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The Ghost of Fucks That Never Were
By
Jaymal

The Ghost of Fucks That Never Were

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Fuck that. Over the next 24 hours, they will be.

I open my eyes. My cell-phone’s alarm is crowing me good morning with a cockerel sound-effect it’s never emitted before. 9am on a Saturday. Normal wake-up time. Room’s normal too – so’s the light, the temperature… But something – I can’t identify what – isn’t. Something about today is other.

It might be the girl perched on my bed’s end – the pretty bikini girl in denim cut-offs, with the cherry-lipstick smile, who wasn’t there last night. She flicks her tumbledown brunette locks aside to look at me. I should be alarmed at this intruder, but I’m weirdly calm, like some psychic morphine has the best of my emotions. My cock alone is responding to her unexpected presence, rapidly so.

‘I know you,’ I say, checking how her breasts fill out her top, then returning to her hazel eyes.

‘You think you do,’ she replies simply.

‘No, I do.’ I struggle up, bedclothes slipping off my naked chest. ‘Boston, 2004-ish. I was holidaying in the US. You were serving bar and I…’

‘Spent the evening mustering courage to hit on me while not staring at my tits.’

‘You remember – YES.’ Embarrassment strikes. ‘Look, I wasn’t long out of my Christian phase. Hadn’t got my chat-up act together.’

‘Which is why you returned to your motel and jacked yourself silly in the shower thinking of me tonguing my lips and thrusting my boobs for your benefit, while not actually looking at you.’

‘Like you’re doing now. Wait – how did you know?’

‘That you jacked off?’

‘No. Jacking off was always going to happen. I mean the shower.’

‘Because I’m not her.’

I stare, hand tracing my cock through the sheet. In the unfolding madness, it’s this revelation which surprises.

She was the one featuring most recently in your wank-dreams,’ the stranger explains. ‘So she’s the form I took.’

‘The form you… Wait – ‘the one’ of what?’

She squirms around, accentuating her cleavage, and plucks the sheet off my now solid erection. ‘Girls you might have fucked but didn’t. Remember this one?’ She shimmies, transforming bodily into a slender girl with a gamine hairstyle, wearing a sequined dress.

Belfast bar – latter 1990s – I’d danced with her, but my born-again sensibilities prevented more.

Sequins shrugs herself and morphs head-to-toe into a tousle-haired ripped-jean blonde.

Eastern European gal, Kentish high-street weeks ago. Gave me a hey-you smile to die for, but I let it slide, since my relationship hadn’t quite trundled to its final halt.

Ripped Jeans transforms effortlessly back into Boston Bikini.

‘Damn,’ I say. ‘Neat trick. So – who the fuck actually are you?’

‘I’m multi-named,’ she says, lightly stroking my cock. ‘But to you – I’m The Ghost of Fucks That Never Were.’

‘Makes sense,’ I croak, stiffening rigid under her touch. ‘And you’re here…’

‘To save you.’

‘Good. Nice. From…?’

‘All your bogus reasons for not having sex.’

‘Hey, I’ve had my share…’

‘You’ve had half your share at best. Too polite, too moral, too PC. And this…’ She indicates her assumed shape. ‘…Is what you missed.’

‘Wait – I don’t know that you – she – would have fucked me.’

‘You don’t know she wouldn’t, but you never found out. Over and over. Not just in your religious days. These past two years…’

‘In a relationship.’

‘How did that work for you?’

Not well. Ultimately shit. Striving to be a good partner – responsible, supportive, avoiding chat sites, despite diminishing sexual returns.

‘Exactly. All that sacrifice and not even getting laid.’

‘Wait – what? I only thought that.’

‘I know all your thoughts.’ Her slender hand tugs rhythmically. ‘Those promises you’re clinging to even now you’re single. Foregoing fantasy, being this better version of yourself… I’m here to provide some perspective.’ She spits on her hand, renews her grip and wanks me insistently.

‘Christ,’ I groan. ‘Thanks.’

‘Not this.’ She lets go my cock, so that it languishes unattended. ‘I’m here to grant a wish.’

‘Damn. Seriously?’

‘Yup. One that gets fulfilled the other side of that door.’ She points to the entrance in question. It’s cerulean blue – the colour of endless summer promise. Last night a full-length wall mirror was there.

Any wish?’ I ask.

‘Not any. Nothing lame. One that captures your deepest desires. Otherwise that door stays shut.’

‘But a wish is a wish. What kind of genie…’

‘I’m no fucking genie. I don’t waste time on bullshit wishes. Own up to what you want. Feel it in your balls.’ She grabs my sac and squeezes. ‘Go deep. Find your wish. Access to that room runs out this time tomorrow.’

‘God…’ I’m poker-stiff once again. ‘Give me a hint.’

‘No hint. Find your wish – your real wish – and I’ll come back.’

I blink and she’s gone, the pressure on my balls still easing.

Fuck.

I lie naked a moment, then I rise, cock swaying, and test the still existent door. Utterly resistant. Not even a handle. ‘Damn. Where’d you go, Boston?’

No answer’s forthcoming, so I put on a robe and go make coffee, trying tentative wishes en route. I wish I could fuck… you know, this singer, that actress. Nothing. Shouldn’t opt for small stuff anyway, in case I’m not hallucinating. Post-caffeine I shave and shower – give the vivid-dream sensation time to fade. Then I check the bedroom. The cerulean portal is still there, unyielding like before. Damn.

No calls on my time, so let’s test this madness properly. Sitting on my bed I grasp for a wish – come up with twenty half-baked fantasies, none remotely worthy of my ersatz Boston babe. None capable of conjuring that capriciously sexy sprite.

Maybe if I distract myself, inspiration will dawn.

I scroll Netflix, watching nothing – mind fixed on sex, trying to focus on the women I’ve fucked, not the ones I haven’t. But those non-conquests are mocking me… or perhaps it’s self-mockery, me and my fine reasons. As minutes accumulate into hours, a few – women and reasons – take centre-stage.

The blonde Athenian waitress in the low-cut tee, who laid her hand on mine one balmy August night. (And me too fresh from church, too timidly polite. Christ, Boston wasn’t kidding.) That trainee teacher where I worked – the coy one, bosomy in tight turtle-necks, so sweet on her fiancée. Until drink three one staff night out. (And me too principled to test how far she’d stray.) The student in emerald green to match her eyes, whose gaze lingered that post-graduation dance. (And me too much the teaching pro to seize that shimmering, simmering moment.) My ex’s sultry actress friend, one tall curvaceous come-on in her scarlet party dress. Never mind her arty boyfriend or my other half. She had form in cheating too, my ex informed me. (But me, too loyal to a failing fucking cause to take a shot.)

Too fucking bloody thoughtful. Too much the good-guy.

‘Goddamn! Fuck it.’

I go make lunch, dismissing my bizarre encounter. Trying to. Odd chores need doing and I attend to them, periodically checking the blue door. It’s lingering like the fragment of a dream.

‘Bollocks.’ I’m scouring oven surfaces early evening – still in my robe – when renewed frustration hits. The girls I never shagged are taunting me, that quartet of untapped hotness causing me especial grief.

‘Amazing ass,’ a surf instructor told me of Greek Vixen (like he knew) – and to think I might have grasped said ass... Loved-Up Trainee Teacher’s sweet face and soft boobs demanded defilement. Straight-A Student wanted another kind of education and as for Scarlet Diva – our off-stage chemistry might have been awards-worthy.

‘You’re too nice for your own good,’ a friend once told me. Blue door or otherwise, I feel the emptiness of opportunity squandered. Those times add up to one egregious fact – I’ve been a well-meaning, self-sabotaging fool. I thump the kitchen shelf.

‘Shit, I wish I hadn’t been so fucking nice!’

She taps my shoulder while the words still echo. ‘Now that,’ Boston Bikini says with relish, ‘I can work with.’

Hope surges at her busty re-apparition. Elation elevates me to unprecedented heights, as she leads me to the bedroom. At the door (the new one, throbbing with the colour of potential) she unknots my belt, brushing the robe clean from my shoulders.

‘You won’t be needing clothes.’ She smirks, bikinied tits a-quiver. ‘Or conscience. In here the only priority is your cock.’ At her touch the mystic portal clicks ajar, my priority pulsing in response. I follow her through the doorway, naked and toweringly erect, into dazzling white light.

By the time my vision adjusts, the doorway has vanished. It’s just me and fake-Boston in azure vastness – the same eternal summer promised by the entrance. It’s heat-shimmer hazy, my body embraced by sensual warmth and… something else. As we stroll the sky-mirror floor, my skin acquires a fine sheen, like I’ve been coated in silky lubricant. My vital signs go wild.

‘Where the hell is this?’

‘Your personalised heaven. Look.’ My bikini-guide points to a dark blur resolving out of the haze – a queen-size bed quilted in black satin. Its surface is loaded with unfeasible erotic delight in the form of the Quartet. Fuck. They’re all here, each one plucked from the place and time I met her and deposited on an ebony duvet. Naked, glistening with lube and… interacting.

Greek Vixen, wearing only gold wristlets slung with charms, kneels with her fingers – four of them – rammed up Straight-A Student’s proffered cunt. Straight-A is on her back, thighs splayed, a plaid skirt banded around her waist, as those thrusting digits fuck her. Scarlet Diva is squatting on her face, tits-and-ass bare but for red high-heels; she’s grinding her sopping snatch on Straight-A’s mouth, while tongue-kissing a bent-over Loved-Up Trainee Teacher. Loved-Up is a right-angle, legs straddling Straight-A’s thighs, back flat, head up to lock her mouth with Scarlet’s, hands reaching back to prise apart her ass-cheeks. The only item she’s wearing glints diamond-bright on her finger. Greek’s mouth is planted on Loved-Up’s exposed hole, tongue-fucking that ass, while she fingers Straight-A knuckles-deep.

It’s a filthy fucking miracle – a moaning, squelching, flesh-quivering closed-circuit of oily lesbian depravity.

My cock swells in lusty appreciation.

Then BB snaps her fingers with a flourish and all four abandon their Sapphic pursuits, locking onto me instead. Seems I’m a muscled, phallic God in this very strange Place. Salivating visibly, they pile off the bed and swarm me.

I’m awash on a slithering tide of female flesh. Oily tits squish against my chest, back and ribs, as they propel me to the bed – these phantom feral versions of the girls I knew. Greek and Scarlet – physically the strongest – slide me onto the covers, laying me back in the fleshy cradle of their joint embrace. Greek reaches to clutch my preternaturally swollen balls. Scarlet wraps her hand around my singularly rampant shaft. One tugs, the other jerks – together they wank the fuck out of my oily throbbing cock. Straight-A wrestles Loved-Up into place before my priapic altar, student prepping teaching trainee for worship. How choice. She licks the older girl’s neck and pinches the nipples on her lovely tits, causing that delectable jaw to drop, open and ready.

The cock-jerking duo up their pace, pressing themselves tight, as I peak, clench and unleash. Cum issues in a glorious fucking fountain, filling Loved-Up’s mouth, deluging her pretty features. Copiously I offload, my body an arc of tension in the other girls’ soft hands, clogging that sweet face with glistening spunk till not even her fiancé would recognise her, poor thing. Straight-A, spume-flecked, licks the trainee’s jizz-ruined visage hungrily. Greek and Scarlet, cum-starved, rush to join the feeding frenzy. I sink back, the covers absorbing my post-orgasmic frame. The last I see is Boston grinning from above, before blackness swallows me…

…and I rise bolt-upright, adrenaline and endorphins rushing body and brain, balls swelling full and cock thrusting tall, like I haven’t just been utterly milked.

The bed is gone. The sky is sunset-ocre, a breeze wafting off the dark Mediterranean sea. Greek is stretched before me like a busty lioness, her mythically gorgeous ass thrust high in the air. My unsheathed cock rests bulging in its cleft.

Laughter drifts from the taverna where she works, but on this beach it’s just us. Me and this girl whose name I don’t know, whose language I don’t speak, whose future I don’t feature in (nor she in mine). Who’s cunt I’m about to fuck, hard. Because she’s hot and it’s there, says the Ghost, whispering to me on the breeze.

I draw my cock from its peachy resting place, nestle the glans between Greek’s puffed and gleaming lips and do what once I should have done. That’s grip her waist, brace her good and bury myself inside her to the balls. Fill her up and shaft her senseless in the balmy Athenian night-air.

Broken shards of sunlight on lapping waves. Swollen dick in pulsing pussy. Slender fingers clutching at sand, wristlets jangling, as Greek takes it deep from a bastard she’ll never meet again. My eyes feast on the streak of her naked body, on my cock as it shafts that juicy hole, before I seize her shoulder and fuck like a savage the rest of the way.

She curses in Greek and cums in the language of horny fuckers everywhere. I build, crescendo and flood her with a hot, fierce rush – mind and body exploding into fireworks. I can hear the Ghost’s wicked laugh, as darkness takes me once again.

I re-emerge – revitalised and ready – and deep in a whole other squelching cunt.

Loved-up is naked beneath me, thighs gripping my ass and soft boobs in full bounce, as I fuck her on my car’s back seat. We’ve abandoned a Friday-night work do on my suggestion. Seems this designated driver is also the nominated wrecker of her engaged pussy – nomination gleefully accepted.

‘Christ you’re tight.’ I slam into her young, yielding body. ‘Your other half’s a lucky fuck.’

‘Don’t,’ she moans, clutching my ass. ‘Shouldn’t… be doing… this…’

‘But you are.’ I shouldn’t say the next part, but Boston Bikini is ogling from the driver’s seat, her ghostly presence urging me. Go on. Say it, fucker. SAY IT.

‘You love your fiancé?’

‘Oh God, I do…’ Loved-up mourns her own faithlessness, even as her soon-to-be-married pussy takes it from someone else.

‘But you love this too, right?’

‘Oh fuck… fuck… Yes!’ This sweet young woman bursts into full orgasm, as she confesses.

I don’t know whose ring she’s wearing, nor do I give a shit. His girl is currently creaming my cock. That’s what matters. It’s me and not some other bastard who’s reaming out future bride’s cheating fuckhole, a further tsunami brewing in my balls. Speaking of which, I’ve got plans for that imminent flood…

Pulling out, I drag her up by the hair and stuff my already twitching pole into her gasping mouth. She sucks dutifully, gives it her cheating best, but it’s already crisis point. Clutching her head, I thrust deep into her throat and explode there. She tried (and fails) to swallow the cum-rush. It backs up fast, bloating her cheeks and splurging lewdly from her mouth, either side of my embedded column. The gorgeous tit-splattering mess that results is the final thing I see (Boston Bikini laughing all the way, ho-ho! the final thing I hear), before I fade…

…and revive, with Straight-A Student bouncing like a bitch on my cock.

Fuck! Where am I now? A bed. My bed. Same room, different time. It’s years ago, yet it’s right now. No emerald prom-dress tonight – she’s naked in the saddle, but for the plaid mini that dances around the junction of our bodies.

‘God, Sir,’ my teenage cowgirl pants lustily, ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this!’

‘Yeah?’ I clutch her hips beneath the plaid and thrust like I’m deep-drilling for wetness (of which there’s a slurping abundance). ‘I can’t believe I didn’t do it before.’

‘What?’

Boston gets the reference, even if Straight-A doesn’t. She’s haunting me cross-legged on the covers, nodding to the student’s frantically oscillating tits with a ‘Check those out’ leer on her impish face. Cheeky bitch.

I shaft harder and Straight-A trampolines on me more insistently, her eager young cunt gobbling my cock on each landing. ‘God, Sir, you really know how to fuck a girl!’

‘I promised your parents I’d work you hard.’

‘That’s what makes you such a good fucking teacher…’

‘You think?’

‘Uh-huh!’

‘Then frig that clit and cum all over this teacher’s fucking cock.’

Her fingers scurry under the hem of her skirt to access her wet nub, as she bounces on her one-time mentor’s rigid dick. Soon all’s a wet flurry, teeth snaring her lip, free hand tugging her nipple, as she masturbates and fucks her way to orgasm. She’s riding ‘Sir’ – who grips that darling teenage ass and damn well lets her do it.

Nor do I let go, when the cum riots in my balls and surges upwards, to burst free deep within her, shot on student-affirming shot.

‘A-fucking-plus!’ I shout (and think High-fucking-five! for the Ghost), right before my consciousness dwindles to dark…

Bam! Back and hard and full-to-bursting. Captain Fuckstick can do this all night.

This time I’m chest-to-tit with Scarlet, her Amazonian legs wrapped around me and her ass planted firmly on a dresser, as I fuck her standing. Those breasts are jogging so splendidly as I cram her greedy hole, that I’m initially distracted from where we are in space and time. It comes to me, as the Diva’s strapped heels dig into my clenching ass.

Houseparty. Scarlet’s place. When last I saw my girlfriend, she was chatting drunkenly downstairs with the actress’s bearded partner. Fuck. I’m really doing this.

Yes you are, you bad boy. Nothing stops you now. Ghost-girl is behind me, stroking the same back that Scarlet’s nails are clutching in response to the fuck. Remind her. Remind yourself.

‘Christ, we’re the worst,’ I say, before claiming one tit in my mouth and biting on the nipple hard.

‘Fuck! You’re a cheating bastard,’ she moans, shunting herself further onto my ravishing shaft. ‘And I’m a filthy fucking cunt…’

Can’t argue with a word of that. Gripping her statuesque frame fit to bruise her, I feast on that magnificent tit and pound the living, squelching fuck out of her. Pound her till her thighs clench me in a vice-grip and her spasming pussy sucks the cum clean out of me, draining my balls one more time. The final time?

No… even as I fizzle, there it is – my phallic resurrection. Time remains my friend as I re-run the course in its entirety – new locations, changed circumstances, different holes. Sometimes my imagination pairs them – Straight-A riding my face, while Loved-Up bounces sobbing on my cock; Greek eating out Scarlet, while I fuck the Vixen up her nasty ass. I work through every writhing, squirting combo – Bikini-Ghost applauding through it all – till the whole Quartet graces the bed again (the ebony satin one), a squirming mass of fuck-flesh, feeding off each other’s lust and on my cum.

Check them… Random lay. Faltering good-girl. Off-limits student. Partner’s venial girl-pal. All of them I might have fucked. Tonight – in this nether nirvana – I have done, without a smidge of conscience to compromise my fun. So that’s what that feels like. Wanking past the zenith of my joy, I douse this seething, famished fuck-pile one more time, raining sperm – hot and thick – upon their tits and cunts and hungry lapping tongues. Pelting and plastering all with evidence of my dubious, heart-felt love.

Then as I fade, completely now, the Ghost catches me in her spectral arms and lays me down to a final well-earned slumber.

I open my eyes. My cell-phone’s alarm is its unremarkable self – no cockerel sound-effects today. Sunday that is, 9am. Normal wake-up time. All’s normal, nothing other. No girl in shorts upon my bed, no cerulean blue portal. Just me… and my full-length bedroom mirror.

It bears a cherry-lipstick scrawl – Bikini Boston’s colour. I climb from bed, naked and aching, and look past the legend written there to view myself. I’m sweating still, with Straight-A’s love-bites burning on my chest, upper arms stinging from Scarlet’s scratches.

My balls are bruised, my cock livid-red, still partially erect – its surface crusted with cum. I look the kind of fucker your parents warned you to avoid.

I focus on the jagged lipstick words scratched all across me: You’re NOT so fucking nice.

I smile at my mirror-self. No, I’m not. Not anymore. Thanks, Ghost.

Then I leave wishing behind and go about my day. About my brand-new not-nice fucking life.

 

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