The story of a girl who doesn't just SEE dead people. M. Night Shyamalan is very interested in using this screenplay for his sequel; we just need to agree on a lead actress.
“Hey Amy, you’re drooling again!”
Amy did not turn her head toward the eruption of laughter from the corner of the classroom. She wiped the cloudy liquid from her chin with her stained sleeve and swallowed the source of her leak in an open-mouthed gulp.
“Jesus, that girl never closes her mouth, does she? I like to imagine her sucking on my cock.”
“Haha, no way, dude. Don’t stick your dick in crazy even if crazy has a perfect pair of big ol' titties.”
The girl hid what she could of her face behind a curtain of long brown hair but her breasts, too big to hide in her white uniform shirt, always attracted unwanted attention. Any attention was unwanted.
“I’m not getting close to that girl, either. Those noises she makes are so weird and gross. It’s like she’s always seconds away from throwing up.”
The boys took turns imitating either dying frogs or the gagging sounds Amy’s throat occasionally made. As an expert in ignoring unpleasant things, the girl kept her eyes fixed on the blackboard. Pretending to be unbothered was something she had to do every minute of every day to appear normal. Yes, mouth stuck open, only speaking one or two words between swallows, always shifting in her chair, frequently wincing, and walking like she had a stick up her ass... that was the most normality she could achieve.
The walk home from school showcased Amy's symptoms at their worst. On shaky legs, she shambled from lamp post to lamp post, stopping at each one for a break of internal screaming. Good Samaritans no longer stopped to ask her if she was alright; every driver in the neighborhood knew her as the weird, mute girl that waved them away. Rain was good news, at least. Living with her condition made a girl feel like she always needed a shower. Rain helped… a bit.
She forced herself to walk a little faster today, for she was meeting someone. Visiting the apartment of a stranger you met online was universally known as a bad idea, but if some college dropout ghost-chaser had a sliver of a chance to help, getting kidnapped was an acceptable risk. Hell, being a chained-up sex slave eating from a dog bowl might improve her current situation. If he could help. It was harder and harder to hope after each dumbfounded doctor and spiritualist found themselves completely out of their depth.
“Amy? I’m Jeremy.”
Amy nodded in the doorway of the boy's dirty apartment. With a drenched, white shirt hugging her curves, she would have looked like a schoolgirl fantasy if not for her thousand-yard stare and what the boy had learned from her disturbing emails.
“Come in. Sit down. I err… I saw your message. It’s… it’s quite strange indeed. So, you don’t see ghosts, but they can interact with you? Is that right?”
Amy slurped, swallowed, and only had time to say yes before her mouth formed a big, wide O again. She resorted to nodding and gesticulating for the rest of Jeremy’s questioning.
“What are they doing now?”
Amy put her hands on her breasts and squeezed. She pointed to her mouth and made a jerking motion with her fist. She pointed to her groin, then turned around and pointed to her buttocks, and followed those with the same jerking motion.
Jeremy shifted uncomfortably. “Oh. So… all at once? Does it happen often?”
Amy rolled her eyes then twirled her hands. She wanted to express: ‘Yes. All the time! Every day! Every minute! Every second! Why is that so hard for anyone to grasp?!’
“All the time? I’m sorry, that’s not easy to believe.”
Amy sighed and her nostrils bubbled. As usual, no one was willing to take her word without seeing the ghosts in action, so she began undressing on the couch.
“You don’t have to do this. It’s OK, I believe you,” Jeremy said, pretending to cover his eyes.
Her wet clothes slapped on the floor’s collection of pizza boxes as she peeled them off piece by piece. Even her panties, soaked from more than just water, joined the pile. It would all become clear to Jeremy once she placed her ankles behind her head.
Jeremy’s mouth was agape now, too, and not just from the sight of this young busty beauty so indecently contorted like a pretzel. Her pussy gaped and pulsated like it was sucking in air. The red, tender anus next door was doing the same. Invisible fingers repeatedly squished into the flesh of her breasts, and the nipples were squeezed like pimples trying to pop themselves.
Amy gestured for him to get a closer look and, after making sure he wasn’t misinterpreting her signals, Jeremy kneeled in front of the couch and dared a peek inside the magically defiled holes. He watched a sticky substance being sloshed around in there with more being squirted inside seemingly out of thin air.
“Ectoplasm! Can I get a sample?”
Amy shrugged. She didn’t understand why paranormally-minded people always called it ‘ectoplasm’ instead of what it obviously was: ghost cum from the ghost balls constantly slapping her chin and taint.
Sending a spoon down a yawning birth canal for a gooey prize felt like a game of Operation.
“Amazing,” Jeremy exclaimed, showing her a tablespoon of the off-white stuff as if she’d never seen it up-close before, as if she hadn’t swallowed hundreds of gallons of it since ghosts began noticing her.
Amy rolled her eyes again and regretted ever hoping this was not another dead-end.
“Sorry, no offense; I know it sucks for you. But this is a great day for both of us. And science! I’ve spent months building this!” Jeremy pointed to his kitchen table acting as a workbench as if he was revealing a grand invention. Amy had to squint. In the middle of scattered coils and wires was a cluster of coils and wires with a power cord coming out.
“It’s like an EMP for ghosts. Like, like a bomb of intangibility for anything that should be intangible but isn’t. Amazing, right? The science is sound but I could never prove that it worked until today.” With a loud scraping of table legs on floor, which triggered a few knocks from the downstairs neighbor’s broom, Jeremy brought the device closer to the couch. “Ready?”
Amy had been ready since the day she woke up coughing water by the poolside. How often had she wished the lifeguard let her drown? But there was something about Jeremy's enthusiasm. For the first time in a long time: hope. Real hope.
The lights flickered when the machine started humming. It went silent with a zap seconds later. With a pondering Jeremy watching her exposed parts, Amy continued to get ghost-fucked on his couch. Using wide eyes and flailing limbs, she told him that something was wrong. Ectoplasm dispensers were multiplying exponentially inside her throat, pussy, and ass, and she could feel every individual thrust, every throbbing ghost vein of every hard ghost cock even though there shouldn't be room inside her for so many.
“Hmmm, interesting. I mean... it sort of worked in the sense that it made the ghosts intangible to themselves instead of intangible to you. So now they don’t need to wait their turn and can go in all at once. How many do you reckon there are?
Amy couldn’t hear him over the torrent of hundreds of ghosts ejaculating in her skull at the same time. Her speech was a cacophony of glucks and gags. Even one-word answers were no longer possible.
Jeremy kept Amy in his apartment while he continued his experiments between sessions of exoplasm mopping. But that failure had been his life’s work, and he was already out of ideas. However, Amy's new living nightmare did gain him some notoriety in paranormal circles by letting him establish the 3 rules of otherworldly manifestations:
1. Ghosts are horny and crave warm living holes.
2. It's better to avoid near-death experiences if you are an attractive young woman with large breasts (seems to be their type).
3. There are a lot of fucking ghosts out there, like a shit-ton of ghosts. Way more than you think.
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