The Parapsychologist

The Parapsychologist

The haunted house was on the edge of town. According to local legend, it had been used by a gang of sadists, who had used to abduct and torture girls there, bobby-soxers who had got too close to the place of a night. But Justine had never been able to find any legal or police reports on the place from either the 1940s or 1950s. She suspected that it was nothing but a local myth. Still, though, there had been reports of screams coming from this supposedly empty manse. It was worth investigating. Maybe she would finally get her proof that ghosts existed.

Justine was a parapsychologist. Actually, she was only a parapsychologist in her spare time because, just eighteen years old, she was still at college, studying psychology and religion. But every Friday or Saturday night she went out ghost-hunting, hoping to find proof that ghosts existed. Parapsychology was on of her modules, and she felt that she was sure to pass if she proved the existence of life after death.

It was summer, and one of the hottest nights which Arkham had ever seen. Even during the night it was over a hundred Fahrenheit, global warming out of control. Because of that, Justine was wearing only sneakers, very thin hot pants, and a tee shirt. And she was still too hot. Sweat ran down between her breasts, and into the crack of her very shapely ass. It was dripping off her short brown hair.

She got her equipment out of the back of her car. Her equipment comprised a four mega-pixel camera, an old-fashioned tape recorder, an aerometer (in case ghosts made the air denser), a dosimeter (in case ghosts gave off any strange radiation) and an ammeter which could measure any increase in electrical activity in the air. She had to make two trips to her car to get all of her gear.

She set up her stuff in one of the rooms of the house. She then got out a pocket flashlight, not really any bigger than a pen, and began to explore the place.

She saw no ghost. But, suddenly, the temperature suddenly dropped in the room in which she was in, making her wish that she had brought a thermometer with her, as well. Her nipples hardened in the cold, pushing against the very thin fabric of her tee shirt.

“Hello.” she said, shining the beam of the torch around the room. But she couldn’t see any ghosts, or any other reason why their might have been such a sudden drop in the temperature.

Then, suddenly, her tee shirt was grabbed. It was pulled away from her body in three different directions at once, by invisible hands. The tee shirt ripped, leaving Justine topless, her cold-erected nipples and 34C chest on display.

“Ah!” Justine screamed. But there was nobody to hear her. The manse was set a long way back from the road, and there were no other houses nearby. She could scream the place down, but nobody would hear her. No help would be coming.

Justine tried to run, but invisible hands grabbed her arms. Justine tried to kick out, but there was nothing solid to kick against. Nevertheless, her face was slapped, hard, leaving an imprint of fingers on her skin. She dropped the flashlight in shock.

More hands gripped the waistband of her hotpants. The invisible hands tore them off with ease, revealing that Justine shaved off every hair of her sweet, eighteen year old pussy, one which had only ever known a lover a couple of times before 9and not an adept one, at that). Justine was now naked apart from her sneakers.

“Help!” Justine cried out, futilely. It only earned her a punch in the guts. She doubled up in pain.

Then she felt fingers all over her naked body. More hands held her ankles, spreading her legs. She felt fingers she couldn’t see forced between the lips of her cunt, feeling her up inside.

“No, please.” she said. But she was ignored.

Whihhhh. The sound presaged agony, as a line of pain erupted across Justine’s back. The ghosts were whipping her. She was sure that the whip must have drawn blood. She imagined the sort of whip they had used on sailing ships in the past, or in the American South before the end of slavery, the sort of savage bullwhip which would draw blood on every stroke.

Whihhh.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah.” Justine screamed, as another line of pain impacted on her fair skin, as the unseen fingers still groped inside her cunt. She struggled, but she was held as firmy as though she was in concrete.

Whihhhh.

“Aaaaaah!”

Another whip stroke, half an inch below the second one.

Whihhh. Whihh. Whihhh. More whip strokes fell, until Justine lost count, each one of them wrenching a scream from her throat, until she was hoarse. Never had she suffered such pain in her life before. This was true, brutal torture.

Then the whipping of her back stopped – but only because the ghosts began whipping her tight buttocks. A dozen or more strokes scarred the pale flesh, as Justine gurgled in agony and defeat. Then the whipping of her buttocks was finally over.

Whihhh. A pain, and a visible mark, on the milky-white flesh of Justine’s breasts. She found new energy to scream. The agony was even worse than the whipping of her back and buttocks had been. Over and over the whip fell, wielded brutally, not even a hint of mercy being shown. The whipping continued until there was barely any space between the whip marks on her breasts. Many of the red lines leaked blood. By then Justine was too hoarse to scream. She could only sob.

The whipping of her stomach came as a relief after the whip had mutilated her breasts.

Then her thighs were whipped, right from the crease of her crotch down to her feet. It seemed as though the whipping would never stop. Her sneakers were pulled off her feet, so that they would offer no protection.

Then came the bastinado of her feet, blood brought forth from her soles. By the time it had ended Justine would not have been able to run out of there, even if she had been released.

Justine’s position was changed. She was held horizontal, face up, bout six feet off the dusty floor of the abandoned manse. Her legs were spread so wide that her hips ached.

“No, please.” Justine croaked. But the dead knew no mercy, only hatred for the living.

Whihhhh. Whihhh. Whihhh. The whip flashed unseen through the air, the brutal lash hitting her cunt, lacerating her outer lips, until they were red and bleeding. Justine was almost out of it. But the whipping was not yet done. More unseen fingers grabbed her cuntlips, pulling them open as far as they would go, while others grabbed her clitotal hood and pulled it back, leaving no protection for Justine’s pearl.

Whihhh. Whihhh. Whihh. The whip struck again. The force was not lessened because the target was such an intimate and sensitive part of Justine’s anatomy. As much force was used as had been used on every other part. Her inner cunt was lacerated, with blood spurting out from every strike. Her clit was neatly cut in two.

“No more.” Justine gasped. “No more.” Her body had been ruined. Wasn’t that enough for her spectral assailants.

Justine felt the unmistakeable head of a cock at her ruined pussy. It pushed forwards, brooking no resistance, as Justine somehow managed to scream again. But her scream was cut short by an invisible cock forced into her mouth. It fucked her mouth as though it was a cunt. Somehow Justine managed not to pass out, drawing air in through her flaring nostrils.

Another cock entered her anus. It was to big for her. She had never had anything bigger than a finger up there before. But it forced its way up into her bowels, until she had taken twelve inches of the ghostly cock.

On and on Justine was raped in all three holes, until the three cocks came at once, releasing ectoplasmic sperm into her cunt, anus and mouth, forcing her to swallow and choke. Then another three cocks entered her. That went on for hours, well into the early hours of the morning, until at least a dozen ghostly cocks had erupted inside all three holes.

Justine was shattered. She felt half-dead. But there was one more thing to some, for the ghosts had not yet released her.

The ghosts let her see her final torture. There was a branding iron in the air. It glowed orange. It had a small X at the end, at the point of impact.

“No.” was all Justine could say. She saw the branding iron go behind her, out of sight. Then came a pain so terrible and intense that she could not bear it.

She was slapped awake. The ghosts did not want her to miss anything. She was branded on the other buttock. Again she fainted, and again she had to be slapped back to consciousness, the teeth rattling in her jaw.

She looked. The branding iron was in front of her. It advanced an inch at a time, its target her left breast.

“No, please.”

The branding iron touched her left breast, being held there, the X right on her nipple. She screamed but did not faint. Nor did she faint when the branding iron destroyed the nipple of her left breast. There was only a charred X to show where it had once been.

Then the hands forced her into a horizontal position once more. Justine guessed what they were going to do.

“No, please, not my clit. Please, do anything else but that.”

The branding iron moved forward to within an inch of her clit – then stopped. It was held there. Justine could feel the heat coming off it. But she thought that maybe, at the end, the ghosts were going to be merciful.

The branding iron was plunged down onto her clit and held there for the longest count of all. Justine screamed and fainted for the final time.

Justine awoke. It was dawn. She felt incredible. She looked down at her baked body, to see not a mark on it. There were no whip marks, and no brandings. But evidence that it had all taken place was evinced by her shredded clothes.

Justine, naked apart from her sneakers, went down to her equipment, to find that the devices had recorded nothing. The tape recorder had not even picked up her screams. She would have to come back on the following night

But perhaps I will strip off before coming inside, she thought to herself, with a smile, as she packed her stuff away in her car.