I had a free evening in my new town, so I decided to take the historic cemetery tour.  When I arrived, I found the tour guide, a beautiful young man, in a frock coat and top hat lounged against the graveyard gate talking passionately with a small group of tourists.

We began the tour, focusing on the history and 300 year old gossip of the more infamous residents of the cemetery. As we paused in front of a mausoleum, I felt my skirt twitch.  I looked back, wondering if I’d caught it on a shrub or on some of the wrought iron scroll work that liberally filled the place.  But there was nothing there.  There wasn’t even a breeze that could be responsible for the feeling.  I brushed it off, engrossed in the tale of the rich, second son turned privateer turned pirate. I enjoyed the patter of the guide’s stories; even though I suspected, like most of these tours, that many of the stories were cut from whole cloth.

The tour guide reached the climax of the tale, the young pirate’s violent death at the hands of his jealous older brother, and I felt it again, the twitch of my skirt, and a cold breeze between my thighs.  I jerked and looked behind me again.  The tour guide noticed my look, “My lady, is one of our ghosts calling to you?”

I gave a weak laugh, but his suggestion didn’t seem too far-fetched.  I thought about the pirate captain, my mind making him look like the tour guide.  I mentally replaced his trousers with super tight pants and knee high black boots.  His top hat morphed into a movie style pirate hat.  I considered an eye patch, and had to stop when I tripped over a tree root.  The tour guide looked back concerned, and I gave a blushing shrug.  I reminded myself that he couldn’t read my mind, so he had no idea of his role in my pirate fantasy.

We continued on through the mausoleums, moving on to other stories other graves.  Once again, I felt a cold breeze wrap around my calves, and what felt like cold fingers brush behind my knees.  I shivered.  My skirt flared, and I felt another breeze reaching my upper thighs.  The weather wasn’t helping me keep my thoughts on the tour.  In the fantasy reel in my head, the pirate captain was meeting his lover (played by me) in the cemetery.  Under the cover of darkness, we would meet and declare our undying love… and put our love into action as well.  There was literal bodice ripping going on in my head.

I was in the middle of the fantasy of my pirate lover setting me atop one of the taller gravestones, and stepping between my thighs, when I realized that we had reached the end of the tour.  The tour guide invited up to wander around in the final section of colonial graves.  I wandered, only half reading the names and dates, once again feeling the breeze slip under my skirt, teasing my overheated pussy.  I blushed, but no one else seemed to notice anything.

I paused in front of a tall headstone, much like the one in my fantasy.  I envisioned myself bodice torn open, breasts exposed to the evening air.  I imagined my skirts piled into my lap, and dark woolen stockings reaching just over my knees on display.  I wasn’t sure what sort of undergarments colonial people wore, so I assumed that if I was meeting an illicit lover, I’d go bare under my skirts. My pirate lover, stepped between my wide spread thighs.  And I felt the cold, phantom hands caressing me. I stifled cry, but this time I didn’t move.  The touch was fleeting, and certainly not enough to satisfy me. But I like to think perhaps the pirate captain knew what I was thinking and it satisfied him.

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