Bonus Smut! K.B. Spangler's "The Boathouse"

Here's another bonus reward for my $10+ backers — a delightfully decadent drama that delves into an after-death dalliance with ... Amelia Earhart?? It appears courtesy of K.B.Spangler, who you probably already know as the creator of the popular webcomic A Girl and Her Fed. The story appears below, and as an attached PDF file.

K.B. Spangler

K.B. has been creating comics for well over 10 years — and has been a favorite of mine since the very beginning. Spangler's art and writing are top-notch — and we share a neigh-perverse appreciation of the underestimated brilliance of puns.

Spangler's Patreon page  offers a wide range of tremendous rewards. Not only do Spangler's $5+ Patreon backers get a daily dose of pun-ishment, but $10+ supporters have access to some truly inventive NSFW content (as you will shortly find out).

Enjoy!

The Boathouse

 “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

Cocktail parties with ghosts are interesting. 

To be fair, I find most parties interesting, but cocktail parties are special. There’s a rhythm to them that you don’t get at other kinds of parties. The slow spinning dance between people you want to talk to and those you don’t; the patter of voices and that one piercing laugh that comes between conversations. We’re there to socialize and mingle, and that puts us all on our best behavior. 

Mostly. 

There’s always someone at these parties who’s like me—someone with most of their mind on business, but with an eye on the crowd. We get most of the work done first: talking, networking. Promises to meet for brunch, or to show up and give an impromptu speech at their next commerce meeting. 

But we know that we’ll circle back to each other by the end of the night. 

With ghosts, it’s a little different. Their commerce meetings don’t get much media coverage (and their trade agreements are, to put it kindly, somewhat esoteric), and ghostly bunches are, quite literally, otherworldly. A cocktail party with the dead and the living in attendance is mostly done to ensure that we’re somewhat familiar with each other, and that we know each other’s agendas. 

Mostly. 

I never thought that Amelia Earhart would catch my eye. 

We’d met a few times before. Always in groups, usually at policy meetings. Never with her in a dark blue dress, her hair pinned up with bright pieces of glass. 

She and I circled the room, as if in orbit. Sharing a laugh with this group over here, that famous ex-politician over there. Hours went by: when we passed each other, we smiled. 

We were at the lake house. It was a peaceful place—Pat and Hope bought it about a year ago, and it was a generally safe location for the ghosts to show up. Pat held private meetings with living politicians out by the lake, so everybody in OACET knew better than to drop by when they were out-of-body. 

As the guests started to leave, I watched as Amelia stole away to the balcony. 

She dropped a glance over her shoulder that was too hot to handle. 

Or ignore. 

I snagged a half-empty bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses from a nearby table and followed her outside. 

I had never thought about ghosts as partners. Most—well, almost all—of them didn’t have much to interest me. Sit down with Thomas Jefferson for an hour and you’ll see what I mean. So the idea simply hadn’t crossed my mind. 

And now it had. And now… “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

Amelia was standing in the moonlight, her arms resting on the railing. She was wearing a long satin dress which cut over itself in layers, like shallow waves. It dipped low on her chest, and ran high across one long leg. 

The history books tend to leave out the fact that Amelia Earhart was built. I love all kinds of women. Tall, short, slender, round…if it’s an adjective, I’m for it. But Amelia had the look of a woman who would stand against the hurricane that tried to bring her down. 

Oh my. 

I joined her on the balcony and poured her a glass of champagne. She lifted her glass, and we toasted without a word. 

The moon wasn’t near full, a thin crescent low in the sky. In this light, Amelia lost the blue hue that set her apart as a ghost. I wondered if that was intentional until she smiled at me, and then I wondered if I was finally out of my depth. 

“So,” I said, “you’ve had living lovers before?” 

“Oh, you’re precious!” Amelia laughed. “Straight to the point. I like that.” 

“That’s a yes?” I asked, as I refilled her drink. 

She didn’t say a word, but she pressed one hand against my bare arm. Her hand felt cool and airy, and then it had all the heat of living skin, with a pulse beating behind it. 

“That’s a yes,” I said. 

She moved her hands to the back of my head, and pulled me down. 

—kissing a ghost— 

I suppose I expected something different. Something not as familiar as warm lips, tongue, and the hint of teeth. With my eyes closed, she could have been wholly alive— 

“Stop thinking about it,” she whispered, her lips moving from mine to my neck. “All cats are the same color in the dark.” 

I let her run a line of gentle bites along the side of my neck before I took her chin in my hand. Her eyes were blue, but a natural blue. The same color blue I could find anywhere. “What if I want to keep the lights on?” 

She gave that same low laugh, and her eyes turned the blue of the hottest fires. 

“Be sure that’s what you want,” she said, as her eyes changed again, deepening to a color I had never seen before, not anywhere. 

It was my turn to spin my fingers through her hair and pull her into the kiss. 

Now it was different. 

Cool lips. Not dead—No, not dead at all. The way her skin felt against mine, she almost felt too alive!—but cool, with the same welcoming freshness of a newly made bed on a hot summer’s night. My hands moved through her short hair and I felt the energy build at the touch, like a static charge. 

She smelled of open water, of sunrise, of blowing wind— 

Amelia pushed against my chest until we broke apart. “Whew!” she gasped. “Aren’t you something!” 

“Do you want to stop?” “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

Amelia gave me that wicked smile again, and leapt over the railing. 

I was too slow; I tried to grab her and missed, and then realized she was walking on air, just a few feet in front of me. 

“Coming?” she asked. 

I swung myself over the side of the railing and perched on the small ledge on the other side. It wasn’t too far to the ground. Sixteen feet, maybe twenty. But there was a garden down there, with stone pathways and stairs, all of it ankle-shatteringly dangerous in the dark. 

“Don’t keep me waiting,” she said, with a twist of her hips which swirled the fabric of her dress away from her long, long legs— 

I jumped. 

The air caught me. 

When I dream about flying, I’m running. No Superman poses and graceful swoops and spirals here. Just me, running, as if flight is nothing but a marathon in midair. 

That’s what this was like. Not flight, but pushing with my feet and legs through a soft, unseen substance. 

“Nice,” I said, as I turned in a slow circle. “I didn’t know you could do this.” 

Amelia moved towards me, the tails of her dress floating behind her as if caught in a current. “I’m no Ben Franklin,” she said, as she came almost close enough to touch. “But I’m not a lightweight. I’ve got enough power to do this…” 

She didn’t have to say, “…and more.” 

She turned and moved away, one outstretched hand bidding me to follow her. We glided through the night air, a slow game of tag, Amelia always a breath or two ahead of me. Always moving so her dress was playing catchup to her body, just barely covering the tops of those long, strong legs. 

She let me catch her near the fountain in the center of the garden. I took her by her waist and we kissed again, longer this time, the spray from the fountain misting our skin. It was cold, and she was suddenly warm in my arms, and I pulled her against me to drink in her heat. 

I slipped one hand through the high slit in her dress, and laid it against her thigh. Muscles moved beneath skin as she pushed against me. My thumb found— 

I broke from our kiss. “Lace?” I asked, as my thumb kept exploring. 

“It’s impractical and inconvenient,” she said. “And sometimes I love it.” 

“Me, too,” I agreed. My thumb reached the edge of the lace, and moved beneath it. 

Those too-blue eyes closed as she gasped. 

We dipped a little in the air. 

I’ll admit that, in that unexpected moment, I may have grabbed her by her shoulders and clung to her like a terrified monkey. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologized, as the air caught us again. 

I took a breath. “It’s fine.” “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

“No, it’s not,” she said. The air began to unwind around us, slowly, and our feet were soon resting on the flagstones of the garden’s courtyard. “I’m truly very sorry, Josh. That…that was careless.” 

“We’re both okay,” I said. I tried to take her hands; she stepped away. I nodded and followed her as she began to walk through the garden. 

“Tell me about those living lovers,” I said. 

“Curious?” Amelia stopped beside a thick bed of daffodils. She selected one and broke its stem at the base. 

“Very,” I said, as I sat on the stone wall of the flowerbed. “This is a new experience for me.” 

She paced nearby, tapping the stem of the flower with her fingernails. “Psychics,” she said. “And poets. Those open to the idea that there’s more to life than life.” 

“Can the poets see you?” 

Amelia shook her head. “That’s part of the fun.” 

“Ah.” 

“But that—” she said, pointing with the daffodil towards the open air above the fountain, “—was me showing off. I’d never tried something like before.” 

“Requires concentration?” 

She chuckled. “More than I expected.” 

Amelia tucked the stem of the daffodil into a convenient slot on the fabric of her dress, above her left breast. 

Which, because I’m an astute student of humanity, I was sure hadn’t been there a moment ago. 

(The convenient slot for a flower stem, that is. Not her left breast. Oh no, that had been there the entire night, riding alongside its twin, both fresh and round and…and…and I was suddenly jealous of a stupid daffodil.) 

“How does that work?” I asked. 

“Concentration,” she replied. “I focus on what I want to happen, and it adapts for me.” 

“Like turning the air into something I could walk through?” 

“That’s quite tricky,” she said. “I tried to keep it balanced around your legs, since you also have to breathe.” 

Gulp. 

“Easy, sport,” she said, and bumped me on my shoulder with her fist. “I’m not going to break my new toy before I get a chance to play with it.” 

“Oh, so I’m a toy, now?” 

She went to punch me again. I grabbed her fist and pulled her onto my lap. 

Another kiss. This one was almost peaceful; we had nearly finished working our way around each other’s rough edges. It was getting easier to appreciate the parts of her that weren’t just woman and were distinctly Amelia—there was a taste to her that put me in mind of wide open spaces. 

“You’re free,” I whispered. 

She murmured something I couldn’t understand, and wrapped her legs around me. “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

I stood. She had some weight, but not too much; maybe ninety pounds. Enough so I knew I held her in my arms, but not enough to cause me any problems. I carried her down the garden path to the boathouse, its doors open and waiting at the edge of the lake. 

There was no boat. 

But there was candlelight. 

We broke apart as I set Amelia on her feet, and I turned to pull the double doors closed. Amelia stared with wide eyes as the boathouse glowed with the soft light of half a hundred candles burning in the exposed beams overhead. 

“Whoa,” Amelia said quietly. Then: “Heeeey…” 

The ghost floated up and poked at the nearest candle, then picked it up and turned it over. Its light didn’t change. 

“That’s cheating,” she said, as she returned the LED candle to its place and floated back down to the wooden floor. 

“That’s technology,” I said, and sent a signal to the candles. They dimmed, and the soft golden light of the boathouse closed around us. 

“I take it I’m not the first woman you’ve brought here?” 

I bowed to her. She took my arm, and I escorted her over to a thick pile of blankets I had layered along one side of the boathouse. 

“That’s a yes,” she laughed, as she began to undress me. 

She started with my tie. Those long, strong fingers of hers brushed against my neck, and I closed my eyes. 

“I thought you wanted to see,” she said, as I felt her slowly unwrap the first loop of the knot. 

“I know what this part looks like,” I replied. The second loop came undone, and I felt the strip of silk glide down my chest as it fell. 

Fingertips against buttons. Amelia started from the top down and took her time, undoing each button and exploring my chest as she went. Her hands were a strange combination of too-warm-but-not-too-hot, and the heat of her flowed through my undershirt. 

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” she said as my shirt followed my tie to the floor, and then she bit my nipple. 

My eyes flew open with a moan. “Gentle!” 

She smiled up at me as she nibbled the other one, and slid her hands up my chest beneath my undershirt. 

Fingernails, hot enough to feel their edges, moving up, across, and down. She lingered at my abs, tracing them, going lower and lower until she was at the waistband of my pants— 

“Get that shirt off,” she ordered. 

I pulled my undershirt over my head and threw it aside. 

Amelia circled me, the fingers on one hand dipping just an inch beneath my waistband as she went along. Her eyes swept across my body as she walked. “My goodness,” she said, as she completed the circle. “You’re going to be such fun!” 

She grabbed me by the back of my neck and pulled me into another kiss. “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

Now it was my hands that moved across her body. From her shoulders to the curves of her waist, searching for— 

I paused. 

Amelia pulled away. “What’s wrong?” 

“How…well…” I wasn’t entirely sure how to phrase the question, so I went with the version which sounded the least stupid. “How do your clothes come off?” 

“Silly boy,” she said, turning away. She gathered up her hair and glanced over her shoulder at me. “You’ve never seen a zipper?” 

And there it was, an ordinary zipper running down the back of her dress, its small slide barely visible beneath the seams of the fabric. 

“This wasn’t here a moment ago,” I said, as I began to unzip her. 

She laughed. 

With each soft click of the zipper’s teeth, her dress began to fade. 

It started as thick satin, cascading over itself in waves. As the zipper moved, the midnight blues of her dress began to blend into the air around it. By the time the zipper had reached the halfway point, her dress was nearly transparent. 

I stopped unzipping her, and took a step back. 

Amelia spun on her toes. What was left of her dress followed, floating in midair as if it had lost mass along with color. Through it, Amelia’s body shone, ghostly blues within blues. 

The daffodil stayed put, tucked within the folds of her half-formed dress. Beneath it, Amelia’s breasts were small and perfect, the darker hue of her nipples pressing against the fabric. 

I began to walk around her in a circle, retracing the path she had taken when she had done the same to me. I saw that she had left her panties on. The lace thong rode high on her thighs and disappeared between her buttocks. The thong made her legs look even longer—the slit running up one side of her dress now came up past the lace, and oh, it was all so delightful in the candlelight! 

Amelia took the daffodil from her dress and slid it behind my ear. 

“Make sure this doesn’t fall,” she said, as the rest of her dress faded away into the night. 

In reply, I scooped her up and lowered her to the blankets. 

Those lace panties were still cradling her, but now these were joined by a garter belt and stockings—the old-fashioned kind of stockings, with a seam running up her legs. These stopped at mid-thigh, ending in a band of lace which matched her panties. 

She placed one leg on my shoulder. I unhooked the stocking, and began to slide it down her legs. 

Those legs were amazing. Muscles tensed beneath her smooth, soft skin as I slid the first stocking down to her foot. Her shoes were gone: I slipped off the stocking and admired her foot. 

Amelia’s toenails were painted a dark blue. I moved my thumbs to the arch and rubbed. 

“Hmm,” she said. “That’s nice, but I’m not here for nice.” 

I chuckled, and followed the seam of the second stocking up to its lacy crown. A gentle tug, and it slid down her thigh, across her calf, over her foot… 

I couldn’t resist giving this foot a little rub, too. “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

“Foot man?” she asked. 

“Body man,” I said, as I put my hands on her knees. “I love it all.” 

I slid my hands up, up… I cupped her ass and moved my thumbs between her legs, pressing them against the center of the lace. 

“Oh!” Amelia closed her eyes and let her head roll back. 

I knelt, and moved the lace aside with my tongue. 

Oral sex is a delicate process. We tend to be pickier about our preferences, but we leave it to our partners to guess at what we want. Amelia had no such hangups: she grabbed me by the ears and put me where she wanted me. “Don’t lick,” she said. “Suck.” 

So I did, and she began to moan. 

I don’t remember when the panties vanished; I only noticed they were gone when Amelia turned beneath me and began to play with my erection through the folds of my pants. Her long, strong fingers moved up and down before they cupped me through the cloth. I knelt; she came up off the floor and started to unzip me. As she pushed my pants down, her too-warm fingers moved across my butt, along my hips, then followed the lines of my body down…down… 

She wrapped them around my cock, and I closed my eyes and groaned. 

Deft fingers, strong hands… Amelia used both hands to work me. Then, she ran her mouth along the sides of my cock as if she was tasting me. 

I was shaking; the daffodil fell. 

“Foreplay’s over,” she said, as she threw the flower into the open strip of water in the center of the boathouse. 

I lifted Amelia from our nest of blankets and lifted her towards the wooden rafters. There was a spot clear of candles directly above us. “Grab on,” I said. 

She did, and wrapped her legs around my chest to bring me in to her. I spent a few moments on her nipples; her breasts were at face height, and I couldn’t resist. My hands cradled her ass, and she pressed herself against my stomach as I played. 

“Tease,” she whispered into my hair. “You terrible tease!” 

I slipped out from between her legs and circled behind her. I took one of her calves in each hand, and pressed myself against her back. 

“Ready?” I asked. 

She laughed and threw her hands behind her head. 

There’s a position called the Butterfly, and it’s not for the faint of heart. It’s definitely not my go-to with a new partner. Amelia, however, struck me as an exception. She didn’t disappoint: she opened her legs as wide as possible, bent them at the knees, and lowered herself straight onto my cock. 

We both stopped moving, unable to do anything more than feel the push of skin against skin and— 

“Is that a condom?” Amelia asked, twining her fingers through my hair. 

“Always.” I kissed the side of her neck as I started to lift her up and down. 

“We’re going to talk about—” she paused as she gave a little gasp. “—that. Later.” “The Boathouse” by K.B. Spangler. Patreon Supporter bonus story – March 2017 

“Later?” 

“Yes,” she said, moving her legs to grind against me. “Later.” 

If your partner is strong enough to hold her own weight with her legs spread wide, the Butterfly just cannot be beat. My job was to stand in place and keep her steady; hers was to rise and fall on my cock, over and over, twisting her hips to make sure I went where she wanted me. Amelia kept her hands buried in my hair, the soft curve of my neck pressed against mine. Sometimes we turned so we could kiss; mostly we let ourselves drift with her back pressed to my chest, my cock moving in and out, in and out, both of us lost in the moment. 

You will never catch me rushing towards an orgasm. They’re great, I’ll readily admit it, but if that’s all you get out of masturbation or sex, you’re only pursing a small part of what it can be. Pleasure is a process, not just a climactic ending. Moving towards the orgasm is almost meditative; I like to be there, both body and mind, and I was very glad that Amelia seemed to feel the same. She kept her pace slow and steady, moving on my cock with joy and purpose, like a dancer who performed for her love of the art. 

When we became a little numb to that position, she smiled over her shoulder at me, then rocked forward and let herself fall. We went down to the floor of the boathouse together: she caught herself on her hands; I caught her by her hips. I found myself on my knees, gliding deep inside her, as she used her arms to thrust herself against me. 

I went deep—so deep!—and Amelia pushed back as hard as I gave it to her. She swore at me, and I eased off, which earned me a dangerous glare. 

I laughed and resumed thrusting, only harder. 

We changed positions again, and then again, each time bringing ourselves closer to our climax. At the end, I found myself on the bottom, my head stuffed beneath three layers of blankets and my legs dangling in the icy water, with Amelia lunging up and down in a reverse cowgirl. She was holding the base of my cock with one hand to slow me down, and when she finally came, she dropped her hand away. Circulation and sensation roared into me—I came so hard that my back arched, and Amelia shouted in delight as I nearly bucked her off. 

I dropped, exhausted, and used fumbling hands to shove the blankets away from my face. 

Amelia was smiling down at me, her unearthly blue eyes shining in the candlelight. 

I reached up and pulled her into the crook of my arm. She snuggled up against my chest with a sigh. 

“Very nice,” she said, her voice husky. 

I kissed the top of her head. “I thought you didn’t want nice.” 

“Mm-hmm, but I suppose nice is a good place to start.” Amelia sighed. She sounded drowsy. “We’ll do something not-so-nice the next time.” 

I nodded. Sleep sounded like a good idea. And the promise of a “next time” sounded even better.