The Erotic Ghost
Tarot Card

All at once, she thought of the perfect plan.

The book!

The book would tell her all about the hero. Who and where he was, and why he was so elusive. However, when she went to find it, strangely it had vanished along with her bag and everything in it.

Brushes, combs, makeup, her dead cell phone, they were all gone! Had someone taken it? No, she thought, a sense of dread filling her. It’s missing because it isn’t in the story.

Gradually, she would become more and more ensnared in the story. Soon even her clothes would disappear from off her back, her memories washed away. She wondered where the book was, drifting in some black void, or maybe its pages blew in the stiff wind as it lay on the floor of her car.

If she had doubted before, now she was sure. She was being held captive in a dark dream from which there was no escape—a dream that had somehow been infused with an old song that couldn’t have been popular now. She couldn’t remember the name, but could hear the fluid notes rising and falling in her head, along with words that were a musical depiction of the act of sex. Haunting, yet arousing, and it would continue to haunt her until the last scene.

Until her death!

The only thing left was to confront Sarafina. Was Thorn right? Did the ghost actually haunt the music room and float along the grand staircase between the hours of midnight and three? And if she did, could she speak to her? Make her understand? It was madness, but she was desperate. Maybe she would see her tonight. She would wait, listen for the music. And when it began to play—

The music never came.

No swells, no arpeggios, no gifted fingers building to a dramatic crescendo. Nothing. Night after night, she waited for Sarafina’s appearance, but was disappointed. She decided she must find Sarafina on her own. The thought of looking for a ghost in the midst of these dimly lit hallways terrified her, but she knew she had to. Somehow, she had to get help, if only from a ghost. And so, in only her thin cotton nightgown, she roamed the mansion, her pale, iridescent presence looking as much like a ghost as Sarafina.

Nightly, she floated down the staircase, visited the damp, cold music room, but only a dark, empty, vacuous space greeted her. No floating presence anywhere in the mansion.

Sarafina was gone.

Just when she needed her, the ghost had vanished.

On a night when all was silent, her lids flew open at an awesome sound. Chiming clocks from all over the mansion summoned her. The sounds were mixed. They called to her with everything from light tinkling chimes to deep bongs, urging her to awaken. And when their chimes ended, the music soared forth, reverberating around the cavernous mansion. Lunging up from the bed, she ran down the hall to the grand staircase, her bare feet kicking beneath her light, feathery gown, the silver rays of the moonlight shining through the windows, casting glittering designs on the floor.

Suddenly, she saw her.

The dark and beautiful Sarafina was spotlighted by the moon, a glistening iridescence in the night. She wore a white shroud that danced lightly around her while she sat at the piano, her dark head lowered over the keys, her body swaying to the music.

A breeze floated in through the French doors that stood open, the white gossamer curtains billowing in the wind. The haunting music filled the room, the swells intense, the arpeggios pure magic. How could it be? Did it mean something? Was it a prophecy of things to come?

And then, at the highest crescendo in the music, she looked up, her face the very image of her son—dark and mysterious, and beautiful beyond words. Her pale, gossamer being was eerie, the silver rays of the ghost moon bathed her body, giving her an ethereal glow that caused a chill to dance erratically up Dana’s spine. She wanted to run, to escape this madness, but she couldn’t move. She was frozen in fear. The familiar old tune was all around her, the striking of the keys drumming heavily as Sarafina continued to play. The sound was unearthly and ghostlike as its echo ricocheted powerfully off the cavernous walls and ceiling. Dana was struck speechless as she watched the specter move and sway.

Something was wrong.

Not that she’d ever seen a ghost before, but she’d heard enough about them to know they floated, their presence too otherworldly to be heavy and severe as this one seemed to be. She stood silent for a moment, and then began to slowly walk toward the apparition until she stood before her. She knew a ghost could not be touched, but this one seemed all too real, so she boldly reached out and grabbed at her hair.

She gasped as it fell, along with her shroud, and a mask.

All at once, a single striking of discordant keys filled the room and the ghost lunged upward. She found herself looking into a pair of dark glittering eyes stabbing out of a face full of deep-cut wrinkles.

Thorn!

ADULT EXCERPT

She could sense a presence around her even now.

A touch, a hissing of breath, the thrumming of an excited heart, the lightly perfumed scent, the exotic spicy, woodsy fragrance stealthily coming with his presence. It was insubstantial, airy, but she exulted in it. Somehow, she knew he was close, and his touch sent thrills of excitement spiraling through her. She could sense him behind her, and whirled around, seeing nothing but his ghostly image reflected in the painting over the fireplace.

She wilted with disappointment.

She found herself longing for him, for his physical presence. She had grown tired of hot breath upon her ears, airy touches, whispers that echoed around her. Now, she wanted to reach out and feel flesh and blood, but the nearest she could get to him was in her dreams. She looked up at the painting, at the roguish smile, the compelling eyes, the strange magnetism that was so potent.

From the very first moment she’d seen it, she’d had a strange reaction to it and now she wondered what it was that held her spellbound.

As she gazed upon it, in her fertile imagination, she saw him take her lips, followed by her very soul. At night, she could hear him whisper to her in subdued tones, feel a ghostly breeze and—was it a touch? She wasn’t sure. How many times had she stood in her bedroom and felt a tiny caress along her arm? She knew it was Franz touching her so intimately in the night. But how?

To get away from his magnetic eyes, she suddenly turned and ran up the stairs to her room. The moment she opened the door, she was greeted by his presence, his flame-hot breath so bold her body reacted instantly. She leaned back on the door, her eyes closing, the thrill beginning at her center and burning outward until her whole body was consumed.

“Oh, God, Franz,” she mumbled while writhing in his invisible arms, “who are you? What are you? Why won’t you let me see you, feel your body? Please, Franz, I must touch you, I must!”

No answer came—only a misty kiss, a touch on her breast, a hand between her legs. The sensation of his fingers pushing up inside her caused an immediate orgasm to erupt within her, melting her until she turned boneless. Somehow she found herself on her bed, soft, husky, words—from somewhere—whispering in her ear. Something happened. For the first time ever, she felt a wicked desire spiral upward, and spread through her. Suddenly, her inhibitions fell away, and she became a wicked harlot—a wanton that would do anything to feel of his cock inside her. With frenzied movements, she tugged and pulled at her clothes, furiously discarding them as fast as she could.

She writhed at his touch—a touch that both tormented and thrilled her. It brought her higher and higher, reaching just short of the peak of desire. She could feel the pressure of his hands on her breasts, a fullness between her legs. All of a sudden, it came, the plunges that caused a passion to explode inside her. The intense fire that made her hips move wantonly as she gave herself to him grew until a firestorm began in her brain and melted down her body. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye she saw him! Dark, he was, his naked body above her, his eyes filled with lustful pleasure, and she was the object of that pleasure. She closed her eyes as he moved, his cock plunging in and out, rubbing against her clit, her g-spot, bringing her to such peaks of pleasure she couldn’t speak. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, his breath became labored, and the look on his face as he fucked her over and over again was filled with such desire. Without thinking, she grabbed him, and instead of air, she felt his muscled hardness. It evoked such pleasure in her that she screamed with delight. They rode together, the bed squeaking, the air filled with the pungent odor of sex.

He teased her lips, her ears, flames of fire burning them, causing her to moan and shift from side to side while her hands splayed out grasping him, even digging her nails deep into his phantom-like body. Deep in the throes of passion, her breath became labored. She moaned out his name, each of them using the other’s body for their pleasure, caressing, licking, sucking, until at last they shattered together.

Her lids, heavy and slumberous, opened at last and looked deep into the shifting shadows, hoping to see him again, but his misty form had departed.

The erotic fantasy that made her pulse with such a lush, deep opulence was wonderful. At last she had been able to touch him, to stroke the body she had seen in the painting. At last she’d been able to see the handsome man with the devilish smile who drew her somehow, spoke to her, touched her—night after erotic night.