A Guest Story, by an anonymous friend and contributor

I have the great pleasure of attending the Cold
Castle Academy for Finishing Young Ladies. I know this is a “great
pleasure” because I am reminded of that fact every time I even think of a
negative comment over my schooling in the presence of my Great-Aunt
Aurellia.

Cold Castle makes the place sound so imposing. I remember my first
day so well. As the vintage car that had been sent to pick me up rounded the curve
of the drive, trees spilled away to reveal a charming country estate
cut from sandy stone, set with big windows and
surrounded by a meticulous garden.

It is everything one with a naughty mind might assume about an all girl’s boarding school.
Yes, we do get up to all sorts of mischief.
What would you truly expect from a whole lot of young ladies left to their own company and amusement?

In the evenings, after classes and dinner have finished, the day
staff retire to their own homes in the nearby village, save for the lone patrol matron – who, quite conveniently – is never to be found. Even
when the strange events begin to unfold.

I suppose I can truly only speak for my own experience. Some might find what I’m about to describe scary, disturbing or even unnaturally perverse. Some might even find it as arousing as I do.

Each night, after our lamps are extinguished, I lie in my wooden cot bed, in a blackness so absolute, it matters not whether my eyes
are open or shut. There are eight of us in my chamber, and I can almost hear the evening symphony swelling, as the intensity of our
desperation rises. The heat of our bodies hanging heavy in the air. 

Soon our eyes will accustomise to the gloom and we will rise, and we’ll open the shutters just a crack, to admit the merest sliver of wan moonlight. Then we’ll begin to play our usual games; Spin the Bottle, Truth or Dare, Kiss My
Cunny, and Overboard.

Sleep is not something any student here prioritises at
this investigative stage of our lives.
During the day we have all the usual things; lessons,
instructors, punishments. A disobedient girl may be held after class for
a whipping, but that’s usually a disappointment. Never sexual, always
carried out in the most swift and proper manner over
a clothed rump in the quiet privacy of an empty office. Even being called to the headmaster’s office, a situation which
has inspired many a wank, never results in anything but a stern
chastisement. 

But the truly interesting thing – the unique, almost unbeleivable factor that sets Cold Castle academy apart – is that it’s haunted… 

Well, that’s the only explanation that makes sense to me. We have all heard things, seen things that cannot have any other explanation.
The patrol matron is overly fond of drink and her routine is an easy one to memorize.
She does a once round of the dormitory corridors, then she can be heard
creaking about downstairs for an hour or so before settling into the library
with her bottle.

That’s when our fun begins.
Some nights it’s the whole group coming together in a circle on
the floor for a rousing game of Spin the Bottle. On other nights covers
are pulled back and beds are shared.
The fog of arousal, the buzz of buildup, the heady smell, the hum of heaving chests – it’s intoxicating.
I let the energy wash over me, relishing every whimper, moan and gasp. Once all have finished, the heat fades, silence falls. We sink into an exhausted sleep.

And that is when they come.

I’ve heard my friends’ tell their own stories. Out of your slumber for no reason, you
suddenly find yourself awake, and where before there was pitch darkness, now you find the dormitory drenched in a low, blue light – even when the shutters are closed, and there is no moon
in sight. 

Even more mysteriously, you will find on the end of your bed a folded square of rough, scratchy fabric and a member.
These enticing objects have been described in all sorts of
shapes, sizes and materials; some long and knobbly, others soft and
slick.

You rise, somehow sensing you have been summoned, picking up your bundle and making your way into the headmaster’s study. All around the strange weak blue light pervades the corridors, like a seeping mist. On arriving in the study, you discover the
thick rug that usually covers the centre of the room has been pulled aside, revealing a hatch in the floor. Upon lifting the latch, you will
descend a short flight of stairs into a cool,
dusty room.

When you step off the stairs and onto the floor of the little room below, the trapdoor swings closed above you, and you find yourself
trapped. Still the eerie blue light tints your surroundings, filtering down through ten or so round holes
drilled through the study floor high above your head. 

Something tells you to spread the coarse cloth onto the floor and remove your
nightgown. The evening’s earlier activities have already relinquished
you of your undergarments. Standing bare in the cold blue air you take a
moment to properly examine the member. It seems to hum with an inexplicable potency. 

Looking back, I would tell you I knew it was to be me that night
before I even fell asleep. I didn’t know that I knew, but had I thought about it, I would have realized.
The buzz and heat that throbbing through my body had been overwhelming. I had ridden my fingers
into glory, encouraged by chorus of moans from the bed next to mine. A friend who liked to join in as her neighbours played, and who was well accustomed to what they enjoyed.

I had pictured her, writhing together, our mouths buried in the other’s crotch.
On the other side, if I concentrated, I could just about hear the shy moans
of a new student, tentatively investigating her body for the first time,
emboldened by the activity surrounding her.
Her soft reluctance burst the dam within me as I imagined her
quickening breaths indicating that she’d found the courage to plunge her
longest digit within her hungry depths.
My orgasming voice joined that of my bed sisters and I slept
peacefully, contentedly until, for no explicable reason, I was awake. 

Sitting up, I could see arms and legs entwined in several of the room’s beds, whilst some lay empty, their sheets urgently tossed aside. I could hear the quiet breaths of my sleeping sisters, from whom my eyes drifted to focus on the
small pile beside my feet.

The cloth felt like it had been woven from rough wool. And
the member atop… it was shaped like a short, thick stone
dagger; obviously not one that was sharpened with a point. Or perhaps the head of a trident would have been a more accurate comparison, as it had a long centre shaft
and two equal shorter ones on either side. Grasping its base, I was impressed by its weight and unnatural
coldness. With reluctance, I accepted my fate and swung my legs to the
floor. The summons could not be ignored.

Gathering my bundle, I shuffled my way down the corridor, descending to the  floor below and through the imposing study door. I do not know who – or what – has pushed the heavy furniture
back against the walls, and rolled back the rug to expose the trap door hidden beneath. I took a deep breath, before kneeling and pulling the cold iron ring, coughing lightly
as the dusty musty air filled my nostrils.

As I descended, the steps creaked against my bare feet, my way illuminated by the blue light shining through the holes in the floor above.
When I reached the bottom, I could only just stand up straight in the small room. The stone walls around me glowed dimly, adding to my sense of confinement. I spread my rough blanket to cover the dirt of the floor.    

Knowing that next I was to discard my nightie, I scanned the
walls for a hook. Finding none, I folded it carefully and set it on the
bottom step, that’s when I heard the trapdoor latch above me. Trapped, with no way out, I knew what I had been summoned here to do. I rested the the 3-stemmed member upwards in the centre of the blanket, and gently eased myself onto the floor, lying on my back, heels clamped together
against the member’s square base. 

Now I conjured memories, crafting them into new delicious imaginings.
My new bed neighbour with her soft whimpers, yearning into me as I
drew my fingers down her body, cupping her mound, bringing her
tentative digits into mine.
 The cool air of the room lapped my hole which gaped stickily as
my knees lay spread. I tugged my nipples, stretching and twisting until
they were hard. I pinched my clit, making slow circles pulling it out of
hiding from beneath its hood; flickering
gently back and forth my mind searching for more wicked images. 

Perhaps one night we will venture from the safety of our sleeping
corridor and find ourselves fucked atop the headmaster’s desk, or taken
into the classroom and punished the way we wish: naked, in a room filled
with hungry eyes.

The last time I was punished I rushed straight from the
humiliation into the awaiting arms of my closest bed sister. She took me
into the woods and carried on my punishment; bending me over a fallen
log, lifting my skirts and switching my barely heated
cheeks until they were the stinging with the fiery intensity I longed for.
 I cried freely as she continued through my objections, trading the switches for her slipper adding a longing ache to the burn.
 She spanked me to my brink under the rustling leaves, surrounded
by birdsong and then she took me on that log, tribbing and riding until
we both lay exhausted on the forest floor. 

Strangely, she was expelled the next day. Yet it could not have been for
our woodland activities or I surely would have gone, too. I still miss her… hands.

I often wonder, had she ignored the summons?

I dipped my finger inside
myself, feeling the slickness within my depths. Now I was ready to bring my member up closer. I curved one side – one of the shorter prongs – until
it just teased my insides, if I pressed it against my mound, entered just deep enough to lubricate its tip.

Crawling onto my knees I angled the member carefully, shivering and shrinking as its icy hardness split my lips.
 Gripping the base with my heels, I sunk slowly onto the middle protrusion until
the uppermost prong paused, begging entrance to my puckered hole. Grimacing
as it stretched me, I gave in to what it wanted, bearing down until the
front curve was pressed cruelly into my clit.

Now, I was full.
The member’s marble so unyielding as it bore into my soft, warm flesh.
Carefully, I began fucking up and down, rocking my hips, enjoying the
little suckling noises that escaped.
My cunt was stretched by the thick intruder whilst my bottom hole hummed
with pleasure. Only my clit protesting as each thrust tugged its hood back, bruising my delicate little pearl a little more.

I could feel the pressure beginning to build, and continued my dance. The voices grew louder, the light bluer,
the air colder, the stone inside me harder. My fingers fought to find my clit,
fumbling with what little flesh they could find. I longed for her touch.
To be riding my member in my bed sister’s presence,
for her pleasure, my spanked cheeks glowing.

In my mind, I had run from the headmaster’s office, chastised
little by his lecture, to be greeted by her stern expression and firm
grasp, conveyed to our clearing.
The log was gone, but in its place was a wide ankle-high stump. She
withdrew my member from her skirts and relieved me of what I was wearing. Clambering, I
knelt atop the rough-hewn wooden surface as she placed the member
between my legs.

Eyeing me as she dipped to lubricate
its prongs with her spittle. I relaxed my thighs and sank onto the phallus,
her smile growing with my discomfort.
There is a glint in her sparkling eyes before she rounds out of sight. I
nearly lose my balance as her thin doubled woven belt strikes my
bare bottom. Her lashes fall evenly, encouraging my thrusts.

Once I cross the peak she pulls me to the edge of the stump,
spreading my thighs. I smile up at her expecting her tongue to suckle my
honey, but instead the belt comes down harshly through my clitoris and
extra-sensitive-from-freshly-cumming cunt.

In the dusty room I writhe against the member distracted by my fantasies.
I grow ever more adventurous, rocking wildly, clit crushed with each
raucous grind. I ride to the edge before feeling the blue light tipping
me backward, urging me to raise my knees high and plunge the member from
above.
I obey, lying on my back again, hips thrusting upward into the unforgiving phallus, until I cum. Loudly, with my legs shaking. 

I lay still a moment before letting the member fall; my hands
sliding to fondle my breasts, before crawling further to investigate my throbbing
clit.
I rub it gently, soothing the ache, legs twitching as my fingers cross the engorged bean. Then I jerk it roughly to another orgasm. 

Soon, I roll over again, so my face in the dusk, and my buttocks in the air. I thrust the
member desperately from behind, my empty hand scrabbling against the wall for anything to
pull against. I feel my juices dribbling down my thighs, bucking as my
open pussy relinquishes and reaccepts the member with
a sucking smack of a sobbering kiss. I can feel the cold blue air licking hungrily at my arousal, as I climax deliriously for the forth time tonight.

Collapsing onto the floor, tired and used, I can hear the voices
beckoning me to stand. I quickly slip my nightgown over my head, its thin
fabric doing nothing to hide my erect nipples. It’s brighter now, an extra blue square of light above my head indicating the trapdoor is again unlatched and open.

I ascend the stairs, but the moment my eyes come level with the floor above I am confused
to see that I am now surrounded by a circle of my naked bed sisters, their faces
pressed against the floor, their bottoms high in the air, their glistening slits on
full display. Each panting, urgently. Yet before I bend to
temptation forces beyond my understanding ferry me back up the stairs and  convey me into my bed.

I
don’t remember falling asleep.
And none of us remember the blue spirits in the daylight. I don’t
understand how we can forget. We go about our days in varying degrees of
scandal and normality, and only when night falls does our horny hum
wake the ghosts.


The very next night I wanked myself off to the memory of the previous evening after a very arousing game of Kiss My Cunny.
Here we close the shutters, and all sit on the edge of our beds whilst one girl fumbles about
in absolute darkness as we contort ourselves, trying to trick her into
suckling our pussies. When she mistakes the clit for a nipple or
dripping labia for the tongue she must pay a penalty
of the group’s choosing. 

Last evening I was the Cunny Kisser and I had made my way through
half the group before licking the proffered pussy instead of anus as I
had been aiming. My penalty was voted on and decided, and carried out summarily. It would be a group fingering over the baseboard, my cheeks spread, the solid
wood pressing into my stomach, a clamour of hands fondling me, whilst others held me in
place as I bucked against the innumerable squirming
digits within.

I came shamefully quickly to a round of racous laughter.
This was pronounced too lenient an execution and I was sentenced
to two more orgasms. They came quickly as I imagined what my fate would
have been had my original playmate still been here. She would have advocated a much more uncomfortable punishment, like a thorough pussy spanking, and then being put to bed with towels tied around crotch and waist, to prevent any chance of nocturnal relief. Exhausted by my climaxes, I fell into a deep and contented sleep. 

I was awoken several hours later by a low murmuring, and
unquestioningly joined the throng of my bed sisters as we shuffled down towards
the study. Compelled by the blue spirits, we moved as if in a daze – fully conscious
yet unable to resist. When we reached the study, we simultaneously removed our nightgowns, shyly
devouring each other’s nudity before obeying the unsaid command to kneel with our faces
to the floor. 

Like remembering fragments of a dream, I suddenly realised what I’d wintessed as I’d walked out of the trapdoor last night. Face
to the floor, looking through one of the little peepholes, I had a full view into the little room below. Just where I
had been last night lay the new girl, on her back, her legs spread wide. 

We tend to pleasure ourselves in darkness, rarely do we see our
wickedness. Our hands have felt much, much more than our eyes have ever
seen.
 From this spectacular vantage, I could feel my slit dampen in
mere anticipation of what my eyes were to see. My gaze consumed her
naked form; blue light glistening off her dark skin, hair twisted above
her head, full breasts, shaved mound, member in
hand. 

Just as I had, she was preparing her body to be filled, flicking
her clit. Those timid whimpers rising easily through the floor. I tried
to reach backwards to fumble my own but frustratingly found that I could not move my
hands.
Below, hesitantly, she began to twist the member, hers was a thick screw
made of glass. Her legs shook with each turn; mouth falling open,
silently protesting the intrusion.

I wondered what she was imagining. What naughty thoughts filled her head?

Did she like it when I had kissed her swollen lips?

Did she know I
had purposely lost that game, just for the chance to taste her?

Were her fingers
among those rubbing me furiously to my edge?

Would she one day become my
one bed sister?

And ride me?

And spank me? 

Just as that thought entered my mind, my naked bottom, high in
the air received a searing smack. I tried to turn and see who was behind
me but my gaze was locked on the show below.
The screw was all the way inside now, and she was gently tugging
in and out. Delicious sucking noises could be heard with each slight
movement. Her knees were drawn to her chest giving us the most invasive
view, her most delicate privacy fully open for
our eager eyes. 

Another crack fell upon my bottom and the wonderful heat rose. I
began to expect the next blow, eyes desperately consuming the show
below. She toyed herself to cumming and as she shook a volley of silent
blows fell across my cheeks. I bit back tears of pain
and joy.
She rolled to her knees, assuming the same position as us, gently beginning to twist the member into her puckered rosebud.
 I imaged the sensation, cold hard glass, intruding further and deeper with every turn. How the pressure must be building in her tummy. 

She reached her edge, fingers pounding sloppily.
I too had nearly reached mine. The intoxicating inconsistency of the
swats behind me returning with a vengeance. What I had judged to be a
leather paddle made no sound as I was jolted in place by each swing. I
tried to cry out but no sound came.

Silently I relished my punishment, rocking my hips to feel the
split between my lips. Each swing bringing a rush of air that cooled the
juice spilling from my slit.

Then, as the pressure within had built until I was sure I could no
longer take it, an unseen force plunged into my gaping pussy, fucking
me roughly. Something bigger than I’d ever had inside me before. Stretching me,
filling me.

I longed to let my head roll with pleasure.

 My fingernails dug into the floorboards, I pictured us all,
our bare bottoms glowing in the moonlight, eyes devouring pleasure below as we
received an invisible filling of our own.

We watched her come, as our own excitement peaked, watching in a state of near delerium as she put her gown back on, wondering if we would be cruelly denied the very release she had just been granted. 

Yet just as her toes hit the first
step, the fire burst within me.
I gushed down my thighs to a volley of fresh stings. I still
could not move; my bottom glowing, my stretched pussy throbbing, desperately panting.

She walked past us, no doubt wondering what had just occurred, just as I had. She would find out, soon enough.


Many thanks to the author of this work, a wonderfully creative mind who I’ve collaborated with before, but whose blog is too polite to post stories like these. If you liked this piece, I think you’ll enjoy her other work: