My Dead Lover’s Ghost Fucked Me in the Hotel

Lauren was restless. She had been compulsively tuning and re-tuning her violin for the past hour, fingers working the pegs with obsessive care. She kept at it even though she felt a creeping dread that one more twist on the A string would make it snap clean off. The studio smelled of rosin and old wood, and her palms were slick with sweat.

It had been six months since Megan passed away. Lauren still could not stand the thought of being asked what happened. She would tell people it was a sudden complication. The truth was the doctors called it aggressive progression. In unguarded moments Lauren knew it had been a slow unraveling, one she had refused to see or could not face until it was too late. Guilt sat heavy in her chest like wet concrete.

She thought that was the end of it. But there is no end to the lingering feelings, the guilt, the love, the self-hate, the unfulfilled passion, and that abstract anger she aimed at the uncaring universe. Every day after the funeral she did the only thing she knew how to do. She practiced until her fingertips went numb. She played through her grief and through the pitying or judging eyes of colleagues and strangers. In the quiet moments when she reached for her phone and saw no messages, she knew there would be no messages. She would never again hear that soft, impatient voice pleading with her to practice again tomorrow and come home now.

Lauren kept playing. The tears never stopped her, not when they dried, not when they ran out, not even when she hated herself for not being able to cry anymore. Her bow arm ached but she pushed harder, drawing out long, raw notes that filled the empty apartment.

Memories of Megan’s Touch

They had met in a different body, a different life. Megan was a muse unleashed. She moved like music turned into flesh, light on her feet, sensuous in her barefoot skipping, her tank top riding up as she threw and swayed her hands in controlled abandon. It looked like she was reaching for the stars, whispered laughter spilling out of her like a melody while she teased the somber practice Lauren kept up until the last hours of the night. Megan’s long hair was often a tumble, like straw in summer. Her mouth was quick to smile and her hands always found ways to touch Lauren, at her waist while she packed her violin, at her nape while she read sheet music, on her knees under café tables. Megan was warmth itself, relentlessly present, the lover who always ended up on top of her and wanted to turn her lights out with pleasure . Those nights Megan would pin Lauren down, tongue flicking over hard nipples, fingers sliding into a soaked pussy until Lauren came with a shuddering cry.

Lauren had been drawn to that warmth like a moth. It balanced the hours she spent alone with the instrument. Megan made her want to put the violin down and explore a different world. She remembered Megan’s cunt dripping wet against her thigh, the slick friction as they ground together until both of them gasped and came hard.

The first signs were small, as they always are. Megan got winded taking the stairs. She laughed it off, saying she was getting old and that Lauren was exhausting to bring to climax, and Lauren believed her. Later there were bruises that lingered too long on her thighs and a stiffness when she stretched. Megan would say she must have slept funny, rolling her shoulders with a wince she tried to hide behind a grin, or that Lauren had grabbed her too hard the night before. Elena noticed and then she didn’t. There was always a competition with her peers, or an audition, or a tour. Rescheduling evenings together became easier than rescheduling rehearsals. Megan insisted it was fine. Lauren did not know Megan had been going to the hospital. By the time Lauren knew, her career was finally taking off and Megan refused to be the melodramatic girlfriend dragging her down.

It is not a big deal, Megan had promised once, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hair mussed, the collar of Lauren’s T-shirt slipping down one shoulder. I can see the doctor on my own next week. Win this audition first. Then I will update you on what the doctor says. Her bare tits peeked out, nipples tight, and Lauren had wanted to fuck her right then instead of leaving for rehearsal.

There was a point when Megan stopped going to the doctors. Lauren was shocked. Doctor visits suddenly meant scans and specialist referrals. The decline was no longer subtle. The weight slipped off Megan’s hips. Her skin turned dull and her endless energy broke into short bursts followed by long naps on the couch. Her drive shifted from insatiable to understanding and then to something fragile that might break if held too tightly. Lauren held on anyway, or at least she wanted to think she did. She still recalled Megan’s pussy clenching around her fingers during those last frantic nights, both of them pretending nothing was wrong.

One weekend while Lauren was on tour, Megan told her she would stay in the hospital for some urgent tests. The next thing Lauren knew, the hospital was calling to tell her tragedy had struck. She blinked. The stage lights shifted. Lauren was mid-practice. Her phone buzzed. She fumbled for it, expecting to see Megan’s name. Instead it was an unknown number. A nurse’s voice spoke polite phrases. We are so sorry. It was sudden. She was peaceful.

She told herself she had imagined the vision in the hall. Grief and adrenaline. Stress and bad lighting. Her brain granting a mercy as the world tore something out of her. Lauren caught a whiff of Megan’s hair, strong and lingering, and then it was suddenly gone.

Her first recording session since the funeral took place in a small studio with a good reputation. New soundproof walls and a producer who loved analog gear. The piece was new, a commission written in memory of absent friends, the kind of thing people thought was comforting. She stepped into the booth. The headphones pressed into her skull. The violin nestled under her chin and the chin rest warmed instantly by her skin. She played, giving life to a melody that climbed and never quite resolved. Lauren poured everything she had refused to feel into each shift and each slide of finger on string, the unanswered messages, the canceled dinners. The second take was just a backup. Lauren played the first time around perfectly. They all knew it. This recording was a winner.

Apparitions During Performance

As she leaned into the last sustained high note, Lauren felt it, the warmth at her back, a body’s worth of heat standing just behind her, off to the side where Megan used to lurk during practice sessions, arms folded, head cocked, listening. A gentle stroke touched her nape. It raised her hackles, but it was so familiar that only one person had ever touched her like that. She did not turn. The notes stayed in the air, her fingers trembling. She held it until the producer excitedly gestured through the glass, signaling cut. Silence. Her nipples hardened under her shirt at the phantom touch.

They called her playing haunting in the reviews. She did not disagree. The memory of Megan’s tongue on her clit still made her thighs clench during quiet moments.

The apparitions followed a pattern. They came when she did well. Her first solo recital for this song was well attended in a city they had planned to visit together. Nearly a full house, most balcony seats sold. At the end of the show, up on the second row of the mezzanine, for three heartbeats Megan sat in a red dress Lauren had bought her and never seen her wear in public. The dress fit her as it had the day they tried it on in front of a mirror. Megan’s hands slid over her breast and hip, her favorite pose to entice arousal out of Lauren. And then she was gone. Lauren’s pussy grew wet at the sight of those familiar curves.

Lauren closed her eyes. The last time she saw the red dress, Megan’s body had been too thin to fill it out. The apparition’s curves seemed more intact. The cheeks were almost rosy. Her hands looked strong again and her eyes had that spark of passion again. Lauren opened her eyes and the seat was empty, as expected. She wanted to feel Megan’s fingers thrusting deep inside her once more.

The next time, at a small award ceremony, she felt a hand, warm and possessive, rest on the small of her back as she stood onstage. Megan always did that, even in crowds. When she turned, there was no one. Her colleagues clapped, oblivious. The touch had been so real she almost moaned aloud.

Megan’s visage seemed to improve with each of Lauren’s successes. The more the critics praised her, the more full-bodied the apparition became. The first few times Megan was still a little pale, her expression dour. Later she lounged on railings and sat provocatively on armrests, often with a breast bare and her smile reflecting a naughty appetite again. By the time the invitation came, the one that mattered, the one everyone in her field dreamed of, Lauren had almost made her peace, if not delight, with being haunted. How many nights had she wished Megan would appear in her private quarters? How many times had she touched herself with abandon and smeared herself with her own juices to provoke some manifestation? Once she even tasted herself after climax, a perversion that once drove Megan wild. She spread her soaked cunt lips and rubbed her clit raw, whispering Megan’s name.

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The international debut took place in a major European capital, a hall with perfect acoustics and a reputation lasting centuries. The program centerpiece was a modern concerto built around a twisted motif from Tainted Love, the composer’s idea of irony, turning a pop song about unhealthy attachment into a symphonic exploration both grand and abstract. Can pure love be tainted, she saw scrawled in graffiti in the venue’s lobby, very avant-garde. Lauren had stared at that sentence for a long time. Her manager fussed with the line of her dress. You look incredible, he said, like repetition could turn it true in her own mind. The gown skimmed her collarbones and left her shoulders bare. Success brought out a glow in her. Lauren’s beauty and talent blossomed in the limelight.

In the wings the orchestra tuned. The conductor gave her a small bow of respect. The hall greeted her with light and heat. The applause rose, polite at first, then enthusiastic as her name was announced. Lauren stepped into the spotlight, nodded, and lifted the violin to her chin. Her heart pounded, nipples tight against the silk.

The first movement unfolded slowly, thin and abstract, a suggestion rather than a quote. Long lines. Hesitant cadences. Lauren’s bow barely kissed the strings, drawing out sounds that felt more like breath than notes. In the second movement the orchestra sharpened, rhythms turning jagged, harmonies souring. It was raw passion, anger, lust, and everything in between. The last movement was love and sadness. It was despair in the certainty of the end. It was beautiful. It tore tears and sobs from unsuspecting patrons. It was the first of what would be many successful performances.

There was no apparition. No ethereal touch, no disembodied visage, no haunting scents. Lauren almost felt betrayed. She was most attentive at the crescendo of her performances, knowing this was when she could get a glimpse of her old flame, her soul mate. Her pussy throbbed empty and aching.

That evening, for the longest time, Lauren cried. Racked with sobs, her chest hurt and her eyes were pitiful red orbs. For a fleeting moment she saw someone peek from the doorway. She was too tired and too upset to make anything of it as she drifted to sleep. Dreams of Megan’s mouth on her dripping cunt followed her into darkness.

Lauren’s concerts became less frequent but made her richer each time. She had a house in several cities and left the details of her finances to an accountant. It was what she yearned for. Her health made the performances less frequent and ironically made her tickets more expensive. The hushed rumors that her health was declining made her fans go into a frenzy to watch her perform live even more. While Lauren’s beauty became strained, her disposition seemed to improve dramatically. An odd turn of events for someone who had started to get a reputation for being a recluse, if not a little eccentric. Darkened hotel rooms, blackout curtains for her houses, her music blending esoteric tunes with established classics. Rumors swirled that she had taken up a new lover. Fans often spoke of glimpsing a woman in her houses, blonde and often naked, an elusive woman the paparazzi could never catch on film. Lauren’s manager denied the rumor. The rumor took a darker turn when it was discovered that Lauren had let go of most of her household staff, often leaving her properties unattended, yet the sightings persisted, even in houses Lauren no longer used. These quirks and dark rumors only brought Lauren greater fame. In private she welcomed the ghost, spreading her legs for invisible fingers that fucked her hard until she came screaming.

Until it reached a crescendo. Lauren was found dead in her hotel room the night before her retirement concert. The manager discovered her naked on the bed, her ribs cracked and her neck bruised. It was not the first time the manager had noticed bruises on Lauren’s upper extremities, but the neck and the death were new. Investigators swarmed the area and a great controversy marked Lauren’s passing as details of her sudden death were hidden from the public. Her pussy was still slick with cum when they found her.

Several years later a magazine published a feature on Lauren’s death. The most disturbing detail was the heavily redacted investigation report on the last things passively and illegally recorded by her phone. It was sordid. Lauren said a name, seemingly unsure, Megan. A few moments later Lauren started moaning and thrashing in ecstasy. Her climax was both tortured and prolonged. In the end, instead of laughter or heavy breathing, it was followed by the sound of bones cracking. The notes indicated it was unclear if there was another voice in the recording, very faintly, and if it was, it could only be described as gleefully laughing. The magazine tried to look into the name but had difficulty tracking it down. They found former colleagues of Lauren who did recall her having a partner with that name at some point, but no one ever saw her. The magazine even came across the rumor of the partner’s death, but an investigation in every civil record, clinic, or hospital did not record a lady of that name being hospitalized, much less dying. This article only reignited curiosity about what really transpired and drove sales of Lauren’s albums. The recording captured every wet slap of skin, every desperate “fuck me harder” gasp, and the final crack of ribs as Megan’s ghostly form rode her to death.

The local law enforcement and the security service of the country where Lauren died categorically denied that such a recording exists and maintained that the artist died from natural causes. Thorough investigation indicated no foul play and, most importantly, no recording was ever extracted nor was there a request for such extreme measure made before the courts. Rumors persist that a woman could still sometimes be seen in the windows of Lauren’s abandoned houses. Though this time the woman’s hair is no longer always blonde. She waits, hungry for the next performer who will give her everything.