The Sidecar Tales 07 - Jenny 01

I made the needed trip to Hazard, KY, the largest town nearby (it had a Hampstead Inn). I gassed up the Burgman, and bought supplies at the local stores, including considerable fast-set epoxy and some strong herbicide. That, plus some paper and black crayons, and a couple of cans of day-glo spray paint, were added to the list. I bought food for a week, including a cooler, ice and soft drinks and beer.

I was back by mid-afternoon. I wondered what she'd done to me, as I was horny from noon on. I hoped that she'd continue to fix me up, because I liked to be horny around her, and the more white jism I could jet into my ghostly fuck-buddy, the better I'd like it.

I went to bed with a huge erection, but managed to keep my hand off the shaft. Somehow.

In dream-state, we made love like a couple of randy rabbits, and I came into her three times.

The next morning, I got up the rest of the brambles, and started to dig out the deep tap root that centered over the grave. I started the jig-saw puzzle of her gravestone, finding and assembling the bits and pieces that were lying around. Beer bottles, some old, spoke of that dangerous combination of bored young men with alcohol and guns.

I laid out the headstone as carefully as I could, flat on the ground, and, working carefully, mixed up a small batch of fast-set, low-viscosity epoxy glue. This I spread on the first pieces of the headstone, and waited until the glue had set (the directions said five minutes, so I waited 10), dozing between repairs. I had about half the headstone repaired, and set up at one end of the grave (I couldn't tell if it was the head or the foot, but figured Jenny'd tell me, in our dreamtime).

I woke up to a laughing hoyden, wearing what the 18th century would call a 'cutty sark' - a linen nightgown being called a 'sark': thus, a 'cutty sark,' for one that was cut 'way up the legs. In Jenny's case, so damn far up the legs, I didn't have to raise it to penetrate her cunt, as I took her on the grass ... in the cabin's dirt floor ... and on her table, thrusting into her from the rear, as I screamed and roared out my orgasms, and hearing her matching screams and 19th century wording for violent, slutty love-making.

I finished gluing the headstone pieces (all but a few) on the next day. That night, she was even stronger, and I touched her breasts and nipples for the first time. I touched them for a long time, until she pointedly reminded me to fuck her until I ran out of juice (she was picking up my speech patterns fast, delighting in learning new dirty words and phrases for the use of my rigid manhood in her oh-so-willing ghostly body).

The following day, I went back to Hazard, and put an ad in the local newspaper for anyone that had information about an old cabin above Sassafras, and particularly an old grave.

I returned after a refreshing country ride, and, in our dreams, made love with my ghostly girl more times. In between frantic penetrations—frantic in the sense that she demanded those self-same penetrations, using only body language—she talked about her mortal life.

God, she would have been a world-class lay ... if she'd been mortal. She had the background for it.

Her mother had been what we'd call a 'free-spirit' in the late 1700's and early 1800's, leaving her first husband and family behind and traveling into the Western Reserve, as it was called then. She traded 'this-and-that' for food and shelter, taking up with and dropping men casually. She ended up on the Ohio River valley, and found work in a local brothel in early Covington, KY.

Jenny's mom liked the work. Most of the girls did, as an escape from their Calvinist, bible-thumping, sin-portraying parents and local preachers, with their fire-breathing posturing. Very few were 'white-slaves' or forced into it. Pregnancies were common, and Jenny was one of those pregnancies.

She grew up, with her mom and a lot of the 'girls', playing in and around various whorehouses up and down the Ohio. Some time in the 1830's, her mom died of a 'fever,' and after Jenny got to be about 12 or so, she sold her cherry to a passing drummer (businessman) for a couple of gold coins, of which she got to keep one.

After that, she joined the other girls and women, servicing the hoards of men from the frontier.

She fucked her way into and out of the hollows of Tennessee and Kentucky, and finally emerged as the mistress of a local man who had some land, owned a mill, still and tavern, and had a cold, calculating and frigid wife.

But, the last she remembered, just as winter was closing in, the wife came by with some local toughs. They broke in the door of her cabin, beat her badly, cut her face and breasts, stole all the food, took all the firewood and broke her arm. She says she probably either starved, froze to death or died of the infection from the compound fracture of her right arm.

Someone else—maybe her lover—buried what was left of her, and maybe erected a headstone, but it was changed for another, that cursed her and said she was a whore and a slut for all eternity.

The miller's cold wife must have been a brass-bound, frozen bitch!

Jenny came 'alive' only when a man or woman came on to the little acre of the original property, and fell asleep there. That only happened a few times, and none kept their courage, running away as fast as they could.

I was the first who stayed.

Jenny marveled that the year was 2015, and demanded that I bring back, in my dream state, something with pictures as how women dressed now and how they did their hair.

She airily left it to me to figure out how I was gonna get a picture book from 2015 into a dream-state, or how she was going to see it. Since she could see my hammock, I tried it and it worked, although she couldn't touch any of the things I brought.

She was fascinated by the things I took for granted. My zipper. Plastic of any kind. Aluminum foil. Paperback books and magazines. The nylon material of my hammock. Matches and a bic lighter, which she could see but not touch. I took a trip into town, and loaded up on picture magazines, and she spent much of some dream-times having me page through the glossy color photographs and the colorful illustrations.

She laughed over my choices, which were split between women's magazines and picture books, to color copies of BUF, Gent and Playboy.

I even found a picture book of modern fashion hair-styles and drawings.

We made furious love again, on the cabin floor, in the patterned dirt, and I could just feel my cock making contact with 'something in there,' and could just barely touch her lust-erected nipples, which was what my spunk had been doing as I injected it into her.

What worried me was that, being an ordinary man, even though a Jenny-enhanced one, I just didn't have the capacity to generate the amounts of jism that she'd need to achieve some solidity, or maybe even to function in my world, at night, or in the deep shade of the sunlit reality. I was generating about a tablespoon of jism per fuck, and the best I could do was three a night.

She needed quarts and gallons of spurting life.

I told her this, and, laughing, she told me, "A'll not love y' a whit less, but do y' find me more men, wh' thar pushin', squirtin' life. Each kin share a dream w' me, an' so w' you. I whored in life and love'd the manhood. I slutted w' mah lovah an' took all his spunk, a'fore ah died."

She grinned, and said, reminding me of a blind girl, "Close thy mous' er th' flies w'll git in."

I stuttered and gasped, there in our shared dream. I remember saying, "D'you know how many men would want to be w'you, once they know what you can do?"

"Ach, many, do ah hope. Ah, lovah, y'see, ah'm a haint. A'm daid. M'grave lies yonder. Ah canna leave it, and I canna walk into the mist walls of my cage. Ah canna catch and git w'child. Ah canna get the bloddy flux nor the pox. An' the more of the white cream that men put inta me, the more ah kin have, the more distant the mist retreats, an' the stronger ah'll become."

She put a transparent hand to my face, and I felt only coolness, as she smiled and said, "But ah'll fuck y'all here and thar, and in thar dream, there'll be but Tom and Jenny. An' ah like t' use yer words of 'fuck' and 'slut'."

I said, looking at my slutty, fuck-buddy, ghostly lay, "If you get strong, can I maybe be with you in the real world of sun, if I see you in the shade or at night?"

She nodded a promise to me.

The next day (it was early Saturday), I staggered awake, and took the scooter into Hazard, to the local diner, to have a huge breakfast While I was sitting there, a somewhat younger man came over, and asked if he could sit down and talk with me. He had a paper sack with him, which he twisted and turned with his fingers.

He said his name was Jonah Kincaid, and that he was recently divorced, and that he'd seen my ad in the paper, and that maybe he had something that I could use.

He opened the bag, and I saw inside some bits of white limestone.

Jonah's story was brief. His father had been young, and bored, in the 40's, waiting for their number to come up on the WW II draft. So, with his friends and nothing to do, one summer, after high school was out, they'd gone up the dirt road to where the old, tumble-down cabin was. They'd been drinking, and had brought a bottle along with them, and some guns, and they shot at everything they saw.

Someone thought it'd be funny to torch the remains of the old cabin, and knock down the chimney, so they did it, laughing and drunk. They also kicked down the old headstone of the single grave, and stomped the pieces, and pissed on them.

Jonah's dad picked up some of the limestone pieces from the headstone, and put them in a sack in the back of his father's pickup truck.

They didn't stay, or sleep over. On the way back, they'd blown a tire, and, with war-time restrictions on rubber, the car was effectively down for the remainder of the war.

Jonah's dad was the only one who made it back after WW II, and he didn't look into the old, rusting truck for a decade, when he found the old stones. Ashamed, he put them away and tried to forget about the desecration. He'd only told Jonah a year or so before he died of miner's Black Lung Disease

.

So, Jonah, sitting across from me, quietly asked if I would take the fragments of the headstone back. I asked, but he didn't know anything about the old cabin, and never saw the inscriptions on the stone.

I made a snap decision, asking if he had the weekend off, and was told, 'yes he did'. I paid for breakfast, and had him go to his rooms, and get out a sleeping bag and a tarp-tent.

Mystified, he followed me in his 4x4 SUV up into the mountains. When we got to the old track, it was plain that he couldn't get his modern car onto the track, so he got in my sidecar, and I gunned it into the cleft and then out onto the gently flopping grass.

I showed him what I'd done with the grave, and we both worked with the epoxy glue, to complete the headstone repair, filling in some small gaps with powered granite in an epoxy matrix. We stopped for lunch, worked on the brambles, and rested again, not saying much, until late in the day.

I made a grave rubbing of the completed stone, and showed Jonah how to do it, and so he did, marveling at the ease with which the details of the words of the curse showed up, and nearly crying at the meanness and cruelty that those few words expressed.

He looked over my hammock rig and told me he'd think over getting one, as it seemed a lot easier than his sleeping bad and pad, under a thin and open tarp.

We ate dinner, and we both fell asleep in the late twilight.

In the shadowless light, my Jenny was alone, in her cutty sark. I took her to see her gravesite, and showed her the repaired headstone.

"Ah felt my strength ascend, an' ah knew that thar'd been changin' mah lay of the ground. Yar be thar good man, an' ah wi' love thee, w' ma latch-string out, no mattah how many ah ... wha' you say ... fuck."

She closed her ghostly eyes, and gasped in pleasure, and I guessed that Jonah'd just 'pleasured' her the first time.

My penis was rigid and out, but I said, "Can you do us both at once?"

She laughed gaily, and said, "Now, ah'm daid, ah kin pleasure fifty men at once, an' nevah shall one see t'othah."

She looked at me directly, and growled (you have to hear a ghost growl in lust to hear how its done), "Come, le' me pleasure thee, here an' now."

I fell into her transparency, as we tumbled to the grass, and I penetrated her transparent 'flesh,' and I worked myself, gasping and groaning, into a orgasmic state of jism-splashing, as she urged me on with cries and groans. Her un-voiced screams, except to my inner mind, echoed off the enclosing rock walls and disappeared into the surrounding mist walls.

I did her twice more, and would have ravished her to the end of time, if I'd been capable of it.

I woke in full sun, to see Jonah also groaning and stiff in body.

I re-lit the small fire, and nodded over to where the repaired grave lay, saying, "Three times. You?"

He groaned, but grinned, replying, "Four! She like-near killed me."

Later, drinking coffee, he added, "My ex gave me herpes and the clap, which is why I'm divorced. She made sure that the local girls all knew that, so I haven't had any nookie in months. I told Jenny that. You know what she said? She said, 'I'm 'daid,' so you 'canna hurt me with your poxes,' so come and make your manhood hard, so that I can 'pleasure thee' again."

He shook his head again, saying, "Four times. I'll never fuck again."

"Don't count on that," I said, laughing gently, "she changes a man, so's he can ... and can ... and can."

He added, his eyes wide and distant, "She needs a lot of men."

Between the two of us, we hatched a plan to make her solid in the real world.

Taking some money that I had, I went to the county seat and, through a local woman realtor, bought up the land adjacent to the cabin. The ridge behind the cabin was the platt line, so I bought up just a couple of acres, where the cabin had been.

[That was my critical error, though.]

With Jonah's local help, I got a contractor in to grade and scrape out the short-dump site, and put in a hard-packed, drainage-ditched parking area, for a new 'Rod-and-Gun-Club.

I had a shelter erected, with a BBQ area, done in concrete, complete with wood chairs and tables, and secured from the prying eyes of the road with a lattice screen.

It just so happened that one of the wings of the enclosure—the right wing, facing the structure—butted up against the cliff face, providing a screened-off and shaded passage-way to the main area, also screened off.

There were some rooms off the back of the gun club portico, leading to a generous-sized hot tub, big enough for a dozen men ... and one semi-solid ghost woman. There were alcoves off the tub room, each furnished with a bed and lights, and acoustically treated so as to be sound-and-sight isolated from each other.

Just the perfect place for a man to get away from his dreary day job or nagging wife, to spend a precious evening and night with 'the guys' perhaps playing poker ... as in poke-her!

I paid heavily to have this installed ASAP, plus inspected for plumbing, structure and electricity. I didn't care, as the money didn't even dent my invested monies dividends.

In the evenings, Jonah drove up from Hazard, and we spent the nights in dream-state, trying to solidify Jenny, and exhausting ourselves. We achieved at least a little of our plan—now hers as well—when she could, in the deep dark of night, 'seep' as a mildly-glowing mist, up from the gravesite, and over to the rock face. She 'flowed' into the rock, and we both ran around to see her re-emerge on the other side, smack-dead on, in the right-side wing of the Rod-and-Gun-Club's structure.

We christened the structure with seven shots of jism, shot up into her insubstantial body: three from me and four from Jonah, in dream-state, there in the new structure.

Jenny easily flowed back through the rock (she said it felt like pushing through thick mist), and out the other side, to ooze back into her daylight resting place, before the sun rose again.

Letting Jenny know, I had to leave for Pennsylvania, expecting to be back in a few days. However, I got caught up in some legal and financial problems, and finally made it back to the Sassafras former cabin in a couple of months.

There'd been some changes. Very good changes.

The parking area was gated, but opened to me. There were concrete barriers to either side of the now-widened road. There was a big bramble patch that obscured the cleft in the cliff wall, and a low concrete barrier in front of that.

That afternoon, there were about 12 cars, SUVs and light trucks there. Several men, and a couple of women, were milling around, talking to one another.

I parked the Burgman, and put the dull-black cover over the full rig, and then walked to, over and just past the concrete barrier. It wasn't obvious, but there was a small opening, at the base of the bramble bush, and I slid through, carrying my hammock and some packages—surprises for my spirit-love. A few pushes and I stood at the other side of the pile. A couple minutes walk took me through the defile and to the place where the cabin used to be.

No changes there, but the grave and the tumble-down chimney were intact. I quickly erected my hammock & quilt, and settled down to wait for twilight and dark. I wondered what my dream-state would be.

In the full dark, though, I watched in awe as a slight mist condensed out of thin air, in the center space of where the cabin used to be. It drifted past the limits

of the old wall, hesitated and drifted toward me. I shivered, anticipating.

The mist, growing thicker, assumed a vaguely humanoid shape, and then solidified ... into Jenny. A very naked Jenny, who simply lifted one edge of my quilt, and slid gracefully into the warm shelter of my arms.

She was solid. Warm. Very female.

And prepared to lust.

She said, in careful words of this era that I heard in the still air, "I am, thanks to you, here with you in your world. I'm still a haunt, but to you and those I choose to let be seen, I'm a complete woman ... and you'll be pleasuring yourself in me very soon. I desire thee and thy hard ... thy 'cock' ... and I long to let you know how much I have lusted to be here with you, in mortal flesh. To show you how much I care that you enabled me to be solid in the real world, if out of the sunlight."

"Come, lover of my ... ah, it cannot be my heart, as I have none, nor blood nor flesh, but if ah did, you would have it complete ... as well as all my other charms."

I felt two warm breasts pressing into my chest, surmounted by hugely engorged nipples. Stiffness that promised a volcano of lust to be appeased. I caressed both, as she groaned, and suddenly, orgasmed. And then again, and then a third time.

I gasped out my wonderment, and, briefly coming down from her orgasm, she laughed aloud, saying, "Ah'm a ghost, silly. Ah have no need of the control your modern women bray of. Ah will not catch a bairn, a child, nor can I be hurt in any way that man or woman can devise. Nor can I catch any of the pox that the men say mortal women have. Ah can only be pleasured with thy hands and lips ... and the hard thrusts of thy manhood, and I want all of this and more."

"Grasp and pull on my milking tits, an' give me pleasure beyond pleasure, as I give myself to you!"

And so, I did, mauling, kneading, tugging and twisting. Doing all the things I had dreamed of doing to a woman's breasts and nipples, and hearing her screams and thrashing of pleasure upon pleasure.

Being mortal, I had to rest, and she absorbed my kisses, her breasts on either side of my neck. I kissed her as a woman kisses, and then as a man, ramming my cock down her throat like an auxiliary penis, as she gargled and screamed out yet more orgasms.