Ghostly Persuasion

Do I really need to describe our village in the Kaatskills? I think not, for Diedrich Knickerbocker said it all when he told the tall tale of my ancient relative Rip. Not that I'm closely descended from Rip, quite distant in fact, but then us Van Winkles are an extensive tribe, at least in the these mountains.

Now, life in these parts being generally dull, restricted, and boring, I left when young to seek elsewhere, if not my fortune, at least a more stimulating existence. My return after many years has been prompted by the hope that an extended visit will provide a relaxation from the baleful attentions of various arms of the law.

Unfortunately accommodation is scarce hereabouts - at least for a man of my repute - but I have finally found lodgings just outside the village in what, while once a grand residence, is now regrettably somewhat dilapidated with its plank siding faded to a silver grey. Nor is it clear how the centuries-old, sagging roof manages to keep the rain out.

Not withstanding its imperfections it does have one, or if you're going to quibble three, great attractions. Not the ample charms of my landlady, The Widow Frow - though the village elders openly lust after them - but the allure of her nubile daughters.

(You may wonder why I prefer to pursue the delights of the daughters in preference to the freely offered charms of their materfamilias. Well, I must admit to an overwhelming preference for the younger, inexperienced specimens of the weaker sex. I find that assisting them to discover and explore the joys of their burgeoning bodies gives me greater pleasure than any amount of bed games with seasoned ladies. Indeed it is a preference that has proved of great value, leading to my career as a recruiter and trainer of staff for a number of those shady, and mostly illegal, establishments that exist to satisfy the natural urges of men.)

Now triplets, particularly identical ones, are somewhat uncommon and those who are truly lovely exceedingly rare. Thus the Frow progeny are precious and, having just graduated and still being uncertain as to the careers to adopt, are clearly in need of guidance. A guidance that I am just the man to provide. Indeed as soon as I saw their curvaceous, blonde beauty I conceived the notion of installing them as the main attraction in a discreet, selective establishment servicing the carnal proclivities of moneyed men. That is after I'd exercised my artistry in providing their comprehensive, and lengthy, training in the requisite erotic skills.

Unfortunately there is a problem, as not only do they seem ignorant of the arts of dalliance, they display no inclination to further their education in my bed. Which is strange since with their dam monopolizing the mature men of the village they are left to choose between inexperienced striplings and yours truly. And while I could accept that, in their ignorance, they might initially find the local lads more attractive they seem to lack interest in even those callow dudes.

One minor complication is their being truly identical, as alike as the contents of a packet of three. I can't tell them apart. Nor do their clothes help, for they appear to share a common wardrobe, and what one wore today another will wear tomorrow - I think. Added to which their names give me mental anguish every time I hear them - I ask you, Faith, Hope and Charity. Who would lumber today's swinging maids with such outmoded appellations.

Now whilst armies may march on their stomachs, in the war of the sexes battles are won with intelligence. Thus my first task is to acquire some. This is proving simple, requiring only a hidden microphone or two connected to small, battery operated, recorders. The thin wooden walls of the ancient mansion with their creaking crevices and knot holes render the wires easy to secrete. I have already become accustomed to retiring each morning to the woods, there to play the previous day's recordings on my Walkman.

Very boring most of them are, but I have learnt, to my astonishment, that the girls still retain their virginity. (This, no doubt, will lead you, as it does me, to wonder at modern youth. In my day the garnering of maidenheads was a prime mission for any self respecting boy.)

Not that they are uninterested in fleshly delights. Indeed they often refer to the various means they employ to relieve their sensual needs and express a longing for male assistance. However it would appear that they have been forcefully imbued with that outdated morality - the need to remain "chaste and pure" until wed. It may explain their hesitation in seeking satisfaction within masculine arms and seems to be socially induced, since The Widow Frow herself hardly presents an example of restraint.

Currently the snag is finding a strategy that will entice them to a cherry popping session - with your profligate correspondent, of course. But wait, a remark last evening about the appearance of a new ghost in the next village suggests a ploy. Excuse me while I rush off an e-mail to an old colleague.

My friend Hap has, as usual, come up trumps. Between us we have hatched-up a special page for a web-site to which, when the time is ripe, I can refer Mother Frow. But that is for later. Of immediate use is the spool of fine, virtually invisible filament which he has secretly sent. A mischievous ghost is about to become manifest.

Items are to move to new locations, disappear, or best of all crash to the floor at fortuitous moments. Doors to open without human agency. Most will be the result of my clandestine perambulations, others of a length of the filament jerking an item from its place at a time I estimate will occasion the greatest shock.

As I anticipated it takes only a couple of days before The Widow is seeking my advice. 'Mr. Van Winkle - Robbie. What is happening?'

'You've acquired a mischievous ghost,' I inform her. 'Why don't you ask the Parson to exorcise it.'

'That sanctimonious sod. Half a chance and he'd have his halo custom made.'

'Well it's his trade. And in case he fails I'll do some research on the web.'

He arrives the next afternoon, his derision at our ignorance only held in check by an itch to delve in The Widow's panties. I am ready. I have prepared my piece de resistance. Over the mantel in the dining room is a huge daub, an abysmal attempt by some untalented painter to emulate Landseer's 'Stag at Bay'. I have cut its supporting wire and replaced it with a length of my filament, the ends of which lead through a convenient hole in the ceiling to my room above.

Retiring to my chamber I eavesdrop as the cleric's mumbled litany progresses through the house. At last it reaches the dining room. I pull the filament. There is a crash, a shriek, and hurried footsteps exiting our abode.

I rush to render assistance and discover my ploy is a masterwork. The painting slid down the wall a few inches until the bottom hit a projection. At this the top tilted out and it landed fair and square on Parson's bald pate, the canvas splitting down the middle and encircling his narrow shoulders. Mother Frow tells me he bolted as if hounded by a horde of shrieking Valkyries.

Later, when her hoots have diminished, she looks at me, 'That's the best laugh I've had since I put old Frow in his grave.'

'Great. But what about the ghost? Parson may be tops at bothering God but he's obviously dead useless at controlling ghosts.'

'I don't know. Any more ideas.'

'Well I did come across something on the web. Hang on while I get my laptop. . . . . Here we are - try WWW dot ghosts R Us dot com. Look under troublesome spirits.'

I'll save you the trouble of logging-on. Here is the page Hap and I concocted:-

BEING AFFLICTED BY A MISCHIEVOUS SPIRIT

The presence of such ghost or spirit is not to be considered a real haunting since it is well attested that it is only active in those residences wherein there is at least one young female. It is to be considered that the 'ghost' is an unconscious neurotic emanation from this female.

In the majority of instances the girl is an adolescent and the disappearance of the errant spirit can efficiently be obtained through counseling.

However occasionally the vehicle for the manifestation is a woman on the verge of maturity. It is to be noted that in all such cases the female has invariably retained her virginity long past the customary age of deflowering. In this event the initial treatment is for an experienced healer to undertake the removal of her maidenhead. (It should be noted that whilst this treatment is regarded as effective by itself, in every instance on record the patient has so enjoyed the remedy that she has requested that it be frequently repeated.)

Additionally the ailment appears highly contagious and it is recommended that where several virgins are present all shall be so treated. It is further recommended that the healer be an older experienced male in no way related to the sufferer.

'Could be.' The Widow is thinking hard. 'Would you do us a favour, Robbie?'

'What did you have in mind?' As if I hadn't planned for this.

'I'll have to speak to the girls, but I wondered if you would . . . er . . . do what the article says?'

'I suppose it's my civic duty. That is if you really think I'm the right man for the job.' It behoves the best to be modest and unassuming.

I am preparing to retire and cogitate on the affairs of the day when there is a light, timid knock on my door. 'Come in.' My tone conveys my benevolent kindness.

'Mother said I had to come and ask you, Uncle Robbie.' Nervously she keeps her head bowed, her arms folded over her splendid chest.

'Ask me what?'

'If you will make a woman of me?'

'Do you really want me to.'

'I do, I do. But you won't hurt me?'

'Don't worry, I'll look after you.' Gently I go and put one arm round my curvaceous young prize. Stroking her long blonde hair I lead her to sit on the sofa. Slowly I trace her full lips with a finger, then run my knuckles delicately down a silken cheek. She sighs. Leaning forward I press my lips to hers. Shyly she presses back, her mouth hesitantly opening. As my tongue probes between those luscious red bows her arms drop to her sides - their barrier removed I carefully grasp a proud, thrusting mound. She is trembling.

Reaching around my neck she fervently clutches me and moans. The lucky innocent finally realizes how desperately she needs a man - me - inside her. I'm going to be pushed to slow her down, to keep in control.

I drop my hand to her waist and slide it under her top, caressing the smooth bareness as I slowly edge up to the fabric of her bra. My fingers follow its lower edge round to the clasp. It's not designed for one handed operation - I shall have to get that changed - so I bring my other hand down to help. Once it is unfastened I lift the cloth away and grasp both full, soft globes, their points already expectantly erect. We hardly move for several blissful minutes, our tongues dancing with each other, my palms delicately caressing her sensitive flesh.

I stand. She looks at me, bereft. 'Why have you stopped? Where are you going?'

'To make things ready for you.' I find a candle to light, then draw the curtains, and finally pull the covers off the bed, and move a pillow to the centre.

In the romantic, flickering candle light I return to the couch and together lift her top and bra over her head. Leaning forward my lips lingeringly taste what so delighted my palms. 'Undo my shirt,' I tell her at last.

Her fingers feel for and unfasten the top button, then work their way down. She pulls the material from my trousers and slides the shirt off my shoulders. Timorously her fingers explore my chest. I take her hands and spread her arms wide and high, raising and baring her twin beauties to my gaze. 'Oh, how tempting,' I tell her. 'I could suck and play with them for hours.'

'Please . . . yes . . . you can . . . oh do it, Uncle Robbie.' My fingers cup her, caress her, capture her buds. She gasps as I roll them. When my mouth again envelopes them she arches her back and holds my head close. 'Now, now. Do it now,' she pleads.

Her hands drop to my belt and fumble to unbuckle it. I pull her to her feet. Find the button at her waist. Together two pairs of jeans slide to the carpet. Leading her to the bed I ease her onto it, her buns on the waiting pillow. She clutches my hand and draws it to the top of her panties, pushes my fingers under the cloth, guiding them down to her hot mound; she gasps and breathes faster as I explore her pussy, tease her pubic hair, rub her proud clit, find her moist entrance.

With my other hand I awkwardly peel down my underpants, kicking them off with my toes. Head in her stomach I lick her navel as I tear her panties away to reveal that the three sisters are true blondes. Despite my experience I'm losing control. I want this gorgeous young thing. I want her now.

She stretches out and wraps trembling fingers around my rampant rod. 'You're too big. I can't take you.'

'Yes you can. I'm only average.' Somewhat above if the truth be told, but a virgin needs reassurance.

I ease on top of her. She is trembling again, her legs twitch as she instinctively opens them in welcome, then nervously clamps them tight again. Her hands clasp my shoulders.

I slide my hands between us and slowly ease her thighs apart then raise them alongside my hips. The tip of my stiff staff touches her opening. I reach for her hands and place one on each of my buttocks. 'You do it. You take me in,' I say.

Again trembling with the tension she first pulls me, then pushes her hips up, my bliss giving beam resting on her hymen. Nervously she pauses, so I tell her, 'Now!' And thrust home. She gives a little cry as her maidenhead rips and I drive deep.

For a long moment we lie quiet her thighs holding me tight, her breasts soft against my chest. She relaxes slightly and I feed her my last inch, then start the traditional in and out caper. She arches her back to meet my thrusts, grunting every time I hit bottom. Soon she is bucking and moaning as her passion grows until, with a sharp cry, she comes.

She wants to relax but I can't let her, not until I've shot my load. Faster and faster I hammer into her, all control, all thought of being gentle abandoned. Now all I want is to empty my balls into her tight little cavity. Finally I can hold back no longer and with a loud groan I erupt inside her.

I collapse, breathing hard. Her legs slip from around me onto the bed. A moment or two then I raise myself and look at her still closed eyes, then lean down and kiss her divine boobs. 'You are wonderful, incredible. I've never enjoyed a woman more,' I tell her. And, for once, it's very nearly true.

'Oh! Thank you, Uncle Robbie. It was marvelous. Can we do it again soon? Very soon?'

'If that's what you want I'm sure it can be arranged.' Encourage her to think it's her idea. 'By the way which one are you?'

'Faith. Hope and Charity will be up later.'

'Tell them not tonight, I want to savour you.' Really, of course, us mature men need time to recharge our weapons. 'I'll drill them after I've had some sleep.'

'Righto.' She slides from under my drained dick, collects her clothes and leaves me to toast my success.

The sun has barely reported for duty when a brief tap on the door stirs me from my delightful dreams. A slender form enters, places a cup of coffee beside my bed and draws the curtains. There is a rustle of falling cloth and a bare body slips under the covers.

'Don't I get time to wake up?'

'You can't afford it. You've got a job, or rather three girls, to do. Besides Charity doesn't want to wait forever.'

'Oh, you must be Hope.'

'Yes, and I hope you're going to give me what you gave Faith.' She giggles.

'Indeed I am,' I say. And I do - almost exactly. It proves as delightfully delicious, removing her impediment to the joys of coupling, as it had been popping her sister's.

When she eventually leaves, blithely exulting in the womanhood I have conferred on her, I instruct her to, 'Tell Charity I can't minister to her needs until I've at least had some breakfast.'

Reaching the kitchen I find Charity gloomily waiting. 'Why do I always have to be the last? Why must I be the one to wait?'

'Because you're the youngest.' The Widow tells her.

'Only by a few minutes. That shouldn't count.'

The Widow glances despairingly at me.

'I'll make it up to you,' I say. 'Just think, after practising on your sisters I should be able to thrill and fill you even more.'

Charity brightens, 'I hadn't thought of that. Come on. Quick. Eat up.'

'Whoa, I don't want indigestion. Patience. I'll make you my second course. Wait for me in my room.'

I don't yet know how talented The Widow is between the sheets but she sure knows how to satisfy a man's stomach. A leisurely meal does wonders for my stamina, and I'm soon reasonably ready to resume the fray.

Now I've had a few gifts in my time but none as delightfully presented as the one awaiting me when I return to my room. Charity is stretched out naked on the bed, her cute clit standing to attention as proudly as her noble nipples.

'Is this right?' she asks, stretching the long, long Frow legs. 'Faith was too deliriously overjoyed to make total sense.'

'Yes,' I say, once more tearing my clothes off - if this keeps up I may audition as a quick change artist.

They've been sharing notes. Faith had been nervous, Hope less so. Charity shows no anxiety at all, merely an expectation of joy to come. This time my foreplay is only a few brief licks, sucks and nibbles - I can't wait to again feel that tight maiden twat squeezing my seed from me.

Her cry when my pleasuring pole splits her maidenhead is loud - informing the whole mansion that I've dutifully completed my task. She holds me tight, hands on my arse, legs over my back. Just like her sisters she pauses then presses her pubis to mine and takes all of me.

'Ready?' I ask. She nods so I start the old sawing in and out. It seems no time before her climactic cry once more makes the welkin ring. She's the noisy one of the three. I take a brief respite, my batteries are running low. Then again, and again, until my balls capitulate and discharge their load, I transport her to that special seventh heaven created for enthusiastic humpers.

Totally spent I roll off her, my weapon no longer a threat to any pussy. I put one arm around her, my other hand fondling a firm Frow boob. 'It's just as well there aren't four of you,' I tell her.

'Why.'

'Well each of you has been better than the last, but I don't think I could survive any greater joy than you.' This one needs a little extra encouragement - you'll observe that I'm rather proud of my woman management skills.

A loud, perfunctory bang on the door, heralds the arrival of Faith and Hope. Precipitately they divest themselves of the material hiding those heavenly forms. 'Come on. No slacking. We're getting impatient.'

Oh, what an outrageous arrow of fortune. Paradise has arrived and I'm too spent to embrace it, my one-eyed snake too enervated to even rear a hopeful head. If my inability to fill their honey pots on request is bruited abroad my reputation will be in tatters. I shall be laughed out of the Association - the Association of Bordello Operators if you hadn't already guessed.

I think hard. 'Very well, ladies. Time for lessons two and three. Hope can try her hand - I mean mouth - at arousing my tired tool for action, while I use mine to dine on Faith's pussy. After she's replete you can swap over.'

Not my preferred strategy but it makes for a lengthy period of pleasure before they declare themselves sated and leave me to recover.