My Own Desert Places, Pt. 5 (GPT-3 fueled short)


After Ainhoa leaves, I get back into what’s supposed to be my home from now on, but when I close the front door behind me and I stand in the eerily silent and darkened interior, I feel unwelcome. Without thinking, I’m holding my hand over my injured ribs. Every breath can bring me pain if I’m not careful, not to mention that twisting my body is off limits. That means that I can’t go around tidying up the papers, newspapers, framed photos and other random objects that for some reason have fallen off their shelves and tables.
I shuffle into the living room on my way to a sofa, and I nearly step on the pieces of a vase that had crashed against the floor. The mess gives the impression that someone broke in and fucked shit up for no other reason than to make the owner’s life more difficult. When I sit wearily on the sofa, its cushions accommodate me comfortably. At some point I will need to buy the painkillers they prescribed me, and also press some ice against my ribcage. In any case, as I take deep, careful breaths, I appreciate that I finally have time for myself, to think, to plan how to put in practice why I occupied Asier’s body to begin with. I have wasted enough time away from Alazne, and I have no clue what she has been doing in the meantime.
As I close my legs casually, I squeeze something in between my thighs, which hurts. Of course, I own a whole new set of genitals that I have no idea what to do with. My self-image remains that of a woman. I have to acquaint myself with the image I will offer to the world.
It takes me a while to walk around until I find a bathroom. The vase that held the toothbrushes has fallen to the floor. I steel myself to face the mirror, and when Asier’s manly features stare back at me, it feels surreal. Under the thick, brown hair with some greys, three stitches hold together the wound where Asier hit his head against the steering wheel. It will take quite a while to heal properly, and I can’t imagine what Alazne will think if I approach her like this. Also, the strong facial features of my head, including a prominent jaw, feel gross to me, the opposite of the delicate female features that I’m attracted to.
I lift up my shirt to reveal a hairy, muscular body with a flat stomach. I suppose I don’t look bad for a guy of higher than average height in his late thirties. I squeeze my nipples to see if I can feel anything, but no, they’re just… there. As arousing as scratching my belly. It’s a shame. I still recall from back when I was alive as a girl how I loved to play with my nipples while I masturbated. I guess I have to give that up as well.
It feels as if it’s getting chillier by the minute, but I can’t be sure. I find it hard to focus my thoughts. The concussion might be at fault, or maybe merely the fact that I’m alive again when I shouldn’t. In any case, I want to find out what kind of equipment this Asier guy was hiding in his pants. I unbuckle my belt to pull them down.
This new penis of mine seems big enough that even as woman inside I won’t be embarrassed if someone else gazes upon it. I touch it gingerly, which feels pleasant. I heft its weight, swing it from side to side, run my fingers over the smooth skin and trace the veins along its length. I rub its head gently against my stomach, enjoying this newfound sensory stimulation. My penis, now rigid, remains pointing upwards as it grows in size.
I’m getting all heated up. I might as well sit down on the toilet and find out how masturbating feels on the other side. I have to do this carefully; it would be embarrassing to unload it too soon. After some careful stroking, I find a rhythm that feels good. Something about the tension in my groin and the tingling in my balls seems familiar, even if I haven’t felt it before. I’m getting pretty excited now, and my other hand wanders down to fondle my wrinkly sacs. The stretching skin tingles against my fingers as I wank with long, strong strokes.
I can’t hold it much longer. With a series of quick, short strokes, I bring myself over the edge and spurt out a few ropes of semen. It doesn’t have much force behind it, but that’s probably because my entire body is tensing up and writhing in ecstasy. The feeling seems to go on forever. Finally I relax with a gasp as my girl cock goes flaccid in my hand.
I wheeze although my injured ribs hurt. Man, it was worth it. Nothing in my two decades as a ghost could compare with orgasming for a few seconds. I don’t want to ever go back to being a shadow. I have become more powerful than the average ghost: I have achieved a full body orgasm. I am transformed and ready to take on the world of the living. I will fully embrace my decently-sized futa cock rather than hide it, even though the rest of my body doesn’t fit my ideal, and I just hope that Alazne will share my enthusiasm about this monster.
My body has recovered from the orgasm, but the hairs on my arms remain standing up, and the enveloping cold against my sweaty skin makes me shiver. My head turns to my left by instinct, and I notice that the shower curtain is bulging as if someone is standing against it from behind. Or was that its natural shape? Nope, it’s definitely moving.
My heart pounds in my chest and a cold sweat breaks out all over me. The curtain bulges further, and I sit up rigidly on the toilet while trying not to blink in case whatever is causing this phenomenon gets any closer. I squeeze my flaccid dick between my thighs.
Suddenly the curtain falls limply, then sways for a bit until it reaches an equilibrium. What the hell just happened? I’m dizzy enough that I might have just imagined it.
I’m also starving. Ghosts don’t starve. My living brain produces the image of a tuna sandwich, and my mouth floods with saliva. I can almost taste the saltiness on my tongue. Living people need to eat, or their body starts shutting down.
I trot over naked to the kitchen and frown at the mess on the floor. The cupboard doors are open and various boxes of cereal, bags of bread and other essentials have been thrown onto the floor. What kind of savage leaves this mess for other people to tidy up?
Unfortunately I don’t find tuna, but the ham in the fridge looks amazing enough. As I’m preparing myself a sandwich, I hear something rattling inside one of the counters. I stare at it, paralyzed. A drawer bursts open and a few forks and spoons fall and hit the floor loudly.
I hold my breath in the sudden silence. I hadn’t been alive for quite a while, but drawers don’t just open by themselves. No, I’m not that confused. There’s no mistaking this chilly atmosphere, nor the feeling of being watched. Not merely watched, glared at.
“Do I seriously have a fucking ghost roommate?” I blurt out.
As if to confirm it or annoy me further, two of the hanging cabinets open and close themselves violently. I gesture with my hands for the ghost to calm down, and I barely catch a glimpse of a fork before it flies from the ground and hits me in the chest. I groan and turn away.
“Hey, my ribs are fucked up enough! Chill!”
I step back until I rest my lower back against the cold dining table. I realize that I’m naked in front of a ghost stranger, who happens to be a poltergeist virtuoso. No, it can’t be a stranger. A ghost this angry and who can poltergeist this effortlessly was likely tormenting Asier maybe from the moment he moved in. Is it because people are dumb and they built a community right next to a graveyard?
I gesticulate my peaceful intentions towards my invisible, sudden roommate who is likely standing in front of me, apparently pissed off.
“First off, pal,” I start, “I know that as a ghost it must be fun to throw shit around knowing that one of the breathing idiots is going to have to pick it up, but it just happens that it isn’t funny at all when you end up on the other side. And I can’t even bend over, because my ribs–“
Something I don’t get to see hits my right thigh, and I protect my genitals by pure instinct. I can tell that was aimed at my balls. This ghost is dangerous.
“I’ll cover up my shameful nakedness, I swear! Listen to me for a minute!”
I was about to continue when I shut up. I just heard a female voice saying something to my face. She must have screamed it, and it sounded angry. It’s really hard to understand ghostspeak from a living body.
“I’ll share with you some classified information that likely won’t ever leave my lips again. You knew this guy, Asier, but he’s dead,” I say with a serious tone. “I was on a bus when the idiot invaded our lane and ended up crashing against the highway divider. He hit his head hard enough that his soul got ejected. He could have returned, but he chose to move on to the beyond, the cowardly bastard. And I happened to be a ghost who can possess others as easily as you can poltergeist shit up. So yeah, I’m now occupying this bastard’s body! Asier is no more.”
As if it had been coated in camo material, I only spot that a spoon was hovering near me when it falls to the floor as if the ghost had dropped it.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I add. “It seems you were angry with this Asier guy. I can’t blame you, but he can’t bother you anymore. And you and I can get to know each other, become friends, all that. Believe me, I know how lonely it gets as a ghost. I’ll figure out some way for me to understand you. Maybe with some ouija board.”
I think this ghost just wailed, loud enough that it reached the level of someone muttering. She must be crying her eyes out.
“I know, I know,” I say. “My name is Irene, by the way. I’m a woman, or was. Now I’m a woman with a penis. It’s my new superpower.”

Turns out that dressing your living self gets complicated when you feel as if your ribs are trying to kill you whenever you fail to keep your body straight. In the end, though, I have covered my privates, which my ghostly roommate must appreciate, and I finally prepare myself some dinner without invisible objects launching themselves at me. Along the way I keep making comments to keep the ghost entertained; I know how annoying it gets when breathing people go on about their day while ignoring you.
After I maneuver around the obstacle course that the living room’s floor had turned into, objects that I’ll likely won’t able to pick up until my ribs heal, I sit down carefully on the sofa to eat my ham sandwich. I can tell that the ghost has followed me. She barely waits to push towards me a framed photo that had fallen on the ground.
“You want me to look at it, right?” I say, and lean towards it.
In the photo, this Asier prick is posing next to a slavic-looking woman in her early twenties. She has smooth, sunflower-colored hair, slightly slanted emerald eyes and a beautifully shaped mouth that makes my crotch tingle.
“What a smokeshow,” I say while I think about how I haven’t had sex in twenty years, because I have been dead for most of these decades. “Is that one of the many women this Asier bastard cheated on his sweet ex-fiancée with?”
The ghost pushes the photo a bit further towards me as if wanting me to realize something.
“Wait, are you telling me that’s you?!” I exclaim. “Ah, I can’t hear you if you are saying yes. Push that pen off the table if that’s you in the picture, or else–“
The pen flies off the table.
“I see. Now it makes sense why he would keep your picture around. You were probably one of the last people to see him alive, except for his killer. I’m trying to lighten the mood, by the way, because nobody else killed him except himself. He admitted to me that he had veered into our lane deliberately. I guess he got real tired of what a gigantic piece of shit he was. Can you believe that he cheated on his ex-fiancée with at least twenty women? She visited me in the hospital. That poor lady will never get over it.”
I feel my invisible roommate staring at me from the side of the table, behind the framed photo.
“What?” I ask. “I’m not going to feel sorry for him. He was a coward. And you have kept busy destroying his stuff. Listen to this: when I told him that he still could return to his body and live for some more years, he almost crapped himself, then ran away. I bet he had been hit with some flashbacks about not only the hurt he caused to women who loved him, but also about how bad you tormented him.”
I laugh way too hard for my ribs, and I end up groaning and crossing my free arm over my chest, as if that would help. When the pain subsides, I ogle at the gorgeous slavic woman on the photo.
“You looked so delicious… Wait a second, you were alive when the picture was taken! How did you die?”
I hear nothing, not even the slight whispers that come your way when a ghost is screaming at you.
“Maybe… Maybe you committed suicide?” I suggest. “But your eyes tell me that you didn’t. They suggest that you were full of life and that you were taken from this world before your time. Oh, how I wish you could talk and tell me what happened to you. You’re probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with or without clothes,” I mutter as I keep staring at her frozen face. “Listen, me asking you questions that don’t have yes or no answers will only frustrate you. I’ll buy a ouija board. How does that sound to you? They probably sell them on Amazon. I’ll figure out this exact address and then have some breathing person send me my order.”
I haven’t finished the sandwich, but the sooner I order that ouija board, the sooner I’ll get to communicate properly with my sensual roommate. I walk out of the living room to explore the rest of the house, looking for Asier’s bedroom or his office.
“I bet this guy had a computer. Everyone has a computer these days. Back when I killed myself, the internet had barely started becoming a thing, and computers were still hella expensive.”
I recognize Asier’s bedroom not only because it has a king size bed, but because the room is in worse disarray than the rest of the house, to the extent that a big wardrobe has tipped over and is resting against an exercise bench. A computer sits on a desk next to the bed. Unfortunately, there are pens lodged in the monitor as if the ghost had been playing darts with it. I sigh, then sit down wearily on the bed.
“It’s alright, I’ll go to some public library to order whatever I need.”
I consider whether I should buy a new monitor, but I don’t know if the rest of the computer even works, and I’m not confident that the ghost won’t destroy my monitor on a whim. That’s assuming that I have enough money to begin with.
I rest my head on the pillows. The bed feels so comfortable and inviting, even though there are random books and Blu-Ray cases lying on it. Why does my body weigh more now, and why is my brain threatening to shut off? My eyes are even fighting against my will to close by themselves. Is this a haunting, have I been poisoned?
“Oh, I think I’m sleepy,” I say, relieved. “This body needs to visit the dreamworld. I haven’t enjoyed sleeping since I possessed this prick, because of all the drugs they pumped me full of.”
I shut my eyes, and begin to drift off to sleep. Then I open my eyes again, remembering the ghost. She’s definitely still here; I can sense her presence by how much the room has cooled.
“Sorry, but I need to sleep for a few hours. I know it can get super boring whenever breathing people go unconscious and there’s nothing else to distract yourself with.”
Yeah, I can’t imagine how angry and distraught this ghost must have felt these past few days, not even knowing if the target of her anger would ever return home. I go through the effort of returning to the living room and switching on the television so at least the ghost has something to watch.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know yet which channels you prefer. We’ll figure that out when I get that board. For now, I hope that’s enough. I’ll go take a piss and then try to rest. You are more than welcome to sleep next to me every night if you want. It will probably give me sweet dreams.”

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