Lord Harold Reginald IV had lived an incredibly privileged life. Being part of the British aristocracy at the beginning of the 19th century could buy a person the absolute heights of luxury afforded by the industrial revolution. A lavish house fit for a noble, exotic food and spirits from across the globe, a wardrobe of clothing made from the finest silks, cottons, and furs put together by the greatest tailors in Britain. But the greatest luxury that Harold had indulged in were of course the multiple women he had enjoyed.
From the maids and servants that attended to his estate, to the daughters of nobles from Britain, France, Spain, and the Netherlands, Harold had been privy to hundreds of gorgeous maidens. His mouth had kissed a wide variety of lips, his hands had fondled many shapes, sizes, and colors of bosom, and his greatest asset, his eight and a half inch penis, had penetrated the deepest depths of many pussies. He still remembered the ecstatic moans and cries of his lovers that fueled his eternal passion.
But alas, that was all over. It was no longer the 19th century, but instead the 21st. Harold had died of a fatal heart attack many years ago during an orgy. He had no wife or family, and his estate had long since fallen to ruin. His frustrated spirit wandered the halls of his dilapidated home, helpless to prevent the decay or vandalism by lower class twits. The greatest insult of all however, was the permanent erection his ghostly form had sported. Painfully restricted by the tight breeches he couldn't remove, he cursed the Almighty every day for the indignity and suffering he was forced to endure.
But all was not lost, for just outside of the cracked, stained window of his master bedroom he could just make out the shape of a red haired maiden, snooping around his estate. She was odd, wearing clothes fit for a man, and having an altogether demure appearance. But she was a maiden alright, Harold could recognize her hourglass figure anywhere. Her large breasts and wide hips signaled her fertility. Maybe this woman could give him the closure he needed to finally pass on, or maybe her presence could make his frustrating afterlife slightly more bearable. Either way his hopes were invested in the girl.
Bridgette Berrybottom had once again found herself at the old Reginald estate. She was an electrician by trade. An occupation that had given her ample opportunity to pursue her hobby which she had managed to turn into a side hustle, ghost hunting.
Ghosts had fascinated her since she was a little girl. She had heard many stories from her parents, and her uncle who was a sailor for the British navy. All of them had insisted ghosts were real, and that they haunted the unexamined corners of the earth. Whether they be knights from the homeland, or tribal people from far off islands. The spirits of the dead made homes for themselves amongst the living.
Unfortunately for Bridgette, her hunts hadn't turned up any fruit. Carbon monoxide was a common culprit for most "ghost" sightings. Most of the ones not explained by that were the product of background radiation, static from long neglected electronics, or the paranoid delusions of someone on magic mushrooms. Her constant failures led her to question her family's stories. Every day she felt like more and more of a fool. But she still hadn't given up, and now, despite her previous failures, she had the opportunity of a lifetime.
Gavin Ericson, the most prolific real estate developer in the U.K., had his eye on several of the old estates to the northeast of London near Colchester. The price of housing had skyrocketed and the abandoned estates were ripe for purchase and development. There was just one problem though. Gavin was terrified of ghosts. His colleagues and employees thought he was crazy, obviously, but when you have that much money you're allowed to be crazy. It's for this reason that he invested a significant amount of money into security against ghosts, money which had manifested in the form of Bridgette and her ghost hunting enterprise.
Gavin was paying her £10,000 per estate to look for ghosts, with an added bonus of being at the top of the list for a house of her own when they had finally been constructed. Since she was an electrician, she was able to avoid concerns of fraud from investors, who believed she had been hired to do electrical work. Even though her chances of finding ghosts were as slim as they had ever been, she was still getting paid a lot, so she was in high spirits.
Bridgette had pulled up to the front door of the estate, in a lorry that had been gifted to her by Gavin Ericson to expedite her work. She was wearing her standard brown electricians jumpsuit with rubber boots. Her crimson hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had a pair of sharp glasses covering her gorgeous green eyes. As she unloaded her gear she got an unwelcome phone call.
"Oy there luv. How zit goin? Wher r ya?" It was her ex Patrick. A rather vile man who only dated her for her 32F cup breasts and regularly put her down over her ghost hunting hobby. She didn't even know why she answered. Perhaps deep down she hoped he would apologize but it had never happened so far. She decided to answer his question.
"I'm at the Reginald estate, looking for ghosts." She replied in her smooth southern accent. "I'm not interested in whatever mediocre plans you have. I can afford my own dinner."
"Ya dinner wit ol Gavin." He continued. "Bet he plows yer knockers reel gud."
"What do you want, Patrick?"
"I'm trying ta warn ya about ol Lord Reginald. I looked im up. He was a rite wanker when he was alive."
