Haunt Me Harder - Sex Stories

Haunt Me Harder

“Why don’t they just move?”

Yeah, I’ve said that out loud while watching haunted house horror movies. I now understand that it’s not so simple.

Run away and never come back

is your first thought, sure, but then you start thinking about all your stuff, how you have everything set up the way you like, and how you’ll never get a better deal on rent so close to your work... So, once the terror dust settled, I decided that the first step should be to talk to the three roommates that materialized in my apartment one night. I would move out for an Amityville Horror scenario but not for a Sixth Sense.

“Honey, I’m home! I’ll get started on dinner soon,” I shout at the seemingly empty apartment while hanging my coat.

“You spoil me, my love.”

“How was your day?”

“You’re

late

.”

All voices came from the living room where three men stared at a black TV reflecting an empty couch. My ghost husbands don’t hover or glow; they look like regular men in their thirties. They can touch things, move stuff, sit on chairs, and lie in bed, but you can’t confuse them with mortal beings when they forget a door is closed, or when they clip through walls and each other. Like right now, they all chose to sit more or less at the same spot on the sofa. This is the most important detail I’ve learned; all three phantasms think they live alone with a young woman who looks like the fading memory of their wife. If I take off my glasses, tie my dark brown hair in a high ponytail, and ...

... avoid modern jewelry, it’s convincing enough for all of them.

“I was swamped today at work,” I reply. It’s important to give generic answers that apply to all conversations. If I address a specific ghost, the others start getting confused and that’s when the air grows thick with suffocating tension with papers flying everywhere and you end up in fetal position on the floor waiting for the storm of screams to pass... I’m much better at managing my husbands now.

After a quick change, I step into the kitchen and pretend to wash the plate I purposefully leave in the sink. I have no intention of making food. The best I could manage with my skills and resources is a frozen dinner anyway. Three heads twist and perk up. They want to know if I’m wearing my apron. I am. They want to know if I’m wearing anything under my apron. I am not.

It’s a small, thin white thing that leaves my back and butt fully exposed and my breasts overflowing on the top and sides. The tiny frontal skirt flutters loosely over my pussy and leaves plenty of thighs to titillate. I’ve often fantasized about ordering pizza and answering the door in this getup but never worked up the courage. Now I get to practice on ghosts.

My fake husbands each have different personalities, but the universal appeal of a rather busty young woman in a kinky outfit obviously transcends mortality. Yes, I’m using my wiles to trick ghosts into a polygamous gangbang. I still think I’m being a gracious host by not calling an ...