Spiritualist Erotica by Erin Lyndal Martin: “The Flower Medium” for Haunted Passages

 

I WROTE DOWN MY FINDINGS about what happened that night, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell everything. Not even to you, Lieutenant. I hear you’re old and sick and you may die soon. I sure hate to lose you. You saw the force through some hard times, and no hard time ever met a harder man than you.

You probably don’t lose a lot of sleep these days thinking about the Flower Medium of Berlin. I remember you joking that she was a “garden variety nutjob.” She was missing some petals.

But things happened that night at her last séance. I may well give you an aneurysm with this tale. I don’t like to think about that, Lieutenant. But you need to know why I came back to the station wide-eyed and wound-up as a music box.

You said it’d be a real easy job. I was itchy to see a pretty girl from Berlin. All these years alone on the job can make a man cold as an ice cube looking for a glass to melt in. She said she could magic flowers out of the air. That didn’t seem like such a bad thing to do. Hell, I wasn’t sure why you’d sent me to investigate. You said it was fraud but I figured people could spend their money however they damn well pleased.

All manner of people were there at the séance. There were bankers in their dress clothes and housewives and a student in a little dress. The flower dame wasn’t that beautiful at first, but I watched the way she moved and saw her eyes were gigantic, like she’d walked out of the pyramids of Egypt instead of the streets of Berlin. She wore this slick brown hair up, but with snakes of curls all down the back of her neck. Low voice like a tart glazed with dark rum, but when she laughed, it was girlish. Like the fruit on the fruit tart. That tart had it all. She had on a white blouse but mostly she had on her cleavage leading down to god knows where. If that was where the flowers came from, I prayed the good lord would make me a gardener.

But I was there to do a job and she was there to do hers. The niceties were finished and we sat down at a round table. It was real tight in there with so many. She said she’d never had so big a crowd. 

She mumbled some sort of hoodoo invocation or maybe it was a prayer about the angels and it seemed like a lot of work just to throw some flowers around.

The night wore on and she gave some folks some messages. And people seemed real happy with everything she said. There were women crying and even some men dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs and one woman who couldn’t stop laughing. She passed on wisdom from dead folks, mostly how their moms wanted them to be happy, how this daisy or that carnation said their health would improve by next year. I’d never seen anything like it. I hadn’t seen anything untoward up to this point. But Lieutenant, how do you tell a proper séance from an improper one?

She said she had a message for me. I watched those big eyes close, her heavy lashes like canopies, and saw a little smile on her painted lips. Then she opened her eyes and gave me a lily that she spirited from somewhere. It wasn’t a regular white lily. It was a peach-pink color like the last swallow of champagne, and I was drunk on it. You see, Lieutenant, I know what a lily smells like and that was no lily I was smelling.

I knew right then where she kept her flowers, and I wanted more. I asked her if she had anything else for me and she gave me a whole cloud of blue hydrangeas. Flowers never did much for me but these were damp with something I knew good and well wasn’t just the morning dew. I sniffed the hydrangeas and they were like the lily but headier. Those damn flowers smelled so pretty I could see why people paid to see her.

I said I’d like to ask her a private question, and she had me lean over the table and whisper it in her ear. I could feel my breath bounce off her earlobes. “You’re under investigation for suspicion of fraud, and I’m the man who’s doing the investigating. I’ve got to ask you some questions.”

She nodded her head yes. I sat back down and she said she had to put out the light for a minute to conjure all the energy back up or something. But I knew what she meant was for me to climb under the table right then and there where nobody else could see. I crawled closer to her and she lifted the tablecloth. I saw her legs in her white dress, which she had pulled back for easy access to an endless supply of flowers. I could smell all the petals in their wild perfume, but mostly I could smell her. I took a daisy and began to run it up and down her legs while she rambled on about the spirits. Then I brought the daisy up to the inside of her thighs. She opened up her legs a little more and there was that heady fragrance again.

Some men talk about being driven wild by the magnolias in the southern states of the country. I always took them for simpletons and fools. I’ve never felt so crazy about a flower. But I did it. I took those flowers out of her dress though I knew the game was up. I held them for her so when she needed to take one out she’d be reaching down to me. But mostly I took them to make more for the flower I really wanted.

I got closer to her stinking lips. It was dark under the table but the candle flame shed a little light. I pressed the daisy into her own soaking blossom and that daisy was damn near the best thing I ever smelled and I was so greedy for her pussy after I’d been starved all night. All year, if you want to know the truth captain. Damn near two. I licked her from clit to asshole and back again. She was still giving messages above the table, and I was just getting started. I knew she wanted my mouth on her clit. I couldn’t help but tease her some more and I sucked on her sweet asshole while running my fingers all over her pussy. I’d lightly brush her clit and then be on my way again, making her wonder when I’d touch her for real. I heard her tell some lady that her dead husband was coming through. The gypsy woman said, “Your husband says … please. Oh, please. Please. I’m begging you. Uh, does that have any meaning for you?” I touched her pussy some more but didn’t graze her clit at all this time.

Then she was channeling some more. She reached down to get a flower and shoved my head against her pussy lips as she did. I had no choice but to suck good and hard on her little rosebud before I stuck my tongue all the way inside her. She was a one woman hothouse, and my whole face was covered. I began to wonder when the other guests would notice. I ate her and ate her while she tried to keep talking about heaven. I slipped a finger in her cunt and damned if she didn’t start to squirt a whole milky message out on me. I lapped up the silky liquid until her cunt was drained.

And she was still giving messages and spiriting up flowers. I had to take my dick out. It was hard and I wanted her lips on it. I didn’t even care what lips. But I had to settle for my hand and her hand. I’d jerk off and she’d reach down and help when she could. My face still smelled like her. There was pussy in my every pore. It didn’t take long before I couldn’t hold back the tide. I started to groan under the table. She handed me another daisy and I shot my cum all over it, the juice of my sex blending with hers on the white petals.

“Spirit wanted me to give you this,” she said, handing the daisy to a Jesuit priest.

I didn’t put her under arrest. I told you I hadn’t seen anything untoward but you could bet I’d go back and look again. 

 

 

Erin Lyndal Martin is a creative writer, music journalist, visual artist, and ectoplasm aesthete. Her web presence is here, and you may also find her on Twitter at @erinlyndal. 

Image: fiftyflowers.com

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