"Comfortable..." Isabella wheezed, her voice barely a rattle in her throat.
"Exceptionally," purred the Victorian phantom. She leaned down further, her ethereal, corset-bound chest hovering mere inches from Isabella’s face, radiating a temperature that felt like dry ice.
Isabella swallowed hard, her eyes darting between the five glowing, voluptuous specters currently encircling her dilapidated armchair. The flapper ghost was already experimentally squeezing the midsection of the "shepherd’s staff," her translucent fingers turning surprisingly solid as she channeled her poltergeist energy. The medieval spirit was floating directly overhead, her tattered gown draping down like a spectral tent, sealing Isabella into a cocoon of pure supernatural lust.
Every single line of defense had crumbled. There was no tactical retreat left to call.
"Do I... do I get to rest first?" came a tiny, incredibly sheepish voice from beneath Isabella’s crooked cowl.
The poltergeists froze for a fraction of a second. Then, a synchronized, echoing wave of melodious, sultry giggles rippled through the freezing parlor. The ghosts collectively turned their glowing white eyes down toward Isabella’s lap, watching the massive, curse-endowed asset throb with absolute, furious rigidity under the flapper’s touch.
They smirked—a perfectly synchronized, predatory expression that crossed centuries of womanhood.
"Oh, you'll have the best rest ever, Sister," the Victorian leader whispered, her translucent lips brushing against Isabella’s burning, sweat-slicked earlobe as her hands securely locked around the pulsing base of the curse. "Once we're finished with you."
"Wait—ah!"
Isabella’s final protest was completely swallowed by the freezing, electrifying onslaught. The flapper ghost and the medieval spirit didn't play by the rules of mortal friction; their hands shifted between solid flesh and ice-cold mist, creating a rapid-fire, pulsing sensation that hit the curse’s nerve endings like thousands of tiny, ecstatic needles.
The Victorian phantom didn't waste a single moment of her newfound regular slot. She floated forward, effortlessly parting Isabella’s trembling, manure-splattered thighs, and sank right onto the glistening, furious crown of the "staff."
"M-MMGH!" Isabella’s spine completely arched off the moth-eaten armchair, her fingers clawing frantically into the decaying fabric of the armrests as a cloud of dust exploded around her.
Because the ghosts were incorporeal, they didn't have the heavy, physical drag of the cow-girls or the novices. Instead, they were pure, concentrated spiritual energy, and they were feeding directly off the demonic succubus curse. The sweet, hyper-potent pheromones Isabella had been radiating all week acted like high-octane fuel to the poltergeists, making their translucent bodies glow brighter and brighter with a vibrant, neon-pink aura.
"Look how much spirit she has!" the twenties maid gasped, dropping to her knees to help slide the heavy wool of Isabella's habit completely out of the way, exposing the colossal, pulsing monster to the cold room. "She’s like a living furnace!"
"Keep pumping, girls!" the medieval ghost cheered, her ghostly hands kneading Isabella’s stomach, forcing the curse to throb even harder.
Isabella was entirely pinned by the sheer weight of the supernatural atmosphere. Every time the Victorian phantom bobbed her hips, a freezing wave of ectoplasmic pleasure shot straight up Isabella’s spinal cord, fracturing her thoughts into pure, unadulterated bliss. Her wooden rosary beads flew out of her hand, clattering against the rotting floorboards as her head thrashed from side to side.
"Heavens above....The... the damned are too good!" Isabella wailed, her vision blurring into a swirling vortex of glowing white eyes and translucent, heaving assets. "I am going to... I am going to pass through the veil!"
The warning was completely drowned out by the howling, supernatural wind tearing through the parlor. Fed by the premium dairy Isabella had consumed from Daisy and the raw nature energy from Sylvi, the ultimate eruption was catastrophic.
With a final, shattering throb that caused the crystal chandelier overhead to vibrate violently, Isabella’s body went completely rigid. A colossal, blinding torrent of curse-fueled release erupted from her, shooting straight into the ethereal form of the Victorian phantom.
Because it was a physical fluid hitting a spiritual entity, the ectoplasmic energy violently reacted. The thick, sweet-scented river of fluid didn't just pool; it exploded in a brilliant, glowing firework display of pink and white sparks, splashing across the Victorian ghost, coating the flapper’s face, and drizzling down onto the ancient floorboards in a thick, shimmering glaze.
The phantoms let out a synchronized, breathless moan of absolute, centuries-spanning satisfaction, their forms glowing so brightly they illuminated the entire dilapidated manor like a beacon in the night.
When the light finally faded, Isabella collapsed back into the armchair like a discarded rag doll. Her eyes were rolled back, her mouth was slightly open, and her colossal appendage was finally, mercifully, completely soft, oozing a slow, final drop of the unholy curse into the dust.
Sylvi the dryad, Lady Beatrice, the cow-girls, Clare, and Mary... they had all taken their toll. But the ghosts had officially drained the well dry.
As the Victorian phantom floated contentedly back into the ceiling, letting out one last, satisfied sigh, Isabella’s eyes drifted shut. The parlor returned to its freezing, silent desolation. She didn't get her nap first, but as she drifted into a deep, dreamless, and utterly comatose sleep, Sister Isabella had finally found her peace.
The first pale rays of Monday morning light filtered through the shattered windows of the Ironwood Estate, cutting through the thin layer of dust and the faint, shimmering ectoplasmic residue that still coated the floorboards.
Sister Isabella’s eyes fluttered open. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, her head didn't instantly spin with frantic panic. She sat up in the moth-eaten armchair, stretching her aching shoulders. Beneath her torn, heavily stained habit, her colossal, curse-endowed asset was completely soft and dormant, thoroughly emptied of its demonic fuel by the night's relentless spectral marathon.
Floating lazily near the ceiling, the Victorian phantom looked down at her with a soft, surprisingly affectionate smile.
"Well, look who’s finally awake," the ghost purred, her translucent form shimmering elegantly in the morning light. "You know, Sister... it seems God sees fit for you to carry this burden. However, one woman's curse is another's blessing. You really shouldn't be so ashamed of such a... magnificent gift."
Isabella looked down at her lap, then back up at the spirit. A strange, profound shift occurred deep within her mind. The exhaustion, the running, the constant hiding—it all simply evaporated, replaced by a sudden, ironclad resolve. The phantom was right. The curse wasn't going away. If the entire diocese was determined to hunt her down for her "equipment," then it was time for the shepherd to start driving the flock.
"You're right," Isabella said, her voice dropping into a calm, dangerously steady register as she stood up and smoothed down her ruined robes. She didn't look flustered anymore; her eyes burned with a new, authoritative fire.
"Oh? Leaving so soon?" the flapper ghost chuckled, materializing from the shadows of the grandfather clock. "You're always welcome to... come again, Sister. We keep a very flexible schedule."
"Thank you, ladies," Isabella said, offering a sharp, confident smirk as she adjusted her crooked cowl. "But I have some urgent, neglected parish business to attend to back at the convent."
Without a single backward glance, Isabella turned on her heel and stormed out of the haunted manor, her boots clicking aggressively against the floorboards.