My dear readers I shall speak about something, which may be quite useful in the coming future, namely in dealing with the spirit world. If you are like myself, who is easily frightened, especially of ghosts that rapped on the door of a house in the deep hours of the night. But if you ever have the misfortune of running into such a ghost you will be able to drive it away by listening to my story and you will learn of an able incantation to protect you, especially when it will be spoken through the soft moist lips of a gentle lady..

Way back in the recent past there lived in our town an avaracious miller of grain, with the name Horace Appleworth, a man more successful in his company acumen than in other matters. The chappie was know by his rotund body that wobbled about and by his pumpkin like features all the time covered by a large topped straw hat. At rare times in church or at civic duties one saw his florid face with bulgy brown eyes and a gap-toothed mouth topped by mussy grey hair. Since he was considered a man of means he was called to fulfill honorary by relatively unimportant duties to the township. Thus he wondered highly of himself in the simplicity of his mind; but he was unaware the politicos needed him as a front when it came to grovel for money for projects from the higher bodies in the land.

Now this blockhead who in the late middling years had a most gorgeous and quite charming trollop to warm the depth of heart; but not of his loins as it was considered a peashooter by her. Still the good man worshipped the very ground she walked on and showered her with valuable trinkets. Nothing was spared, from a well furnished and manned manor-type house, suffient funds to spend for her desires, and a maid to tend to her needs was offered to his beloved.

The charming morsel of flesh was a wise and discerning maiden whose name was Marsha, the daughter of Reverend Fish. This lithe nymph was in the eyes of many the eternal feminine, “On the marble table of her breasts, and in the dimples of his belly sprinkled the scents of every dale.”

This fairy being, with laughing blue eyes and flowing locks of ash blond was the only c***d of Reverend Fish who catered to the faith of the believers in his church. Alas, the cadaverous minister had a miserly congregation with an equally miserly stipend from the board of governors of his faith. Thus, the cleric’s stout wife had to bend over the washing tub and for his only c***d, the lovely Marsha, to be sent at her eighteenth year as a cleaning woman to Horace Appleworth.

Marsha, being a smart creature, cleaned more than necessary and Horace, the good man was sensually delighted, especially when the young maiden was clad only in a brief apron during her duties to him. After a time she dressed with full covering that hid her youthful curvaceous form, which caused the merchant to fantasize and drool for the return of the past vision. It increased over a period of time when the wench would wiggle her arse or jutted her twin orbs as she swept and dusted about the house.

Within time, due to the merchant’s neccessity for the sight of his servant’s peeking twin orbs with the display of a soft round keel, and her sensual touch to the his flesh, the charming vixen consented to be the wife of this man of means. The marriage was to the delight of the merchant as the delectable flowering c***d called his wife would, at the night hours, display all; she fingered and tasted his pea shooter till the little brother ached to go the opening to her blond shrubbery. Well, in the wondered of the devilish vixen it was better to endure a brief moment of quick sex with him than let his mind drift towards her fidelity.

There were times when Horace Appleworth needed to go the grain centers in the big city for two days or more to order wheat and corn for his mill. The night before his departure she went into her sensible act. Marsha stripped to the skin, wiggled her arse and fingered the round cherries of her boobs in his sight. After this play she would bend her cheekies and allow his quick action shooter a quick entrance through the rear.

Now, this delightful creature, which many a rugged chap would like to plow the fertile soil of her turnip patch, was infatuated with a muscular and handsome layabout. Abner was his name, a lout with a pea brain, but with a pussy tickler that went to the very row of her fruitful garden.

When he plowed back and forth her cunny gripped the skin of his pole till orgasm and orgasm to ensuing ejaculation occurred. She saw the depth of her sexual pleasure in her sessions with her paramour. Off course her Abner had to be taught other tricks in the sexual play like licking her peeping sentinal or spreading the crack to her cheeks and sliding a greasy pole into her hinder opening. Marsha was a good teacher and she molded the lout to her sexual needs, which increased in delight of every new sexual posture that set the love juices streaming.

Many a night, when the excuse of her absence to her partner was correct, the two lovers would meet under the full of the summer moon. They would meander along the banks of the nearby creek within the deep of the woods. When the need called to cool their flesh they would strip to the white of their skins and wade into the cool of the waters. But in the buff the flesh heated passionately, and they fondled and kissed their tender parts in ‘vigorous ingenuity’. When Abner’s pike of pleasure sharpened and her turnip patch needed furrowing they did what comes naturally.

The fall and winter months posed a certain problems. Marsha’s only opportunity to feel the hard cock of her paramour was in the bedchamber during the absence of her spouse, Horace Appleworth. Oh what sexual joy they had on the satin sheets as they played at belly to belly, cuddle my cuddle, plough with knees upwards, pickle me – tickle me and so forth. And both screamed in joy and groaned in pleasure until love’s nectar flowed.

But there where other methods for Marsha to have the sexual juices flowing when her desires flamed. It was done discreetly through romping starkers with the plumpish maid; the good girl, through her simple looks, never felt a cock inside her cunus, due to her aversion to the opposite sex. She welcomed and delighted in these sensual interludes.

The good serving wench knew that Marsha needed more that a sensual romp coupled with a suckle to breasts and sixty-nine poses. Together with her mistress they devised a plan when the craving of lady of the house needed the hard middle stump to tickle the moist cunny. And as a reward the maid had the promise of Marsha’s continued touch with tender fingers and full lips to her arbor that sent waves of estatic delight.

The plan was quite simple and only executed at the times of Horace’s absence. At a certain hour in the late evening Abner had to be on the lookout for a certain sighting of the rusty weather vane standing on a highpole in the spacious garden; if it pointed north it meant that the way was clear. A southerly pointing meant that Horace Appleworth was about and for the paramour to discover other turnip patches to plow for practice, if feasible. And as a further precaution Abner was to knock slowly three times on the oaken portal door; then he should call out ‘coo, coo, coo,’ dragging the words loud and clear for her to hear his wish to enter. Marsha reminded her lover that he should have a bit of patience until he will receive an answer bidding him to to enter.

The plan worked perfectly well for the past few months and Abner, who couldn’t discover another fruitful garden to plow, was on the lookout to the pointing of the tall weather vane. When the vane pointed north he ran estactically to the front door, and knocked three times on the wood. Upon his cooing a sweet voice answered and the bolts and chains unlatched. At the opening of the thick door Marsha stood stood in a negligee so transparent that the loutish Abner could find out.

Abner was fed on good capons and greens and sloshed with good wine before the lithe craving creature beckoned him to the bed of roses. Marsha had wondered of a new coupling position, which calls for the entrance of the pilgrim’s staff to the Garden of Eden from the gates of heaven; a plan that would be complicated in execution but would entail for her a lot of sensual pleasure.

Ohh such was the sensual wondered for the delectable nymph when the weather vane pointed north that evening. But some mischief wafted in the flowing air. It was the unexpected arrival of her husband who was f****d to return to his home because of the inclement weather, which stopped all transport. She quickly alerted her maid who ran out secretly into the winds to the garden to change the direction of the weathercock. But, alas, the gardener, in a fit of good workmanship, had oiled and cleaned the vane so that it turned constantly to the northerly direction of the winds.

Dear Marsha welcomed her husband and with her usual cunning made him at ease. She fed him the food and wine she had prepared for her lusty Abner. Then with a swivel-hipped turn she indicated the enjoyment of a bit of swive. Horace was led by nose to the bedroom where he enjoyed the sight of his wife’s boobies, and above all, the entrance through the shrubbery for a quick peck. Then he dressed in his nightgown and flannel headcap and settled into snoring. Suddenly a heavy slow pounding on the front portals followed by a harsh cooing sounds startled Horace from his deep sleep. The good man sat up in the bed with the sign of fright etched on his face. Off course, Marsha heard it and pretended deep sleep.

After a while, Abner, standing shiveringly outside in the windy freezing weather, knocked again a bit louder followed by an equally loud cooing sound. Horace began wondering what it was, nudged his wife with a shaking hand, and said.

“Marsha, Martha do you hear what I hear? I think someone or may be more are trying to enter our house. Brigands, I suppose.”

“What did you say, hmmm?”

“I said some dastardly person is knocking on our door, and at this late hour.”

“Knocking? Oh my dear husband, don’t you realize what it is? That it is a haunting spirit that had been scaring me when you were absent from home. Whenever I heard it I called up a prayer to the Most High. Then I creeped quietly downstairs and I called out a deep incatation that drove the ghost away; one that I learned from the witches in the deep of dark woods. Unfortunately the demon spirit returned when it knew that I was alone and weak. At the sound of the word ‘ghost’ Horace Appleworth stuck his head under the sheets, flannel nightcap and all. He curved his body on a fetal position and shaked himself to sleep.

At the sight of the shaking white sheet Martha in her all-together delicately slipped from the white of the sheets. She was cocooned in warmth of her heated home that sent a sensual touch to the nature’s covering of her skin. She tripped daintily down the carpeted staircase to the thick oaken doors. It was only the width of the wood that held back the touch of Abner’s hands on her privy parts; the wondered caused her to fondle her twin orbs and pinch delicately the ripe cherry tips.

After a moment she called out loudly, “The shadow spirit has come and he has put a spell on thee. Depart, oh spirit, go away, fly off till the weather cock points north once again, in the name of whom I am in heat and fevered body.” A repetition of this so-called incantation saw the proverbial penny drop and Abner made a loud sigh of understanding. Then he turned and dejectly trekked away. Despite the soothing cold his dingle-dangle ached in its hardness and he only wondered of massage to release the blocked seed.

Martha, in turn, sighed in relief to the close encounter, but as the nymph took in breaths she noticed her young maid, unclad and ready, standing close by. The servant embraced her mistress, kissed her craving lips and two pairs of rosy nipples touched delicately.

“The breathing of the naked night, Into the horns of the moon, Invites us!”