Sunday evening, 8:34 PM. My office at Entity Hunters, perched near Lachine Canal in Montreal. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the dark water’s gleam under city lights. Italian leather armchair cradles me, supple against my back. Custom Quebec-made ashtray, heavy glass etched with our logo, sits polished on the mahogany desk.
Maire Tremblay bursts in, slick gel hair, suit too sharp for his backwoods tale. ‘I saw it myself—a werewolf, straight from the movies.’ I sigh, pulling my new hi-tech aluminum pipe from my pocket. Dream accessory, cool vibe for pondering bullshit. He rants about a massive beast in Sainte-Marie-des-Bois. Mountains, lakes, autumn blaze—all gratis. Free flights, doubled fees, luxe inn rooms with Sally’s feasts. My girlfriend Marie’s poster looms behind me: tight black jeans, beige leather jacket cinched at her waist, bat sketch I drew hovering above. He ogles it, hungry.
The Privilege
I stuff the pipe with blueberry-rum tobacco, imported luxury. Matches splinter; one finally catches, singes my finger. Ow. First puff chokes me blue smoke fills the air, rich, heady. He grimaces—no class. I examine his gift: a massive brown-black claw, heavy, real. Grizzly? Lion? Publicity stunt for his village, Halloween boost. But the offer seduces. All expenses paid, nature escape from Montreal grind. Marie and I, filming her hunting ‘clues,’ me on history. Nights tangled in silk sheets. I call her during her live TV game—’All paid, double rate, our private Abitibi idyll.’ She hesitates, then: ‘We leave Tuesday in Popa’s truck.’ No plane for me. Deal sealed.
9 PM sharp, I slip into UQAM’s elite lab wing. Dorine, 43, brilliant chemist, waits. Her domain: gleaming chrome counters, vials of iridescent liquids glowing under soft LEDs. Massive bay windows overlook Montreal’s skyline, nearly full moon bathing the St-Denis chaos below. Penthouse lab for the powerful—our secret playground.
She leans over the workbench, black skirt hiked, tiny thong aside. White ass cheeks, soft yet firm, tattooed Homer Simpson peeking on the right. I drop trou to my knees, thrust in raw. Her cries echo, uninhibited. Legs spread wide, heels digging into tile.
The Excess
The claw analysis? ‘Results by noon tomorrow.’ I pound harder, belly slapping her flesh—flack, flack. Sweat beads on her neck. I thumb her pink, puckered anus, teasing. Massive tits strain her blouse, still perky. Nine years my junior, cultured slut who spreads for every sample I bring. Marie has her flings; balance perfect.
Counter rattles—colored potions teeter, tiny tiger-like bones scatter from a steel tray. Toxic chems nearby; explosive end would be poetic. Balls smack her clit, her pussy grips like velvet vice. Assistant Sébastien cracks the door: ‘Nice ass, boss! Not bad for your age.’ She moans orders; he winks, vanishes.
I erupt, flooding her depths with hot spurts. Groans rip from my throat. Pull out, shake off into the bin. She wipes, straightens glasses crooked, skirt down. Voice husky: ‘Pick up tomorrow—in person.’
Moon fades behind clouds. We share a conspiratorial grin. No traces left but the claw’s secrets. Back to the loft’s king bed, Marie waiting oblivious. Walls of glass shield our elite games—discreet, eternal.
