Halloween Sex Inside a Coffin

by livobeornwulf

Copyright© 2015 by livobeornwulf

Erotic Sex Story: Stian Elberd and his staunch and yielding wife have Halloween sex inside a spooky and spine-chilling coffin.`

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fiction   BDSM   MaleDom   Food   Big Breasts   Size   Halloween   Nudism   Slow   .

Some university days back when we first came face to face...

Like lightning, I—Laurente Stian Elberd—go out of breath the instant my eyes glimpse and notice her. She is attractive; no more than in the springtime of her life, and decent-looking, and knowledgeable and perspicacious likewise. Her hair is an aglow and lustrous brown, her eyes a shining and glinting chocolate, her skin a blooming and flourishing darkish gold. Frankly put, she has a surpassingly charming and terribly good-looking face. Just like those wonderfully pretty ladies and girls that I lie down with and shag in my bed every twinkling and split second—day in and day out if you like it better that way.

Ragnhild Ascwin herself this afternoon is attired and garbed excellently and acely fantastic. She is eye-catching and irresistible in a dark gray skirt suit with gray flat-leveled shoes and a gray hair knot that fastens and trusses her frizzy, kinky, and curled lots of hair. Her trendy and snazzy jacket is squeaky-clean and neat as a new pin, just like her voguish and schmick white-gray shirt. Yes. She is enchanting and drop-dead in gray—distinctly put.

I swallow and slurp down hard. Should any slot or fitting moment come to light, I will utilize it to entice and have intercourse with the irreproachable and well-intentioned girl who sits three tiers further away from me. She turns out to be loving and bounteous with everyone whom she slams and crashes into—which is most likely a good thing indeed. My invocation and plea is that at the fitting and well-suited time she happens to clash and come into collision with me. So that, well ... I can befriend her and then at long last place my hand into her pants the next time we happen to come face to face.

Before the vigilant and earwigged (or eavesdropping) class of sixty-three university scholars, Ragnhild Ascwin stands up erect and upright, gazing direct and straight at Don Neal Carton—who is conversing and shooting the breeze with her. A growing old, well-informed, and self-regulating man, he is the Principal of Paranormal and Spectral Studies at the fashionable and for the most part swarmed and flocked by the well-off and stinking rich Kent University of Kent, Iceberg.

"What proof and affirmation have you, Miss Ascwin, that our university should accede and yield to the unheard-of and left-field imaginary and nonexistent anecdotes and urban myths that your passed on grandfather, Milburn Kerr Ascwin, a one time academic and expositor at this university itself, scribbled and inscribed insanely and dementedly in his books, The Truth About The Sex Demons sequences?" With a staid and humorless face, Don Neal queries Ragnhild before the plonked and seated trainees, his hands intertwined and folded across his chest, his apt eyes alert and wide awake to her slight body rhythms and movements.

"My grandpa transcribed no folk tales or urban myths, Don Neal," she echoes back staunchly and through thick and thin.

"Surely?" It appears as though Carton is caricaturing and scoffing her off. "Did he verify—or can you confirm and bear it out yourself—that those made-up and unreal things of his called Incubus and Succubus have breath and existence?"

"I can't prove it now, but I perhaps will one day. Mark my words."

At this point, the entire class bursts and cracks up into laughter along with Don Carton himself, with the omission of I myself—Laurente Stian—who is tightly and unflinchingly eyeing Ragnhild, leching and giving her the glad eye. She has to be spied on and paid heed to—no misgiving and indecision about it. Or else she will take the wraps off and make known what demoniac beings and critters there are out there that are lodging and hanging about resolutely in your very own human world, intermingling and commixing with you.

Albeit through and finished with be the taunting and chaffing lecture with Don Carton, it is not so with Ragnhild herself. At the end of the class, she packs and bales up her books and stuff, hurriedly and at full tilt, and then she withdraws and flees away from the riotous and vociferous class, scowling and making a disheartened face to herself. Carton is off base and in the wrong; and she is going to evince that to him one of these coming days—it plainly and patently seems.

The raw, chill, and bleak wind outside tonks and beats her, buffeting and wafting her extensive, fine bulk of hair this side and that other. As she snaps up open the door of her car and inches and drags herself quietly and coolly inside there, I peer and gaze at her, carrying on to dash and hurry towards my car shortly just after hers has skedaddled and wheeled away.

All pitchy black and splendid and glittering, my automobile is bright and burnished and sheeny to look at. It is a Bristol fashion motor, all high-priced and lush and ritzy. It has solely room to seat two people; its windows are tinged and shaded a wholesome and dingy dark; and its wheels pirouette and reel and rotate on the highway with such momentum and swiftness and prowess that would drive anyone eyeballing and goggling at them giddy and dizzy.

In forty straight minutes, I turn up at Ragnhild's home erelong after her. Her house is elephantine and humongous and attractive and genteel. The windows are all hulking and spacious and mammoth; the carroty and bloodstained roof is Trotskyite and left-winger resembling. Flowers—streets apart and contrasting and discrepant—enwreathe and girdle and fence it inside in. It is an enchanting and handsome pageant indeed!

While Ragnhild marches and promenades her way into the pint-sized, gygmy, and private inlet room, flinging and thumping shut the door behind her, I Stian myself, with my car stopped and stationed a few yards away from her house, toss and launch my door open, sliding and dropping out to the dimming and withering out sunlight. While I toddle and plod on toward her house, I notice the room on the third floor blaze and brighten up with luster and luminosity from an intense and lambent bulb.

With my eyes checking down beneath me, I lob and heave myself high up into the air, flitting and taking wing up to be clear-cut, until I clasp and brace to the exterior wall and partition with my strenuous hands and feet themselves. Yes. I inch and wriggle and worm my way up the soaring and elevated partition and wall, just like a spider and lizard and cockroach does, meticulously well and scrupulously, but comfortably and simply with ease and leisure and unconstraint on the other hand. I am an Incubus after all, am I not? Yeah ... my father is an Incubi and my mother is perfectly and one hundred per cent human.

The drapes and portiere to Ragnhild's room on her wide and expansive window are not every inch shut and closed. Through the gaping extension and margin, I peer straight in, squeezing and narrowing my eyes, and what I note and sight with my eyes is rather terrible and godawful.

Ragnhild is taking off her clothes. Gradually and at a snail's pace while some euphonious and silver-toned bit of music plays and croons out loud. The lyrics are erotic and sensuous themselves, trilled and purred out by a woman with an apt deep and heartrending voice.

This is my body

Every slice and piece belongs to you, baby

Slap my titty breasts

Slap my softy smooth bums

I give it all to you

Yeah ... every crumb and mite of me

Wrench my panties down, will you?

Come, let's play shag-shag-shag!

Yeah, baby

Lie down on this bed silently and noiselessly

There is no grunting or moaning

No crying or whining out loud

I am going to take a seat right on top of you

I am going to dance right on top of you

Let us swing and rock and prance and jig it

Let us play and compete in the for-two-alone ball game

Yeah, how do you like me grazing and touching myself

Look, I am caressing and stroking my very own breasts

I love to have fun and fool around with my titty breasts

I love it when I finger and sport with your balls and rocks and nuts

See, I am smelling and sniffing them

Yeah ... yeah ... they are so sweet and fresh

I am getting wet and soggy, baby

It is about to shower and rain—that I am free from doubt of

I can see the rainbow all about me

It is Day-glow and multicolored and jazzy and picturesque

Baby, can you see the rainbow too

Whenever I look skyward, I can see the whole of Paradise

When I look down, I think the earth and sea is convulsing and quaking

Yeah ... baby

I give you every small piece and scarp of me

Take me—I am all yours

Do whatever it is that you want with me

You are all mine after all, aren't you, babe?

First, Ragnhild pitches the doors of her closet open and then slings and heaves a couple clothes out. Then she works loose and frees the buttons of her jacket and her sheet and sends them flying off to her bed. Her brassiere is gray and squeaky-clean too. She takes it off, and there her shorn and buck naked breasts are, prancing and jigging and cavorting this side and that other whenever she flings herself this side and that other—all in blameless conformity and concord to the music pealing and thundering about her.

I am hold spellbound and entranced at the same time. When Ragnhild's chunky and man-size booby breasts switch left hurriedly and briskly, my eyes hastily and speedily follow them too. When they shift U-turn or right all of a sudden and abruptly, I stalk and run after them straight away and without hesitation. I even brush and lap my lips with my tongue while gawping at them, all so hypnotized and magnetized and spellbound.

Goodness. This dame ... she is pretty damn likeable and lovely and sexy. I can fuck and nail and screw and bonk her all day long. I assuredly and for certain can do that. Can't you? I exhale and rustle to myself as she strokes and cuddles and nuzzles her very own bare and uncovered breasts. It is like she is seeking to mock and chaff and make fun of me. What can I do? Tear and smash her window and jump in straight to her room to tonk and rap and bash her. Or tarry here while I watch her get all the more stark-naked and unclothed. Which is which, huh? Which exactly?

Arghhhh! The manner and style she feels and fingers and caresses herself. It is driving me insane and batty and crackers. Doubtlessly! As her tireless and brisk hands reach for her skirt, I can start to feel my penis rise firm and vertically. I can't look on at this for longer than already. Obviously not! I must stare away. But then I don't. Why, you may marvel? Because I don't have sufficient balls and guts and firmness to do so; first, I am a man. When it comes to sexual subjects and affairs and stuff, I am infirm and effete and frail by nature. Two, I am an Incubi. An Incubus is weak-kneed and indecisive and powerless to all things sexual because that is what it milks and feeds on. Sex and all things sexual! I don't solely and exclusively nourish and nurture myself nosh-up or tuck-in the way that you yourself so. I consistently and on every occasion feed and nourish myself sexually too. That is my very own and best natural way of eating; by means of sex and lust and licentiousness. If I don't have any sex or get myself to undergo and live through just about any form of lasciviousness and salacious lust, then I unquestionably and inevitably starve and famish myself to peril and cessation.

Gradually and steadily, Ragnhild sneaks and slopes her skirt down so that she can put on show and unveil her panties themselves. Arghhhh! This has never been more stimulating and thrilling and intoxicating than now. I will snuff it and go belly-up from lechery and wantonness. Assuredly!

If I am not beyond any doubt going to pass out and fall into a barely audible and slight faint, then I don't know what it is that I am sincerely and openly going to do. Goodness. My eyes are so enthralled and charmed and hold spellbound by what I am catching glimpse of and making out. My goodness! Who could have ever pictured and envisioned that Ragnhild could be this alluring and likeable and sexy and charming. Who could perhaps and with no trouble visualize and make up that? Who? Tell me please. Who specifically?

I realize and am aware that I am not supposed to be watching this. My natural world and temperament and character makes it a crumb treacherous and precarious and risky. It hell sure and almost certainly does. In all likelihood that is. I am an Incubus. And I am sickly and languid and anemic and under-strength carnally and sexually. True. I do wine and dine the typical and habitual way that natural human beings do, but it is only through sexual bits and pieces and kits that my fleshly and immaterial hungriness and ravenousness is wholly and every inch pleased and satisfied.

Our romantic and date nights and days with Ragnhild are cracking and pearler. I am the happiest man in the world the day I conquer and secure her heart and affection only for I myself and me alone on my tod. She is jubilant and overjoyed to the farthest-off moon itself when I cuddle and squeeze and hold her in my arms as my woman and mine alone. Yeah, she surely and positively is all blest and blithe. But there is this one thing that I have not stated and let known to her. That I am an Incubus and so is my kinsfolk and ménage. The same is bona fide and factual with my blood line and family tree. And this, I cross my fingers and count on that Ragnhild won't ever realize and get the wise to. I entreat and petition that she finds out this not. Or will she one at-hand day?

Every lapsing by Halloween, my bidie-in and better half himself, Stian Elberd, and I myself—Ragnhild Ascwin—have what we label and describe as 'daggy and eccentrically out-of-the-way sex.' In other words, this is the same as outré and uncommon and bizarre sex. Yeah ... sex and screwing and matters of lovemaking and fucking that are too weirdie and grotesque and spooky and eldritch to relate and put up in words. This Halloween, we are going to fuck each other in a ponderous and mammoth and substantial coffin that duly and absolutely tailors and fits to be adapted for the big silver screen in some horror and devil movie. Say one that bears the title, 'When The Heinous Dead Make Love Inside A Coffin.'

The coffin is burly and bulky and gigantic and spacious and sumptuously and lushly decorated and furnished and purveyed inside. Its ceiling and roofing has got splendid and dazzling and ablaze amber lights and lanterns tacked and annexed to it; its walls and barricades and bulwarks are wholly and in every respect white like death warmed up and snowy and pale hued and tinctured. There are cushy and soft and comfortable and overpriced hassocks and headrests and squabs and bolsters arrayed and jacked up sleekly and neatly inside there. Yeah; so; so; spick-and-span and shipshape and well-kept and spruce to the very heart and crux indeed! Is this not Promised Land and Zion itself? Hell yeah ... you know what? The majority of the dead and deceased have lavish and flourishing and palatial and overpriced homes than the ones that we settle in, don't you think so? Yeah. I do believe and in fact assume so myself.

The outward and surface and intact exterior of the large, massive coffin is this grand and sumptuous and ornate too. It is formed and built and fashioned of the most excellent and masterly and exceptionally imperishable and immortal wood itself. Yeah. I desire and wish that this was my very own home and Eden. But then come on, I am still alive and kicking and breathing, am I not? Duh!

Tonight, with all the lights in our house flicked and flipped and switched off, and the darkly and shadow-ish and dingy candles twinkling and glimmering and glistening ablaze, it is all calm and serene and hushed and inaudibly low-pitched like there is not any small creature or being breathing and animate and kicking inside our house—or is there?

I am robed and frocked and gowned like a vampire femme fatale or Lorelei or enchantress all in all. A vampire cocotte and streetwalker even. My dress and apparel and raiment is blood coral and red and roseate in tint and shade. My large, sensuous, and kissable jugs and boobies and breasts are uncovered and unclothed and fully starkers in this good-looking, cutely, and beautiful vermilion dress that I am putting on. At the heads and points and nibs of my nipples is smeared and spread with frozen and glaciated ice cream. Yes. While it melts and unfreezes and defrosts, it surges and drifts and tide-ways down my bulky and chunky breasts themselves, stimulating and whetting and whipping me up sexually as I think up and envision Stian's hands haring and loping and creeping down them. I swallow and slurp down hard as this comes about.

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