S2-ENF-002 - RIP

“I hate graveyards,” Thelma Pinkley complained, as she and Security Officer Carol Song wandered through Highgate Cemetery, in the north of London. “Why did we have to come here again?”

“It’s our job,” said Carol Song, a curvy Asian woman, carefully observing her surroundings in case of any hidden surprises. They weren’t alone in the cemetery, which in fact was a surprisingly popular tourist destination. “As you know, Thelma, we’ve had a number of reports of extremely strange occult goings-on in the vicinity of this location.”

“So what?”

“According to my sources,” said Carol, stooping down to study a nondescript headstone, “they center on this burial plot in particular. Hmm. R.I.P. RODNEY THE RIPPER. Have you ever heard of him, Thelma?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Rodney the Ripper was a pickpocket in nineteenth-century London. He was notoriously clumsy, and always used to unintentionally rip the skirts and dresses off his victims, leaving them to shriek and blush in their voluminous Victorian underthings while he scampered away.”

“Curious. Do you think it’s at all possible that he might have come back as a ghost?”

“I suppose it’s not completely out of the question,” said Thelma, as ghostly hands took hold of her red skirt and tore it right off her body, leaving her standing in the boneyard in only her bulky orange turtleneck sweater, orange panties, red shoes and thigh-high orange socks. Her piercing squeal attracted the attention of a dozen tourists, all armed with expensive digital cameras. “Hey, look,” shouted a Canadian architecture student, as his whole study group converged on her location. “Those girls have no pants!”

Carol tried to do kung fu to him, but more ghostly hands had grabbed her arms. Her hands were swiftly tied behind her back with ropes of invisible ectoplasm, and her sensible black tank top was ripped away, leaving her trapped before the rapidly growing crowd in nothing but her red sports bra and tight black lycra thong. Thelma, in white bra and orange panties, wasn’t doing any better.

Both girls squealed in humiliation as their soft, voluptuous figures were slowly bared before a hooting audience, first in bra and panties, then in even less as their undergarments were peeled off inch by tantalizing inch. Thelma’s bra was unsnapped, letting her remarkable breasts bounce free, all her struggling and panicked squirming doing nothing at all to hide their full, creamy deliciousness. Carol’s thong was pulled up in an uncomfortable wedgie between the cheeks of her round bottom, stretched until it snapped as she hopped around howling and demanding that everybody turn their cameras off.

And, finally, the two unfortunate girls were left stark naked in the middle of Highgate Cemetery. Trapped before the crowd, bound hand and foot and even finally gagged with lengths and lumps of ectoplasm, every inch of delectable jiggling girl-flesh on display as cheers and wolf-whistles rang in the ears of the two very frustrated and red-faced young ladies.

“Mmff,” said Thelma, endeavoring to communicate that, if she and Carol managed to hop all the way to the gates of Highgate Cemetery and out into the street, it was just possible that the ghost’s influence would wear off and the ectoplasmic bonds which held them would disappear. As it happened, she was wrong.