(I refer to the male lead in this story as Zachary, even though in the novel Ghost Seer he is mostly called Zach, because I felt the latter sounds more like a kid at a bar mitzvah than a heavy manly lover. At any rate, I hope you enjoy this one and feel inspired to read Miss Owens' works as they are fun and interesting, if not the most inspired to be honest).

GHOST DOER: THE PROFLIGATELY PASSIONATE DISPOSSESSION OF ZACHARY SLADE

By Quillon42

Ever so departing from the haunt of everyday office existence was a former accountant now acclimating herself to an atmosphere most ethereal, something so much more substantial in spirit than a nebbish cache of number crunchers. Clare Cermak had been liberated from so much mundanity through an inheritance that imbued her with seemingly unending resources, as well as resolve to rectify a matter that dwarfed dalliances in Denver concerning tax returns and trust funds.

Very much in the same vein, the erstwhile investigator Jackson Zachary Slade had not long ago consummated his transition out of earning a living for the authorities in Montana. While the work gave him the verve on which he thrived, this sleekest of sleuths nonetheless felt better getting back to Boulder and other places in the Centennial State which he missed immensely in terms of family and others of whom he had before been fond. Beyond that, Zachary felt something in the air telling him that his destiny resided with a dame so desirable, as well as with dealings with death so dangerous.

Now at that infamous Coloradan locale, the very dreamlike community called Virginia Dale, Clare was seeking to put to rest someone who shared the surname of her most recent seducer. Jack Slade was a dastard deceased for decades upon decades, yet his spirit still resided within an earthly environment, and without human help the varmint could not evaporate entirely. It was thus up to the beauteous and bodacious bean counter who was Madame Cermak to retire the ruffian for all time.

Of course here as well, it was beyond the lithe lady to refuse the gothic gauntlet, as her claim on her lineage's legacy of lucre depended on her ability and willingness to remit these revenants to wherever they were to be ensconced in eternity. Because labor with actuaries was in actuality an infernal condemnation of its own, Clare was more than prepared to endure whatever ordeals in her way in the course of her forays for persons who had no longer belonged on this plane in fact.

Here it was at about three or four tolls of the bell past midnight, when the comely accountant encountered the dashing detective outside the somewhat quaint, somewhat decrepit wooden housings serving as the weathered skeleton of Virginia Dale. Clare strode only a few steps when she noticed Zachary caught up of a sudden in what appeared to be traumatically trying throes, the ink-maned investigator clutching at his guts, then his throat, and then most saliently, his very ears, this last rather urgently as a solute of pain dissolved in the solvent of fear in his face.

Charged up with panic and determination as of now, the CPA of the supernatural sprinted to the side of her Native American associate in nooky, she grasping her lover's wobbling cane to stabilize him while another swell of spiritual seizure washed over him. Around them both, the overly eager and irritating poochy poltergeist known as Enzo scampered about, he attempting to offer whatever succor the spirit could give at the moment—which wasn't much more than his usual pleading and entreating.

You have to hurry now, Clare, the canine cried most covertly, having only the heroine and her hunk hear them while the two semi-held one another. Zachary is pretty fairly flush with Jackary now as it were, and you've got to find a way to…coax him out of him.

Assiduously the aura-attuned auditor estimated that her burly beau might have only mere negligible nanomoments before his essence was erased by the interloping incubus that was the jaunty Jack Slade. Clare thus concluded thence that, in this decrepit vestige of the Old West, there would have to be a showdown most spirited between herself and the bloodcurdling buckaroo imminently.

It was just as she was pontificating upon all of the unearthly urgencies of all of this that the canny cane that was heretofore Zachary's sturdy support had lashed out most maliciously against the once-mathematically-mired maiden, the dapperly polished stick striking Clare sharply against the backs of both her knees, sending the pretty preternaturalist dramatically down to the dirt. Clare could not commence to collect herself before more brash blows befell her; a rap to the thigh, then a ratchet to the rear, the ravishing analyst evading another assailing only by rolling away instinctively, luscious ass over kerchiefed cranium.

Bellowing barks from the bowwow of beyond roused this most sensuous of Cermaks anew. Clare looked up from a sweat-sodden supine position to see Zachary's alpenstock most aggressively arcing toward her flagrantly fetching figure once again. She shot out most sprightly from her sprawl on the murky turf; if it weren't for a warning hollered most opportunely from the phantom mongrel Enzo, the sultry seer may have been gouged most gravely then and there. Readily now the ghost-parleying girl gathered herself, she fixing to initiate an otherworldly offense upon her opponent the likes of which had never been divined in any dimension.

Whirling up in the woman's hand now was the wooden hoop she recovered to liberate a little girl geist, the latter allowing the former to borrow said solid band as an integral implement to engage any untoward eidolon she may encounter. Now as Jackary jolted ahead, he raising that walking-stick-turned-reckoning-rod once again, Clare met the attack with her circle of cedar, she encompassing the cane with same and then actually contracting the rustic ring so that it closed around the other's weapon. Gingerly, then vigorously the Slade-Shade jerked his stick against its innocent prison, the connection resulting between Clare and Jac/Zac through this instilling a chill so concupiscent within all involved. Failing to hesitate for a fraction, the aroused accountant then leapt at her possessed lover, she breaking out of her blood red gypsy top as she soared toward her toughy target. By the time her deliciously denimed thighs entwined around her erotic enemour's waist, said foe had forsaken his vindictive stick as the shock that overwhelmed him caused the cane to clatter to the grimy ground.

Again most instantaneously, the lovely lecheress of ledgers climbed contumaciously upon the chest of the tandem Slade, she unleashing her tremendous tanned teats first into her assailant's face, the red rotundas upon her sumptuous summits crushing into his countenance most trouncingly. So stunned, the Slade(s) did not resist as Clare torqued her torso to strike with her pair of prurient precipices first against the left ear of her adversary, then against the complementing right. Yea, just as the spreadsheet seductress found the same auditory body part within a puzzle box in her inaugural ghost quest, so now was she boobastically boxing the very ears of Jack Slade, the man who had cut the same hearing-meat-pieces off of his victim Jules Beni over a century ago. Indeed, just as a man named Barton had patented his own form of stick-swinging pugilism which he narcissistically named Bartitsu (which Zachary had adopted through taking up cane fighting)…so here one could say the demigoddess of dividends had bested her years-yearning enemy through a martial (if mammarial) art of her own.

Clare now sighed and clambered upward for a second's respite, her sunbathed-beige breasts resting atop the scalp of her antagonist, her provocatively-perspiring belly a bisque of belabored breathing and beauteousness as it billowed again and again into the defeated face of Slade. It was in this instant, as her elbows hovered on either side of her lover's head, that the paranormal professional believed she could could feel the influence of Jack upon Zack beginning to recede. For certain, this moment had mollified the clamor within as he was confounded by the techniques of Clare Tits. (Ooh.)

Yet another beat, however, and Clare then found herself tumbling backfirst to the terrain, the Jack within the Zack apparently still fixing for a bit more of ferocious fooling around. As the femme fell, she found her apparition-appropriated beau had divested her of her tightest jeans on the way down. Now she was swaddled only in her husky headscarf, somehow still her boots, and so much jewelry.

Now Clare took note too that the Slade standing over her was more Jay than Z…and the look in his intrepid eyes indicated that he wished feverishly for her holy grail.

She had only one second, but it was certainly enough. Curling her legs back now toward her generous chest, Clare then kicked forward, she catching the other entirely in the chest with her bawdy booties and propelling him incidentally back into a trough of the hoariest horse water. Now the nearly-naked nymph of numbers and negated noumena noted that perhaps this happenstance may be the most advantageous, as it might summon suggestive images to exorcise one Slade from the other.

More particularly, the couple of Clare Cermak and the Twenty-First Century Slade had swayed about ever so salaciously in the shower, one which thankfully had friction strips along the bottom to establish enough inertia to keep their raucous romps from becoming too perilously slick. Now, too, this bitch of statistics and stiffs noted, as she neared the coarse container, that the floor of the tub was lined with residue from use over an extensive era that would likely also keep her and her eerily-occupied peer from slipping too blusteringly within the basin. A tussle in the trough would likely then be more of a pleasurable release than a precarious rigor, as it would ever appear.

Thereby it was when the Jack within the Zack had stood up after a bout of beats, he fixing to fling himself from the dilapidated drinkspace that was the horses' vessel of digestion, that Clare had capered upon the doubled-up-desperado now. Again, as established above, when it came to mixing spirits with the martial arts, Cermak was verily a she-counterpart to Ermac. Forsooth, the lady launched herself into the geist-cum-guyfriend such that the chipper chaps of her quivering creamy thighs caromed along and completely past the stolid shoulders of the synched Slade. Insanely the impact of this registered like the detonation of the most carnal keg of dynamite, and soon the man found himself within the trough once more, he staring up at stars as well as the awesomest of auburn tumbleweed planted firmly into his features.

Titian too were the tops of the two softest, most stupendous of tepees as they towered tentatively above the investigator. Then the same smothering span of suaveness tumbled down upon Slade Squared after the latter had had his fill within the serous saloon that was Clare's secret space. She scrabbled at her man's tacky cattle-kid apparel, she tearing it all off with the bawdy bowies of her lascivious lacquered nails, her Texas-breadth breasts two intense tents evicting all other celestial constituents of the horizon that her lover could presently perceive.

This here was a sweaty slosh of a showdown, this fumble of a fuck fixed within a foot locker of a receptacle, Cermak and JaZack melding like the most amatory of brazen muskrats, the brave coursing his pony most expressly into the babe's perineal post office, the vaquero's noose rustling up the most remarkable of reckonings within his girl's most hallowed of gallows. It was when Clare staked her most consummate of claims upon her compadre in copulation…when she was near to the end of the happiest, most titillating of trails as a cowperson riding most reversely upon her semi-revenant of a romeo, when

[AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH]

a yell not of abject agony, but rather of almighty assuagement, had emanated from the erogenous esse underneath her. The lady of the astral and the algorithmic then with subtle trepidation looked down at her man, searched the irresistible infinitude of his irises…

…And she found that the precursor Slade had slid out from his contemporaneous surnamesake.

Soon the duo of present-day specter specialists were whole in soul and clothing alike, though each was shaken to an extent from this evocative exorcism each had experienced. Still Zachary anticipated, accurately, that his mount would collide with Clare's wagon once again in time. To this end, he shot her a wink and knew she was thinking the same in her own banshee-battered brain.

In turn, the temptress of trances and tax returns twitched her ass most assiduously at him.

(Which, to be fair, was actually done by a fellow cane-fighter upon Zachary in Ghost Seer, Mass Market Edition Chapter 23, Page 181. Apparently Asstwitchsu is also a thing, and upon reflection if there might be coital automatons coming in our future (well, not this author's future personally or anything, but anyways), said robots of raunch could be weaponized with non-Square-Enix RPGs and infiltrate ISIS, they suggestively twitching away in a full fusillade when the enemy expects it the least).

Thusly did, through this narrative entry herein, Clare and Zachary and Enzo become an enduring wonderful posse, while this author resourcefully devised an astute and ingenious path to world peace.