Swansea, November 18, 1834. Fog clings to my skin like a lover’s sweat. That damn ring burns in my pocket—Margaret Ivory Hickam, 1803. Proof she’s real. Dead, but real. Her cold hand in mine, that gray dust on my handkerchief. I can’t destroy it. Not yet. Heart pounds. Cock twitches at the memory. Her piano notes echo in my skull, pulling me back. Fuck Edgar’s advice. I need her. That pale, ghostly cunt. Transgression hits hard. Society’s prude eyes can’t touch this. I hire a coach at dawn. Balls tight with fear and lust. Road to Halltyps Manor twists like veins. Fog swallows me whole. Excitement builds—sweat beads, dick hard against trousers. What if she’s waiting? Cold flesh yielding to my heat. I grip the ring. Her plea: destroy it, free me. But first, I claim her.
Door creaks open. Manor reeks of damp stone and decay. Doctor Hickam’s gone—servants fled long ago. Piano drifts from the music room. Her melody, slow, throbbing. I follow, pulse racing. She’s there, gray dress hugging slim hips, fingers dancing on keys. Turns, eyes like smoked glass. Smiles. Knows. ‘You came back.’ Voice low, husky, not fluty bullshit. I grab her wrist. Cold. Ice-fuck cold. But her gaze burns. Pulls me close. Lips crash. Tastes like fog and sin. Hands rip her dress. Fabric tears easy. Small tits, pale nipples hard as death. Pinch them. She gasps, deep, guttural. ‘Fuck me,’ she whispers. ‘Before you free me.’ Bed in the corner—baroque, twisted posts. Throw her down. She’s not breathing, chest still. But legs spread wide. Cunt exposed, gray lips glistening wet? Ghost slick? Shove fingers in. Tight, cold grip. Clenches like velvet vice. She moans, hips buck. ‘Harder. I’ve waited decades.’ Cock out, throbbing purple. Rub head on her slit. Freezes my tip. Thrust in. Balls deep. Holy fuck. Cold fire inside. Walls milk me, suck like hungry mouth. Pound her. Slap skin echoes. Her nails rake my back—icy trails sting sweet. ‘Deeper, you living bastard. Fill my dead pussy.’ Sweat drips, mixes with her chill. Flip her. Ass up, gray cheeks spread. Rim her hole—tastes metallic, forbidden. Tongue-fuck it. She screams melody fragments. Slam cock in cunt again. Doggy brutal. Balls slap. Pull hair, yank head back. Bite neck—no blood, just dust. Cum builds. She grinds back, ghostly fury. ‘Now. Free me after.’ Explode. Hot ropes flood her cold depths. She shudders, cums silent—body arches, eyes roll white.
The Awakening
Coach rattles back to Swansea. Cum stains crusty on thighs. Ring safe in fist. Destroyed? No. Kept. Her moan lingers, pussy echo throbs faint. Back in room, society’s drone outside. Business deals, coal shit. But I grin secret. Fucked a ghost. Raw, undead bliss. No one knows. Her cold cunt haunts my wanks. Transgression’s high—pure, filthy rush. Ought to melt the ring. But why? She’s mine now, in shadows. This sin stays buried. My cock’s secret queen.