The Devils Pact Ghost of Paris Chapter 11 Lazy Saturday Morning
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The Devil's Pact: Ghost Of ParisChapter 4: The Public Library free porn video
Friday, September 13th, 2013 – Paris, Texas
There was an away game, so there was no cheerleading practice this afternoon.
I missed those sweet, young Lionesses, and their even sweeter cooches. Every afternoon this week, just like last week, I had spent it with the cheerleaders, fucking one of them behind the bleachers, while the others practiced. It was an arrangement we reached; I had been disrupting their practices too much, so the girls started drawing straws to see who would keep me entertained.
Since I had nothing to do this afternoon, I wandered on over to the Paris Public Library. I was dressed for the first time in the two weeks since I made my Pact with the Devil. Why did I need clothes when I could turn invisible? It was strange, feeling clothes on my body: the t-shirt was tight on my chest, almost like it was strangling me, and the pants chaffed my thighs, keeping my pecker from flopping about. I stole the clothes out of the house I haunted last night; the daughter was a good tumble and her daddy was about my size.
I found an open computer and went to my favorite website: the Unearth Arcana. A website dedicated to every supernatural phenomenon you could imagine, and not just the usual bigfoot, UFO's, and end of the world prophecies. You could find someone explaining how the layout of the major cities of Europe fell on the leylines and were part of an ancient Druidic summoning spell to bring forth Samhain in the year 2035.
I loved this shit; eager to see what the whackjobs had come up with next.
Of course, it wasn't all bullshit—I did learn how to summon the Devil on this very forum. In fact, that was the first thread I checked out on the message board. As I scrolled through the pages of post, it seemed more people were posting that they made their Pacts. My favorite was a guy in Scotland that wished to have superman's powers and posted a link of him melting a soda-pop can with his heat vision.
Finished with the Pact thread, I checked out what was new in the paranormal. One post title caught my eye: The Ghost of Paris.
I smiled, opening up the post and reading about my adventures. It was full of quotes from tweets, facebook pages, and other social media posts of the girls I had been playing with. "I have spoken to several girls that claim to have been molested by the ghost," ghostXhunt wrote. "The ghost preys on young girls and women, using them to satisfy his unnatural lusts."
I tried not to chortle in excitement, ghostXhunt investigated a lot of hauntings, and it was flattering to think she had traveled out to Paris because of me. Man, I hope I see her around town; she's one mighty fine looking gal. "Often the ghost spends an entire night preying on one girl. What is truly interesting is all the girls found the experience to be quite pleasant. One girl, wishing to remain anonymous, told me the ghost has visited her room three times in the night and she's eagerly awaiting a fourth."
That must be Heather, a smoking-hot red-head that was quite a screamer; good thing her parent's bedroom was at the other side of the house. She was the first girl I ever spent the night with as the Ghost. In fact, I was with her just two nights ago and fucked her ass for the first time. My pecker was growing hard just thinking about her fine, young body and that tight, wet hole between her thighs.
I glanced at the librarian, Miss Cheshire, who was looking sexy as hell with her tawny hair pinned up and those small glasses perched on her cute, little nose. I let my gaze slide down and eyed the tits that filled out her gray blouse.
I licked my lips as I stared at the Ghost of Paris's next victim.
In the bathroom, I striped naked and stashed my clothes. I concentrated and my body vanished. I smiled; I was free again. Why did I even bother wearing clothes? I could have just used the computer invisible. So what if anyone saw me; I'm the fucking Ghost of Paris and I could do whatever the hell I wanted.
Who could stop me?
I stalked out of the bathroom, heading towards the counter. Miss Cheshire was helping an old woman, using one of those scanners – like the ones you see at the grocery store that shines all of those red lights to ring up your purchase – on the book's barcode. School was still in session and the library was mostly empty; only a few, old broads, part of some sort of club, were hanging around.
"I reckon you'll enjoy this one, Mrs. Crabapple," drawled Miss Cheshire. Her voice sounded as sweet as honey dripping over moist cornbread.
To get behind the counter, there was a section of it that folds up, and both Miss Cheshire and Mrs. Crabapple didn't notice me lift it. They sure as shit jumped when it slammed back into place, looking about like a pair of startled jackrabbits peaking out of their holes.
"Good Lord almighty, what was that?" Mrs. Crabapple gasped.
Miss Cheshire frowned at the counter. "I'm not rightly sure."
I padded silently behind Miss Cheshire, admiring her fine rear beneath the soot-black skirt. My pecker hardened as I stared at the ass, and I shuddered as the tip of my cock brushed the fabric of her skirt, poking her soft cheeks. Miss Cheshire had absently wiped at her butt, brushing my pecker and sending electricity shooting through me. She frowned, peering behind her. She saw right through me and shook her head in confusion.
"Is something wrong, sweety?" Mrs. Crabapple asked, peering around the librarian.
Mrs. Crabapple and I do not get along. She hates me; when I walked into the library this morning, the glare Mrs. Crabapple leveled at me could have peeled paint. So I flipped the old biddy off, practically sticking my invisible finger in her face. The old hag once made a fuss because I was surfing porn on a library computer. Almost got me arrested before someone remembered that porn is just free speech. After the charges were dropped, Mrs. Crabapple and Happy Roberts had led a crusade to get me kicked out of the library. Happy – the wife of the reverend at the Paris Revival for Christ – was misnamed, a shrewish woman that always seemed to frown, at least when I'm around. Maybe this Sunday, I'd pay a visit to her church and put a smile on her face.
"Must be my 'magination," Miss Cheshire replied, turning to hand Mrs. Crabapple the books. "Well, you take care now, y'hear."
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