Sell-Out Week: The Erotic (S)exploits of Ghost-Dick

Now that I’ve officially sold out, there’s no point in holding on to what’s left of my dignity. It’s time to write what’s popular, and you know what’s selling? Poorly-written pornography masquerading as erotica, and paranormal romance. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

WARNING: The following story is not appropriate for younger readers. Or anyone else, for that matter.

The Erotic (S)exploits of Ghost-Dick

The moon shone down on us like a great, glowing, throbbing orb of lust and passion as Ariadne and I made our way across the beach, the sand squelching sensuously between our toes.

“Here we are,” she said, with a coy, teasing lilt in her voice that betrayed the forbidden desires of her womanhood. The lighthouse stood before us, proud and uncircumcised, swelling inexorably toward the heavens. Its one great eye winked at the moon, like they were two fireflies about to get it on. “This lighthouse has been in my family for generations.” She brought the door open slowly, gently, as if to remind me of the other door she would soon be opening. The metaphorical one. The one between her legs. Her metaphorical vagina-door.

“Come, Richard,” said Ariadne, and I almost did, but instead, I followed her up the stairs. Going up, up, rising, rising, yes, floor after floor, up and up, oh, yeah, higher and higher, step upon step, so high, yes, oh, yes, almost there, almost…oh, yes, yes, oh, yes, we were finally at the top.

Ariadne Webster stood in the cool, pale light of the moon, her face warm and smooth like butter carved into the shape of a face. “I have a confession to make,” she said, arousingly. “I’m not like the other girls you’ve been with.”

Oh, if she only knew, I thought, but said nothing. I’ve made love to a zombified were-vampress. There are few surprises left for me. She shrugged out of her dress and turned to face me. Her hands covered her breasts, as if her hands were the cups of a brassiere, her arms were the straps, and her elbows somehow linked together in the back. It was then that I noticed a very curious thing. While cupping her breasts, she was still somehow holding her dress and standing with her hands on her hips. “You appear to have a great deal of arms,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, looking both embarrassed and radiantly sexy at the same time. “A long time ago, my grandfather was bitten by a radioactive spider, back when radioactivity did whatever the hell we wanted it to do. Ever since then, the members of my family have been born with eight arms. Well, six arms and two legs, but you know what I mean.” She held all of her hands out in question. “Well? Will you still have me?”

With her hands now out of the way, I could see her breasts. They reminded me of flesh-colored mounds of Jell-o, but with little cookies on them. You know, those little round sugar cookies with the Hershey’s kisses on top? Those kind of cookies. Her breasts seemed to say to me, Richard, stop looking at my boobs and answer me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “did you say something?”

“I said, stop looking at my boobs and answer me,” said Ariadne, seductively.

“Of course I will,” I said, my gaze never faltering. “In fact, I have a confession of my own.”

“Oh, what’s that?” She ran her hands along my legs. The delicate touch of so many fingers on my thighs reminded me of my night with the fellatio-centipedes of Kalamazar.

“You’ll see,” I said. “Or more specifically, you won’t see.” She pulled off my pants and let out a cry of shock.

“There’s…there’s nothing there!”

“Nothing you can see, that is,” I said. She quested a curious hand down to my nether regions. She let out another cry, this one mixing surprise with unmistakable pleasure.

“What is that?” Ariadne asked, suggestively.

“That,” I said, “is a ghost-penis. Ever since I lost my own manhood in a tragic accident with a mechanical rice-picker, I’ve been able to channel the genitalia of those who have passed away. I help them take care of unfinished business. It’s like The Sixth Sense, but with a lot more orgasms.”

“So this isn’t you I’m feeling?” she asked, erotically.

“No,” I said, tears welling up in my throat. “The only pecker I can never channel…is my own. Such is the burden I bear.”

“Aww,” she said, her voice straddling the line between sympathy and horniness. “So who is this?”

“What you’re holding right now is a little bit of Theodore Roosevelt. Evidently he liked to speak softly and carry a big dick.”

“So you can channel anyone?” she asked, orgasmically.

“Anyone deceased. I could introduce you to King Arthur’s lance, or, if the Bard is more your thing, I’m sure old Willie would be happy to shake his spear at you.”

“You must be pretty good at this,” Ariadne said, clitorically.

“Well, I have been doing this for a while,” I admitted.

“How long?” she asked, vaginastically.

“Oh, at least twelve years.”

“No, I mean…how long?” I could practically hear her vulva drooling with anticipation.

“Lets just say it’s a good thing you’ve got six hands,” I said, “because you’re going to need them all.”

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One Response to Sell-Out Week: The Erotic (S)exploits of Ghost-Dick

  1. Ayverie says:

    This is fantastic. Congratulations on this masterful piece of art. It is severely underappreciated. Probably the title scared most people away. I especially appreciate the progression of the sensuality of the adverbs. *Applause*

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