Supernaturally Stacked: Dove Plea

August Skye and Lana Smalls stumbled over their dusty spirit board while packing. They laughed, traded stories, and soon remembered the first place they ever kissed—Placard Manor. The halls welcomed them like always: shadows thick, webs strung like lace between the rafters. They cleared a table, set the board down. Before the planchette could even twitch, Penny Barber drifted from the gloom, pale and barefoot, eyes fixed on nothing but the heat between their legs. She moved without sound, breath cool, hands firm, guiding each woman down onto the ancient boards. Mouths opened, tongues met, thighs parted. Penny knelt between them, fingers sliding over skin, pulling fabric aside, tasting what living bodies offered. The first wet kiss between cunt and cold spirit pulled a startled moan from August; Lana answered with a curse that turned into a whimper when the ghost’s fingers pushed deep. The board tipped, candles guttered. The three of them tangled—hot flesh and cooler flesh—thrusting, licking, gasping against dark wood while the air thinned with their sounds.