Narcissa Kyle was a proper young Englishwoman until she learned how to give in to her wildest desires. Now she writes erotica for those who crave a touch of the dark, the unusual, and the taboo.
Come To Me At Midnight, An Erotic Ghost Story (Paranormal Menage Erotica)by Narcissa Kyle
Lonely and dissatisfied, Victoria is enticed by rumors of a house that is haunted by sex-starved ghosts. A night in the house will put her disbelief in the supernatural -- and her body -- to the test. When the clock strikes midnight, she finds herself at the mercy of three ghosts with perfect bodies and insatiable appetites. They offer her the ultimate pleasure…… See more details below
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Lonely and dissatisfied, Victoria is enticed by rumors of a house that is haunted by sex-starved ghosts. A night in the house will put her disbelief in the supernatural -- and her body -- to the test. When the clock strikes midnight, she finds herself at the mercy of three ghosts with perfect bodies and insatiable appetites. They offer her the ultimate pleasure… but at what price?
This 6500 word story contains ménage / group sex / gangbang, oral sex / cunnilingus, female ejaculation / squirting, rough sex, anal play, double penetration, voyeurism, and elements of dark erotica /erotic horror.
They say there is something evil in the house. They say it preys on women. A man might go into the house and be overcome by a sense of dread, but he will be safe. If he remains within its walls, he might see things that are far out of the ordinary -- objects that appear to move by themselves, doors that open to no one, nonsense written in the dust. He will eventually be driven away by a hostile but unseen presence.
A woman will find worse. The women who have come and gone through the house, half a dozen in two years, tell very different stories. They tell of men’s faces appearing in the darkness, watching them at night. They tell of men’s hands creeping over their bodies as they sleep. These are not living men, the women say. They can appear and disappear at will. They can walk through walls.
They are ghosts.
Some of the women speak with sincere indignation, their offense dripping from their tongues. But for others there is a sense of shame, as if they yielded once or twice to the desires of phantom hands before fleeing the house for good.
The mere rumor of the house titillates me. I’ve never considered myself a thrillseeker. I lead a dull life. A cycle of work and sleep determines my hours. If I’m lucky, I might bring someone home to share my bed every now and then. Usually they are strangers, and their unfamiliar hands move over me awkwardly, fumbling with my body. We try to impress each other. It becomes a competition -- who can make the other come first, the hardest, the longest. The urgency of lust is replaced by the urgency to finish, to have our tryst be over and done with. Afterward, we lie upon the sheets, recovering. We say awkward goodbyes. Usually, we never see each other again.
Can I be blamed for wanting something more? Most women do. They’re just afraid to admit it.
What I want can only be found in darkness.
I’m not a superstitious woman. I’ve always been rational and reasonable. Ghost stories are nothing but fantasies to me. But what harm can there be in just going to see? If tales of the house are just products of overactive imaginations, what will I lose but my time? And if they are true… who doesn’t want to know that there is life beyond?
And what woman doesn’t want to be loved by the darkness?
“You shouldn’t be here,” one of them says finally -- the first one, who still stands in shadow.
I swallow nervously. But I will not be deterred. “Why?”
The second one speaks. “We have a use for the women who come here. They rarely like it.”
“I know what you do. I’ve heard the stories.”
Without even appearing to move, the three of them are suddenly at my side, their bodies only inches from mine. The candlelight kisses every inch of them, illuminating the flesh I long for most. I can smell the musk of their bodies. My mouth waters. If I just leaned forward I could take one of them into my mouth, but I don’t dare move yet.
“I know what you’ve done,” I insist. “I’m not afraid of it.”
The second man cocks his head curiously. “Not afraid of death?”
“Or to be loved by it.” The third studies my face carefully. “Is that what you want?”
My entire body seems to scream: “Yes!”
“Then give yourself to us.”
- Narcissa Kyle
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