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Subject: The Devil Lives in Paris Prologue This story contains graphic sexual scenes between males under 18 and a horse. If material of this nature offends you then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age in most states, the state may have forbidden you from reading this story by law. Please understand this is a work of fiction. The actions described in the story are not real nor encouraged or condoned in real life. It’s fiction, folks, and remember that, please. This story is a revised version of “A Romanian in Paris”, with a slightly different twist! Feedbacks welcome at ail. I’m not native English speaker, so please be kind to me! You might wish to give a look to my other stories on Nifty: https://www.//gay/young-friends/little-alex-friends – A spin-off adventure among Alex’s friends https://www.//bisexual/incest/little-alex-jenny-and-the-machine – A Bisex variation with a little sister https://www.//gay/incest/grampa-will-journey-to-arkansas/ – The story of Grampa Will, Little Alex grampa. https://www.//gay/sf-fantasy/a-romanian-in-paris/ – A dark fantasy packed with young, nasty boys… https://www.//bestiality/little-alex-furry-friends/ – Little Alex experiments with his furry-lover side. Thank you! ***The Devil Lives in Paris *** — Prologue (no sex) Paris, France — 24 October 2020 Commissaire Raoul Guerchard sat alone in his car, parked somewhere in Montmartre, Paris. The service radio, usually tuned to police frequencies and clogged with service communications, was muted. After a quick breakfast with the obligatory croissants and café at La Taverne de Montmartre, he walked the short distance to his car, enjoying the crisp, fresh late October morning air. There he sat, looking at the basilica of the Sacre Coeur, its white walls and domes slowly emerging from the darkness, the cold light of the rising sun bringing them back to life. That just passed had been a long night for Guerchard, the last in a long series of nights spent hiding in dark hallways, haunting suspects, investigating the indisputable, the untouchables. Every night without sleep, filled with black coffee and menthol cigarettes, called for a toll on his fifty-year-old, divorced man physique: Guerchard was tired, tired inside şişli travesti him, deep in his soul, if he ever had one. The sound of the phone ringing filled the car. As his focus came back, reality began to sharpen. His mind cleared, as he pressed on the screen and answered. Wished he’d checked who was calling before he’d keyed the button. “Hello?” “It’s me…” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Are you on your way down?” Raul bit down on his bottom lip before responding to his boss, the Commissaire Divisionaire. “On my way where?” he replied, catching a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror as he checked behind him and pulled back into a gap in the early morning traffic. “No one else has been in touch with you yet? Merde…” “What’s going on?” Raoul said, cutting off the beginnings of what sounded like an oncoming rant. “A man found wandering along the quais in St Germaine, under the Ponts des Arts. He’s been assaulted and paramedics are working on him now. Doesn’t look good. You need to get yourself down here.” Commissaire Divisionaire Louis Dupré stood silent for a few seconds. `… and there is a boy with him, eight or nine years old, I don’t know yet… How long will you be?’ “I’m on my way” When he arrived at the Quai Malaquais, 30 minutes later, he left the car parked up on a side street, half on the road, half on the pavement. He could already hear someone standing along the quais grumbling at his arrival as he made his way towards where the main hive of activity seemed to be concentrated. He held his brimmed hat with one hand and pulled his trench coat tighter around his body with the other as the wind picked up and dead leaves swirled around him. “Commissaire Guerchard” Raoul said to the uniform closest to the crime-scene, tape still being strung up. He held up his ID for him when he gave him a withering look. “Victim still on the scene?” The uniform gave him a nod, then looked towards the ambulance parked up nearby. “They usually take people in his state with them when they go back the morgue. But the kid looks fine…” Raoul stopped himself replying with a similarly sarcastic remark, and instead made his way towards the figure standing a few meters away. Many colleagues used to make fun of him behind his beylikdüzü travesti back, mainly due to his fixation with an ever eluding “gentleman cambrioleur”. “CD Dupré…” “Raoul, finally!” replied the CD, glancing in his direction and then back towards the paramedics he could now see more clearly. “The man just died. Start taking statements from the closest witnesses. I don’t trust these uniforms to catch everything. And get that lot over there to stop bloody filming everything we’re doing.” Raoul looked over the Seine banks, to where a group of people had gathered. A few had mobile phones raised up, pointed in his direction. An African tall man stood out above all, maybe 7′ tall or so, bald, with a thick, well-groomed beard … two young kids at his sides… Guerchard instinctively raised a hand in front of his face to protect his privacy, but dropped it before — he hoped — Dupré noticed. “What have we got here?” Raoul said, trying to work out what exactly was being asked of him. “Just so I know what to ask.” Dupré breathed heavily through his nostrils and placed his hands on his hips before crossing his muscular arms over his chest, all in one supple movement. He was taller than Raoul — him being just over six foot, his in the mid five range — but he didn’t loom over him as other superiors had in the past. He was lean and simply unthreatening. “A 30-ish aged man found lying on this side of the Seine banks, with a little naked boy sitting nearby. He’s dead, the boy under shock but seemingly unharmed. Paramedics were on the scene first. Looks like he collapsed right around here. Someone has done a bloody job on him… There’s a trail of blood up the quai. They’re trying to assess the boy now.” Raoul scanned the surroundings, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary, but it couldn’t have looked more usual if it had tried. A normal walkway along the calm waters of the river Seine, lined with trees, flowers and benches, right in front of the Musée du Louvres, on a bright and sunny day in late October. It would’ve been idyllic at another time, but now: the police vans and cars, an ambulance and a bunch of onlookers spoiled the quiet. “What’s his name?2 CD Dupré uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up istanbul travesti a little, the side parting not settling quite right. 2He didn’t get to the point of introducing himself to us, Guerchard …” Another sarcastic remark, Raoul thought, but he didn’t show any reaction. “The boy only speaks a little French, he said his name is Vlad Drago-something. We have found an old ID with the man; we are checking the database right now.” Without saying another word, Raoul walked towards the group on the elevated side of the banks. Not before he took a short detour, past the paramedics working on a pudgy, red-haired white child. He couldn’t see much, but enough to know he was good. “You need to lose weight, fatty…” he thought. The paramedics kneeling beside him worked in silence, the occasional murmur of support almost whispered into the child’s ear. The white man looked beaten, resting on his back after the paramedics tried to resuscitate him. He had ripped clothes, torn and almost shredded. There was blood on the ground beneath him, but not enough to pool — just spots, patches. His eyes were wide open, surrounded by deep purple circles. Guerchard looked away, scanning around him, looking for something. Anything that might give him a clue how the man and the child had ended up there. “Raoul came! We have a possible match in the database of missing persons” CD Dupré called. “Look… here we are… Oguzan Dragoul, novelist, 32 and his son Vlad, 9. A Romanian refugee, living in Paris… uhm… his wife reported their disappearance on… MERDE!!! That can’t be!” Dupré ran a hand through his wavy hair and handed the phone to Raoul, looking at him with wide open eyes. “…disappearance on 24 October 1960… WHAT? But… but that’s 60 years ago!” They both turned to the chubby child, who certainly didn’t look like a 69-year-old human: he looked back at them straight in the eyes, with a devilish grin. Raoul could have sworn his eyes were red … ********* Now that I’m a “junior” author I understand how important it is for a writer to receive your feedbacks, kind reader. So, everytime I read something on Nifty that I like, now I take my time to reach out for a “thank you” to the author: please do the same everytime you like a story. Emails are for free and we authors live (almost) for your appreciation. Thank you to all of you that have provided a feedback! Please keep Nifty alive, donate to http://donate./donate.html … Seriously, do it. My stories on fty//bestiality/little-alex-furry-friends/

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