Pull yourself together and head to house #4 — the night isn't over yet. (Supernatural)

Porch of 3 Breedmore Lane, Maplewood Suburbs, at 11:41 PM on Friday October 31, 2024

I stand on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. The concrete is cold under my boots — at least those survived the night intact. I tug the bunny suit's crotch panel back into place, feeling it squelch obscenely against my swollen, cum-leaking pussy, and the sensation sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the October chill.

Breedmore Lane stretches before me, a corridor of jack-o'-lanterns and porch lights. House #4 sits three doors down on the opposite side — a two-story colonial painted charcoal gray, with a wraparound porch draped in fake cobwebs that look almost too realistic in the flickering candlelight. A hand-painted sign on the lawn reads: MADAME OMBRE'S SEANCE PARLOR — ALL SOULS WELCOME.

I cross the street on unsteady legs. Cum shifts inside me with each step — a warm, liquid heaviness that makes my thighs want to press together. I don't let them. The ache between my legs is already rebuilding, a low electrical hum that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

The porch steps creak. The front door is already open — not ajar, but wide open, revealing a foyer bathed in deep purple light. Candles float near the ceiling, their flames steady despite the absence of any visible mechanism. The air smells of sandalwood and something older — grave dirt, maybe, or dried herbs.

"Come in, little rabbit." The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere — rich, feminine, accented with something that sounds vaguely French and vaguely like it hasn't been used in a century. "I've been expecting you."

I step inside. The foyer opens into a parlor where a round table sits beneath a crystal chandelier. Tarot cards are spread in a spiral pattern across the dark wood. And seated behind them —

Madame Ombre. She's translucent. Not a costume — her skin has the pearlescent quality of moonlight through gauze, her features sharp and elegant and utterly still. She appears to be in her thirties, though the concept of age seems irrelevant for someone you can see the wallpaper through. Her hair is a cascade of silver-white that floats as though submerged in water. Her eyes — when they find mine — are solid black. No iris. No white. Just endless dark.

"Five men have spilled inside you tonight," she says, and her lips don't quite sync with the words. "I can taste it from here. All that life-force, pooling in your womb." Her transparent fingers gesture toward the chair opposite her. "Sit. Let me read your future."

I sit. My thighs press together and I feel cum ooze from me, warm against the latex.

"The cards show me something interesting." She flips a card without touching it — it rises, rotates, settles face-up. The Devil. "You're carrying quite a burden already. But tonight—" another card floats up, "—you'll carry something else."

She rises from her chair — and she's tall, seven feet at least, her form elongating as she circles the table toward me. Her transparent hand reaches for my face and I feel it — cold, impossibly cold, like being touched by winter itself — cupping my jaw.

"My trick," she whispers, her black eyes inches from mine, "is that I'm going to inhabit you."

Her form dissolves into silver mist. The mist rushes toward me — into my mouth, my nose, my ears — and I feel her settle inside my body like cold water filling a glass. My skin prickles. My vision shifts. And then I'm looking at my own hands from behind my own eyes, but I'm not the one moving them.

My body stands. My fingers reach down and pull the bunny suit's crotch panel aside — exposing my cum-glazed pussy to the candlelit air.

"Oh," Madame Ombre says, using my mouth, my voice. "This body is delicious. So full. So hungry." My hand slides between my legs, fingers pushing into my sloppy, overused cunt, and the sensation hits me — I can feel everything she does to my body, every touch amplified by her supernatural presence.

Then the candles flicker. The temperature drops. And from the walls, the floor, the shadows beneath the table — shapes begin to emerge. Men. Translucent like Madame Ombre, their forms shimmering between visibility and absence. Three of them. Four. Five. They materialize around me, their ghostly bodies solidifying as they draw closer, their cocks already hard — pale, luminous, impossibly erect.

"My boys," Madame Ombre purrs through my lips, spreading my legs wider. "Come. I have a body tonight. Feel again."

The first ghost — a broad-shouldered figure in a torn colonial shirt, his face handsome and hollow-eyed — steps between my thighs. His cock is thick and glowing faintly blue-white, and when it presses against my cum-slicked entrance, I feel it — cold at first, then burning hot, as though his spectral flesh is drawing heat from my body to become real.

He pushes inside. The stretch is different from anything living — cold-hot, tingling, like being filled with electricity. My back arches involuntarily, a moan ripped from my throat that isn't entirely Madame Ombre's. I can feel her delight coiled inside me, her centuries of deprivation flooding back through stolen nerve endings.

"More," she commands. "All of you. I want to feel everything."

A second ghost — lean, dark-haired, wearing the remnants of a sailor's uniform — appears at my side, his cold hand tilting my head, his cock pressing against my lips. My mouth opens. I taste salt and ozone as he slides across my tongue, his spectral flesh warming against my living tissue. A third materializes behind me, lifting my hips, and I feel cold fingers spreading my ass — a thumb pressing against my tight ring of muscle.

"Every hole," Madame Ombre breathes. "Fill this body completely."

The colonial ghost begins to thrust — deep, relentless strokes that push the cum already inside me into frothy white foam around his glowing shaft. The sailor fucks my throat with slow, deliberate movements. And behind me, the third ghost — a massive figure in a butcher's apron, his cock grotesquely thick — begins working his way into my ass, the cold-hot burn of penetration making my entire body seize.

I'm trapped inside my own body, feeling everything, unable to stop any of it — and my traitorous pussy is clenching around the ghost inside me, my arousal flaw screaming for more even as my mind drowns in the overwhelming dual penetration.