The Haunting Of Goldtree Manor
In distant memory, there was a Spanish dynasty of equine nobles who had inherited luxury and influence as others tend to inherit diseases from their parents. It was a political family of such esteem that they controlled much of the law-making in the former days when aristocracy truly meant power.
In later days, the sun set on Los Caballos Illuminados when the final heir died; no ilk or kin left in the bloodline by the time he came into possession of the mansion.
Just as well; the last thing Frances Pagayo had on his mind was extending the family line. His pursuits were more selfish and shortsighted. Opposed to siring an heir, Frances chose to sow his seed in fields infertile.
People in town thought his motives for wasting his great virility was to spite his long-dead father; whom was rumored to have a shell as hard as a crayfish and the apathetic attitude of a Haitian zombie. But the truth was far more mundane: The son of Renaldo Pagayo was gay.
One day, murder came to the estate. There was speculation over a bad burglary or the final act of political subterfuge against the once great dynasty by a rival family, but the result was the same.
Frances was dead and buried in the family crypt under the mansion.
He stayed dead for all of five days before scaring the holy bejeezus out of some prospective buyers for the now vacant mansion. Since then, nobody had the courage to come to the estate for fear of a humiliating reprisal by the spirit of the dead stallion.
Some would say he didn't give up the ghost.
The Haunting of Goldtree Manor
It sat vacant now, a wooden structure that creaked in the wind as floorboards cracked like bones from the constant changes of hot and cold. If there were a house that could personify what was left of a cricket after a spider sucked out all its insides and life, Goldtree Manor would be that place.
He often pitied how sad and lonely it looked. Ian had seen old monochrome pictures of when the mansion looked gorgeous of elegance and grace; as if a lady newly come into womanhood.
There were days when he was sorely tempted to buy it, but he had reservations over untold reports of what awaited all those who came into the mansion.
Haunted, yes-
Strange thing to think about; no major religion or atheism really talked about the existence, meaning, or purpose of ghosts. There were tales in Japanese legend of onryo and goryo, but nothing really addresses the idea except as either silly stories or horrible moral lessons for ignorant people.
That aside, Ian found himself bolstered with bravery every coming day that he drove by the estate. It was an amazing place and he could buy it since the mortgage was now dirt-cheap. The only problem was the ghost--if it existed and didn't like him, what would it do?
As he thought about it, ghosts couldn't do much to bother people except make noise and steal things, and for a mansion that was now cheaper than most cars, Ian could well put up with a few annoying occurrences.
It was a week since he finalized his thoughts. The bank that financed the mortgage didn't have anyone willing to show him around, so it just gave him the house-key for a week so he could see the mansion by himself.
In hindsight to most people with common sense, that was probably a bad idea, though Ian could only think about where he might be living now that he could move out of his $1000 a month lease apartment.
Well, this was sometime in January; one of the months with the earliest-ending days of the year.
The key, an old, fancy gothic one that might unlock a Victorian chastity belt, creaked in an ancient lock on the door and nearly broke. He put his paw on the door and opened it, the smell of rust now heavy from his palm.
A dark foyer greeted him; a winding stairway that led up to the second story and cobwebs all over every jutting object like silk sheathes. It was an odd atmosphere that literally had never been cleaned for at least a decade.
In the brief slivers of light coming through the doorway, the pony wondered if this was how a house looked when it was dying from the inside as though it had a cancer of neglect.
Wind whistled through broken windows upstairs with a banshee howl as he shivered in fright. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea to come here, as he thought about it.
But just as he was having second thoughts and backing out towards the front door, the heavy wood of the door creaked and spanked him harshly on his pretty pony ass.
Inside, a long hushed howl permeated the house. It was similar to a light breeze through a cave and made it sound like the mansion was breathing loudly with asthmatic inhales.
It was a sad sound; this was the clearest proof that the house could hold life, but it was a horrid sickly sound of the infirm.
Each breath echoed in the hallway like low hollow pings through the air as if by a submarine under the water. Darkness shifted all around like millions of slowly lofting spirits as broken glass fell onto a hardwood floor from upstairs, the tinkling of an odd lullaby or wind chimes sounding out in the deep emptiness of every derelict chamber.
A low thumping began. Low pounds of footsteps like a cross between stomping coconuts and muffled gunshots. It was in the back, towards the master bedroom.
Ian bit his lip nervously, unsettled and not willing to go further into this place, nor tread on the wine-stained red carpet of the staircase, as it looked like a bleeding tongue of some giant poor creature.
More breaths hollowly in his ears like a monster that was out to get him. It was a delirious tired age of horror within these walls, fear only rising in his stomach like spiders with prickly legs.
Then he felt the fear tingle in his neck and cheeks and back of his head like an electric hand of coldness. Perhaps the ghost had touched him that moment--he couldn't be sure as he was much too frightened to turn around.
For an hour, this scary place melted into his skin and eventually he bolstered the courage to tread quietly upon the dilapidated stained tongue and the snakelike twisting of the banister.
It wasn't an easy prospect, but he was still able to take a few careful steps and look around while things upstairs shook in the breeze like paper lanterns or lampshades while an absolute hollowness rang through his bones as though they had been sucked of marrow by the very sound.
His exploration was more focused and less casual while he prospected out the house and hoped to gather the will to traverse the diabolic steps; light shining bleakly down through red stained glass like a layer of shimmering blood upon the carpet.
Each fall of his feet on the steps produced loud noise in the dark echoes which made him cringe and wince the whole while.
On the landing, he could see the last rays of the sun begin to shimmer like a mirage and die in one final mist of gold light before stormy black clouds overtook the sky and he was guided only by the light of the streetlights outside the windows.
As his hoof landed on the carpet at the very top of the steps, candles roared into life in every room upon chandeliers and lanterns in a vibrant flickering display of bearded fiery lions.
Ian shivered as he looked back down and saw no lights on below; only the second floor had been illuminated. He supposed this was some odd welcome, but he couldn't refuse it. The door was surely locked and now every curtain was drawn shut in a breezy flurry of unnatural activity.
On the second floor of the manor, many rooms greeted him with the hearty friendly glows of firelight.
It would be a tricky choice to decide which room he should explore first, but he knew that he definitely didn't want to go into the master bedroom--it was where the murder had take place and where laid the chilling open-eyed corpse of the adventurous young stallion.
A sudden breeze took light into his bones and rattled his joints like thunder as the hazy cold of undeathly fog lingered in the air as if smoke floating in a lazy river.
His breath roared ahead like misty blue clouds as the bright friendly candles flickered on their wicks like excited dancers during Tchaikovsky's Russian dance in the Nutcracker.
Darkness followed behind like an usher in a theatre, provoking him forward into the lit chamber of one room as if he were a steer being zapped with a cattle prod. The door creaked slowly shut as a fireplace roared to life with the vigor and bright glowing mane of a lion as music came from nowhere; filling the air with a breeze of sound he could feel in his chest as his fur stood uneasily on end.
It was a soft lonely concerto on a piano. The beat was slow and thoughtful, but depressing as he listened to it and found himself sympathetic to it.
Such music--it bleeds into the soul like a dying child; so full of hope, yet now subdued with the desolation of shattered dreams.
He listened for a long time, captivated and lost in the casual rhythm of the song. An unfamiliar old song that seemed to tug on him like a hand from eons ago.
The faded splendor of the mansion marinated in him as he watched dusty cobwebs fray in the breathy breeze of the cracks in the walls and glitter in the firelight like diamonds wrapped in ivory.
Perhaps he had been frightened before, but it seemed as if the spirit of the house was civil enough to acclimatize him to such a scary environment--and company.
Looking down, Ian saw a steaming cup of tea on the table that hadn't been there before. He supposed it had been put there while he was looking at the fireplace come on.
The pony casually picked it up and carefully sipped from it. The sharp sweetness of the refreshment caught his attention as he continued to savor the taste of it.
As he enjoyed his drink, his eyes caught several nearby oil paintings on the walls surrounding him as well as curtains drawn securely over a large panorama window. The look of this room declared large entertainment study--complete with a bookshelf and a mantel covered in various trinkets and trophies all wrapped in ages of webs.
No sooner had he emptied his tea than it seemed to fill itself once again of its own accord, steaming warmly right in his grasping hooves. Such a spectacle mystified him as he continued to slurp out the beverage and look around at all the things in the room under a lazy sunset glow.
After he finished his drink a third time, it ceased to replenish itself. Ian sighed and placed it back on the table before he turned toward the portrait overhanging the mantel. It was that face and those eyes sported in the portrait; wild horny eyes of a nymphomaniac studly beast.
The pony found he could stare at that beautiful snowy equine face all day and be content in that complexion of dull dusty ivory. Frances sported a long rapier with a polished silver hand-guard, which he leaned heavily upon in the portrait like a Musketeer posing nobly before his king.
His clothes appeared to be red silk with yellow trim on the edges and seams. It looked oddly like a royal uniform for a prince as an empty scabbard dangled at his side like a frozen black snake.
Ian stared forever; his eyes locked on the picture for an eternity while the roaring orange fireplace seemed to dance on his face and play tricks with his eyes to make it appear that the horse in the painting was winking as his fine sword glimmered.
As he sank slowly into the fine detail and the subdued colors all covered in a sheen of dust like it was snow, the music of the pianist abruptly stopped--and killed the fine relaxed mood of the parlor, filling the air with empty creaks and groans of aged wood once again.
A series of shivers overtook his skin as the candles seemed to fade out and the fireplace transformed into a smoldering puddle of dying embers. The air was no longer alive, and it seemed cold with the touch of death.
In the dark, he waited nervously as a cold breeze swept through the room like an explosive blast, washing his body in a cloud of ice and wispy vapors.
Soon, the painting shook and came to life. It spun and flipped through the air around his head as if it were caught in an invisible hurricane. Then other random objects lifted and started to fly in a circle about him.
Ian watched, captivated as his breath hung in the chilly air. Then as the objects dropped to the floor or crashed against the walls, a bright white glow came from the ceiling above his head.
Faintly, he wondered if he was being visited or haunted. In a "Christmas Carol", Dickens took great pains to declare that the four spirits were indeed frightening, but since their presence was benevolent and of benefit to Scrooge, it was a friendly visitation by the dead.
Soon, a pinprick of white misty glowing light turned into a marble, and then a pool of oozing fog congealed into the shape of a hoof--then another almost instantaneously as he watched in bemused interest.
Hooves turned into legs, and legs turned into--
!!!
Ian blushed and trembled as he saw a long two feet of a third leg flailing in the wind like a flag while he was helpless to merely watch it.
The ghost had come upon him naked with a stark erection which looked like a ivory lightsaber of phantom equine dickmeat. It pulsed and throbbed with an otherworldly light and a supernatural horniness to match.
Indeed, as the ghost was further revealed and he watched abs and a chest as thick as a potbelly stove melt down from the ceiling, Ian was only able to shudder in guilty ecstasy combined with the unreasonable fear of his shaking knees as the stallion version of the boogeyman threatened to make him die of fright.
With his fear and his uncontrollable libido, it was clear that the pony would die of a heart attack long before such a phantasm fuck-machine brought his ectoplasm-spewing anaconda to bear on his bare rear.
Not realizing it, Ian's paws crept down his own crotch and he started to rub a pre-spewing sheathe under his pants as if he were polishing a CD. His balls throbbed with a cold shiver in the chilly air as the stallion ghost stared at him ever motionless like a marble statue.
Ian couldn't stop himself as he stared at the horse--the big glowing creature seemed to possess his paws and made him rub out that small horny organ like some shy animal from its burrow.
He sighed with freezing breath as the air filled with steam from his nose like he were a train from the 1800s. As Ian finally teased his organ to a bulge in his pants, his eyes met those of the ghost. . .and were captivated forever when the spectral stallion gave him such a sweet grin and licked those white lips with ravishing thoughts on his lustful mind.
The pony shuddered and whinnied shyly in a submissive way--as if a frightened young little filly not yet used to a stud's touch. It was such an odd moment and it hung on him like a poignant shroud of omnipotent desires.
Before long, Frances had finally lowered himself to the carpet of the parlor and was waiting there like an odd sexy mannequin for something to happen. Ian didn't understand, so he looked about in confusion thinking he'd missed something.
Unexpectedly, Ian found his pants and underwear flopping off his body as some invisible force took them off and his shirt was snapped over his head as if it had been magnetized and clung to the ceiling for no explainable reason.
He shivered shyly and held paws over his crotch as he met the undeniable humor of the undead equine lord, who was still standing there and licking his lips.
Ian reached down and tried to pull his pants back on, but the task proved impossible--his clothes now weighing a thousand pounds or held down on the floor by an invisible weight while Frances waved a stern finger at him.
Lights soon came to life in a trail of candles floating on the air like a snake, sensuously coiling and flexing as he watched. They seemed to lead into the main bedroom of Frances--formerly his father's--which made the pony shiver and protest profusely in fright; he'd be willing to go anyplace except where someone got killed.
His refusal was met on deaf ears though, as Frances waved his finger like a wand and the pony found himself dragged through the hallway ever slowly like a rope was tugging on him. Ian fought as much as he could and even clung to multiple doorways, but found with intense fear that he couldn't break the hold on his body as he was forced through each chamber and room to the master's.
That seemed an apt description for it; the master bedroom belonged to a master. Frances was undeniably in charge here as Ian was forced in the cavernous bedroom and the door behind was immediately locked with a loud, hollow click.
Candles popped on like firecrackers with tiny crackles of flame as he laid his eyes on a wall littered with different toys and whips while the floor was a mess of all manner of bondage furniture. The sight of such a place shocked him, for he knew Frances was gay--but not a dominant kinky top!
Just looking at all the dildos and forced-fucking machines made his mouth water with excitement. While Ian had never found himself particularly liking most fetishes, the idea of a big male horse doing things to him made him more ferociously horny than he could stand.
Among these shadows, whispers of desire coated the walls in a sheen of subdued amber like a room made of passion. Ian glanced shyly around at all the different toys Frances had obviously been quite fond of. Nothing had been removed from the mansion after his death, and least of all this collection of discipline.
He shivered as a stray peek caught the shimmer of red velvet on a bondage bench or cross as well as the glistening chrome of various metal devices that seemed designed to fit in one orifice or another.
Granted, he was curious and horny, but there was also some manner of fear. Not all masters were the same--some were nice, and some were so cruel they could scare the stripes off a tiger. Ian hoped that whatever the ghost had planned for his little body, that it would not bring too much pain. He might be a submissive, but his lust was not sparked by immense pain as other masochists are well accustomed.
He turned as an invisible muzzle blew cold oat-smelling breath into his neck as a frozen finger tingled down his back in one long sensuous icy touch before a whole palm gripped one of his firm naked buns with a satisfied, howling whinny of a laugh.
Ian looked over his shoulder and saw nothing as his tail was lifted by some invisible force and an unpleasantly icy wet tongue lapped with ravishing hungry strokes upon his tight pouty butthole.
Immediately, he jumped forward and clapped his tail down with shy denial of what had just happened--he had taken it from numerous stallions, though none had tasted his equine star by muzzle. It was such an odd sensation for him, Ian couldn't help but feel nervous--especially from that icicle feeling of tongue. It would be hard to imagine what it would feel like to have a popsicle the size of a horsedick up his tight gripping passage!
Slowly, there was a noticeable feeling of growing warmth in the large room as a fireplace facing the bed soon roared to life from a simple crackling glimmer of red coals. Ian watched in captivation as he held his hands close to the flame to warm himself up.
The pony had been unmolested by Frances for a few moments before he discovered the sinister purpose for the flame erupting to full fury!
Without provocation, Ian found his scrawny pony body shooting through the air and landing harshly on top of a spanking horse before he can react; breath knocked out of him as invisible manacles suddenly hold his limbs down. As he tried to move or test the invisible tethers of air, something happened in the fireplace.
Ian's pretty sapphire eyes reflected sparkles of sunset as he watched an odd iron stick float casually through the air and the tip was stuck into the fire as if it were roasting a marshmallow. Captivated, he saw as the blunt wide end of the stick grew hot and bright like an orange neon glowing sign at night.
As it roasted with a smoldering crackling like that of popping ice, the pony got a good glimpse of the front of the floating item as it came towards him. Frantically, he tried to break out of his restraints and fought with the padded velvet bench as the iron came close enough for him to read the word "Mare" on the end in fancy lettering.
He fussed and protested even as he felt a cold invisible finger trace along his helpless displayed balls before the fiery iron was placed to his helpless asscheek and making him scream out loudly like a desperate animal while the sinister chuckle of Frances echoed off the walls of the mansion.
The hot excruciating pain made him throw his head back and squeal as he caught the disgusting smell of burning fur and cooking ham in the air while smoke travelled about from the sudden cooling on his water-filled body.
Frances tossed the iron back into the fireplace while Ian whimpers and cries from the smoldering aching pain in his ass. Forever, he was marked as "mare"; Frances' mare.
While the burn continued to ache horribly, Ian was untied from his bondage and left to fall helplessly to the floor on his side as he rubbed the new injury with his paw, whining in defeat at the horrid demeaning mark which could only be left by a powerful dominant creature like Frances.
He looked back into the shadows lining the fireplace, but could see nothing nor make any notice of the spirit, whom was now invisible before his nervous wincing gaze.
Soon he found himself lifted through the air as though by magnets and thrown toward the unmade bed with a hard jolting thud, which freaked him out since this was the very bed where Frances had been found dead. Ian panicked and tried to jump off, but an invisible collar and leash seemed affixed to his throat, preventing him from moving a foot in any direction as he watched the far edge at the foot of the bed collapse under an unseen weight of invisible mass which seemed twice as heavy as him; invisible knees coming up to him in two long dragging trails, scattering the bedspread further.
The pony whimpered shyly, his heart tracing an erratic beat of fear as he watched the odd presence crawling slowly towards him upon the bed like a transparent blob. . .
Then he sighed with immediate fear trembling briefly through his helpless body as he was touched. A clammy shiver twirled down the skin of his neck and back as he felt a cold phantom hand linger on his cheek and slowly caress down his blushing frightened cheekbone.
He closed his eyes and opened his senses to the benevolent presence, breathing in chilly oat breathe as the undead hand traces a casual swath down his face, to his neck.
Ian shivered, aware of that power and obedient to it now that he had no choice but to obey the 'geist master. His body grew cold against the air as his naked body trembled to the heatless atmosphere of Frances' private world.
As the fireplace dimmed down to coals and the candles burst into silence, the room went into a bleak purple arc of lingering blindness to the point that he finally sees a near-invisible outline like a ghostly traced image on an artist's sketch.
The room fell into calmness as his breathing and the echoing abyss of France's exhales were deafening while the bed zipped and rustled under their moving bodies; silk sheets defiantly uttering noises of paper being rustled as he finally stilled his heart and flesh long enough to submit to the ghost.
He became a sacrifice of lust; an offering to the otherworldly attentions of a master who lives by the light of shadows in the eternity of time.
Ian whimpered as an icy finger traced its way down around both his twitching nipples and then rested upon the cleft of his sheathe, twirling around the opening like unliving steel thawed from a frozen expanse.
It was such a belittling touch that sucked the energy from him while his little balls tingled from the sensation, his breathe thick in the twilight moonlit air like a grasping fog of wafting fingers.
Unable to move anywhere, he sat down in the bed and whimpered with a surprise of delight as he felt the silk sheets scrape against the sensitive hams of his buttocks like a slippery gathering of warm hands, shivering with wonderment and pleasure as he slid his rump back and forth to enjoy the oddly pleasant sensation further.
It was a marvelous bed and the cold luxuriant feeling it gave his tush was unspeakable. He had played with the sheets for some time, rubbing his butt, balls, groin, scrotum, and sheathe into the fine fabric as though he swam in it like a wine red pool.
Soon though, the master grew impatient. Though it had barely been a month or so, even dead, his libido was at full throttle.
The pony found himself being dragged around by a painful tug on his tail, Even as he squeaked and struggled, Ian now found himself facing the pillows while something prodded his butt up and shoved his face into the cushions; holding his head in there as though he were chained to them.
Behind him, he felt a careless charisma as a heavy feeling of a block of ice fell on top of him and threatened to make him a stain in the bed.
There was nothing but a melting cold and a light breath of chill on his face from an invisible mouth. Unseen, it was an odd way to be treated; like he got thrown in a thawed lake during winter.
The horse had a casual masculine superiority to him as invisible furred flesh numbed the ponies', making his teeth chatter and his small lithe body tremble.
A strange spinning buzzed in his head like electric guitars as a buffeting wind seemed to blow kisses on his skin. With everything going on, he realized the ghost had control over everything in this room.
The weather, light, even what Ian felt and heard. It was an oddly unsettling revelation. He closed his eyes and lay breathless, giving his body up to the ghost without resistance while heavy vapors of fog mingled around him like a glowing motley group of halos.
The sensual loneliness opened before his ears in an otherworldly sympathy of violins and pianos as his heart boldened against that despairing untouched soul. Even a prisoner, he felt hearkened to soothe that ache from the tormented creature that had branded his taint on Ian with one deft stroke.
This darkness which overcame him was itself magical when he listened through the echoes of blowing air and ruffling purple curtains for the sounds of his master. Master; a strange maddening leap of the mind to accept an incorporeal being as an owner.
As twilight of darkness came across them, Ian stole a glance back to spy the deepening of shallow outlines into a tattered form of smoke as the horse became something he could reach out and touch; a dream or efreet of vision.
A power behind that simple equine form was itself, deep-entrenched in the world of the ether. Such a bold creature harnessing that kind of energy meant he was a spirit of immense force. Though trapped in the mansion for eternity, the fact he could have sexual relations meant he had a stranglehold in the physical world which couldn't be easily disturbed.
A tingling light touch went across his hard cock like a wet feather, making a shiver work up his crawling skin like the moving legs of a millipede.
While all of this creeped him out, there was nil he could do as the nightly creature planted phantom limbs on his butt and caressed skin, massaged flesh. Tenderly kneading Ian's plump naked ass, there was no secret to Frances' claim.
The pony would bite, fight or kick if resistance weren't so meaningless. His teeth gnashed uncertainly as those white transparent hands felt up his pudgy rear.
Outside, a bayou came alive with frogs, bats, owls, and crickets as the eternity of noise and imagination melted into him.
Crows cawed with shrill voice like banshees as a light frost of rain glazed the outer windows of the bedroom with taps like popping mosquitoes on mirrors.
The shock of those undeathly fingers already left as he faced the bold truth of being fucked by a ghost. From all that had happened to him, he was surprised that hypothermia hadn't found him.
The force grew more insistent and he suddenly found himself floating in the air. His fat, marish thighs wiggled in midair as he tried to involuntarily right himself. It was an odd levitation like floating on invisible water at a beach; his limbs flailing wildly for purchase on nothing.
He looked down to see that the bed was a foot away from his feet, making it teasingly out of reach. Ian bobbed up and down like a pool toy in the air while an abyssal echo of lecherous snicker could be heard.
After getting comfortable with the odd sensation of being a sex buoy, his body stilled enough for him to enjoy sex with a dead horse. A breath; a world; a whisper--some odd gentle tickle passed through his body like a breeze penetrating the skin to glaze the innards.
Such an odd feeling left him limp with numbness of mind while Frances' soul trickled on his body like tingly water or a dammed stream.
Ian gasped and shivered as his thighs were levered forcefully open as a tongue went up and down his butt that felt colder than liquid nitrogen. He was casually licked all over on his butt and anus as he squeaked and struggled.
The act was quite lewd but sexy. Oddly, he appreciated how it felt on his little pink cherry, even if it was like fucking on an icicle. He grunted as a finger poked between his balls to rub on the hard root of his cock base underneath while his penis flopped shyly up and down like a pre drizzling pink rainbow.
A brief sigh of pleasure exited his nose with a hiss while a finger poked into his butt and got his hole all slimy and lubed with the glowing dull light of ectoplasm like the dead plankton on a darkly lit beach.
His balls shivered as the chilly atmosphere stole the last remnants of warmth from the room short of his own bodies'. With his limbs hanging down, it was like floating doggie-style. Clearly, Frances wanted to fuck him like an animal.
The creature living in the dark was a lover within shadows. Though made of instinct and undying lust, there was impatience and desperation in him as Frances was firmly trying to sate an unending ass hunger.
The place around felt hollow, containing a miniscule portion of life that it once had. There was urgency in this act; a lack of foreplay but that didn't mean that he was heartless despite lacking a body.
That strange poking up his butt was so cold, it felt excruciatingly hot while numbing his flesh. The pony shivered as he wiggled in frustration. Ian licked his lips nervously when the prodding stopped only to be replaced by the bold blunt mare-fucker which Frances was all too earnest to share.
His cute white ears lowered in submission as he waits expectantly for a merciless pounding, but the intrusion of cock never comes as he looks back into a grinning face of madness while the horse licks his lips and a sudden wet slosh of eel-like tentacles separate out where his hard member used to be.
Screaming in disbelief, his hole clamped shut at this Cthulhu-esque perversion. His rump might obey a stony horsedong, but it was certainly not lowering the drawbridge for tentacle rape!
As his wails of protest rose in loudness, his eyes brightened in fear when a thick horse dildo floated slowly to his muzzle and stuffed his mouth, a silk rope coiling around his snout to keep it locked in place.
Ian cried and shook his head, but the ghost wasn't listening to his pleas of displeasure, instead snickering as he unfurled an octopus worth of tentacles that used to be his shaft; letting the sinuous strong muscles coil and wiggle as if worms.
The pony tried to escape, but possessed pink ribbons fettered his hands and feet to the bed while the tentacles gripped around his butt and ponybits like sticky toy darts.
A disgust wafted through him with a violent cringe of unease when those thick tapered tendrils dripped with glowing excretions that filled the room with a potent equine musk. Each was ended in a one inch point but quickly got as thick as five inches.
He squeaked shyly through his nose, biting and grinding his teeth on the dildo gag as his tail clamped down tight to prevent the anal sacrilege to come.
The horse smiled like a silent glowing harlequin as he lifted that stubborn tail out of the way with a tsking motion of one finger. A nervous sweat broke on Ian's crawling flesh as the ghost breathed a winter gust on his coy puckered anus before stabbing a sneaky tentacle in his rump like a slimy snake.
A muffled yelp followed the rude intrusion like clockwork. Ian hyperventilated with a rapid beating of his heart as that squirmy monster wound about in his intestines like a roto-rooter, making him rub his knees together and grunt in derision.
In all the orgies he had been in, he couldn't imagine a more intrusive act. It didn't hurt, but that didn't mean it was exactly fun.
Master gave his rotund muscly hole a good pumping for an eternity, making his butt far looser than before.
As his upturned rear was exercised by one tentacle, the others slapped his buttocks with wet slurping slaps of suction cups flopping on his skin while leaving the area sore with kinky abuse.
With his spank-shined bottom red and stinging from his punishment, he didn't think there was anything left of himself, but he was wrong when another cocktacle waggled quickly up his back passage like a long icy tongue, bringing his small cuddly body to a shiver.
His breath stopped as the wormy thick thing pulsed inside his body while drips of glowing ghost lube fell from his butt and balls like glo-stick fluid. In the darkness, all he could see was the slime and the horse; everything else cast in a deathly pale pallor of light.
As he was ravished by these unruly monster things, his nose picked up a peculiar smell of male horse stink from the tentacocks, confirming their unnatural yet equine origins.
It was such an odd detail considering all that had happened to him. He whined pathetically as a third tentacle swirled into his channel like a drill, making him shamelessly blush. Perhaps the greatest surprise was that this actually felt GOOD to him.
Strangely, having his tight rear loosened was provocative and unexpectedly sexy. He would never have thought that he would be fucked by seafood, yet here he was making hentai schoolgirls proud by being utterly wrecked by a gay kraken.
His face warmed with embarrassment when yet another slippery bandit found its way up his colon like some demonic proctoscope. He gasped in disbelief as his ass was bred and impaled by all these nasty calamari cunt-wreckers; his cock jumping from all that work on his prostate.
The pony pokers twirled and widened his rear in such a way that it felt like he were taking a massive and endless evacuation of his basic needs. In short, a never ending massage of his anal rim felt divine.
His purring of ecstasy was genuine, mewls of outspoken delight while his hungry rear was sampled by some equally famished extra limbs which some unnatural power had granted Frances.
Soon, his warm folds granted passage with ease and the phantom fuck-machine exploited this fact, stuffing all eight cocktacles into the subby tight hole and mercilessly fucking the slut pony.
Ian snorted with eyes wide as his cock leaked a river of pre and his balls threatened to blow. With a little more of this ponygeist probing, there would be no more holding him back.
He relaxed his body and let the monster appendages claim him; butt wide enough to take a fist or even a draft shaft. The sinewy muscle of the squirmy things constantly pulled and rolled along his sphincter like folded fingers.
All of the limbs slowly stopped their random sliding and melted together into one entity. Stretched correctly, Ian now knew he would be taking the true cock of the spirit.
His anus oozed and lightly ached from the shiver-inducing assault. Lust or no, it was too weird for him to decide if he wanted it to happen again. Either way, he had been lubed well enough for a gang-bang.
Ian slobbered like a bitch around the dong in his mouth. While he was curious what sucking on polterdick was like and how ectoplasm tasted, he knew he wouldn't get that chance as long as Frances desired his bubbly warm boi butt.
He whimpers at being neglected; wanting to suckle on that cock more than anything. He might get to try it later, but he doubted it. As a master, part of Frances' job was cruel teasing and denial.
The silence was strange, as it seemed to magnify the sloppy noise of the stud slowly jabbing his pony hammer in and out of Ian's gripping rear hole with those vacuous slurping noises in the empty dungeon chamber.
It even overwhelmed the rain and animal sounds outside like a loud sloshing brook. Humiliation coursed through him when he smelled the essence of his own ass in the air like some errant sissy perfume.
He was uneasy as a cold pair of giant nuts bumped into his; shaking like a pair of egg-sized maracas in a satin cream-colored bag. Chilly, but oddly kinky--he seemed to like this random sensation upon his body as well.
When it hilted in him and started to recede, it felt like he was being pulled inside out. Below, their scrotums rocked haphazardly like chandeliers in an earthquake.
The simple erogenous feeling of fullness by cock was intoxicating and odd. His tight butt struggled to handle its girth as though the cock was a massive case of constipation.
In this poignant degree of lust, he knew that this was not what a mare or bitch felt when bred by stud meat. Elementally and quantessentially, it was something else; a pure form of male love-making.
The icy burning of that cock was even bearable given the utter pleasure of having his ass full of something. As if a deeper space in him was completed by the mere act of fucking.
Ian closed his eyes and breathed hard as he felt some rush of spiritual energy come upon him. Drunk on anal sex, any coherent or rational thoughts were lost in a whirlwind of equine lust.
His innards screamed with fiery panic and his subconscious sought to reject the invader, but he was resting on a cushion of air while being taken to the edge.
A sudden burst of cold came upon his face as he looked on and tasted a sample of it. This ectoplasm tasted oddly of spunk from a horse and another ghastly aftertaste he didn't recognize.
The cum facial dripped down his complexion like an oozing glow-in-the-dark mask. This was probably the first time his head had been turned into a lite brite.
Again, those banshee hands gripped his hips while the silent specter rams his cock harder and unexpectedly flares with a glans the size of a softball, making the pony shriek as his ass was plugged by the dick of the damned.
Following the sudden ballooning of spectral stick, his bowels were flooded by that odd concoction of the otherworldly ether, making the pony shiver and gasp as his every space was now filled with bitter cold as if his ass had been stuffed with snow.
Ian squeaked and fussed with the cruel biting of the ghost chill, his whole body growing dull and numb by its immediate effects. Reasonably frozen by the sudden blast of spirit spunk, his body stilled and his heart slowed with hypothermic shock.
In candid embrace with Frances, he was finally reviled to the truth as if a light had come on. His struggles were over, as Frances truly claimed him; not simply in body--the body is as transient as rain--but in spirit.
He looked on as a dead rose nearby on a nightstand crumbled to a pile of ash while its spirit came to life like a silver tower of light. How strange a thing to see.
Ideas and sights and sensations ran dizzily together in one incomprehensive mess while energies of the world around him had come into sharp focus like they were real.
Frances had those strong arms around his chest and they were no longer cold. They slowly warmed to his skin and gave off heat like gentle sunrays. The ectoplasm and cock within him pulsed with a tender loving fury like a bull in the passions of screwing a cow.
This moment was a period that hung in his unforgettable eternity, and as he continued to look around, he was rising--rising further and soon he left the unforgiving weight of his body behind.
In this new form, all sensation was warm and focused. His old body crumpled lifelessly on the bed like a stringless marionette as Frances gently removed his soul--him--from that weary shell with the patience and care of a doctor in surgery. Soon, he flew with freedom like an otter swimming around in play with another of his ilk.
With this new stage of experience, he did not regret losing his flesh. Ian ultimately realized the truth of how bulky it was; like fucking in a leaden suit of armor.
He passes off that cock effortlessly and stares in captivated joy at a pair of warm blue eyes like an endless sea of flowing waves.
"Welcome." Frances uttered, his face streaked by tears of jubilant gala at the close of his loneliness as Ian saw the house come alive with an astounding vitality only the truth of afterlife could provide.
"Home." Ian responded thoughtlessly, jumping in the noble stallion's glowing ivory arms; touch like blessed silver fire upon the essence of his wavering form.
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A Halloween story I took several months to write; special thanks to Ian R Soulfox for providing advice and consultation into the matter of ghosts and spirit sex.
Also inspired by the Robot Chicken "Rape Ghost" sketch.
Hope you enjoy and have a happy Whore-an-weenie :P