Bad Hair Day
By Matt Nicholson
Published by Darker Pleasures at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Matt Nicholson
Smashword Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This work contains graphic language and sexual depictions with strong BDSM themes. It is intended for mature audiences only and is not suitable for persons under eighteen years of age. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
"In Memory of Bryan Brett Compton
Born April 23, 1972
Died November 11, 2009"
Brett stood and read the black letters engraved in italics on a small brass plaque stuck to the bottom of a gaudy, filigree-framed portrait. Actually, "stood" and "read" were somewhat figurative given his condition, but they were the best terms he could come up with under the circumstances. After putting up with three days of his relatives’ mindless weeping, pointless exaggeration, in-fighting and fawning over this lousy shot of himself in an nineties wedding tux; he finally had some frappin' quiet. If anything, the last three days were proof positive that death was anything but peaceful.
At last, he could take a “breath,” as it were. His ex-wife had finally slithered off with her latest cradle-robbing conquest and his extended family and friends had all left for their respective mobile homes. For the moment, his immediate family had opted for a trip to the mall in hopes of easing their questionably sagging spirits by sharing in some mindless spending.
Brett would have been happy to join them, but he found that being recently deceased made idle chit-chat a bit difficult and window shopping a little silly. Besides, now that the distraction of being posthumously sanctified, and lied about in general was over, he might have time to figure out just what the hell, or what the Purgatory, he was doing here—and what he needed to do not to be here. He’d never been terribly devout, but even he knew that something was missing from this picture.
In the days since he had fallen from the roof and snapped his fool neck, Brett had managed to learn how to press himself through doors, walls, and shower stalls. He’d even taken a stab at inhabiting a cousin or two. Had any of his other cousins, aunts, or assorted female-in-laws and outlaws been worthy of a second glance, he might have put his purgatorial talents to better use. Despite his recent status change, the thought of catching some heavy-breasted hotty au natural held exactly the same appeal for him as it always had—it was the best sport happening.
Unfortunately, he came from a family that seemed to breed rather homely women, and any temptation toward incestuous voyeurism only made him queasy, despite the relative impossibility of that particular sensation. Much like his afterlife boners, he just accepted the feeling and moved on.
Truth told, his interest in naked women was what killed him in the first place. Had it not been for his well-built neighbor's unnerving tendency to fetch her paper while wearing only a short green silk bathrobe that seemed prone to wind gusts, he probably wouldn't have been in the predicament he was in at all.
At that thought, what would have passed for his eyebrow cocked upward. Now, there was an idea worth pursuing. If he recalled correctly, her name was Elizabeth, Elizabeth Fortier. And if the day she slipped ass over tits in the rain while darting back to her porch from the driveway was any indication, she had wavy brown hair on both ends and a bouncing rack that had almost made him cry.
Given that Ms. Fortier had helped contribute to his passing in a very definite sort of way, he thought it only fitting that he pay her a visit.
Brett bee-lined through the bay window and across the yard toward the red brick house across the street, idly swinging his arm through the telephone pole and street sign before diverting his course slightly so he could walk through the big maple that dropped leaves through him onto the browning grass. Noting that hubby's truck was gone, Brett sauntered through the red brick and two-by-fours into her bedroom.
The sound of running water came from the open door of the adjacent bathroom. Smiling to himself, Brett stepped that direction, only to be confronted by a smallish white cat with mismatched blue and green eyes. The cat stood up on the multi-colored pastel quilt, back arched, wide-eyed, and hackles raised. It hissed loudly at him and then hit the hallway on a dead fly.
Brett stood dumbfounded for a moment, suddenly unsure of what to do. In the days since his demise, no one had been able to see, hear, smell, touch, or taste him, not that anyone would have tried the later. Learning that cats, at least this one, weren't so oblivious was a little unnerving.
"Hello?"
Brett turned toward the questioning sound and pushed his way through the king-sized bed, shrugging off the feline question in lieu of grander pursuits. Since the open bathroom door was nearest to him, he actually used the conventional means of entrance, stopping dead at the sight before him. Brett began to wonder if he hadn’t gone to heaven after all.
"Ron?"
The gorgeous brunette was completely unaware of the ghost’s gawking presence just a couple of feet in front of her. She was peering through the partially open, completely transparent, door of the equally transparent shower, anxiously peeking out and looking through him into the bedroom. She held herself against the clear glass as if she thought it actually concealed her incredibly luscious assets. With both her ample breasts pressing firmly against the glass, Brett was solidly inclined to think he had met his first angel.
He continued to gape as the glass-flattened mounds slid forward slightly, their nipples pressed inward against the surrounding dark flesh. When she shifted down and pushed the door further open, he would have gasped as her right tit popped past the door frame when she leaned out further—had he been capable of that particular response.
"Ron, is that you?"
She cocked her head to listen. After several moments and a slight shrug that jiggled her free breast beguilingly, she pulled back, closing the stall door behind her. Even through the lightly steamed glass, she was stunning.
Brett wasted no time in shoving his upper body through the transparent door. Ignoring the showering water as it passed through the back of his head, he found himself gaping at the two glistening mounds just millimeters from his face. Even as he would have drooled, she was soaping them down. Her hands slid around her tits, pressing and squeezing the soapy water across the creamy flesh, creating an antagonizing variety of tempting views for nearly a minute. Finally, her fingers closed behind her darkened areoles and slid forward, scrubbing the rose-colored flesh in a full thirty-second nipple-twisting encore that was more than capable of raising the dead, had he not already been raised.
If Brett had still been properly endowed, and alive, he had little doubt that he could have claimed temporary insanity as a defense to the molesting that would have taken place at that point. After passing his lips and teeth though her pert nipples several times with no luck, he found himself forced to simply watching the show as she rinsed her gleaming tits and stepped through him and out the shower door.
While she toweled herself dry, and particularly as she patted up and around her bottom, breasts, and more tender parts, Brett decided that he had discovered exactly why ghosts moaned. He would have, too, if he knew how. Had it not already been claimed by one side or the other, he would have strongly considered upping his soul for a body, any body, as long as it had a functioning penis, lips, teeth and fingers.
He then remembered his experimental attempts at inhabiting his cousin long enough to punch his lying sister in the mouth. The blow had gone wide; after all, he hadn't had any practice possessing people, but it was sufficiently antagonistic enough to warrant a retaliatory strike. It took eight people to break up the cat fight, while he just hovered by his old wedding picture and watched.
Brett looked at Elizabeth as she clipped a white lace shelf-bra behind her back and settled her full tits into the low cups. Adjusting them for the best fit, she checked her reflection in the mirrors that covered the walls on both sides of the room. As he watched her watch herself, he figured out exactly how it was that she looked so damned good in those angora sweaters.