Now everything made sense. Geoffrey remained trapped here, waiting to be released – in more than one sense of the word – and needed someone to set him free. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’ I asked.
He smiled at me ruefully, and I realised just how handsome he was. If I was Amy, I would have given up my life on the streets like a shot to be with him ‘I doubt I can ask it of you.’
‘Try me.’
‘Lie with me,’ he said. ‘Give me what I should have had the night I passed over. Then destroy the washstand to set my spirit free.’
He was right; it was an outrageous request. I only considered it for a moment before throwing back the covers and inviting him to join me. He made short work of my nightdress, pulling it over my head and dropping it to the floor. His lips pressed against the hollow of my throat, then moved lower, kissing my breasts. I felt no fear, no revulsion. My spirit lover was tender, his skin warm and smooth against mine.
He crept down further, ’til his mouth hovered over my pussy. Looking up at me, he asked, ‘I hope you are not averse to a little gamahuche?’
If it meant what I thought it meant, I wasn’t going to say no. I shook my head and, to my delight, he spread my lips with his fingers and began to run his tongue along my slit. He toyed with my clit for a moment or two before lapping all the way down to my rear hole. None of my lovers had ever tried licking me there, and I squirmed at the new, strangely pleasurable sensations. Geoffrey tongued me ’til I was a wet, panting mess, but he never quite took me to the orgasm my body was starting to demand. If he was leaving me frustrated I couldn’t exactly complain, since that was the exact condition in which he’d spent the last century.
Just when I was ready to scream if he didn’t give me the relief I needed, he rose to his knees. My juices shone on his lips, and I knew if he kissed me now I would taste myself, rich and fragrant.
He climbed over me, clutching his cock. It was as rigid as I had seen it on any previous occasion, and though it was one of the fattest I’d ever come across, all his oral attention had made sure I was more than ready to take it. He guided it to my entrance and pushed home. I was so turned on, I almost came just feeling him enter me.
I locked my ankles round the small of his back and gave in to the glorious feeling of being fucked. Geoffrey was putting all his pent-up energy and emotion into every thrust, and I knew that I was going to feel the after-effects in the morning. But I didn’t care: I needed this just as much as he did, and I drummed my heels against his arse cheeks, urging him on to go faster and deeper.
My climax was building, threatening to tear me apart with its ferocity. I raked my nails across Geoffrey’s shoulders. He grimaced, then yelled, ‘I am about to spend.’ True to his word, in the next breath he was filling me with his spectral seed. My pussy contracted around his cock as I came, wringing every last bit of sensation from the moment.
Geoffrey rolled off me. ‘Thank you, Ros,’ he murmured. Suddenly, his form seemed noticeably less solid. Not wanting to watch him disappear, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he had gone.
Just as he had asked, I had given Geoffrey the night of bliss he had been denied by his untimely death. Keeping the second half of the bargain was going to be much harder. Indeed, as I looked at the washstand the following morning, I knew I couldn’t destroy it. In the few days I had owned it, I had come to treasure it too much. I didn’t want to admit that by hanging on to it I was also hoping for a repeat of the wonderful sex we’d enjoyed.
But if I didn’t do as Geoffrey had asked and he remained trapped, what would happen? Would I suddenly find I had a vengeful spirit haunting my bedroom, rather than an amorous one?
In the end, my sister, Suzanna, solved the dilemma for me. Or rather, her children did. Late that afternoon, I had a call from her to say she’d been running errands in the area and would I mind if she popped over for a cup of tea? When she arrived, 20 minutes later, she had my nephews, Toby and Jake, with her. While Suzanna and I chatted in the kitchen, the boys decided to play explorer around the flat. I didn’t worry too much about it ‘til I heard a sudden crash come from the bedroom. We rushed in to discover they had knocked over the washstand, cracking the bowl in half and leaving a long, ugly gouge in the mahogany surround.
Suzanna was mortified, but I assured her the damage could be easily repaired. That night, I waited to see whether Geoffrey would appear. There was no sign of him. I heard no splashing or humming, saw no naked figure. Though the boys hadn’t destroyed the washstand, they had obviously done enough to release Geoffrey’s spirit from its confinement.
And I wasn’t half as upset as I might have been about the loss of my ghostly lover. Not when the furniture restorer I found in the Yellow Pages to repair the damage to the washstand turned out to be single, interested in me and very, very imaginative in bed ...
The Tree
by Roger Frank Selby
The wreck of her light aircraft – a great sign to searchers – had long since broken up in the surf. She must have been given up for lost. The headline: Search for Lone Woman Pilot, long forgotten.
Desert Island was truly deserted. She could walk right around the colourful dump in a few hours. It had bamboo and coconut, small furry animals, fish, birds, fruits and various berries that seemed edible, fresh water, but no people. No sign of any human life, ever. But she remained healthy and the insects left her alone, mostly.
She also had her routines. As the afternoon cooled into evening she would leave the shelter of Number Ten and go to her tree, deep in its quiet glade. Here the sea and sky could not see her. Here, in the cooler air, she took off her clothes.
She undid the flip-flops she’d cut from the aircraft’s 800 x 8 Goodyears, and set them at the base of the tree. Next the leather belt, sheath and knife were separated from the bloodstained shorts. Knickers were a luxury of the distant past.
Shorts folded ... ‘Sod it – another rip! My big arse must be hanging out of them now.’ She put belt and knife back on. ‘Jesus! Must have lost a stone!’ She tightened the belt into an unused hole and yet it still slipped easily around her naked waist. Off came her tatty straw hat, patched up here and there with strips of palm. Finally she dumped her T-shirt. She looked down and cradled her breasts. ‘Boobs still good. Maybe a touch lower now ... Might fail the pencil test, but I’m sure Barnacle Bill won’t mind. I just hope for his sake they aren’t around my ankles by then.’ Barnacle Bill was the sailor who’d find her one day – she hoped.
‘And how are you today?’ She knew that the tree liked her naked company, but she didn’t know its name yet – or its sex. There were many complex branches, strange arms and projections that were vaguely human in form. One place was like the arm of a man, another like the breast of a woman. There was a place that felt like the firm leather saddle of her motorcycle, maybe still in her boyfriend’s garage 10,000 miles away.
I bet you’ve sold it by now, you son of a bitch.
She sat astride the wide saddle. Bent forward, breasts separating against the imaginary tank, she made the sounds of a high revving engine, changing down for a corner; leaned to the right and accelerated up the Box Hill Straight to an easy century – but looking out for the police.
From the saddle of her bike she could just reach Bork, a branch in the shape of a powerful man’s arm. She imagined him – a Nordic hero. It might just be possible to slip across and have her crotch lifted and supported by his sturdy forearm. ‘Have to be careful though ... ’Only a two-meter drop, but could still break a leg – and then starve to death.
Forget it.
She squirmed a little on her bike, wrapping her legs tightly under it, opening herself, pushing forward until her pubic bone felt the saddle. There was a little nodule here, a little soft fingertip of corkish wood which she had grown to love. She allowed it to share a place among her own fingers as she touched inside her labia.
The glade was almost silent, just the faint thunder of surf and the cry of distant seag
ulls. Then, while she rode the branch she began to groan softly. As the bough moved in response, so the leaves around her rustled a little. She caught the rhythm, stroking her abdomen up and down the moist surface.
‘Ahhhh.’
The branches moved about. Leaves stroked her body. The feeling was so good. She controlled the waves of it carefully for a long time; savouring the feeling of the thick muscular arm splitting her, now slippery with her own juice ... She began to come in a howling climax, the whole tree shivering with her. She sustained it as long as she could. Finally, her motion subsided.
‘Bork,’ she whispered, ‘what would Barnacle Bill say if he caught me doing this with you?’ From now on the whole tree would be Bork, not just that arm.
Next day. Monday, Sunday, she’d lost track. Even the month had little meaning in this place without real seasons; but she had an exact time of day for her routines from the position of the sun. She walked to her tree.
Strange how the birds and animals kept away from her tree, in its quiet, private glade. Even the plants maybe. She dropped her clothes in the normal place and noticed small outcrops of tiny fungi growing among the grass around the trunk and roots. She squatted down, allowing her thighs to open wide. ‘Well, not all the plants avoid you, Bork my lad, there’s the grass and you little blokes.’ She thought back to her Biology degree. ‘But you fungi aren’t plants, are you? Animals, Plants, Prokaryotes, Fungi. Of the four Kingdoms, you’re the strangest by far. Hmmm; maybe I can eat some of you boys when you get a little bigger.’ She made a mental note to check the edible-mushroom notes in her survival kit when she got back to Number Ten.
Mounted on her bike, Bork’s arm seemed more appealing than ever. She wanted that muscular limb hard up between her thighs. She leaned out and felt the massive horizontal bicep. If she slipped across and sat astride the bicep she could hold on to the vertical forearm.
Funny, it doesn’t seem so far today.
A quick scramble and she was across. ‘Ooooh, this feels good, Bork!’ The bulging forearm rose against her belly, the hand-hollow perfectly positioned to cup a breast. It fitted around perfectly, squeezing it a little as she wedged it deeper into the hollow. ‘I love the way you feel my tit. Here, try the other one ... Mmmm, that is so nice ...’ She hugged the muscular forearm until the grabbing, crushing hand almost hurt. ‘Hey! Don’t squeeze too hard ...’ She wiggled her arse and let the bicep divide the cheeks of her bottom, opening her up to the olive smooth skin of the tree.
The tree quivered and shook several times that evening. She found herself climbing down and dressing in warm darkness. ‘Bork,’ she whispered to the rising trunk, ‘I need more than an arm.’
She accidentally crushed a few of the mushrooms. Maybe they were big enough to eat. She knelt carefully. 'I'm sorry about that, boys ... Guess I’d better pick a few of you anyway... Check you out at Number Ten.’ She left the glade with pockets bulging.
It was too dark to read and her torch was long dead. She’d saved just ten precious emergency matches, since discovering she could easily start a daytime fire with her kit’s magnifying glass. She used two to get her fire going just outside the shelter. When certain the fire wouldn’t die, she undressed in its warmth and sat down on the aircraft seat cushion to read by the flickering light.
Jesus, it was a complicated subject! There were illustrations, but nothing like her “boys.” Lots of edibles and lots of poisonous fungi – no simple rules like: ‘if it peels it’s safe’. But the balance was good. They certainly weren’t in the avoid-at-all-cost section. She’d only had a coconut and few crappy dates that day. She was pretty hungry. Well, her boys did peel and they had no spots and they weren't yellow...
‘I’ll try just one. Here goes then!’ She munched the smallest. It was delicious – another good sign. It was so tasty after all the crap she had been eating since her basic rations had run out. She ate half; threw more driftwood onto the fire and went back into Number Ten to sleep.
Something different moved in the night. She was awake in an instant. The fire had burnt out and there was no moon, just the glow of the surf in the starlight.
She stood up naked, hand on her sheathed knife. There was a big boat pulled up on the beach and deep male voices. How long had they been there? Out came her knife. She bent low and crept backwards towards the trees. She saw the glint of round shields along the side of the vessel …
Vikings?
She screamed as she collided with a big man.
A horny hand clapped over her mouth.
She swung wildly with her knife, but he just chuckled and plucked the blade away. Her feet lifted from the sand as he hoisted her by her belt, spanked her bottom a few times and strode into the trees, laughing all the way.
Struggling and biting his hand only amused him more. He was in high spirits, softly singing a Viking song in a deep baritone. Near the glade he set her down but held on to her waist. He spoke gently to her. She couldn’t understand a word of course, but she got the drift.
‘Promise I won’t run off, is that it?’ She pantomimed a run with her fingers. He nodded and laughed.
She smiled and he released her.
She ran.
He roared angrily, running close behind her through the trees. She ran out into her glade and gained a little as she headed for the central tree, her tree. He shouted some terrible Viking curse. She climbed like a monkey, passing her biker’s bough as he followed. The tree went up endlessly. What would happen when she reached the top?
A loud snap below.
She heard him yell as he crashed through foliage and thumped into the ground.
The tree shuddered in orgasm as she descended. He lay there on his back, among the mushrooms, looking big, healthy and asleep. What a fine specimen of a man, she thought, but he’s just faking – with that little smile under his blond beard. ‘You don’t fool me, Bork ... You’ll grab me if I come near.’
She went near.
She pulled his beard and his head lolled over at a crazy angle.
His neck was broken.
‘No! No!’
She sat up, wet with sweat. ‘Shit, it was a dream.’ Vikings in the Pacific! Crazy! Crazy maybe, but she had never had such a vivid dream – she could still smell him.
Outside it was dark, but a thin crescent moon on its back showed dawn not far away. The fire still smouldered. ‘That was Bork himself. … Shit! Why did I kill him? No, it was an accident; he didn’t have to climb after me.’ She sighed. The remaining handful of mushrooms were innocently drying out in front of the embers. ‘It must have been you, you little buggers!’ She threw them out to scatter in the wind.
With her knife lashed to a bamboo pole she speared a medium-sized silver fish trapped in a tidal pool. It grilled beautifully for lunch, so she didn’t feel too hungry when she set off for the glade, but she did feel apprehensive.
First of all, no corpse under the tree – a good start. The mushrooms where he’d fallen were uncrushed, no broken branches lying around. She relaxed, stripped, folded her clothes and climbed up.
Up to her bike.
Up to sit astride Bork’s arm. It all seemed very tame now. The tree didn’t shiver that evening. She got down, carefully avoiding crushing the mushrooms with her bare feet.
Then she noticed something.
‘You boys have got much bigger since yesterday ... Would you like to come home with me? Yes? Good.’
She squatted down among them. Her nipples swung over them. They would have a lover’s view of her. The thick stems and pointy, helmet-shaped caps reminded her strongly of something she hadn’t seen for a long time. Something she could live without when it was attached to an idiot, but something she needed fairly badly. She bent right down, getting down on all fours. ’It seems such a shame to pick you,’ she said to the tallest and thickest. She kissed it gently on the head, half expecting it to break off. It seemed quite strong. She licked. It tasted a little salty. ‘Hmmm, just like the real thing eh?’
She felt another brushing the inside of her thigh as she squatted, wet and open. She moved a little, dragging it though soft hair into slightly opened lips. She managed to position it exactly right; squatted down a little ... A slight separation ...
It broke off.
‘Shit!’
Back at Number Ten she examined her haul. She managed to get the fire going again from the lunchtime embers and toasted them brown. ‘Mmm ... Even better! This is the way to eat them; should stop the dreaming too.’
It did.
The following night she ate four big ones, raw.
Something disturbed her in the night. She was awake. It was real this time. No fire, no Moon, just the stars and surf.
She got up swiftly. The big boat was there, pulled right up the beach – shields along the side. Norse voices, horned helmets...
Shit!
Out came her knife. She kept low and crept backwards towards the trees. She turned. There he was, standing alone again.
‘Don’t come near me.’
He chuckled and took the raised knife from her hand. This time he let her scream. She decided not to scream too loud in case the other men heard. With her tucked securely under his arm, he headed for the trees.
They came into the glade.
She ceased to struggle, instead becoming a dead weight. Maybe that would discourage him.
He seemed interested in this unusual behaviour and draped her, face down, over a lower branch of the tree, her bottom towards him at convenient cock height, her breasts hanging down.
He took off his helmet. He started to remove his garments but shouted angrily at her as she turned her head to watch.
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