Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun!

by Ritsuko

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When reading the fourth book for the bazillionth time (and after reading lots of lemon!), this passage caught my interest:

"Oh. . . I see. . ." said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her chin in a morose sort of way. "Well. . . anyway. . . I'd try the egg in the water. That's what Cedric Diggory did."

"Have you been spying on him too?" said Harry indignantly. "What d'you do? Sneak up here in the evenings and watch the prefects take baths?"

"Sometimes," Myrtle said, rather slyly, "but I've never come out to speak to anyone before."

. . . and. . .

"He lay there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and ages. . . nearly all the bubbles had gone. . . "

Hmmm. . . maybe Myrtle never did come to actually speak with anyone. . . but y'know, you don't need to speak to do certain things. . . .

This is my first major LEMON I've ever written. If you can't stand the idea of two Harry Potter characters doing the mad horizontal mamba, go to fanfiction.net and click on a G rated fic.

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It's not fun being dead. Especially when you've been that way about fifty years and no one ever comes to visit you in your toilet. Not that that's any treat either. You don't know how many tears and screams I had to go through to get people to stop flushing their bodily fluids down on me when I was taking a snooze in the pipes, not that it really mattered anyway, but that's not the point. Everyone treats me like crud, and there's nothing to be done about it. Everyone avoids me; and I know it. I'm not as stupid as they all think.

But I showed them. At least through that snooty Olive Hornby. I swear, the instant I hear she's on her deathbed, though I'm on probation by the Ministry of Magic, I'm gonna float on over to her side and make her soil herself one last time, for old times sake.

The only good thing about death is being able to go everywhere in Hogwarts. The kitchens, restricted rooms, through walls, and best of all, the bathrooms.

Now, not the sit and squat stalls, or even the stinking urinals (though giving the boys a fright when they're shaking their willy is a treat), but the actual BATH rooms. Such as the Prefect's bathroom.

I'd have never made prefect, even if I'd lived and gone to Hogwart's a hundred years. And floating idly in the water, one does have to admit that the taps are heavenly (well, as close to it as I can get), this week's flavour of bubbles being cinnamon. I feel like I can almost taste it as I laze in the tub, enjoying the one thing people accused me of never taking in real life.

This late at night, I almost never get any visitors, though two years ago there were many nighttime escapades by these two prefects, I think he was a Gryffindor, and she a Ravenclaw. Boy, did they teach me a thing or two. . . not to say I haven't learned alot about sex in all my years, being able to watch everything, but it was a shocker to find out that boy was indeed a natural redhead, if you know what I mean.

It's hard to be able to please a ghost in that way, but since I never got any physical pleasure in real life, I have to make do with what I can get in the afterlife. Voyeurism, true, but who'd honestly let me join in on a little threesome, without telling Dumbledore? Or worse yet, the Bloody Baron or even Peeves?! He's sick enough of a prankster without knowing my kink fetish.

I sigh as one hand finds the way to a nipple, it going tight under my ministrations. After all, I've had years to perfect my technique. And plenty of time to plot out others. What this school needs is a hot young male ghost. Then, maybe I'll see the light, tell this school to bugger off, and spend many an insipid hour yanking him about by the chain as it were. My fingers find the tight bud located in my nether regions, and I let out a gasp. If only someone else could touch me this way.

The door creaks open. Half ashamed that someone will see me, I dive under the water, going transparent. Through the bubbles, I can see a form undressing. As pants come off, a blush comes to my cheeks, and I stifle a girlish giggle. A definitely MALE form.

Of all the graduates this year, Cedric Diggory does strike quite the rugged individual. Wind swept hair, dancing eyes, built from years of Quidditch. . . and the ladies might guess about the equipment he is packing, but, most decidedly, I am one of the very first to see it. The blush only goes deeper.

Nothing happens for awhile. Hungrily I watch as he lathers himself, ALL of himself, while whistling a merry tune. He sits to soak, and seems to be pondering something on the lip of the tub. Slowly, I peek out of the water to see him looking at one of those golden egg things with an exasperated look. Sort of makes me wonder how the others are doing with their tests, that lugnut Krum, snide beautiful bitchy Fleur, and of course dear old Harry. Wonder if he'll ever be present in the Prefect's bathrooms?

Going completely invisible, I float up to the egg, undetected by Diggory. It looks completely normal (for a golden egg), but I can tell there are seams to where the thing opens. A couple of designs are scratched along the surface, but they're all too obscure for me to figure out. School, thanks to all of my harrassers, was never a very strong point.

A thick wad of notes covers the floor outside the tub, dozens of scribbled notes painstakingly written down and some scribbled out in a harsh jagged line. Seems old Diggory is getting more than he bargained for out of this test. Poor boy could use a break.

I hear a stifled moan, and I freeze. Stealthily I turn to him. His head is thrown back, a hand working fervently at his manhood, ushering the thing to stand at attention. Despite myself, I feel my jaw drop, the size is just incredible! If I were in the Diagon Alley wand shop, I'm sure Ollivander himself would trumpet out, 'Dragon's Heartstring, Rigid Oak, nine and a half inches!'

His moans get deeper, and somewhere, within my core, I feel it start to vibrate against my most sensitive spots. Though my body is gone, those urges still remain. And they're becoming more and more apparent. Somehow, this time is different. I can't just watch, because it would be a bloody travesty to let this boy service himself all alone, with nobody to admire his grandeur.

Silently, I work my way back ito the water, keeping invisible with everything I've got. The water warms my temperature a little, and I go for the kill, something I have never, ever done before. I brush that erect fixture lightly with my fingertips.

Cedric's eyes jerk open, and he pants, staring into thin air. I know my touch was probably a little cold, but he just looks confused, like somebody turned on a tap of cold water. Before I know what I'm doing, I lightly trace the tip of his head with my fingertip. The response is explosive. He jerks back, and stares around, wild eyed. Now he knows something is wrong.

'Good going, Myrtle,' I rebuke myself, 'Probably frightened the poor lad's hard-on away.' I start to float to the drain, to go back to the pipes and moan away my life with some dignity, when I hear him call out.

"Please don't stop."

I whirl in the water, almost making small eddies in my wake. Don't stop? I search his face as he looks out over the water, and it looks tired, and very lonely. . . . and that's something that I can definitely communicate with.

Inwardly I smile. Sometimes I love my afterlife.

He gasps underneath me as I now lick the tip of his head, tasting the first traces of precum, or in my case, the essence of what would be precum. Since I've never given anyone head before, and I didn't know what taste to categorize it with, I just pretended it was strawberries. This only made me act with more vigor. His hips roll forward as I take him into my cool mouth, working a steady rhythm that has him moaning beneath me. And I thought I was loud in those girls bathrooms! The noises coming from this young man could have woken a wing or two if the bathroom didn't have a thick wall spell upon it.

His breathing became heavier and harsher, and I could tell, in witnessing it from couples before, that he was about to climax. But there was no way I was letting this be over so soon. I removed my mouth, and listened to him suck in air, which sounded like an indignant protest. Little did he know what I wanted next.

My fingers traced path in the bathtub from his temple to his thighs, my lips alighting on certain body spots at certain times that had my other gasping in pleasure and need. His hands jerk out to encompass me, but pass through nothing and I have to hold back a snort of laughter at how much fun this is. If only I could have done it in real life.

His cock looks swollen to the point where it's almost painful, and I slightly massage it with a hand. Slowly, I position my orifice over it, and before you can say 'muggle', we are joined. Well, as joined as the dead and living can be. His eyes roll back into his head, as I sway on top of him. And suddenly, I feel the oddest thing happening. My skin starts to tingle, or what would be my skin if I were alive. It's then I realize I FEEL Cedric Diggory inside of me. I start to moan, dazed, as I feel his member caressing the insides of my walls.

Suddenly, I know he feels the change too, and he grabs me. A torrent of feelings and touches wash over me. For the first time, my tits are being squeezed by a man. My back is being caressed and I'm being pulled closer to his chest. Something passes between us, and he starts to go faster, a primitive gutteral pace, I can't help but whimper in pain and pleasure as I feel his balls slap against my now firm ass, and I tighten around him. Our moans escalate higher and higher, and I start to feel more and more alive. . .

We come together. And I blink out like a light. I'm still panting heavily as I splash back into the water, lustily gazing up at him through lidded eyes, as his unit goes off like a fountain, spilling creamy froth all over the surface of the water. The sight keeps my nipples hard for another five minutes.

He opens his eyes and looks around, confused, wondering where that lover that felt so real went. Smiling, but still invisible, I trace the outside of his arms with my fingers. He jumps, and knocks that egg into the water. It hits the bottom, and breaks open, emitting a warbled, screechy kind of song. I watch him gasp in irritation and duck his head under to grab it. Halfway under the water, his eyes widen and he smiles!

Next thing I know, he's jumping up and down yelling about how he's solved it. He stares around the perimeter of the room a moment, and I hear a barely aubible 'Thank You."

It's I who should be thanking him. He gave me a night to definitely remember for another 50 years to come. Even if I don't get to scare that fussbucket Olive Hornby one more time, it really doesn't seem to matter now. For tonight, for a few minutes, the impossible became possible again. I wonder if that's possible with everyone?

The thought crosses my mind, 'Should I let him know who it was?' but I just smile sadly to myself. Let him think that it was just some beautiful girl ghost that comes out of the woodwork every decade or so to appease horny teens and her own lusts. A quick kiss on his lips and fondle of his groin, and I'm slipping down the pipes, back to my haven.

It's on nights like this I wish ghosts kept diaries.



Whoa, mama!