Ghost of a Chance

Cosmi's well-trained brain moved away from meltdown to a cooler, calmer place. A corner of her consciousness continued monitoring the grappling ghosts. Damn, that Marc guy sure moved fast! But most of her mind grappled with what-to-do, what-to-do? Nothing clicked at the moment.

She fell back on routine. Grind the roasted Chiapas coffee, fire up the espresso maker, soak herself in the world's best-tasting caffeine, and get a fucking grip on the happenings. Get a grip. Easier said than done.

She tried to not watch the frenzied spectral screwfest. Right. Try to not think about an elephant, maybe. Right.

Maybe they would just go away.

-----

Cosmi's pornographic poltergeists did not go away. But they mostly left her alone at the office.

Cosmi took refuge at her executive stronghold. She fired all who needed to go -- they could find lucrative new careers in the booming fast-food or e-smoke industries. She hired new people who could not look her in the eyes and lie to her face. Well, maybe they could, but they better not, eh? She rebuilt the corporate structure with ruthless efficiency.

Her concentrated leadership visibly changed GloBel BanCorp's financial profile. Stockholders loved her. Competitors feared her. Employees idolized her, and not just because of her fabulous, well-exercised ass.

And Marc and JoJo annoyed her, but mostly not in the office.

Drinking her booze annoyed her. Snarfing her drugs annoyed her. Manifesting or materializing in topologically impossible sexual contortions annoyed her, but only in private. They had yet to appear to her underlings or passersby.

Their efforts to set her up with True Love really annoyed her.

Cosmi returned to the Panda Club for discreet entertainments on random nights. Marc and JoJo followed; they were determined to spice-up her flesh sessions and give her extra doses of libidinous delight. She needs a good man, they drunkenly thought, and directed her to a likely stud.

Mikhail was a male-model-quality blond Slavic masterpiece of body sculpting mixed with a cultivated deferential attitude and clever cocksmanship. His cunning would mesh well with Cosmi's savvy craftiness, right? Marc took the liberty of spiking Mikhail's energy drink with chemicals that provided yet more energy, stamina, and drive. He became a well-mannered fucking machine.

Cosmi certainly enjoyed Mikhail's calm, courteous manner, his boundless enthusiasm, and his endless capacity to hit her G-spot just right. She screamed her pleasure a dozen times or more that evening. Fuck, yeah!

But the added chems, interacting curiously with his natural biochemistry, seemed to snap something inside Mikhail, something primal. Maybe the ghosts pushed him a little too far. Maybe he tended toward the animal anyway. Whatever it was, Mikhail went on a little sex-crazy rampage, rutting like a frenzied ferret, pounding Cosmi's trim pussy raw, then shifting to her tidy, taut ass for a long, leisurely journey down the chocolate trail.

Mikhail filled her portal of doom and sealed his own doom.

"AAARRGHH! AAAIII!! STOP THAT!! OH FUCK! OH SHIT! OH FUCKING JESUS AND MARY! SHIT SHIT SHIT! OH CHRIST! AAARRGHH!" Cosmi was breathlessly torn between pain and pleasure.

But such joys do not last. Cosmi's mystically-enhanced sphincter tightened like a steel band. Mikhail's cock was simply too stiff, too brittle, too un-resilient. Like a mighty oak struck by a force-ten hurricane, that cock could not bend with the wind, could not go with the flow. It broke off inside her ass.

Mikhail bellowed, fell unconscious, and quickly bled out. Cosmi's orgasm was cosmic but gaseous. Anal sex always upset her digestion; she farted like a 75mm cannon. The hot, fluid-soaked remains of Mikhail's severed manhood flew across the princely room and slammed the padded wall with a muffled thud. Cosmi groaned, semi-conscious.

Panda Club management was understanding. "These things happen," the bouncer shrugged, and directed the maintenance crew to straighten the mess. Cosmi had to pay a penalty for the extra cleanup. Whatever.

"Mikki seemed like such a good match," JoJo moaned. She moaned because Marc had extended his long, ghostly meta-cock elastic-man-style into a flexible thin telescoping probe. His spectral dickhead scurried around JoJo's innards like a questing cockroach. He hit all her undead nerves, zap!

"Yeah, bad choice," Marc's dickhead whispered. Small words bounced off her cervix like buckshot pinging an overtight drumhead; sonics grumbled through her insubstantial form. "We'll do better next time." His penis-probe needled through her now-dry circulatory system and emerged to tickle her ovaries from below. She shivered with ambiguous rapture.

"Let's try a girl next," JoJo whispered. "Maybe she needs the right woman."

"Some women need a good man," Marc grunted. His dickhead morphed into a new shape to fit an obscure niche. "Some women need a good woman. Some women need a good horse. I don't know yet what'll be best for Cosmi. We'll figure it out." Got it! He started fucking her phantasmal pancreas from the inside.

Marc and JoJo manipulated Cosmi's next Panda Club visit. They employed hypnotic whispers, subtle drugs, and sly gland-tweaking to induce their less-than-willing hostess to join with Roxanne, a dyed-red radical of the omnivorous persuasion, in a wild bout of exploration. Fingers, toes, tongues, noses, toys -- whatever could be inserted or rubbed somewhere, was. Any body part that could be stroked or poked or mouthed, was. Every touch and taste to be savored, was. "To boldly go where no woman has gone before..." was the operative phrase.

But the ghosts had misjudged again. Not by much -- just enough.

Roxanne and Cosmi felt like near soulmates, sexually and mentally. Alas, Roxanne let slip that she once attended a Socialist meeting. Cosmi was shocked! Crony capitalism was her own religion. This was impossible! Cosmi tearfully extracted one final orgasm from Roxanne's talented tongue and talons before leaving. At least no extra cleanup was needed that night.

"Maybe we're limiting ourselves too much," Marc said as JoJo's extruded uterus massaged his extended translucent frigamajig. Damn, they sure could contort their meatless bodies in wild ways!

Flesh is weak; spirit is strong; horny is immortal.

The ghosts floated woozily in Cosmi's bedroom space. The dark, lean banker snored her dreams; the mystic duo's tenuous para-sexual gyrations sizzled those dreams without rousing her from fitful sleep. Marc and JoJo had delved deeper into their hostess's medicinals stash; indole-ring hallucinogens made them glow paisley and actinic as they ghost-fucked. Too bad Cosmi missed that scene!

"Yeah, no limits," JoJo murmured. Her psychedelicized ghost-mind saw obscure patterns. "Don't be so uptight. Got to push boundaries, push envelopes, push parameters, push... oh hey, some giant paramecium is pushing my... oh, the traces, the traces..." Her spiritual voice faded like cooling sonic embers.

"No limits," Marc agreed. "We can test fetishes, let Cosmi know what she's really made of and capable of. What kind of fetish... Hey, if she doesn't have fetishes, maybe we can give her some?"

This sounded like a good idea to their wasted minds. No, do not expect ghosts to think clearly, even when sober. Dead brains have dead ideas.

The ghosts tried every trick they could conjure. Yes, it was a limited set, but they still had to try. Foot fetish; nope. Tit fetish; not really. Ear fetish; no way. BDSM; no fucking way would Cosmi allow herself to be dominated, nor would she accept the trust of prospective subs; she wanted fear, not trust. Smelly pussy or armpit fetish; nope, Cosmi liked sanitary.

No horses. No dogs. No orang-utans (they tried). No big snakes, either. Damn.

Exotic cocks! Big Black Cock (BBC) or Long Asian Dick (LAD) or Fat Latino Prick (FLP) fetish; no, they were okay as appetizers, but not for a regular diet. The ghosts tried to nudge Cosmi toward such exotic cocks. Disaster! Her spirit-enhanced steel-band-like cunt muscles regularly squeezed them flat. Too bad for the guys, eh?

Cosmi seemed to have no exploitable fetishes. Damn. What drove her?

Not costumes or role-playing. Marc and JoJo had flashed images and sounds on Cosmi's sleeping senses and noted her reactions to cops and firemen, Elvis impersonators, vampiresses, cowboys, streetwalkers, muscle-men and -women, lab coats and medical scrubs, royal garb, space suits, bears, albinos, nuns and priests of various cults, hardrock miners, and political pundits. Nope; none of these were turn-ons.

Cosmi was a tough nut to crack.

-----

Cosmi was not unaware of the ghosts' interference.

"YOU FUCKERS!" she screamed.

Marc had been in the coke again, and JoJo had found the ketamine; psychotic flashes edged her tequila buzz. They were in stage-3 semi-materialization, visible and audible and barely touchable, and touched by their consumption of intoxicants. They were pretty zonked.

"YOU FUCKERS! You drink all my booze, snort all my blow, use everything else I have! How can dead fucking ghosts be such loadies?! And then you pull this shit on me! Setting me up with all those freaks! Go away! Just go the fuck away! Leave me alone!"

"Easy, Cosmi, easy," Marc chattered. His cocaine rush had subsided but he still felt in control. "We can't go away; you know that."

Yes, Cosmi had tried escaping her ghastly guests. She switched beds, hotels, and cities; they accompanied her. She flew; they haunted her luggage. They cavorted shamelessly at her South Seas island retreat, sending several seals and whales into convulsions. Penguins had coronaries on her Antarctic cruise. Otherwise, they only showed themselves to her, never other humans.

She did her best to ignore their unseen (but whispering) presence in public. She sometimes felt like excusing her strange and evasive behaviors to clerks and underlings but she resisted that impulse -- let them think her bizarre. It only enhanced her growing executive reputation. Unpredictability was good.

"YOU FUCKERS!" she ranted. But inside, she knew Marc and JoJo's interference in her life was not all negative. No, they had not delivered true love; but yes, she'd had some of life's most awesome orgasms, and a refreshing variety of encounters.

Like Jimi, the guy with the hole in his head. No, he did not do much for her by himself. But when little Jerzy's three-inch dick fucked the trepanned Eurasian mystic, Jimi's tongue went into interstellar overdrive. Cosmi need merely position herself by his mouth and magic resulted.

"You fuckers," she whispered. What was she to do?

-----

"Maybe incest?" JoJo asked in desperation. This rather strange mental state for a dead ghost amused Marc but the idea intrigued him.

"Okay, let's see if she has a Daddy Thing, or even a Mommy Thing. Does she have any brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts we could shanghai? Don't bother with cousins; cousins don't count as incest."

The ghosts poked through Cosmi's dream life again. No, not mental telepathy; dead heads cannot read live minds. But sleep is so trance-like, so hypnotic; and soft whispered words can provoke subvocal responses, answers from the subconscious, unknown to the waking mind.

Yes, Cosmi definitely harbored a frustrated Daddy Thing. Frustrated, because both her parents were killed in a tragic train crash some years before. Her latent incestuous obsession had not shifted to fat and scabby Uncle Lukas, nothing like his athletic younger brother, nor to her mother's twin Aldovar, smoothly handsome but flamboyantly gay, always the queen of the ball.

But her Daddy Thing did transfer to her older brother Leonid, a fair image of their aristocratic father.

Leonid looked the model English laird: tall, with strawflower hair, crisp cheekbones, a cleft icebreaker chin, and the physique of a rugby wingman, which he was in his amateur league. His Aztec mother contributed his eagle's sharp, dark eyes and arrogant, intent gaze, a look that dissected souls.

Cosmi had always worshiped Leonid and he had always protected her when she needed cover. Now she was a wealthy, powerful globe-trotting super-executive and her big brother developed cutting-edge graphology software. Few could keep secrets from Leonid Abrasoka Jones.

The ghosts' addled, deceased minds mulled this over. Did Leonid lust for his little sister, even unconsciously? And there was the location thing. Cosmi was here and Leonid was there. Could they be brought together?

Yes, they could.

The ghosts carefully studied Cosmi's well-trained brain and Leonid's equally sophisticated mind. Well, as carefully as dead waste-oids could, with clever subvocalizations and what they mis-remembered of pop psychology. They did manage to note the mortals' reactions.

Marc and JoJo spent many ghost-weeks (about three hours of mortal time) haunting Leonid's deceptively low-key home behind his company's suburban mini-mall offices. They did not materialize for him, did not go visible, did not play poltergeist tricks, except to drain some of his best scotch. They swirled through his walls and pipes and wires and network connections. His personal server bank was especially warm and cozy.

Their exploratory probe paid off. Yes, Leonid had a little thing for his little sister, too. Yes, he could be nudged in certain pervy directions. Marc whispered Cosmi's name in Leonid's sleeping ears. His eyes subconsciously half-opened; JoJo faded into visibility in the shape of Cosmi. Leonid went erect. Marc materialized sufficiently to stroke Leonid's cock; yes, Marc was a tad bi. JoJo strip-teased and frigged herself. The ghosts' little son et lumière show impressed Cosmi into her brother's mind as a sex object.

"Ohh, Cosmi, Cosmi..." he muttered in his half-sleep. His dreams took shape: Cosmi, dancing naked before him; Cosmi, slurping his long, thick cock while her eyes locked on hers; Cosmi, impaling herself in his rigid ramrod, riding him like Dale Fucking Evans bouncing on Trigger, her amazing breasts swaying irresistibly; Cosmi, crouched on knees and elbows, looking over her shoulder at him, her long black hair swept back as she demanded, "Fuck me, brother!"

Leonid's sophisticated brain betrayed his deliciously aroused body, or maybe it was vice-versa. Whatever. He thoroughly enjoyed his disturbing wet-dream.

The ghosts formed and infested Cosmi's dreams, too. Naked, almost divine, her beloved big brother loomed over her, his voice deep and melodious, his cold gray eyes smoking, his muscles taut and firm, his Daddy-like dick hanging low, fat, and so inviting. Reaching for her; stroking her hair, her head, her neck and shoulders; holding her chin in his strong hands as he leaned to touch her lips with his.

Cosmi's well-trained but manipulated mind drove her lovely hormone-drenched body to react in the most obvious way. She came spontaneously, gloriously.

Their dreams drew them together, Cosmi from her East Coast redoubt, Leonid from his West Coast complex, to a midway point. Their private jets landed in separate regional airports around Saint Louis. Their hired limos carted them to the Jefferson Memorial. Trams lofted them up opposite legs to the lookout atop the Gateway Arch for their first meeting in too many years.

Cosmi, Leonid, and their guard were the last to exit their respective tram cars. Naïve sightseers all rushed to the windows to Ooh! and Aah! over the vistas. The siblings faced each other in the center of the platform, ringed by outward-facing security teams -- and two diaphanous ghosts.

"Leonid."

"Cosmi."

"Finally."

"Yes, finally."

The guards closely watched the bystanders and paid no heed to their charges. The ghosts paid close attention. Could the latter breathe, they would have waited with bated breath. Would their manipulations work? Would the dreams come true?

The suited siblings stood a yard apart, eyes locked together, arms akimbo... until Cosmi stretched a perfectly-manicured hand to her brother. Leonid's well-buffed hand mirrored her gesture. Pregnant with anticipation, their fingertips hovered in the air mere millimeters apart for several seconds.

And they touched.

And they yelled.

And the ghosts shuddered.

And the guards spun around and aimed firearms in various directions.

And Cosmi and Leonid remembered why they had not met for so many years.

The smells. And the skin-crawling reactions.

Cosmi and Leonid could not stand the scent or touch of each other's body.

They jumped apart with anti-magnetic repulsion.

The siblings' guards, who fortunately avoided shooting innocent bystanders, hustled their principals back to their tram cars, then to their limos and jets, and back to their safe havens on opposite sides of the continent. Cosmi and Leonid would not meet again until the next family funeral.

Oh, the ghosts' hypnotic suggestions worked just fine. But their whispered probes and prods had not revealed the siblings' unconscious revulsion.

You expected better from wasted dead minds? Hah.

-----

"That was your doing, wasn't it?"

Cosmi glared at the two demented ghosts. Drunk on Everclear, twisted on more Ketamine, twined in ghastly sexual positions almost incomprehensible to mortals, Marc and JoJo's phantasms did not pay her much attention.

Cosmi sighed. She knew and feared a few things now.

She was afraid the ghosts were here to stay. Her evasions were useless. Her pleadings and demands were ignored, or more often twisted and exploited by the lunatic spooks. She could not negotiate nor threaten nor pressure; she had no leverage over them.

Or did she? Maybe other spirits or angels or demons, other paranormal entities, might help drive them away. She made a mental note to consult psychic researchers for advice.

She knew she needed iron self-discipline for her sanity and career. How to block her unwanted guests' unwanted mental manipulations? Self-hypnosis; she would implant her own mental walls.

She knew she had sexual problems; didn't everyone? She hoped self-hypnosis would help her access and suppress her kinks and ignore her self-tortures. She definitely knew that Leonid and the rest of her kin were negative kinks.

Marc and JoJo's brain-diddling induced revelations.

Cosmi realized she did not really like people. Fucktoys, yes. Sweaty sex, yes. Multiple cocks, cunts, and fingers, yes. Multiple continuous orgasms, yes. Screaming in ecstatic release, yes. Real people with their own needs, no. Fuck'em and move on.

Cosmi realized what she really loved. She loved herself.

And she loved her most monstrous and sophisticated masturbatory toy, Ivan. Ivan the Terrible. Ivan the magic orgasm machine, made even more magical by JoJo's tampering. The ghost's ectoplasmic finger had permanently switched the toy into fuck-all mode. The toy wove personalized complex patterns in and on her vulva to trap her in ecstasy like a fly in amber.

"Hey guys, wake up!"

The phantasms had stopped writhing and slipped into a ghost-post-orgasmic fugue. Cosmi's commanding voice drew tendrils of consciousness issuing from their merged selves. They slowly separated into distinct nude but dented angelic forms. Eyes opened. Mouths pursed and pulsed like grounded goldfish. Colors shrank from their sexual psychedelic madness to a normal pearly glow.

"Duh, yeah, uhhh..." Marc was not too eloquent at the moment.

"Guys, we have to talk. No; you have to listen. I can't get rid of you, can I? I'm stuck with you. Look, you MUST stop fucking me over, stop trying to set me up. Just leave my life alone, okay? Well, except for that thing you do with Ivan. And with my clit -- that's you, isn't it, JoJo? Zapping me with your magic finger? I don't really mind that."