Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Wicked Tryst (Patreon)

It was humiliating! It was degrading! It was certainly an improvement.

“Is that ectoplasm?” she teased, watching the wet goo of his semi-corporeal being pool about her thighs, “Or are you just happy to be imprisoned?”

It was the third time the accursed sylph had used that joke. And for the third time, he pretended to laugh.

Death had not been kind. Wicked Uncle’s great unfinished business — revanche! — would not let him depart for the next world. In truth, he suspected that to be a good thing. Even so, the Ethereal Plane was a far cry from the courtly splendor he’d lately enjoyed. All gray fogs and weird echoes, the place had a grim insubstantiality about it. Where in the living world the Ivy Palace had been a place of sunlight and dappled shadows and deep green recesses stretching on into infinity, now they stretched only into oblivion. Certainly there weren’t any obedient flunkees or opulent dinners or #1 Regent coffee mugs on hand.

“Does my beauteous captor find this position to her liking?”

She smirked and she moaned. Then she said, “Actually, could you angle a bit more through my kidney? I don’t know if you’ve ever had a bladder full of incorporealness, but it is uniquely uncomfortable.”

“Of course, O bewitching warden! And might I remark how pleasing it is to find a woman who knows what she wants?”

The ghost of Wicked Uncle floated several all-important inches higher. In life, he had surrounded himself with sycophants and toadies. He despised their obsequious bleating as a matter of course, but now found it to be a useful skill in his turn. The dead elf had only to distract this blue-haired harridan for a few short hours. If she could be made to forget her spell’s duration, he might well escape between castings.

For the ghost of Wicked Uncle burned with impatience to be about his haunting (even as he burned with chafing at this marathon Occultist distraction). The mirror world was its own demesne. It lacked the bleak austerity of the Ethereal, but it would do him little good when the time came. For the ghost knew instinctively that the waning of the year meant a thinning of reality. And certain whispers among the creatures who traversed his haunts made mention of a great stirring among the Outer Planes. It would not do to be squirreled away in some pocket-prison when the veils between living and dead grew thin. How he longed to reach through… to wrap his fingers around his usurpers’ necks….

“Can you keep going?” asked his concupiscent correctional officer. “Or are you the kind of haunt with a reset time?”

Wicked Uncle put on his best courtier’s smile. “I am a model prisoner,” was his reply. He had only to last a few more hours to prove it.