by Kiki Howell
My emotions tangled with his sensations in a way I couldn’t explain, but was eager to indulge in. Our psychic bond enhanced my reactions as if his touching me on one spot reverberated through my whole body. It was like his ethereal being was connected to mine on the cellular level in the sense that I felt him everywhere. I closed my eyes and dropped my head on his broad chest. He cupped my face and kissed me without withdrawing his fingers from my core. Waves of sensations flooded my conscience and I gasped, too close to another climax. His expert fingers left my dripping sex as he stopped kissing me and I felt hollow. I grasped his hand, sighing, “Please don’t stop.”
“I want to make it last for you, gorgeous. Scoot up to lie on the pillows.” As I obeyed his command, Marcel shed his phantom clothes and I creased my eyebrows, to which he replied, “Force of habit. I’m able to assume any appearance, but these are my favorite clothes. If I were to stick to how I passed, I’d be walking around in my birthday suit.”
I reached out to palm his cheek, but stopped my hand in midair, unsure of what to do.
He grabbed it and kissed my palm, replying to my unvoiced question, “It’s fine to touch me. It won’t feel like flesh and blood to you, more like an electric charge, but it’s as close as the real thing for me.”
I gasped at the odd yet amazing sensation of “touching” his face. Marcel closed his eyes and ran a finger from the hollow of my throat to my belly button. I uttered in a small voice, afraid to break the spell, “That’s so weird and so hot at the same time. I guess I could come just from you doing this.”
“I bet you could, but I want to savor you, us, some more. Like I said, I don’t remember the last time I met an empath.”
“Right. Speaking of which, what happened? How did you get trapped here?”
“I was cursed by a jealous witch. We had an affair. I thought we had an understanding about how we were both free from unnecessary entanglements. I mean, I liked her, but I wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship and thought she was of the same mind. Turned out she wanted more and wasn’t keen on sharing.”
“She came to your house, tied you down to the bed, fucked you, then put a spell on you, leaving you to die. Ouch!”
“Read minds too?” His decision to make things last seemed overcome by his desire because Marcel uttered those words with his mouth full of my breast as he sucked on my nipple.
I arched and moaned before I could articulate, “Nope. Plain logic and history knowledge. A voodoo witch back then wouldn’t live in a French Quarter mansion as grandiose as this one. You told me you died naked and you’ve got a thing for kink,” I hissed as he framed my nipple with his teeth and used his tongue to flick the hard nub. “Oh, God. You’re good.”
Leaving my breast, he trailed open-mouthed, wet kisses down my belly until he hovered over my entrance, where he stopped and looked up to lock onto my eyes. “Haunting a sex club did teach me a trick or two.”
I howled when he sank his tongue inside my core and latched on my clit. Our psychic bond kicked in and my senses went into overdrive. I couldn’t tell my sensations from his and it didn’t actually matter. They combined to take my pleasure to a totally new level. Ecstasy didn’t begin to describe how I felt. Thrown into hyperspace without a proper suit might have come closer. Lightheaded, dizzy and yet thoroughly satisfied, I climaxed like I had never done before, thinking my body had reached its limit of sensations.
“God, you’ll be the death of me. I can’t take any more pleasure than this,” I whispered into his ear when I was able to talk again.
Watching his sinful mouth split into a wide grin, I thought again that he was a cocky bastard. A naughty and skillful cocky bastard, in fact. Little did I know then that Marcel would take me to higher planes of physical pleasure each time we met after that life-altering first time.
Chapter Three
MARCEL – NOVEMBER 1, 2016
I should be used to it by now. Every year is the same when Clara comes over for Halloween. We have a blast, we fuck like bunnies, then I go back to being cursed and she goes back to her movie-star lifestyle. Rinse. Repeat.
It’s getting harder for me to cope with that though. Damn that witch Marie-Claudette. Leaving me here to die and cursing me to stay in this house for eternity. For the longest time, haunting a sex club had its advantages. Lately, it’s not as alluring as it used to be.
Take now, for instance. I’m standing smack in the middle of the Lounge, which is a pretty cool place to be, if you like orgies. And I love them. Everywhere I look I find lean bodies twitching in ecstasy. Masters and mistresses with their subs engaged in mind-blowing sex. VIP members indulging in their kinkiest fantasies. Many of these people are sensitive to ghosts, even though they’ve got no idea they are. I run my fingers over the smooth back of a gorgeous CEO and his skin comes alive with telltale goosebumps. I bet he thinks it’s because Sam, one of Club Desire’s most talented staff members, is sucking his dick as if there’s no tomorrow. But I know better. I’ve shared Clara with Sam, although he had no clue I was in the room, so I use our psychic connection to better feel what he’s experiencing. Heart racing, breathing getting erratic. His client is close to orgasm. Normally, I’d be savoring their moment right there with them, like sipping a cool Hurricane on a sultry New Orleans summer night. Today, not really interested.
Moving to the next cluster of activity, searching for those elusive emotions the Lounge used to bring me, I recognize Richard, another example of Club Desire’s prime staff. He left his rookie days behind when he blew Carol Sullivan’s mind away. The tough Wall Street genius turned putty in his skilled hands. And mouth, I should add. However, she has stopped coming to Club Desire. I wonder what happened to her. That woman was a talented mistress, if I’d ever seen one.
Today, Richard’s teamed up with Jenny and they’re playing a scene with a TV news anchor. Diane’s in great shape for her age. I mean, not many seventy-year-olds can take a caning like that and beg for more. Jenny, a Club Desire hostess-turned-mistress, has developed a taste for paddling and whipping since Sam introduced her to Clara one naughty night, not long ago. Jenny’s got quite a talent for that. It’s a delight to watch her swing a cane like a pro, avoiding spots that would actually hurt and hitting those that will sting and burn, then rapidly turn to pleasure. She’s a natural. Richard, on the other hand, enjoys a rare chance to be top, since he usually submits to clients, which he’s quite good at. I approach the trio, sniff Jenny’s perfume right behind her ear and run my fingers through Richard’s thick hair. Their sharp intake of breath is a sign they felt something, although for them my touch is more like a faint spark tingling their nerve endings. I crouch beside Diane, the TV celebrity, who’s tied up to a maroon St. Andrew’s cross. The twitching muscles in her lower abdomen announce her imminent orgasm. I tweak her clit just as Jenny canes a nipple and Diane goes over the edge, wailing in ecstasy. Ordinarily, I’d be pressing my mouth to her core and sucking at it to absorb the sexual energy. Not tonight, though.
I feel hollow as a shell.
The sexfest that the Lounge offers is great and all, but I wander around the spacious room as if nothing really matters. Maybe nothing does. I don’t know. I expand my search, sneaking peeks into a couple of private rooms and dungeons, where I spot Clara’s friends Jeff and Fran. Lots of action all around. Tons of beautiful people having naughty sex. I should be thrilled. Lately, these things mean little to me.
Then, it hits me like a runaway train. I miss Clara. That much has always been painfully clear to me. What I’ve just realized is that I’ve never felt this way about any other woman. Not when I was alive and certainly not after I was killed. Yet the realization only makes me angry since there’s no future for me and Clara. What good is a ghost in love?
“Damn Marie-Claudette to hell and back! Hope that sick witch had a painful, agonizing death like the one she inflicted on me,” I shout to the ether, unafraid of being heard as most mortals don’t hear the dead.
Chapter Fou
r
CLARA – NOVEMBER 1, 2016
The gentle humming of the airplane engines does nothing to lull me to sleep. The first-class pods shield me from the other passengers, which, combined with the light-headedness caused by the altitude, create the illusion I’m cut off from the world. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I should be snoring as loud as a chainsaw at this point. But no! Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
I give in as memories and images of the time I spent in New Orleans yesterday flood my mind. Halloween is my favorite holiday. Always has been. Since I met Marcel Revault, Halloween is the single day of the year when I feel most alive. Mainly because it’s the only day he feels alive at all. I make a point of being there on October 31st every year. Halloween is the night when the veil separating the afterlife from our plane gets the thinnest, so lost souls are able to cross over to the material world and inhabit a temporary body.
As an empath, I feel Marcel’s touch when he’s a ghost. Nothing beats the warmth of his smooth skin against mine on Halloween though. The rush I get out of it, as does he, is as addictive as Marcel’s touch. No living man or woman makes me feel the way he does. He ignites my body brighter than fireworks and gives me equally explosive orgasms. It’s the low that hits me the day after that sucks. It kills me. Every. Single. Time.
For twenty-four hours, we live an illusion that seems as concrete as Marcel’s temporary body. Then I feel like crap for a couple of days. Okay, I’ve got to be honest here. It’s getting worse over the years. I wonder how long it will take this time. Right now, on the plane back to L. A., I’m so heartbroken it feels like I’ll never recover. Yet I know I will. I always do. These stupid tears will go away. I just need to convince my heart that falling for a ghost isn’t smart. At. All. Then, I’ll focus on my career. That’s what does the trick. Diving head-first into new and challenging projects.
“I’m sorry to be a bore and I’m sure you get this all the time, Ms. Hervaux, but can I just say I loved you in Beyond Forever? It’s like my fave vampire movie ever,” a starry-eyed teenager whispers to me. She must have worked up the courage to talk to me after she passed my seat like a million times on her way to the lavatory or the galley.
I enjoy interacting with fans. Today I’m not myself, but I put in the effort and conjure up a smile worthy of a second Academy Award. “That’s so sweet of you. Thanks, hon.”
“Could you maybe sign this for me?” Her hand trembles slightly as she passes me a copy of the book upon which the movie was based.
This time my grin is heartfelt as I notice how worn out the book is.
“How many times have you read this? Don’t be ashamed,” I add quickly when her cheeks flush. “I’m the same way.”
“OMG, get out of here. I actually don’t know how many times I read it though.”
“Only this first one?”
“You kidding me? No! I’ve read all eight of them. Can’t wait for the next.”
I knew this was a big franchise, but not this big. Nine movies would be too much of a commitment for me. I wouldn’t let a fan down by telling her that, so I go for the next best thing. “Wow, that’s a lot of books. Too bad my character died in the first one, I suppose.”
“You’re joking, right? Markus turns Simone in book two. He can’t bear eternity without her. She’s his soulmate.”
Mental note to wring my manager’s neck next time we meet. Nine and some change movies playing the same character isn’t what I had in mind for my career. Granted plot and world building in the first movie were superb. Still I want variety. Award-winning smile is back on as I ask, “Your name, hon?”
“Sarah Brinks.”
I swiftly pen a brief inscription:
Sarah,
Never stop chasing your dreams.
The harder you work for it, the sweeter your success will be.
xoxo
Clara Hervaux
As she reads it, eyes brimming, I see her swallow hard and for a second I feel she’s about to hug me. Luckily, she does not. “Thank you so much, Ms. Hervaux. This is like the best advice anyone has ever given me. Like ever!”
“No problem.”
Sarah returns to her seat and I, to my gloomy thoughts. Her interruption helped me take my mind off them until she mentioned soulmates and paranormal beings in the same sentence. Not helping.
Reaching inside my oversized bag, I fish out one of the scripts I brought along to distract me on the return flight. I knew they would come in handy. My manager likes to ‘curate Clara Hervaux’s brand’, as he calls it. I call it ‘butting in my private affairs’, but Peter’s got my best interests at heart. I still need to clarify that information Sarah just gave me about the vampire franchise. This script is from a much different project. One Peter’s been raving about. I’ve dragged my feet on it because I’m not sold on the idea. He’s pushing me to explore uncharted territory here.
Eyeing the script and flipping through its pages, I know it’s smoking hot material. I mean, a chance to share the screen with Charlie Cox in his hit TV show would be enough temptation by itself. What Peter wants me to consider is even better, a chance to boss Charlie Cox around as the episode’s director. I was thrilled when he first mentioned it. I’m at a point in my career that going behind the cameras is the next logical step because there’s not much else for me to do in front of them. On a personal level, telling a gorgeous man what to do is the icing on the cake. Yeah, I enjoy playing bottom at Club Desire. However, I’m a bitchy top in real life. So, this directing gig is a golden opportunity.
Too bad the words on the pages of the script swim before my eyes. I do my best to clear my mind of the memories. My flesh insists on reliving the sensations though. Clearing the head is a no go. Marcel’s eyes haunt me. My skin remembers his fiery touch, I can’t pretend these goosebumps are from the cabin air. It’s warm in here, damn it. I look out the window, but the monotonous view doesn’t help. Ordinarily, the endless carpet of white clouds would soothe me. Not today. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Marcel was here playing with my body. He isn’t. He can’t leave Club Desire. Yet my sex quivers from the mind-blowing sexfest we had yesterday. Closing my eyes, I realize I’m more exhausted than I thought I was. Heck, who am I kidding? Tired isn’t the term to describe it. Heartbroken, more likely. Panic runs up my spine like icy fingertips. My stomach performs a somersault worthy of an Olympian gymnast.
Have I fallen in love with a ghost?
Chapter Five
MARCEL – 2017
They say there are seven deadly sins. I don’t know about that. I died over a century ago, yet haven’t seen heaven or hell. Oh, but I’ve seen all kinds of sinfully wicked things in this exclusive sex club, although I lust for only one client - Clara Hervaux. Her flaming red hair and cat-like green eyes set me on fire when she writhes under my touch. Shame she hasn’t visited good old, bewitching New Orleans since last Halloween. I miss her.
Guess I’ll have to resign myself to another yawningly boring evening in the Lounge. What else can a horny ghost do in a naughty sex club full of people who aren’t empaths? Surely enough, the Lounge is bursting with activity. Everywhere I turn, my eyes catch glimpses of sweaty bodies in different stages of undress, performing all kinds of sex acts. A feast for my senses, which have been craving a real release lately.
“I should find a fuckable piece of ass or I’ll go insane,” I state the obvious, not worrying these otherwise engaged mortals will hear me.
I stroll around the large room hoping to sense the unmistakable pull of an empath. Anyone will do at this point. I just wish to feel something more tangible than phantom touches during random people’s sleep.
Oh yeah! I can pop up in any person’s dreams, empath or not, and have some fun with them. They must be in the same room as me for that to work; otherwise, I’d be fucking Clara every single night. Even though dream sex isn’t as fulfilling as banging a flesh and blood person, it’s better than jerking off on my own while thinking of Clara’s eyes when she com
es undone in my arms.
I roam the Lounge, as I’ve been doing on a regular basis for the past year, but nothing captures my attention. I’m about to give up on this fruitless quest, when a jolt of energy hits me in the pit of my stomach. Bingo! There’s an empath in the house.
“Finally!”
I need to take my mind off depressing feelings, so I rush to where the source of that magnetic pull is. She’s a gorgeous brunette, sitting by herself at the bar at the end of the Lounge. She’s got her back to the counter and is eyeing the crowd. Hmm, a voyeur. This is getting better. I reach out an arm to touch her and test the waters, but cannot make my fingers connect with her in any way. It feels wrong. I withdraw my hand as it becomes clear why that is so. It’s as if I’m betraying Clara.
For the last couple of years or so, my feelings for Clara have evolved. In the past, I indulged in her visits, but I kept myself quite busy in-between her trips to New Orleans. I’ve been losing interest in sharing other people’s sensations, even with empaths. They pale in comparison to how Clara makes me feel. Last Halloween it hit me. How much I feel for her, that is. Since then, things have only intensified, yet Clara hasn’t come back to visit. I’ve no way of contacting her and that has been driving me mad.
I’ve been lying to myself, pretending my feelings for Clara aren’t as deep as they are and these trips to the Lounge are pathetic attempts on my part to perpetrate that lie. I tell myself I’ll fuck the first available empath I can find to get the edge off, when in fact, I just drag my feet around Club Desire moping like a pimpled teenager over things that can never be. There’s no future for me and Clara. Hell, there is no ‘me and Clara’ to begin with. What can I offer her? I’m a fucking ghost, for crying out loud.
Grumpy with that realization, I turn around to leave when I spot Sam all the way across the Lounge, Clara’s favorite Master at Club Desire. He appears to be engrossed in conversation. He’s picked the wrong place for a chat! As I approach him, I recognize Jenny, the gorgeous woman talking to Sam. She had shared Clara with Sam in a couple of torrid roleplays that were meant to be threesomes, but turned out to be foursomes since I had quite an active role in them. Even though Sam and Jenny had no idea I was there.
