The Spirit Was Willing --- SATANIC SELF SUCK / FUCK

[fritz6744]

The Spirit Was Willing


During the dawn of my 24th birthday, I decided to make some massive changes in my stagnating life, one of which included changing my home environment. I dumped my roommates and unnecessary possessions, then moved into a two-bedroom apartment at the top of a 15-story brick building that had been sitting at the center of my fair city since the early 1900s. It was a dilapidated, sagging structure screaming for demolition, but for whatever reason, it had not yet been condemned. I was rather charmed by its rickety staircases, old cage-style elevator, creaky wooden floors and all of its spider-filled nooks and crannies. It was an ideal setting for me to escape into my own world and get away from the influences that were gradually taking me away from myself.
I was fortunate in that I had scored an apartment on the top floor on which there were no other current residents. I had free reign with little concern about noise or distractions from others, and since the landlord lived off-site, I was thankfully left alone. Some tenants might have complained of the dampness within the structure, the moldy odor or the carpenter ants which could be occasionally heard munching on the building’s guts. Not I. I was looking for my own private corner in the world, a place to be one with myself, and a place in which I could create freely with no disturbance. It was here that I would attempt to write my first fictional story. I was determined to write a spooky horror tale that could be entered into an annual supernatural writing contest, and I was determined to win. I was not deterred by the fact that I had never written a single creative word. There was an untapped resource within me that I had always shunned due to lack of encouragement from others, and lack of belief in myself. I was ready to evolve.
It took me about a week to settle in, get the place arranged how I wanted, and set up a little writing studio complete with laptop computer, post-it notes and a vast library of music that I would use as inspiration when fleshing out ideas that I had been carrying around in my head for years. Unfortunately, by the second week of my residence, I had already realized that I was a terrible writer. This was not due to self loathing or a lack of esteem. Upon reviewing the fifty-odd pages I had written in two weeks, I found every sentence to be pathetically contrived, reminiscent of other stories, and hardly inspiring. I could feel myself heading into a downward spiral of disappointment that would soon lead to a lack of direction in life. But it was also during this second week of self discovery that I encountered something entirely ridiculous and nonsensical, something you surely won’t believe as I tell it to you now.
It was around 2:30 a.m. on a Wednesday night. I had spent three hours trying to construct an outline for a new story until I got so pissed off at my lack of progress that I bashed my fist into the desk hard enough to bloody a couple of knuckles. I went to my bedroom and began angrily pacing back and forth, cursing and muttering under my breath like one of those looney bums you see wandering the streets all day carrying on conversations with the little midget voices in their heads. I soon ended up in front of a full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. I stood there for several minutes, naked, looking myself up and down with disgust. Strangely, my anger spawned a sudden state of hornicity, and before I knew it, my little fireman was saluting me, the head tapping the mirror to get my attention. This was not uncommon. There is rarely a moment in a given day when I don’t have a boner; it’s just one of those things.
As my troubled mind continued to spin furiously into deep levels of rage, my left hand instinctively grabbed my 7.5-incher and started playing with it, and soon my other hand was tweaking one of my nipples even though I was repulsed by looking at my skinny, hairless body. I have yet to understand why so many dudes want me and seem to think I’m this hottie ripe for bangin’. When I look at myself, I see a bony little kid with an overgrown dick and a freckled ugly face with the appeal of a poodle’s hairy ass. But when others look at me, they see a cover model for BlueBoy Magazine. As far as I’m concerned, they all need to get some fucking taste. I ain’t no catch, not even to a blind fisherman.
After a few minutes of cursing my own name and playing with my throbbing dick, I grew further disgusted and walked away from the mirror. I plopped into an old rocking chair that was positioned about fifteen feet from the edge of the bed. I was apparently fatigued because I soon fell into a light sleep, my naked body sagging into the chair, my arms dangling over the sides. I would probably have looked like a corpse to an outside observer. Some time a little later, I don’t remember when, I began to wander into semi-consciousness. My left eye opened with a squint and gazed around the room which was mostly dark except for a tiny lamp in one corner. When both eyes were opened, I leaned my head up from the back of the chair, yawned, and then nearly choked on my own spit from a sudden gasp of air. A visitor had arrived in the room with me.
I performed all of the cliché motions one does when thinking you’ve seen something that can’t possibly be real. I rubbed my eyes, blinked repeatedly, pinched my arm, and even slapped myself in the face to be reassured that I was conscious. There wasn’t much more I could do in an attempt to convince myself that I was hallucinating. After a minute or two, I just sat there dumbfounded, giving in to mystery, staring at what was before me with supreme confusion, but not disbelief.
On the edge of my bed was a young man, aged somewhere between late teens and early twenties. He was of average height, fairly slim, and had very little hair on his body except a triangle of fur between his nipples, which were, incidentally, erect and pointy. He had short dark hair, slicked back with a lot of grease, and I mean a lot; his hair was very shiny. As I studied his scalp, I realized that it was a style from the 1950s, sort of like a pompadour. I couldn’t decipher the color of his eyes or hair, for you see, he was somewhat transparent. It is difficult to describe to you what I saw, but try to imagine a naked man who is made out of water and smoke, the details outlined by thin lines of blue and silver, as if he was an animated cartoon character. I could see right through him, yet his body parts were distinguishable. It was then that a dribble of pee came out of my dick from sudden fear. I was looking at a ghost.
If you’ve ever had any real-life supernatural experiences, you know that your mind becomes a total wreck of disjointed questions and confusion, and all aspects of reality slip away. At first, I kept questioning my own sanity, wondering if my story ideas were taking some sort of psychological toll on me. After dismissing that as an option, there wasn’t much else to ponder. I wasn’t dumb enough to believe someone was playing a practical joke on me even though most people think so when they see something unexplainable. Nope. Not me. I had to assume that what I was seeing was real and tangible. The freakiest part of it all was that I was sitting there thinking, wow, he’s a really hot ghost.
Did I mention that the dude wasn’t just sitting on the bed, but that he was playing with himself? Oh yeah. While I was sitting there staring through him, he was flogging himself pretty hard, and he
seemed to be totally unaware of my presence. Although I could see through its girth which seemed to shift with the apparition’s movement, I was able to discern that this ghost boy had one helluva sizeable schlong. Not knowing if dead ghost dicks are measured on the same scale, I didn’t bother trying to guess how many inches he carried, but it was definitely big and beautiful. As ridiculous as it sounds, I was getting a raging hard-on watching him. My dick actually stiffened beyond capacity when he did something I had never seen before.
The ghost boy was very much into his cock. He alternated masturbation rhythm frequently, sometimes beating it long and hard, sometimes slow and teasing, but all the while his eyes never it. Even with the misty blue-silver distortion, I could see the expression on his face. He was smitten by himself, his tongue constantly licking his lips. And then, as easy as walking or talking, he leaned over and started flicking his tongue over the head of his dick. I don’t mind telling you that seeing this gave me a series of rapid shivers that massaged my spine and made my whole body feel like I had just smoked an ounce of weed. My hand instantly grabbed my dripping uncut dick and began stroking as I watched this boy from another time service himself.
While I fell into a voyeuristic trance, the ghost took great care of himself, licking his cockhead all around, then running his darted tongue up and down the long shaft. At one point he even started chewing on his pubic hairs like a dog gnawing at his flea-infested fur. It was then that I heard him, a very feint and nearly imperceptible moan. Soon I was able to hear his unsteady breathing and the sounds of sloppy sucking. It blew my mind, especially, when he let his dong slap onto his chest (I could hear that THWOK noise, the sound of a heavy cock slamming against hard skin…whoah), grabbed his balls and started sucking on them. He had his entire scrotum in his mouth, munching and slurping and biting. It looked a wee bit painful, but he seemed to be loving it. Regardless of how good it felt to juggle his balls with his lips, he couldn’t keep his dick out of his mouth for long, and soon he was deep throating himself and going to town like you wouldn’t believe. I could hear his feet thumping on the floor while his muffled moans grew louder. This was the first time I had ever seen anyone suck themselves, if you can call seeing a ghost do it as truly seeing such a thing.
Another person by now might have ran out of the apartment screaming or called the Ghostbusters or turned on all the lights while waiting for the police to look for a prowler. Not me. I watched, I pounded my meat, and I learned. I was incredibly turned on and there wasn’t much time to think about practical matters. What I was focused on was this young, studly ghost boy polishing his own knob, and I was praying that I would get to see him cum. I wanted to know how he would do it. Would he cum in his mouth? Would he pull his cock out just before the orgasm and squirt it all over his face? He did neither. He did something else that I had also never seen before and actually never thought about.
Judging by the increasing rhythm and noise coming from my little ghost selfer, I could tell that he was nearing orgasm. I was so ready for it. I was holding back my jizz, waiting for the right moment so that I could cum simultaneously with him. It was then that the ghost pulled his wet schlong out of his mouth and beat off while he threw his head back and screamed like a banshee. It sounded like a far away distant yell, the expression on his face one of mortal pain mixed with ecstasy. I expected to see loads of ghost-jizz come shooting out of his cock. Instead, what I saw was this: he took hold of his huge cock at the base and literally bent it down until the head was poking around his asshole. I immediately thought to myself that he couldn’t possibly do what it looked like he was going to. I was wrong. With what appeared to be little effort, he adjusted his cock to the proper position, then stuck it into his own ass about half way, and for the next couple of minutes he fucked himself like an animal while tweaking his nips, licking his own armpits, touching himself all over and purring like the world’s most contented cat.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold back my wad while watching this beautiful boy of shadows fuck himself. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to wait much longer. With absolutely no warning, the ghost boy’s body began to vibrate with waves of erotic power, and I realized that he was cumming in his own ass. He started to pull it out, and I could see huge globs of his creamy ghost-jizz dribbling out of his butt. He jacked off as cum shot high, far and wide. He aimed it toward his face and caught every drop that he could, then leaned down again and took himself in all the way to finish his load. It was unbelievably hot, and by the time his body had stopped doing the cum-mambo, I shot my load half way across the room, and several squirts actually blasted right through him and hit the pillows. It felt so good that I giggled as I pumped and squirted more semen than I knew my balls could store. I slid out of the chair and hit the floor flat on my back. My breathing was out of control and I was covered in sweat, spit and cum, looking like a rape victim dumped in an alley.
Shortly after, I sat up and gazed upon my ghost boy who was laying on his back, recuperating from his workout and fondling his balls. His dick was still tall and proud, dripping with bubbles of boy-goo. Just for fun, I stood up and approached the bed. I snapped my fingers, yelled a couple of words, waved my arms. He was either unaware of my presence or chose simply to ignore me. Further testing the waters, I took my hand and reached for his dick. Naturally, as I attempted to wrap my fingers around the base of his enormous ding-dong, my hand went right through it like I was reaching into fog. But I could still see it, and I swear I could smell him, could smell his ball sweat and drying spit. Like a child with no fear of the unknown, I crawled onto the bed and laid next to him, staring at his closed eyes and his rippling torso that rose and fell with each breath. If this was insanity, I was quite alright with it.
As the hour of 4:00 a.m. approached, I felt myself drifting into a slumber but was quickly pulled back to consciousness when I felt the bed shake just slightly. My ghost boy was apparently not finished. He was back to a seated position and, you guessed it, he was already beating his meat again, and before I had moved into a seated position next to him, he was already sucking on himself and swooning. This went on for several hours. I think I must have busted five nuts that night and morning, all of it just by watching him.
It’s been four months since I moved into the apartment, and every night since that first time, my ghost boy comes to my room and sucks himself off repeatedly until about 8:00 a.m. Last week I started to run into him in other areas of the apartment. I found him jacking off in the shower one morning, and at another time he had flipped himself over on the kitchen table and was facefucking himself. Needless to say, I have no plans for moving soon, and not only have I discovered a new sexual co-existence with someone not of my realm, but I’ve learned how to suck myself off as well. While the ghost boy has not yet acknowledged me, I believe that one day, somehow, we will connect in that other reality that he dwells in, and when that happens, the planets shall re-align.
I found my writing voice a few weeks after my first encounter with the ghost boy, and since then I have written eighteen short stories and had three of them published in small circulations. While it is difficult to stay disciplined with the writing due to the fact that my ghost boy shows up at any given time to do himself, I have managed to find a balance. It’s a strange union, something I don’t tell most people about out of fear they’ll lock me up. I love my apartment, I’m happy with my transparent roommate, and I’m always up for a little auto fellatio fun when the spirit moves me…so to speak.
THE END

[Xapprentice]

I like this story

[fritz6744]

yEAH It's INDEED a good history

COMING MORE SOON

[Jack22]

I want my own ghost. We can self fuck together.

[Happy Boy]

another good one...i read this one a few weeks ago (so i'm really confused how i missed the detective story!), but didn't have a chance to comment then.

i have so much going on right now, but i really want to go through the erotic stories i have saved on my hard drive...i know there are some more ss ones in there.

hope to see more from you!