Chapter 9: The Marital Bed

Tuesday, September 17th, 2013 – Paris, Texas

It was nearing midnight and Heather Pritchard lay on her side, snoring softly, which was strange to hear coming from such a beautiful, fifteen-year-old girl. She was my favorite bedmate—a redheaded vixen that loved my cock. Tonight I had made a deal with the demoness Astarte: she got to possess Darleen Cummins's body until dawn and I got unlimited sexual stamina.

The only problem was I couldn't seem to get any satisfaction. After making my wish, I fucked Carla Hardings—the famed paranormal investigator who came to Paris to investigate me—on a public bus. When the cops showed up, I fucked elfin-faced Officer Snider up the ass and left her begging for more of my pecker. Then I came to Heather's house and I fucked the girl for three hours straight. I must have cum ten times, leaving buckets of the stuff in her various holes, and wearing the poor slut out.

And I was still horny.

I was thinking of waking the little slut up and fucking her again. We could be as loud as we wanted; her parents' bedroom was at the other end of the house and they never heard a thing. The way her daddy had been drinking, he's probably dead to the world anyways, and her momma never seemed to check on her.

My mind drifted to Linda Pritchard. She was mighty fine for a woman in her late thirties. A pair of nice titties filled out her blouses, and her ass was only a little too plump, but that added some nice curves to her. Heather would be a lucky gal if she looked half as hot as her momma in fifteen years. I bet I could slip into bed and fuck her without even waking up her husband Elvis.

The thought of fucking a woman next to her passed-out husband sent a dark thrill through my body; my pecker seemed to ache even more. I slipped out of the bedroom, padding through the house as quiet as a burglar.

After carefully opening the door, I spied the couple on the bed. He was fat, on his back, and snoring like a saw mill, sleeping off his drunk. His wife lay on her side, sandy-blonde hair almost glowing by the moonlight. I ripped away her covers, revealing her body clad in a cotton nightgown that covered her modestly from head to foot, decorated with little blue flowers.

I slipped into bed with her, stroking her beautiful, peaceful face. She stirred, muttering something. I grasped the hem of her nightgown, pulling it up to reveal a pair of sexy legs. Her hands batted at mine. "Not now, Elvis," she whispered. "Trying to sleep. I'll jerk you off in the morning."

"I'm 'fraid I want more than a handjob, sweetness," I whispered in her ear, my hand reaching up beneath her hem to feel her sleek thighs.

Her eyes popped open with fear and I clapped a hand over her mouth and muffled her shout.

I soothed her, "Don't you fret, sweetness, I ain't gonna hurt you. Just gonna make you scream!"

My other hand reached her panties, rubbing her cooch through the fabric. Her body tensed, then surrendered to me as I felt a growing warmth and moisture bleed through the cotton gusset. I removed my hand, her mouth opening, and a soft sigh escaped.

"What are you?"

"I'm the Ghost of Paris, sweetness," I answered. "I haunt all the purtee gals in town. And you've attracted my attention."

"Well, I'm flattered," she whispered. "But I'm a happily married woman."

"How happily married are you wearing this ugly tent to bed? When was the last time you and your husband got down and dirty."

"I gave him a handjob just this mornin'."

"That's it, a handjob? Shoot, you two have the hottest sex life I've ever heard of, sweetness."

"We didn't have time for more," she added defensively. "If he hadn't drunk so much, we'd have made love tonight."

My fingers wormed past her gusset, wiggling into her honeypot. "So your husband's not takin' care of his marital duties, huh."

"It's fine," she moaned, her cooch squeezing on my fingers.

"I hot MILF like you shouldn't settle for 'fine'. You should have a hard pecker up your cooch whenever you want!"

"You need to stop that," she protested. "Oh, God, please stop!"

"Why?" I asked, my thumb finding her hard clit. " 'Fraid somethin's gonna happen?"

"Yes," she hissed. "God, help me."

"What're you 'fraid of, sweetness?"

"Cheatin' on my husband."

I smiled, pulling my fingers out of her snatch and yanking her panties down; her ass lifted up, helping me. "I think you want to cheat on him. You want to feel my pecker sliding in your married cooch! You want to cum with a cock stirring up your cunt!"

She bit her lip, fighting her desires and the power of my wish, but every woman gave in to my molestation. "I do!" I felt her thighs part for me, her hands hiking up her nightgown; I mounted her like a bull rearing to fuck. "Fuck me!"

I dove into her cooch, sliding every last inch of my pecker into her moist sheath. She sighed, loud, passionate, relieved. My lips found hers, tongues battling as I stabbed my cock over and over into her wonderful hole. The ache in my cock melted away beneath the wet ministrations of her snatch; a nurse easing the suffering of her patient.

The bed shook; her husband snored. Another sigh escaped her lips, then a loud, throaty moan. Her hips were rising to meet my thrusts, urgently grinding her groin into mine. She was as desperate to cum as I was, to feel that sweet, shuddering release wash away all your cares in a single moment of passion and bliss.

"Oh, yes!" she moaned loudly.

Elvis gave a snort and rolled over. She froze; I kept right on fucking her. The only sound was her husband's wheezes, the squeak of mattress springs, and the wet noise of my pecker invading her cooch.

"Don't worry, sweetness, he ain't wakin' up!"

She relaxed, gave a throaty laugh, and her hips started up their wiggle again. "This is so wrong!"