Bexley lay on the floor with his testicles right in the jamb, and reluctantly used one foot to push the door shut against his nuts.
Standing over him, Lenore smiled.
She looked a lot like Agnes Moorhead, who played Endora, the mother-in-law on the old magic witch comedy, "Bewitched." But of course, Lenore was older than even that.
"Prithee push, darling. push hard with thy heel."
"I-I can't, Miss Lenore. Whenever I push too hard, my balls really ache from the pressure of the door."
Lenore threw back her head and laughed. It was kind of surreal, because of course she was a bit transparent, being a ghost who was nearly two hundred and forty years dead.
" Forsooth, Bexley, darling, If I could do the pushing myself--indeed, if I could just kick thee in thy scrotal sack, thou know I would. For Mummy loves her little faggot boy."
Bexley's cock grew stiff under the spirit's humiliation.
"You-you really were the paid dominant Mistress of Armistead Buttermilk, the town founder?"
"Why yes, darling. I have clad myself somewhat more modernly for thy enjoyment--"
"Yeah, at first you were kind of Ren Faire-ish, Lenore"
Lenore sighed, wishing she could box his ears.
" Ah, but right after our colony became a State, the great Revolutionary War hero who chased back the Redcoats from Buttermilk Falls, both in 1775 and again in 1812..."
"Yes?"
"Well, no one knew that Armistead needed to wear a child's nappies, or to dress as a bar wench, who, even with a pot of rouge slathered on his slightly unshaven cheeks resembled less a maiden than a French bulldog, or perhaps a mastiff."
"And you wanted him to blow guys for money?"
"I of course didn't expect to live on it, I charged him three pound ten for my services, whipping and that sort of thing, but I also required Armie-girl to bring in at least four sixpences for offering his mouth and arse for enjoyment."
"And there were guys who would go for that? I mean, I've seen his picture down at the Statehouse, and even all dressed in his military regalia--"
"Regalia purchased just for the portrait my child. The Revolutionary Warriors dressed informally, they were terrorists thou knowest, or freedom fighters perhaps, in the correct parlance."
Bexley grinned. He could imagine how obvious the Redcoats were as targets.
"But anyhow, he wasn't even a handsome MAN. "
"That is so true...ghastly looks, really. I think he was a half-Hessian."
"But still. How did Colonel Buttermilk get people to pay to have him suck their dicks and how did he get guys to fuck him in the rear without knowing he was, you know, in drag?"
"Well, I actually would hire townsmen to give it to poor Armistead and pretend ignorance, or sometimes I'd have them "discover" that "she " was a "he" and give him quite the drubbing."
"You mean gay-bashing."
"Yes, bless thy politically correct soul, Bexley. And when he or "She" returned to me, I would beat him further with dressage whip for not bringing me enough money."
"Wow..."
"Yes. My sister was doing something similar to Paul Revere, or so she told me in letters. Or was it poor Nathan Hale? Ah well, submissives everywhere, eh?"
"Eugenie told me that Paul Revere was a silversmith, and she branded her initials into his buttocks using his pewter melding equipment."
"That's really--"
"Enough. Now pretend I'm not guiding thee, and push thy heel against the door, I want thy testes to be crushed for at least thirty seconds."
"P-please..."
"Or I can order thou to hire that young buck to flay thee again--"
"That's really racist--"
"PUSH!"
Amazingly, with the ghost's encouragement, Bexley was able to push his heel against the door for forty-one seconds until he nearly passed out.
"I am so proud of thee, Bexley."
