tiptoed through the empty,
drafty halls of the once beautiful centuries-old house, its twisting hallways a
labyrinth of doors leading to dark rooms or other halls or empty closets. They were looking for the place where, when
lightning struck, there was often seen a silhouette cast in the window, the
tower where the last master of the house was thought to have kept his
mistress. When they finally found it, they climbed its
spiral stairs with trepidation, not knowing what to expect. A heavy wooden door with an iron keyhole met
them at the top, and with a steadily beating heart, they pushed it open,
finding it unlocked, yet still feeling as if it was never meant to be
opened. Inside the room, illuminated
only by moonlight, they saw a ornate furniture, including two chairs before and
after a wooden table under a dusty tablecloth and dusty glassware, a quaint, if
large, old fireplace, and a simple bed with sheets and pillows. After convincing themselves that there was
nothing in the room that seemed dangerous, like weakened floorboards or
knife-wielding maniacs, they shook the dust out of the sheets and quietly
undressed. Having forgotten to bring
nightwear, they slipped under the sheets, long, pale naked legs trying to find
warmth and comfort between the bedspread and the thin silk sheet. Everything was silent and still, and it didn’t
take long in the dark of the room for them to find sleep.
The wind outside howled as ‘she’
twisted and turned in ‘her’ sleep, the intruder plagued by visions from the
past, until they came to be lying face
down, the sheet barely draped over their pale, naked frame, partially covering their prominent, curvaceous rear.
The door rattled on its hinges,
and then the phantom sound of it clicking shut echoed throughout the otherwise
silent, cold room. An impossible breeze
whipped the air across exposed, naked skin, and the ghost-seeker found
themselves groggily waking from sleep due to a sudden, unexplained biological
desire.
He felt a pretty big need to visit
the washroom... more than he ever had before.
It wasn't a particularly immediate concern, but it was, by sheer
enormity, urgent. It became considerably
more urgent a second later, when he felt something starting to give, so he
pushed himself off of the mattress, only to suddenly find his face forced back
into the pillow, and the pressure in his bowels grow even more intense, even
though it no longer felt like the presence there was going [i]out[/i].
He could sense a presence in the
room... but he couldn't see anyone in his limited field of vision. There was no one else weighing down the
bed... but where he felt the presence [i]strongest[/i] was something he didn't
want to put in his journal.
The
oppressive presence began to weigh down on him, and the uncomfortable pressure
in his bowels grew more… well, big, and his bemused panic overruled his frozen
terror as he pushed up in an attempt to rise, only to feel something force his
surprised face into the pillow, as clear evidence of a supernatural interaction
as one could get, but he found himself less excited about that prospect when
the ghostly presence was putting most of the proof of the beyond up his
rear.
He couldn't raise; every time he
tried to, some force pushed him onto the bed, his face into the pillow. Some unseen presence was holding him down...
and something was holding open his asshole.
Something [i]wide[/i]. He didn’t
like to imagine that the gap between this world and the next was his tight, but
stretchable, sphincter. It wasn't just stretching open his anal walls,
either... he realized, to his horror, that when he tried to squeeze his
beleagured rings closed, he felt something... there, holding them opened. This, in spite of his cheeks being pressed
firmly together. Deeper and deeper it
opened his chute, feeling very, very tangible, his eyes going wide as his colon
protested, his own muffled protests reverberating into the soft pillow,
capturing his warm breath in the cold, icy atmosphere. His stomach churned as the fat presence
pulsed in his colon, his starfish spread wide by what appeared to be nothing at
all.
He also couldn’t cry out for
help, although it would have made little difference. His defiant muffled “mmmngh” moans were
partially drowned out by the wind, and even if a call for help would have
carried further, there wasn’t another living soul in the house or even on the
hill. He was alone in the tower, save
for the spirit avenging the intrusion with an intrusion of its own, reliving
the memory of a mistress past in a quite eye-opening experience.
A
demonic voice spoke and sent a chill down his spine.
"...tight..."
Before
he could even understand the otherworldly speech, the presence withdrew
entirely from his gut, much to his relief.
He was less than relieved a moment later when it filled and stretched
his rectum once more, a soundless moan of surprise caught in his lips. He gripped the sheets as he was pinned to the
bed and invaded repeatedly by something not of this world that felt very
similar to something very much of this world.
The bed began to creak, sounding less like a ghostly apparition and more
like what a master bedroom should sound like.
Finally, he knew for certain what
he’d feared to begin with: he was being attacked by a poltergheist, and a
[i]horny[/i] one at that.
He took blow after blow, some
invisible presence slamming into his springy cheeks, invading his hole. The boy's eyes rolled up as the demonic
presence stretched it open without remorse.
"Oh, that's a good girl...
be daddy's little slut..."
He
tried to exclaim that he wasn’t, in fact, a girl, or an eager slut, despite
what appearances suggested, but he couldn’t get a word out through the pillow.
The shutters rattled and the
floorboards creaked, a heavy breeze flowing through the room that was
sourceless and unyielding. With each
phantasmal thrust, the wall above the room’s fireplace bulged unnaturally, an
empathic poltergeist-action the symbolism of which was not lost on the boy. The whole house shook with each chimney
stretching shockwave, the very bricks themselves forced outwards by the ghostly
penetration, the glassware shattering on the floor as it fell from the rumbling
table.
The intensity of the otherworldly
lust was making the boy cross-eyed with feeling. If the ghostly presence would have been
aware that, in the course of getting its after-life thrills, it was inadvertently
exerting a crushing pressure on its victim's formerly untouched prostate, it
might have exhibited more caution in the way that it filled 'her' rectum with
its massive ghostly "presence", or quit the possession entirely,
instead of vigorously mimicking its former mortal desires with such enthusiasm
and fullness in each stroke, filling the androgyn beauty with each fast-paced
assault on their exposed, beleagured bottom, unintentionally slamming into and
sliding over a button that the raven-haired, white-skinned youth had
previously, in their undisturbed dreams, did not know existed.
With each wall-rattling,
bed-bouncing paranormal invasion, the pinned-down, ghost-buggered youth eyes got
wider and wider, increasingly not because of the shock of being anally
violated, but the shock of discovering that such a thing was threatening to
cause the same result as the chaste youth's somewhat infrequent nightly dreams:
namely, a wet, sticky spot on the sheets.
Gripping tightly onto the sheets
and biting tight-lipped their pillow, the youth tried to defy such an absurd
thing from happening, but their smooth body rubbing against the silk sheets and
the intense simulation from the rear proved to be too much, and the wide-eyed
youth balled their sheet-clasping fingers into fists as the wetness between
them and the bed grew in size and warmth, a sticky web of lust that coated
their stomach and thighs, their hidden-from-view malehood twitching with
confounded excitement as they were filled from behind.
A white deluge burst forth from
the fireplace at the same time that the intruder felt a new intrusion, their bowels
flooded by a sticky simulacra of a similar nature, their stomach filled
near-instantly with a peculiar sort of ectoplasm.
And just like that, the ghostly
presence vanished. Although, the
pregnant-feeling belly and sore shithole remained.
He lay face-down on the bed,
utterly exhausted and humiliated, on a mysterious wet, sticky spot. He'd learned two things about the famous
ghost; it was unquestionably male, and had at least one very human desire,
which he'd just unwittingly satisfied.
- Majalis
