Raw Fuck in the Ghost Hunters’ Meeting Room After Hours

Dim lights in the Chasseurs d’entités meeting room. 9 PM. Team cracking up over crazy emails—vampires, aliens, haunted frying pans. I’m Tahina, chocolate skin, huge tits straining my beige turtleneck, mini-skirt riding up. Sitting next to Paul, the producer. His redhead bombshell wife Marie across the oval table, still the sexiest 52-year-old in Quebec. We’ve been vibing for weeks—flirty glances, sneaky DMs on the work app turning dirty. ‘Can’t wait to feel that pussy,’ he texted last night. My core throbs thinking about it.

Laughter dies when Marie’s phone buzzes. ‘Yes! Delorme haunted house shoot!’ Silence. Logistics suck—middle of nowhere, November cold. My hand slips under the table onto Paul’s thigh. Firm. He stiffens. I slide up, unzip his jeans slow. Grip his thick cock through boxers. Hot, pulsing. He retaliates—hand on my thigh, under skirt, past stockings, fingers brushing my soaked cotton panties. I spread legs a bit. His fingertip circles my clit. Fuck, I’m dripping.

The Electric Tension

Pierre to his left joins in—gay dude, winking, grabs Paul’s shaft with me. Two hands stroking him slow. Paul’s face twitches, fighting a groan. Marie eyes us, smirks. Volunteers? Only I raise hand. She leaves for drinks with a ‘friend.’ Team files out. Door clicks shut. Heart pounds. No more screens. Real deal now.

I pounce. Straddle his lap. Hike skirt, shove panties aside. Guide his rock-hard cock to my shaved slit. So wet, he slides balls-deep in one thrust. ‘Fuck, you’re huge,’ I gasp. Glasses off, tossed on table. His mouth crashes mine—tongues wild. Hands yank my turtleneck up, bra snaps free. Massive chocolate tits flop out, nipples dark and swollen. He grabs, squeezes brutal. ‘These tits… goddamn perfect.’ Sucks one hard, teeth grazing. I grind hips side to side, clit rubbing his pubes. Exotic perfume—jasmine and spice—mixes with my wet pussy scent.

Savage Release and Chaos

Gri-gri necklace swings between my breasts—tiny bird skull, feathers, bones. Protection from my psycho ex. ‘Déesse,’ he murmurs, lifting tits to suck both nipples. I lift off, slam down. Slow at first, teasing his tip. Faster. Table creaks. His hands knead my firm ass. Flip me on back. Pins wrists. Pounds furious. Pubes slap my clit. ‘Take this cock, you horny bitch.’ ‘Harder! Wreck my pussy!’ Grips tighten, circulation cuts. Tits flatten, bounce hypnotic. Skull dangles, mocking.

Door bangs open. My ex—tall Black guy in suit, eyes bloodshot. ‘Ou wont pou m’twonpe!’ Creole rage. ‘You fucking a white boy!’ I snap back, pussy clenching Paul’s dick tighter. He spits blue rum—cheap clairin—in Paul’s face. ‘Stole your soul, blan!’ Bolts. I freeze, then laugh. ‘Ignore that idiot. Fuck me!’ Paul grins, thrusts savage. My legs hook his waist. Build explodes. I cum first—eyes roll, walls pulse, juices flood. He grunts, unloads deep. Hot spurts fill me. Collapse together, sweat-slick.

Panting slows. I sit up, tits heaving. Wipe cum trickling down thigh. ‘He stole your soul. Bokor shit. Need hougan now.’ Paul shrugs, zips up. ‘Tomorrow, noon.’ Drive him crazy with voodoo talk. Drop him home—exhausted yawns. Kiss cheek. ‘See you.’ Back to stranger mode. Phone buzzes—new match. Life’s too short. Next thrill awaits.