From: monolog@aol.com (Monolog)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Wicked Jackie: A Ghost Story -- Part 2 (M/M)
Date: 20 Feb 1995 22:55:16 -0500

WARNING: This work contains sexually explicit descriptions of
sexual acts and acts of sexual violence.  


                          Wicked Jackie
                           Chapter Two

     As he slipped naked beneath the covers of my bed, I noticed he
wasn't cold, as I'd have expected him to be.  His feet were cold,
of course.  It was cold in the castle in general, and it was a
rainy night outside, after all.
     
     But then, what did anyone really know about the particulars of
having a ghost in one's bed?  Ghosts weren't supposed to have
physical form, were they?  Could anyone honestly discount the
validity of this account, based on solemn assertion that ghosts who
ask to come to bed with you are always as cold as the grave?

     I thought not.

     He even shivered a bit as he warmed himself under the covers. 
I rubbed his shoulders as soothingly as I could, amazed at the
protective instinct he was generating within me.  My god, this boy
had been dead for two-hundred and twenty years! 

     "Warmer now?" I asked my supernatural visitor.

     "Yes," he whispered.  His voice still trembled.  "I just
didn't want to be alone out there."

     "You've been alone a long time, haven't you?" I wondered if he
knew how long.  I wondered if he knew he was dead.

     "A long time," he repeated.  "And, when you've gone, I shall
be alone again... for all time."

     "Who said I was leaving?"

     "They all leave, eventually," he said pitifully.  

     "Perhaps I'll begin a new trend."

     He snuggled against me, burying his face in my chest.  "Just
hold me, please.  Just keep me warm."

     I did.  I wrapped my arms tightly around him, massaged his
back, stroked his hair.  It all felt perfectly natural.

     I hadn't held anyone this way in a long time, man or woman...
not since college.  My few physical relationships had ended badly,
and I'd avoided further entanglement.  I was extremely vulnerable
to seduction -- by either sex.  I'd just stopped letting anyone get
close enough... until now.

     And now I held a dead boy in my arms -- two centuries dead. 
A beautiful dead boy, if those portraits were to be believed, or
had Etienne Berrand exaggerated his beauty?  If only there were
some light! I thought about lighting a candle, but any move I made
away from my new bed-partner was countered with pleading tugs on my
arms.  "Don't go!" his gestures called out to me.

     I satisfied myself by once again tracing his features with my
hands.  I felt the same chiseled nose, the mouth that could smile
so ironically, so cruelly, yet convey such innocence, the eyes... 
His eyes were actually still wet with tears!  No, Etienne's brush
had not lied, those many years ago.

     Sensing no objection, I moved my inspection downward, getting
the feel of his body.  I ran my hands over his pectorals, feeling
his nipples harden as I brushed them.  I felt his flat belly, his
muscular thighs... he was erect.  Was there no human response his
ghostly body could not duplicate?

     My own arousal was growing.  This was what I'd wanted since
I'd first seen Jackie's face in those pictures.  To hold him in my
arms, to show him that someone sympathized.  Did he know that?  Was
that what brought him here?

     As I brought my exploring hands around and felt his firm
buttocks, Jackie began to move beneath my grasp.  He moaned gently,
appreciatively.  

     Encouraged, I brought one hand to his inner thigh, caressing
lightly.  I felt the soft hairs of his upper leg, the hollow as I
approached his pelvis.  The flesh that contained his testicles
still hung loosely.  I rubbed it gently, and they began to pull
upward, stiffening.

     I took his penis and began to massage it gently.  His own
hands rubbed my neck and shoulders and tangled in my hair.  What
would happen, I wondered, if I kept up?  Would he have an orgasm? 
I guessed a body that could produce tears could also manufacture
semen.  He was certainly an interesting ghost.

     I wasn't to be allowed that experiment, however.  Wordlessly,
he pulled my attending hand away and pressed himself against me. 
Taking hold of my chin, he kissed me.  The tongue that explored my
mouth was warm.  His breath was sweet.  The gentle pressure of his
fingers as me moved them up and down my back and thighs inflamed
me.

     He moved his kisses away from my mouth, working around my
face, my forehead, my neck.  He kissed and nibbled my ears,
thrusting his tongue in and out.  My breath was ragged.  I pulled
him tightly against me and thrust my hips against his hungrily.

     "Take me," he whispered into my ear, "please."  He rolled onto
his stomach, guiding me with one hand, pulling me on top of him.  


     I straddled him a moment, rubbing his back and buttocks.  

     "Please," he said insistently.  "Now!"

     One shouldn't refuse a command from beyond the grave, I
thought.  I pressed myself between his buttocks.  The resistance I
met was fair, enough to be stimulating.  He'd done this before,
though, it seemed.  I didn't need lubrication of any kind, either. 
Perhaps that was a by-product of his occult nature.

     I moved within him and began slowly pumping in and out.  He
lifted his head from the pillow, his body writhing beneath me. 
"Yes," he whispered.  "God, yes!"  

     I hooked my chin over his shoulder, and he turned and kissed
me savagely.  His teeth brushed my lips.  

     "Faster now," he commanded.  "Harder! It must be harder!"

     He seemed to want to be hurt.  I obliged, some part of my
nature tearing free of my inhibitions and allowing me to assail
this poor unfortunate spirit.  My frustrations at broken
relationships, my anger at manipulative lovers, my pain at
discovering I'd been used -- all poured themselves into my thrusts.

     All the pain I'd ever known channeled itself into Wicked
Jackie through my pounding organ.  

     As orgasm struck me, shaking me with an intensity I'd never
known, I bit fiercely into his neck.  My fingernails dug into the
soft flesh of his belly, scratching gashes into him.

     Jackie screamed, an unearthly sound of a soul in torment, and
I joined him.

     Exhausted, I collapsed against him.  Suddenly, I realized I
had collapsed against only the bed.  My lover was gone.  Had he
ever been here?  My brain reeled, and I fell into a dreamless
sleep.

                               ***

     Morning came, damp and misty outside the castle walls. 
Outside my castle walls, I thought with a sense of pride as I woke. 
I lay there a few moments, enjoying the simple sensation of being,
collecting myself.

     I remembered the previous night.  A dream?  If so, I could
tell by the familiar feeling in my testicles that the accompanying
orgasm had been real.  The sensations had been so intense, though. 
The heat of his body, the tightness of his anus, the taste of his
mouth.

     The bitter taste of his blood as I'd bit his neck.  A taste
still in my mouth.  Blood, like the blood I'd undoubtedly drawn
when my nails raked his poor stomach.

     What a dream.  I lifted the heavy quilt and started to get out
of bed.  Something dark on the sheet caught my eye, something
reddish, fading to brown.

     Stains of blood.  Hours old.  From just where my lover's
stomach would have been.

     It had not been a dream.

                         TO BE CONTINUED


From: monolog@aol.com (Monolog)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Wicked Jackie: A Ghost Story - Part 3
Date: 23 Feb 1995 02:17:47 -0500

               WICKED JACKIE
                          A Ghost Story
                            Chapter 3

WARNING: This work contains sexually explicit descriptions of
sexual acts and acts of sexual violence.  





     I got dressed and wound my way down the tower stairs to the
great hall.  Mrs. Palmer was busily laying out breakfast.

     "Did you sleep well?" she asked.

     "I don't know.  I had -- some strange dreams.  Must be the
atmosphere of the place."

     She eyed me for some time, still parcelling out dishes and
silverware.  I noticed there was already a fire in the fireplace. 
She'd been up for some time.  I wondered if she'd heard anything
last night.

     "Must be," she said casually.  

     "Did you... have any dreams?" I asked her.

     She smiled.  "Not a one.  Surprising, really.  Usually,
looking at those paintings has a profound effect on my
imagination."  She crossed to the covered serving tray she'd left
on the sideboard.  Steam poured out as she uncovered two perfect
omelets.  

     "I actually didn't sleep much," she went on.  "I woke up
around four.  I don't know why."

     Four o'clock.  That must have been about the time... 

     Mrs. Palmer was staring at me.  "I don't suppose it might be
because Jackie was here, might it?"

     I didn't know what to say.  I was embarrassed to think she
might have heard the sounds of my encounter.  Despite the blood I'd
found on my sheets, I was still trying desperately to convince
myself it had only been a vivid dream.  I could not have made love
to a ghost last night!

     But she knew.  Somehow, through some spiritual connection,
forged before I was even born, no doubt, my housekeeper knew that
Jackie had been here.  What was going on in my new residence?

     "All right," I said.  "I'll come clean -- if you will."

     "I?" she said, registering mild surprise.  "Why, my dear, what
might I have to come clean about, as you put it?"

     I seated myself at the table and began working on that perfect
omelet.  "You have seen him, haven't you?"

     She laughed quietly.  "Of course.  Jackie always appears to
those who have any sympathy for him... and to those he finds
attractive."

     I looked at her when she said that, seeing her in a new light. 
The difference in generations often precludes us from seeing the
beauty in those we know.  She was not an unattractive woman, by any
means.  As a young girl, she must have been...

     "Are you having trouble imagining it?" she asked.

     "Not at all," I said truthfully.  

     "Don't worry.  I don't expect to turn the heads of men your
age."  She sat down and began working on her own breakfast.  "I'm
quite comfortable with being old, really.  It's a relief, in many
ways.  I've never been one of those who wanted to live forever, and
I've accepted the differences that come with age -- good and bad. 
I knew it wouldn't be me he visited."

     Again, I was unsure how to reply.  I was comfortable with my
own sexuality.  I'd had encounters with men and women, only a few
of each, and I'd never felt pressed to declare an allegiance.  I
never intended to make any commitments, after all.

     Still, it was odd to have her know, at least be able to guess,
what had happened last night.

     She was guessing my thoughts even now.  "Don't worry, my dear. 
I abandoned all notions of propriety in such affairs long ago. 
What happens between human beings as sexual creatures -- it never
makes sense.  Why try to write rules for a game you don't
understand?"

     I nodded.

     After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "Did you notice the
resemblance?"

     "Hmm?"

     "Between yourself and the portrait of Etienne?"

     "I hadn't really considered it.  I suppose it's possible..."

     "Oh yes, definitely.  The same color hair and eyes, about the
same build.  Jackie must be excited to have you here."

     She talked about him so matter-of-factly.  As if he were her
brother or nephew.  As if he were about to come down to breakfast
and join us.

     "How many times have you seen him?" I asked.

     "Who can count?  It's been years, of course.  The castle was
sealed by the Ministry during the seventies.  Before that I was
away in London, teaching."

     "When did you first see him?"

     "I'll never forget," she said.  "I was fourteen.  It was my
birthday, and my father had been called away on business.  I was
furious.  I cried and moped about so that my mother got angry and
we argued.  She whipped me with a birch switch -- me!  All of
fourteen -- an adult! And on my birthday.

     "I ran from the house and came here to walk in the garden.  It
was hardly a garden anymore.  It was as dilapidated then as it is
now, but it was my secret place.  I'd come here and read my books,
and imagine being mistress of the castle.  I'd sit for hours and
daydream.

     "That day, though, I was so miserable.  I lay down by the
dried out stone pool and wept and wept.  My backside was sore, my
pride was hurt.  My birthday was ruined.  

     "That's when I heard the footstep behind me, such a gentle
step.  I looked up, slowly.  The first thing I saw was my own
reflection.  That shocked me, and then I realized I was being
silly.  It was only my reflection in the water of the pool.  And
then I was shocked all over again, for I remembered that the pool
was dry.

     "Only it wasn't dry now.  It was full, as it had been
centuries ago.  The water was clear, and water lilies drifted
lazily on the surface.  As I looked around me, I saw the whole
garden had come alive.  The flowers were in bloom everywhere, the
boxwood hedges were manicured.  It was the most beautiful sight I'd
ever seen!

     "Until I turned to see the source of the footstep.  And then,
truly, I was confronted with the most beautiful image of my life. 
I'd never known the like, and I still haven't to this day.

     "It was a boy, a young man, really.  His skin was like marble,
his hair a perfect golden, his eyes -- oh, Lord! I hadn't known
what life was until I saw those eyes.  They burned with their own
inner fire, and yet they were the coolest blue.  They were so
knowing, as if they possessed the wisdom of the ages, and yet they
reflected the innocence of a newborn.  He smiled at me.

     "I knew who he was, of course.  I'd seen pictures of Wicked
Jackie, the infamous Earl of Kipton.  I'd never realized, though,
how beautiful he was.  Here I was, with my first schoolgirl crush,
on a boy who'd been dead almost two-hundred years! I wasn't afraid
at all, just overwhelmed.  And perhaps I fainted, for what happened
next seemed to take place in another world..."

                               ***

     "Hello, child," the ghost said.  "What are you doing in my
garden?"

     "I -- hello, milord," I breathed.  I must remember my manners!
I executed a small curtsy.  "I didn't mean to intrude.  I -- "

     He came up to me and took my hand, kissed it gently.  His lips
were so warm, so soft.  "Intrude?  How could I call your coming
here an intrusion?  I always welcome beauty in my garden.  That's
what a garden is for, isn't it?  To create a safe place for
beauty?"

     I blushed, I knew.  I could feel the heat in my face.  Did he
really think I was beautiful?  He continued to hold my hand.

     "Do you feel safe here?" he asked.

     "I -- " there was no point in lying to him.  He'd caught me
here already.  "I come here often.  It's so different from the
outside world."

     He nodded.  "That it is.  I imagine you've parents you must
escape, a young thing like you."

     "Yes," I admitted.

     "Parents who don't understand you."

     "Yes."

     "Parents who beat you."

     "I -- "

     He pulled my hand to his chest dramatically.  "The truth,
now!"

     "Yes."

     "Did they beat you today?"

     "Yes," I whispered.  "And it's my birthday!"

     He gasped.  "A crime! Shall I have them both cast in my
dungeon?"

     I giggled.  

     "I can, you know."  He cupped my chin and gazed into my eyes. 
"What a pretty smile you have.  And the rest of you is quite
pretty, too."

     "Thank you."

     "What a pity for such beauty to be marred by -- a switch, was
it?  Leaving great red welts behind it?"

     I winced at the memory, and at this beautiful young man having
any knowledge of my shame.  "Yes.  It was... it was a birch
switch."

     He shook his head and pouted.  Then, suddenly, quietly,
looking about, as if to check for onlookers, he whispered, "Show
me?"

     "What?" I demanded.

     "Show me.  I want to see where you were whipped."

     "Sir!" I protested.

     "Oh, it's all right," he assured me.  "We're quite alone here. 
The servants may be watching, but they're most discreet."  He
brought one hand to the back of my neck and caressed me gently. 
"Show me," he whispered.

     I looked around me.  There was no one around, as he said, but
surely he couldn't be serious!  

     "Please," he urged me.

     It was too much: the strangeness of meeting him here, his
beauty, the violence of earlier events.  I was intoxicated by it
all.  Turning away from him, I lifted my simple skirt to my waist. 
I had no undergarments on.  

     I could feel his eyes on me.  Then his hands followed, tracing
the lines of the welts where the birch had bitten into my flesh.  

     "Such cruel marks," he sighed, "on such perfect skin."  He
continued the light touch of his fingers against my backside.  I
knew it was wrong for him to touch me that way, but...

     "Such perfect beauty," he muttered.  Before I could respond,
before I knew what was happening, he knelt.  With one hand on my
midsection, he pulled me gently backward.  The warm, soft touch of
his lips, which my hands had known only moments before, now came to
my nether regions.  He was kissing the welts where the switch had
fallen!

     I tried to move away, but his grip on me was firm.  I didn't
want to move away that badly, either.  His attentions to me brought
me pleasure, awakening sensations in parts of my body I hadn't
realized existed.

     I sighed, and I realized I was leaning forward, pushing myself
against him, encouraging his ministrations.  

     This was wrong, I thought.  I mustn't allow it! I stood erect,
my skirt dropping down again, restoring my modesty.  

     My beautiful boy rocked back on his heels, amused.  

     "Sir," I said.  "Your advances are not proper."

     He laughed.  "I should hope not!"

     "Sir!"

     He stood and advanced on me.  He was not tall, but he was
taller than I, and he looked down at me.  "Damn propriety!" he said
viciously.  "It's done nothing to improve this world."

     I was shocked by his language, but not so shocked as I was by
what he said next.  "Take off your dress."

     "What?!"

     "I said," he repeated calmly, "take off your dress."

     "I -- "

     Suddenly the laughter was gone from his blue eyes.  He was
hard and angry.  The charming young man I'd met was gone, replaced
by some beast, some predator.  

     "Don't waste my time with your notions of plebeian morality,
child.  You don't even know how to appreciate your gifts.  I'm
going to teach you, and I haven't time for nonsense!"

     He said again, "Take off your clothes."

     "But we're outdoors," I protested.  I'd resigned myself to the
situation.  He wanted me.  He would have me, but --

     "Damn it all!" he roared, and pounced on me.  

     He forced me backward, my buttocks hit the stone bench by the
pool hard.  His hand locked around the fabric at my chest and
jerked hard.  The rough material gave way, rending, tearing.  I
felt the cool air of approaching evening on my bosom.  

     He shredded my garment and cast it aside.  Tears streamed down
my face.  "Please," I begged.

     "Do not plead!" he spat.  
     
     Then he looked at me, naked, quivering beneath him, and his
face softened.  "It isn't becoming," he said gently.  "A naked
woman has as much dignity as a clothed one -- more!  She does not
hide her beauty.  She does not pretend mediocrity.  But if she
pleads, she demeans herself.  A woman of stature does not need
pleas."

     I did not feel like a woman of stature.  I was shivering,
naked, before a man I didn't know whether I despised or desired.

     "Are you a virgin?" he asked me.

     "Of course!"

     He laughed derisively.  "Of course.  Your virginity is your
destitute father's only possession! A drunken miscreant, with no
accomplishment in his life, but that he curbed his own lust long
enough to keep your maidenhead intact."

     I didn't understand what he was saying.  I had a growing
feeling of apprehension, though.  He was looking me up and down in
a way that frightened me.

     "It hardly seems fair, does it?  It's your maidenhead, after
all.  The disposition of it should be your choice, should it not?"

     I didn't know how to respond.  How did he want me to respond?

     "Alas," he continued, "it never will be your choice.  It will
belong to your father, or to some slothly fellow of his choosing...
or to some nobleman who fancy you take."  He shook his head.  "A
pity, really, but that's the way of things."

     He grinned a lopsided grin.  "The least we can do is enjoy the
situation, eh?  And deprive him of his puny satisfaction?"

     I realized he was unlacing the velvet tunic he wore.  The
ivory skin of his chest was open to my inspection.  It was
hairless, beautiful, but...

     "Please," I whispered.  "No!"

     Again he shook his head.  "It's really quite a burden, being
the only one who knows what's right.  Not right for you, of course. 
There is no right for you.  I can't change that," he said as he
slipped the velvet garment over his head.  "But I can enjoy the
situation."

     He began removing his pants.  His manhood sprang out, red and
stiff and threatening.  I'd never seen such before.  

     "Oh, no!" I sobbed.

     Naked now, like me, he advanced and took me by the shoulders,
holding me down against the cold stone of the bench.  His knee came
forward and forced both of mine apart.  What was I to do?  If I
were to fight him, I would lose, and who would take my part?

     I felt it touch me there.  It was hard, and hot, so hot.  He
pushed.  My maidenhead did not yield, and he pushed harder.  The
pain hit me, the burning pain.  It was so much worse than the
whipping I'd had earlier, for he was not being gentle.

     He ripped me open.  Looking down, I saw blood as it smeared
onto him.  The terrible pressure as he forced his way into my inner
recesses made me cry out.  He pushed me back.  The rough stone
abraded my back.  The welts on my buttocks ached as they, too,
rubbed against the bench.

     He was humping furiously, driving himself into me.  I could
not catch my breath, could not adjust myself to any position of
comfort, for his pace was too frantic.  

     His face reddened as his passion built.  His hair became
matted with sweat.  He kissed me awkwardly, roughly.  His teeth
grazed my neck and chin and shoulders.

     And then he was finished.  I felt the wetness within me, and
the pulsing of his member.  His body stiffened and convulsed, and
he sank down on top of me as I sobbed...

                               ***

     "As I say," said Mrs. Palmer, "I must have fainted.  When I
came to, I realized that none of it had really happened.  I was
still clothed, of course, and this wasn't the seventeen-hundreds. 
I'd surely imagined the whole thing.  The shock of seeing a
ghost... but had I really seen a ghost?

     "And then I heard his voice.  Oh, what a beautiful voice! 

     "'Don't be afraid,' he said.  'It won't be like that.  That
was a long time ago.  I'm sorry you had to see it.  I wish I could
stop the visions of my past that follow me.'"

     "I asked him why he'd come here.

     "'Because,' he said, 'you wanted to be loved.  I can sense
that.  You came here because you feel you aren't loved.'  And he
came forward to me, and put his arm around my shoulder.  'I will
make you feel loved, if you will let me.'

     "This was the same young man, I knew.  The same one I'd just
experienced that horrible vision about.  He'd really done that to
some poor peasant girl.  He'd raped more young girls than there
were hairs on my head, I was sure.  And now he was asking me to let
him love me.

     "I didn't hesitate for a moment.  I said yes!"

                         TO BE CONTINUED