I’m still not sure whether the girl Celia encounters is real or not. You can make your own mind up.

Is Celia’s encounter real or a ghost from the past in this erotic ghost story?

The evening sun crept through the leaves of the trees that crowded around the old churchyard, dappling the long shadows on the path ahead with warm patches of light. The church tower loomed above Celia as if reaching toward the setting sun. She turned off the path and felt the long grass brushing against her toes through her sandals. The air still felt warm after the heat of the day and the scents of wildflowers and dry grass floated on it.

She weaved between the gravestones toward the small ruined chapel that stood abandoned at the edge of the old cemetery. Beyond it, the graveyard had expanded to accommodate the ever dying as, in recent years, new houses had surrounded the village turning the once green fields into a sea of red tiled roofs.

The church stood about half a mile outside the modern village, the original settlement that once surrounded it abandoned during the black death. Separated from the noise of new modern life its graveyard was an oasis of natural calm.

Her husband’s grave lay in the new plot beyond the ruin. A long path wound around the church but Celia usually cut across the churchyard and through the ruin, enjoying the feel of the grass underfoot and the scents of the yellow and purple wildflowers. She walked between the crumbling grey flint walls that reached up above her head. The shadows between them were dark and lengthened almost visibly as the sun dropped lower in the sky.

She stopped, to her left, in the very edge of her vision something had moved. She turned her head; a girl was crouched close to a small weathered oak door that led to a small anteroom off the chapel.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Celia thought for a moment that the girl was praying.

Her eyes adjusted to the shadow and she could see that the girl was wearing something that looked like a black satin bodice, skimpy bikini style knickers and black stockings. Hardly the correct attire for churchyard, despite the heat, Celia thought, even though she was only wearing a light summer dress under which there was no underwear; her husband had been most specific about that.

They had had a very fulfilling relationship where she had happily played the submissive to his dominant. At first the roles were confined to the bedroom but, through the six years of their marriage, he had encouraged her to explore more exciting, more public settings where the anticipation of discovery had heightened her desire.

Once, as they lay back after an especially exhilarating session, he had said. ‘If I die I want you to stand by my grave, as you have been stood beside me so many times in life, naked beneath your dress. You must then lift it and display yourself for my pleasure so I can gaze on you, even from the afterlife.

She had snuggled closer to him and said ‘Of course Sir, but I do hope you are not thinking of dying just yet.’

He had smiled at her. ‘Not just yet.’

A year later he was dead.

She had complied with what she now saw as his last wish. On the day of the funeral she had thought it might not be a good idea to lift her black dress in front of the vicar and assembled mourners. Instead, she had crept back after the wake and revealed herself to his now unseeing eyes. It was a ritual she continued every time she visited the grave and the main reason she came at dusk as the churchyard was usually quiet.

The girl reached out a hand swathed in a black lace glove and stared at Celia, her head tipped slightly to one side as if studying something new. ‘Release me.’ she said.

Celia stepped closer. The girl’s other hand seemed to be secured to the door by a short length of chain. ‘Good grief,’ she knelt down, ‘who did that to you?’

The girl tipped her head to the other side and looked into Celia’s eyes.

As she looked back Celia had the strange sensation that she was being sucked into the dark round pupils. She felt something rough against her cheek and realised the girl was caressing her cheek with the lace covered fingers of her free hand.

‘Your husband,’ the girl smiled.

‘What?’ Celia recoiled from the touch. ‘That’s not possible,’ her voice hardened as she recovered from the shock.

The girl was clearly mad. To humour her she said, ‘Well you must have been here a while; he’s been dead for over a year.

The girl laughed. ‘Are you dressed as he commands?’ Her fingertips brushed against Celia’s knee and began to move slowly up her thigh pushing the flimsy material of her dress with them.

‘How did you know that?’ Celia grabbed at the hem trying to pull the dress back down but the fingers pushed on under the material until they brushed between her legs. Celia gasped; it was the first intimate touch she had felt since before her husband’s death.

‘He wants to watch us.’ Her fingers curled between Celia’s lips. ‘Just as he did in life.’

Celia felt herself blush.

‘Set me free.’ the girl whispered.

Celia hesitated, how could she know these things; the most intimate secrets between husband and wife. Maybe one of the other girls had talked; that had to be it. One of them had gossiped to her friends.

She looked around as if searching for hidden cameras or a secret audience. The chapel had now darkened and was quiet. But then how had she known about the underwear?

‘What are you?’ Celia whispered. She reached out and touched the girl’s thigh. The skin felt firm and solid; cooling in the evening light but not cold; so she was not a ghost.

The girl gazed at her again with her deep dark eyes. ‘No, I am not a ghost. I am real and I am here.’ She moved slightly so Celia’s outstretched hand brushed against the silky material of her panties.

Instinctively Celia pulled the thin covering aside. Her fingers brushed warm folds of flesh that parted without resistance.

She could feel the heat on her fingertips and the oleaginous sensations of flesh that felt silkier than the panties that had covered it.

The girl rocked on her heels moving her hips back and forth to slide her sex over Celia’s unmoving fingers. She closed her eyes and her head arched back as she let out a low moan, as if she too had waited a long time for this touch.

Her eyes opened and she looked back at Celia. ‘See, I am not a ghost, not one of the undead.’ She chuckled. ‘I will eat garlic if you want to prove I am not a vampire, or wear a cross, bathe in holy water, so release me.’

Celia looked at the chain; it seemed to be simply knotted around the handle of the door and then around the girl’s wrist. Celia pulled at the links but it seemed to be stuck firm, held by the tension. ‘Stop pulling on it.’ she said.

The girl eased back on her haunches and, as the chain went slack, Celia found it was easy to undo.

‘You could have done that.’

A dark shape seemed to mist in front of Celia the girl sprang from her crouching position in a feline pounce. Celia felt rough stones against her back as she was pushed to the ground. Hands slid over her skin, under the dress, pushing the material up into a ruff around her neck and her lips descended onto her own.

For a moment she was stunned by the ferocity of the kiss but then her own body responded to the sensations of the tongue probing her mouth.

The contact broke, her mind seemed clouded by emotion, she felt the shreds of the dress being pulled over her head.

The girl ripped off her own bodice and her mouth descended again, her lips licking, sucking, kneading the soft skin of Celia’s breasts until they clamped down and her tongue flicked across the swelling buds of her nipples.

Celia cried out, the sounds of her gasps echoing of the flint-stone walls of the chapel, as the girl’s lips tightened on the aroused flesh, tugging it out from her breast. She sighed as the left nipple was released and she felt the tongue circle the sensitive flesh on the underside of her breast as it slowly crossed to the opposite teat. This too was teased into swollen arousal and then the hard enamel of teeth bit down onto it.

Celia screamed; it was a primeval sound of desire that for a moment she was sure would be heard across the churchyard and down into the distant village. She was aware that her legs had opened as if forced apart by a subconscious desire that her rational mind had no power to control.

The girl moved lithely and now her mouth wrapped around Celia’s sex. Her tongue pushed inside with the same ferocity as it had entered her mouth. The pressure melding their lips together eased for a moment as the firm end of the tongue pushed against her swollen bud.

‘Oh God, oh Jesus,’ Celia cried out, her orgasm delayed for a millisecond whilst her rational mind told her that was an appropriate exclamation in a churchyard, and then she grabbed at the girl’s hair.; urging her to greater contact almost as if she wanted to take her inside her body as her orgasm swept over her.

Her body arched off the hard ground, every muscle tensed in spasm. The world seemed to fade, her mind seemed to fold into darkness and then she thought for a moment that she could see shooting stars in the night sky but then realised she was actually seeing the electrical impulses in her mind.

She felt the tongue slide out of her, the pressure of lips on her sex eased. She smiled, her eyes closed as the sensations mellowed into the warm glow and her mind drifted to the past. For a moment she thought of her husband’s touch, the smell of his skin and the heat of his breath on her naked skin.

The air around her stirred and a cooling breeze blew softly across her stomach. Her mind cleared and she realised she could not feel any sensations of touch on her skin, only the rough and uncomfortable stones beneath her. She opened her eyes. There was no one there, the chapel was empty.

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Text © Simone Francis ©Photographs licenced from Viewfinders