White Solstice

“She’s such a sweet echo, Gillian. It looks like you’re getting more and more skilled.”

The man in billowing robes grins smugly, more than a little pleased with the praise. He turns to the one who offered it, a gossipy, neighbourly Ghoul in charge of the small grocery store nearest to him. “Thank you. I’ve recently made some comprehensions.” He boasts lightly and turns back to the ghostly apparition currently playing around with some young children, complexions as pallid as the grave. Though, that could be said for nearly everyone in Ithilien.

“What are you going to do if she falls for you? Your wife won’t be happy.”

The man sighs at that, “I’ve known since I started working on her that I’d have to let her go some day. I only hope she’d still play and sing for me.” Gillian’s particular form of theatrical necromancy depends on echoes, an entity like and yet unalike ghosts, ethereal, mindless remnants of a demise long past. Powerful and wilful characters leave behind ghosts, their restless and sentient souls intact. The ordinary leave nothing behind, while only the spurned leave behind echoes.

His first and most developed was a talented yet tragic actress some centuries past, who was in competition with a venomous vixen who envied her talent and prestige. One fateful night during a tragic play, thanks to some sleight of hand and a sluttish consorting between stained sheets, the poison imbibed by the sad heroine broke through the fourth wall – so to speak – and slew the young actress. As a smart woman she instantly knew who replaced the fake with the real and her unwilling, decaying spirit left behind an echo of the tragedy, to linger in the theatre’s hallowed halls. It was said that up until Gillian’s intervention, no troupe dared enact another tragedy at the same venue.

An echo is like a lifeless marionette, before it is eventually infused with its own being. Generally, nothing ever happens, an echo remains an echo, a puppet a puppet. It’s not until someone else – like Gillian – takes matters into their own hands that a variable is introduced. After long years working with the echo, she’s begun to exhibit trace shadows of emotion and independence. It won’t be too long before the actress of yore awakens again, a fledgling phantom of her own. At that point, her destiny is her own. Necromancers of a more nefarious character have plenty means to bind and enslave her but Gillian has no such intentions, only a happiness at her growth, a faint bitterness at her possible departure and the hint of a hope that she may opt to remain with him, to continue singing.

Of course, the Ghoul’s flirtier proposition was utterly out of the question, she’d have to hunt her own man in between concerts. Thankfully, time is such an inconsequential concept in the capital of Ithilien, that she could well have decades in between performances with which to hunt with. And that’s already a frantically frequent pace.

Regardless, Gillian has collected countless such echoes to work with and it may even be time to search for yet more. There is little worry of running out of girls any time soon and even if he did, he had countless ideas for a duet with his beloved Erato. He shakes his head softly and inhales deeply of the crisp, faintly sea scented air to clear his head. The faint odour of baked ginger cookies makes his empty stomach quiver. He casts a pitiful glance towards the Ghoul, who frowns.

“What’s that for?”

“They’ve just begun baking and it’s already getting to me. Are you going to be alright when they start on the meats?”

She startles for a moment and narrows her eyes, gaze shooting off deeper into the trade districts, “I forgot about that.” She mutters under her breath.

“Might want to close up soon, you don’t want to have nothing to fill your belly with when the smell starts drifting over.”

“Oh, my belly will be plenty stuffed.”

“My condolences to your husband.”

“He loves it. Run along now, I’ve a cutie to attend to.”

Gillian chuckles and wanders off, waving behind him, hands laden with bags, the profit of this outing. “Later then.”

He lets the wry smirk fall from his lips, replaced soon after by an easy smile as he thinks to his own wife’s appetites. With a gesture he beckons the echo to him, the girl lifting her head, ears perked, or they would be if human ears were so interestingly flexile. With a voiceless wave goodbye, she chases after Gillian’s back, the man opening an archaic looking tome casually, not looking as she dives into it before closing it just as casually and storing it somewhere in his robes. A curious feat, considering he should now have a large rectangular bulge about half the size and thickness of a human torso somewhere about him, but instead there’s nothing but flowing robe, a shade of purple so rich and dark it almost sucks in the light around it.

All about him are festive decorations and the ever deepening scent of luxurious homemade banquets. Fascinating, really that the dead would even observe an annual festival, it would be akin to a man commemorating each time his eyes blink. But time is time after all, no matter how much or how little of it you have, a second will remain a second. A day a day, a month a month and the current year will always be the same length of time as the last.

Perhaps it’s more an indication of how preciously they keep the time, blessed to have gained such an incredible, endless lease of it. Of course, aged books within the Ithilien libraries speak of a time where a great many of her people didn’t think that way. But they all departed of their own accord eventually, entombing their fleshly bodies and departing with the soul, or sending their bodies floating over the seas to the west, long before it earned the title the Ancestor Sea, or Sea of Ghosts as it was known to men.

Regardless of why, Gillian was happy to see such a familiar celebration within Ithilien, having not hailed from these parts, but instead having travelled a long way to get here.  He walks towards his home down his favoured route, a large walkway that overhangs the inclining cliff edge, various stairwells hanging off the edge that lead to abodes and laboratories built out of the face of the large cliff. The view of the grey ocean from here would be breathtaking were Ithilien not eternally wreathed in some form of rain, mist, snow, storm or some combination between the four. Still, the obscured, greenish ghost lights floating upon the waves have their own charm.

The wind flows through his robes and hair, cutting a valiant silhouette, blasting him with an even stronger taste of salt and ice. His stomach growls as he thinks about putting out the order for a delivery of pale crabs off the Pallid Strand. Thankfully Gillian steps upon the front doorstep, just as the heavens open for a light drizzle. Drops of rain smack against, collect upon and slide off the decorations about his home, a modest abode amongst others of an upper-middle class status. Truthfully, he and his wife have the wealth and social prestige to move upwards, but both chose not to. He gazes warmly at the stockings he personally watched his wife knit as they hang behind the windows on magic ropes of ice crystal that glimmer with the multi-coloured lights floating outside like small will-o-wisps, greens and reds, whites and yellows. Only lacking the cages, feminine figures and rampant sex drive.

He steps inside and is met with a wave of warmth that instantly sinks into his bones, chasing off any lingering cold and ensconcing him within an all-encompassing comfiness. The smell of baking pie on the other hand, only deepens his appetite. As does the gentle singing of Erato, though it plays havoc on another type of appetite. She stops, sensing his entry and calls out to him.

“Did you get everything?”

“Yeah, and I was thinking on the way home,” He closes the door behind him, a firm divider between the warmth of his home and the chilling sharpness of Ithilien streets. “How about we cook up some crab soon?” With a small flourish, a large tome appears in his hands, echoes spilling out to collect the bags he brought with him and ferry them into the kitchen, to join their sisters in other culinary chores.

Gillian walks into the living room where Erato relaxes before the fire, reclined on a lounge in nothing more than stockings and a sweater dress, an inverted heart-shaped window between her breasts, revealing a glorious amount of underboob, an amount that just demands cylindrical objects to abuse it.

She lay on her back, a leg hooked over the back of the lounge, the other resting off the side, uncaringly flashing the entirety of her transparently thin panties. One slender and graceful arm holds aloft a stack of aged papers, the other hanging off the lounge and absentmindedly circling around the rim of a mug of hot chocolate, her long phantasmal hair tied up into a side tail that drapes over the edge of the lounge to pool on the floor, the hair tie bearing upon it the theatrical motif of two masks, depicted accurately and historically, one lost amidst ahegaoic pleasure, the other also in the midst of orgasmic declaration – “I’ve never been dicked harder.” From panties to stockings to dress, the Phantom’s entire look is wreathed in festive reds with fluffy white linings.

Gillian looks at the aged paper with some interest, “What’s that?”

“It’s this old elven manuscript a friend delivered to me today. Has a bunch of old songs on it.”

“Any caught your eye?” He takes a seat upon the lounge, Erato’s stocking clad leg almost immediately moving from its resting place on the back of the lounge to drape across his shoulders,

“One.”

“Oh? What’s it called?”

The phantom adopts an impish smile, lowering the aged pages to cover mouth and hide her grin, but it can’t obscure the glimmer in her eyes as she lifts her leg off Gillian’s shoulders to trace a line down his chest before settling her toes around a hardening bulge in his lap, coaxing it to hardness a moment before speaking “It translates to A Very White Solstice.”

A wry grin comes over him, as he twists in place and takes her hips in hand, pulling her towards him abruptly, making her gasp and giggle as she wraps her legs about his waist, “White Solstice eh?”

Her legs clench around him tightly as she uses him as leverage to sit up, tossing the papers aside to float in the air as she drapes her arms over him, large breasts pressing up against his chest, lips parting as her tongue slips out seductively, to slide across his cheek to his ear, “A wet, hot, creamy White Solstice.”

Gillian grins, pushing forward and tipping her over onto her back, falling down along with her as a hand holds her wide hips in place and another slips into the inverse heart-window by her bosom to take a handful of cool ethereal flesh. He rolls his hips forward grinding the bulge in his robes against the too-thin, almost negligible negligee panties. He can already feel the dampening of her wraithlike wetness.

He presses his lips against hers in a deep impassioned kiss, her mouth surrendering her soft, wet and cool tongue to his own hot one, a mixing of drastically differing saliva producing a luke-warmth. He frees his hands of her sinful curves temporarily, to untie her hair, dropping the decorative thing to the floor and freeing her hair, which rises up about the two of them, tendrils waving in the warmth of the air by the fireplace. It takes but a moment for them to choose which part of their beloved man they wish to ensnare, and then they descend. Strands drape across his back, wrap about his chest and arms. Thick tresses wrap about his hand and return it to the curve of her breasts, squeezing and wrapping about both as two nipples begin to grow prominent through the sweater.

Time seems to halt as they explore each other, Erato’s fingers turning insubstantial long enough to sink through Gillian’s clothes to lay their ghostly tips upon his chest, running lines across it before circling around to his back, tracing up and down his spine.

The man’s own roaming is far more localized, fingers groping and squeezing at Erato’s soft, pliant titflesh, sinking in, making her gasp into their kiss and squirm, loudly moaning as his thumb circles her nipple, leaving an arcing trail of lightning in its wake, coursing through her nerves and splintering to her spine before sending white and pink bursts in her overheated mind.

Panting, hot and heavy, Gillian takes a deep breath by the elf-phantom’s cheek – a scent refreshing and sweet – before he reluctantly withdraws. He looks down at the thoroughly messed up form of Erato, her hair a tangled heap, much of which still clings to him, her dress in disarray and a perfect, perky, rounded globe of love and dreams spilling out through the window at her bosom. The hem of her dress has long since ridden up her hips, her soaked panties plain to see, a target tempting enough to drive him mad, emphasised only further by the trails of wetness glimmering along her inner thighs.

A breathless chuckle rumbles through his chest as he straightens her up, “We’ll continue later. I have something I want to give you.”

“I have something I want you to give me too.” Her legs tighten as he goes to pull away, drawing him back in, her expression one of extreme lasciviousness, with a predatory air akin to a spider reeling in prey. He only smiles in response, bracing his weight with one arm sinking into the soft cushions of the couch, using the other to comb through her messy fair, patting her head before gently stroking her ear.

“Be a good girl. Good girls get presents.” She pouts, even as he rubs her cheek into his hand,

“I’m going to be naughty later.”

“I’ll have to punish you later then.”

He finally manages to retreat, slipping away into another room much like a wraith himself. There’s a gust of arcane energies that sweeps in through the doorway and all the various echos halt their previous autonomous tasks, coming together in perfect coordination. One slides into the room Erato reclines in and curtsies, mutely conveying her master’s message as a menagerie of sounds bounce around the place, clinking silverware and porcelain. The Phantom spends a moment watching the echo with a smile that wasn’t really a smile on her lips. Its Gillian’s oldest and she’s more than a little curious as to how this girl will turn out, Gillian’s entire necromantic process somewhat akin to rearing sisters for her. Of course, if this one started desiring what didn’t belong to her, a swift banishment wasn’t out of the question.

Putting her musing aside she rises from the lounge gracefully, following after the dutiful, servile spirit. She’s led into their dining room, dimly lit but for the chandelier candles burning low, some in greens and some in warm reds, smaller yellow candles lining the tables. Only two places are set, the dual heads of the table, where Gillian is, currently looking very regal and lord-like. The phantom elf grins, putting an elegant sway to her step as she approaches and bows, lifting up her dress in an imitation of proper decorum, flashing more of her soft white thighs, “My lord.”

The man rises in a flourish, pulling out her seat as he does so, reaching for her hand before guiding her into place, “My lady.” Erato giggles, as Gillian smiles – such formalities long since absent from their daily lives. He takes his own seat and retrieves his tome, calling for his echoes to serve them, the room quickly becoming lively as they enter in a line, the first two carrying plates, glasses and cutlery, the two after that carrying bottles of wine, then various other small foods, the rest standing dutifully by the side ‘till ordered to retrieve the main meal.

The atmosphere is very warm and peaceful – the perimeter so dim that sitting together like this has the feeling of having entered one’s own world. Gillian pops the first bottle open, an intoxicating and hot scent wafting out as he pours the warm spiced wine into glasses, a thought coming to him as he does so, “Have you had any thoughts on the White Solstice?”

A mysterious smile comes across her lips as she drinks from the wine, a blush immediately spreading across her cheeks like a drunken flower blossoming within her, “Maybe. Did you drug this?”

“Maybe.”

“What with?”

“Let’s say the spice didn’t come from spices.”

“Manticore?”

“I went for girtablilu.”

“My, how exotic.”

“Mmm,” He takes a slice of toasted herb bread and dips it through some creamy and smooth cheese, tasting it  before immediately halting, a faint sense of foreboding growing within him as he looks at the elf-ghost’s sly smirk. “You did the same thing to this cheese, didn’t you?”

“That’s not the cheese you’re feeling.

“The bread?”

She nods, “The cheese should kick in a little later.”

He coughs a little, and puts on a stern face as if to mask a sense of embarrassment, “Come clean, how much of this have you tainted?”

“The half you chose not to.”

He declines to answer, reaching for his glass of wine and downing it, its alcoholic heat settling in his stomach. On the upside, the cocktail of energies soon to be in his stomach will turn it into a furnace, evaporating nearly everything the moment it settles, spreading almost instantly into his blood, suffusing his flesh with vitality.

They eat in silence, mutually feeling the heat rise within them. It almost becomes something like a race, to finish dinner before their urges overtake them. A menagerie of flavour passes their lips nearly unnoticed, their focus instead on trying to push down the molten surges, table manners an afterthought, though still practiced to their utmost. She didn’t say anything, but Gillian knew that she was aware he fiddled with the candles too, swapping them out for something that would slowly but surely immerse their minds within a foggy sea of lust tinted desire. Tonight was a night where he decided to pull all the stops after all. It seems his better half had the same thoughts.

The main meal comes and goes just as swiftly. Braised demonic boar meat, basted in honey, roasted vegetables from Blight Meadow, fruits gathered from the Dead Woods and various fishes fished off the Pallid Strand. Unfortunately, he had the idea to request crab far too late. After the food comes the dessert and its appearance and presentation alone belies some machination behind it.

A nectar coated pitcher – no doubt donated by one of the morose dryads of the dead woods – filled with cream and molten chocolate cake, with more fruits mixed in. There’s only the single serving, and a single spoon in it. The echo places it before Gillian who pulls his chair out slightly and pats his lap, a lewd glimmer in his eyes leaking out like steam from the lid of a boiling pot.

Erato coyly complies, sliding into his lap, deliberately rubbing her soaked crevice against her husband’s pronounced bulge. As soon as her soft form is in his lap his hands begin to roam about her, starting innocent enough before abruptly escalating, sliding a hand from her hip to her inner thigh before brushing against the horny elf-singer’s hardened clit, his other hand sliding down from her shoulder to slip into the cup of her dress, the smooth ghostly flesh spilling through the gaps of his fingers as his thumb and forefinger quickly target her sensitive nipple – not that it’s too hard to find, standing prominently as it is.

The phantom for her part rocks her hips back and forth, rubbing herself against the hardness between her thighs, as if doing so would temper the tempest of lust within her, the both of them having imbibed far too many aphrodisiacs to remain unscathed.

The smell of horny elf seems to blend into the steamy smell of the molten chocolate and thick cream, a sweetness that rocks Gillian’s mind as his phantom bride spoons the first mouthful towards him. They moan at the same time, Gillian enjoying the rich and delicate flavours, Erato enjoying the two fingers slipping into her sodden slit, pushing aside her transparent red lace panties.

Gillian puts a spoonful into her needy mouth, leaving it there as she swirls her tongue about the tip, tasting the dissolving chocolate and cream. Perhaps feeling that she’s been taken advantage of too one sidedly – breast and pussy in his toying hands – she decides to give some back. Her mastery of the corporeal world coming across as so natural that it comes as a slight jolt to Gillian as she indulges in her more ghostly aspect, rocking forward and sinking directly through his clothes and hers, trapping the underside of his cock against her full rear.

He groans, a spurt of pre being pushed out by the pressure of her grinding, soaking into his robes. Literally, they’d lived with each other and each other’s spontaneous lewding long enough to have had both their wardrobes entirely replaced with arachne silk and weresheep wool fabrics.

They continue like that, the fuck-haze in their minds seeping into the dim incense polluted air about them as they grid and grope one another, until Erato had fellated the last spoonful of dessert clean, letting it pop free from her lips with a string of saliva, a moan on her blissful face as her fingers reach down to wrap about Gillian’s shaft. “Please, please honey, let me put it in already.”

Gillian takes a moment to answer, breathing hard himself. He swallows, spit sliding down his dry and ragged throat. “N-no…” He dredges up the shattered remnants of his self-control even as the elf in his lap writhes and begs and his fingers sink into her supplicating flesh and soaked honeypot. “I still have… have to give you your present. You’ve been a good, patient girl.”

She pouts, with teary eyes and a wiggle of her butt in his lap. “Then why tease me like this?”

Gillian takes a deep breath and wipes the remnants of haze from his mind, his mentality and will sufficiently sturdy for a sorcerer. He puts on a lopsided grin, “What’s a climax without sufficient build up? I’d never leave you wet and waiting. For too long. Take your dress off and stand before the mirror in the bedroom. I’ll give it to you there.”

She slides off his lap and stands somewhat shakily, the rims of her dress already igniting, burning inward before another flame starts at her belly, burning outward to join the first, revealing her belly, breasts and pussy, the latter already leaking streams that run down her thighs. She stares at him piercingly for a moment, even as her ragged breathing makes her bosom shake. She spins, revealing her slapable buttocks and looks over her shoulder, “You have the space of ten breaths to get whatever it is you need. After that I’m starting, with or without you.” Her quivering form stalks off, leaking a trail of need behind her.

Gillian smiles bitterly despite his raging hard on. Looks like after the incessant teasing he’d have to make it up to her.

Dashing to his feet and out of the room, he heads to the room he’d momentarily forbidden Erato entry to, while he worked on this project. So fleet of foot that he seems half spectre himself, feet barely touching the floor, he barges through the door and collects the wrapped box.

Despite her urgings, she waits for him as patiently as a cock-thirsting elf can, inspecting her large and perky breasts before the mirror, appearing as though she were pondering on something.

“Yes, they are perfect from nearly all angles, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“What do you mean ‘nearly’ all?”

“I’d wager that if they were larger they’d cut a nice curve from behind.”

She turns to look at him enter, box in hand. It’s a small thing, enough to fit in the palm of his hand, only about an inch tall.

“What’s that?”

Gillian smiles, “It’s what I’ve been working on, the thing that I wouldn’t let you anywhere near.”

He steps up behind her, resting a hand on her upper arm, as he leans in and kisses her ear before handing her the present. “Here, for you.”

She looks at what she’s been given, her ceaseless yearning for the manly pole between her husband’s legs actually put aside for the short moment. She unwraps the box delicately, as if afraid to damage it, using a nail to undo the seal and unfolding the paper precisely the way it was folded without a single tear. Inside is an embossed case, a small thing with a fragile hinge and ribbons to prevent it opening too far. Within is a sigil, the familiar image of a female elf carved upon it, stylistic elven patterns weaving about her. A faint power pulses from it and she studies it curiously.

“This is?”

“It’s not complete yet.” He takes it out and places it before her chest before letting it go, where it hovers as if affixed by a necklace. “It needs the finishing touches. A catalyst.”

“What’s the catalyst?”

He takes her hands and places them on the mirror before pressing down on her shoulders and whispering into her ear as her butt presses into his hips “The very thing you’ve been waiting for all night.” He clicks and a pale purple flame devours his robes, leaving him naked as the day he was born, the tip of his dick pressed against the dead elf’s wet, spectral slit.

She releases a big cat-like purr, “Ohhh, finally. Was everything before this my punishment? Did you punish me before I even get the chance to be a naughty girl?”

He’s a little perplexed by this. The night’s not young anymore and he doesn’t plan to leave her walking afterwards. He answers regardless, “Mm, Now I’ll treat you all night long.” With that he places his hands on her hips and thrusts in; the tightness of her cold elven tunnel mitigated a large part by her sheer anticipant wetness. Her luxurious insides clench immediately, relishing the girth of cock splitting her open and wide – quite wide. She squeezes and milks the length as if to voice her intention to never let it go, it’s only with great reluctance during which her inner pale pink walls are visible that he manages to extricate his throbbing length.

He’s not entirely willing to leave the elven vice either, no human would be – a  fact demonstrated as he eagerly plunges back in. The second hard, returning thrust sets the motion, the Phantom’s breasts bouncing as the force of their thighs impacting carries through her body, bringing along with it towards her sensitive knife-like ears the lewd wet slap of flesh on ghostly flesh.

The long teasing and expectation has her muscles soften in relief and release – in stark contrast to the tightening of her cunt. She collapses against the mirror, large breasts pressed up to the glass as she looks into the sluttishly sated gaze of her reflected counterpart. It’s only thanks to her nature that her heavy, ragged panting doesn’t fog up the glass as her beloved pounds her from behind.

Her sweet singsong moaning stirs something within Gillian – the way it always does, really – accentuated by the rhythm of her ass slapping into his hips and another faint but audible sound in his hyper attentive aroused state. The sound of her leaky ghostly lust dripping from her pussy to the wooden floor, displaced by the vigorous thrusting of Gillian’s cock into Erato’s wanton whole.

“Ahh~, harder!”

He only grunts in response, redoubling his efforts obediently, “Yes!” Her cries cut across his consciousness again, the only sign her receives before her pussy seems to close around him, his hardness the only thing stopping her crushing hole – though not for want of trying. There’s another muscular movement besides the squeezing hold, a wavelike motion rolling up his shaft in tandem, trying to milk him of his load. And the one after that, and any that come in the future. Unfortunately for her eager elven womb, Gillian wasn’t upon the precipice yet. Close, but not there yet.

Erato cums hard, the anticipation and excitement finally catching up with her. Gillian only offers her the grace of a few breaths before resuming his pace, his hand lifting off her wobbling cheeks long enough for a sharp smack, shocking her pussy back to attentiveness with a sharp elven gasp, the muscles quickly working the please their throbbing Lord. And Gillian seems more than pleased, his tempo growing quick and erratic as his climax seems intent on catching up. The actions aren’t so gentle on Erato’s over-sensitive hole, the aftershocks of her orgasm not quite done with her and yet another seems to be hot on its heels.

This is brought to an expedient fruition as Gillian slams his cock into his beloved’s womanhood hard, burying himself to the hilt as his balls clench to pump out the night’s first load. It’s not quite the hot seed splashing into her hungry, frozen womb that sends her over, though it brings her incredibly close to her second orgasm thanks to her physiology. It’s the sigil hovering above her chest that floods her system with an all-encompassing, damnably unnatural bliss.

The entire thing glows and pulses in eerie reminiscence of the pulsing of her husband’s cock as he spurts load after load into her already full womb. Spectral cloth seems to spew out from the sigil.

Gillian removes his hands as if expecting it and the cloth clings to her breasts, belly and buttocks, spreading about her as it even wraps her thighs nice and tight. She even grows taller – or seems to, as spikes burst from the material wrapped about her feet, turning into a pair of high heels, looking beautiful and elegant, causing her butt and thighs to flex in a way that makes them grow more shapely and appealing. It takes a moment before her eyes aren’t involuntarily fluttering in her blissed out state and when she can focus on her new form, she sees an exquisite and seductive gown.

It’s currently colourless and transparent, but a whim easily sees its colouration shift to reflect her own – still a clear lack of colour through no longer transparent, with highlights in pale glimmering gold. It hangs from her shoulders and clings to the shape of her breasts, transparent nearly everywhere but where her husband doesn’t wish it to be, her breasts perfectly displayed in shape, but utterly obscured by decorative gold filament. A deep slit rests between her breasts where the sigil takes precedence. There’s a heart shaped hole that frames her cute elven belly button and stops just short of her pubic region. Still scandalously conservative by some standards.

The left side of her dress flows all the way down to her ankle, but there’s a wide and long slit down the right that reveals her decorative stockings, held up by hidden garters – the former evidently, and the latter no doubt decorated with the same patterns of pale gold.

The pleasure is forgotten – almost – as she gasps, “Ghostweave! My, so this is what you spent so long on.” She can’t help the smile that splits her lips. She’d even turn to look at herself if Gillian weren’t balls deep in her cumslicked cocksleeve. It doesn’t stop her from twisting to look at other angles though.

“You can admire it later – in fact, a deeper infusion wouldn’t do it any harm. And it just so happens I’m still hard.”

Her grin is still on her lips, evidently pleased with her present as she purrs to him, “I’m yours to use however you like, darling.”

A lewd grin overtakes him, “Oh? How about something special then? It’s a special day.”

“Ah!” A deep blush crosses her cute cheeks as she looks down shyly, mumbling softly, “Now you’re the naughty boy. I’ll be sure to punish you extra hard, later.” Despite her verbal “protestations”, she doesn’t resist as he pulls out of one silken elf-hole and presses the tip of his prick into another. Erato lets out a half moan, half whimper as he thrusts into her rear, the tight hole unrelenting for only a moment before the pressure inevitably overcomes her passage and he sinks into her plump ghost-elven butt.

“Mmm,” a satisfied, deep moan rumbles into his chest as he slowly thrusts through her wringing rectum. He stops as her ass squeezes about the base of his shaft, and wraps his arms around his phantasmal lover, pulling her up off the mirror and into his tight embrace. As if responding to his will, her dress slips off her shoulders to reveal her perfect large breasts which wobble and bounce with the vigorous pace he decides to set for his elf’s butt-fucking.

Erato simply tips her head back, resting it against Gillian’s as she whimpers and moans seductively and incessantly, almost right into his ear. For the man himself, his thoughts are wholly occupied by the softness of her form as he hugs her belly, the tits he enjoys playing with so much as they rest upon his forearms and the pleasantness of her tight ass. Her breathy pleadings don’t quite reach his mind, sinking instead into a deeper, more primal form of consciousness. It’s that lower centre of thought – nay – action that commands him to rut into his slutty phantom more vigorously, to hear all the musical notes her gasps and pants are capable of – to hear it mixed with his balls slapping against her drooling and neglected pussy as he bottoms out with each thrust.

Erato’s legs go weak at the thorough dicking. It’s a good thing she’s being held up and fucked, or she’d have fallen to all fours, Gillian no doubt following with her. And being mounted in such a beastly fashion would be embarrassing indeed!

Her gaze drifts to the mirror, to the panting, red-flushed and quivering elf being fucked up the ass by her man. Perhaps there’s little difference. A spark of pleasure at the thought proves to be the final straw to the wildfire of heat burning through her, her ass quivering as another climax wreaks havoc on her overwrought nerves.

Even if Gillian weren’t insensate and close to climax he would be now. Of course though, he was. With the added stimulation of Erato’s asshole clinging to and milking his cock so erotically his orgasm can’t help but crash through him ahead of schedule, unannounced but not unbidden – at least, not unbidden by the spirit’s ass.

His balls slap into her forgotten hole a last time as he pumps his seed deep into her bowels. As if by mutual understanding, she leans forward as he pulls out, only dumping two thick ropes of seed into her rear end before pulling out of her gaping hole with a pop, another rope falling across her open back and then a powerful spurt landing over her hair, instantly sinking into it an infusing it with faint streaks of pale gold.

In between the fourth and the fifth she finds the time to turn in place and kneel, open mouthed as the fifth load of seed lands on her face, splitting in half, one half to hang off her long sensitive ear like a lewd ornament, the other landing across her nose and dripping down her chin with a generous portion landing on her presented tongue. The sixth and final graces her breasts, eventually flowing down her large valley like a lewd white river.

He looks at the elf’s cum-glazed form and laughs, “Merry Solstice. There’s your present I guess.”

She giggles, seeming to glow radiantly as the cum is absorbed into her and the unique fabric of her dress, the faint golden streaks in her hair growing and deepening, the radiance in her eyes increasing. “The dress or being covered in cum?”

“Both, obviously.”

“Thanks. I love it.”

“Ha, I thought you’d like it. Where’s my present?”

She wraps her fingers around his softening cock, stroking it to hardness. “This is your present. Merry White Solstice, darling.” The world begins to shimmer and distort, even as she takes the head of his hardening cock into her mouth and wrings her small, soft and cool tongue about it, her laughter echoing in his ears.

By the time he can focus on the world around him again, he’s already returned to his doorstep, hands full of the bags be brought back from the market and a raging erection in his pants.

He all but kicks his door open and is met with a wave of warmth that instantly sinks into his bones, chasing off any lingering cold and ensconcing him within an all-encompassing comfiness. The smell of baking pie on the other hand, only deepens his appetite. As does the gentle yet somehow lewd singing of Erato, though it plays havoc on another type of appetite. She stops, sensing his entry and calls out to him.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah, and I was thinking on the way home,” He closes the door behind him, a not-so firm divider between the illusion and the reality of his waiting and needy elf-phantom. “How about we cook up some crab too?”

“It’s still too late to think of crab.”

With a small flourish, a large tome appears in his hands, echoes spilling out to collect the bags he brought with him and ferry them into the kitchen, to join their sisters in other culinary chores.

Gillian puts on an expectant smile as he strides into the living room where Erato relaxes before the fire, reclined on a lounge in nothing more than stockings and a sweater dress, an inverted heart-shaped window between her breasts, revealing a glorious amount of underboob, an amount that just demands cylindrical objects to abuse it. Only this time there’s a curious, ghostly, almost transparent quality to the cloth and a sigil sitting prominently upon her bosom.

She lay on her back, a leg hooked over the back of the lounge, the other resting off the side, uncaringly flashing the entirety of her thin panties. One slender and graceful arm holds aloft a stack of aged papers, the other hanging off the lounge and absentmindedly circling around the rim of a mug of hot chocolate, her long phantasmal hair tied up into a side tail that hangs off the lounge to the floor, the hair tie bearing upon it the theatrical motif of two masks, depicted accurately and historically, one lost amidst ahegaoic pleasure, the other also in the midst of orgasmic declaration – “I’ve never been dicked harder.” From panties to stockings to dress, the Phantom’s entire look is wreathed in festive reds with fluffy white linings.

They both split into grins upon seeing each other and Erato tosses the papers aside to float off into wherever as she opens her arms to take Gillian into her embrace, the man’s robes already having miraculously vanished as he slides onto the lounge and crawls atop his elven wife.

“A Very, Merry White Solstice Indeed.”