Exhausted from days pounding greasy Québec diners for poutine leads on my biggest case ever, I pull into the parking lot of Trois-Rivières’ grandest hotel. My beat-up suitcase wheels clatter over the marble lobby floor. Front desk girl hands over the key card with a beep. Elevator dings, fifth floor. Corridor echoes with distant vacuum hums and muffled TV chatter. Room 512: crisp white sheets, mini-fridge hum, floor-to-ceiling window framing twinkling city lights and distant highway glow. Anonymity hits hard—no one knows the curvy PI hunting a bearded biker dad and his kid. I freshen up, slip into my tight black dress hiding recent pounds, head down for dinner. Called Pascal, my ex-GRC cop fuckbuddy. Been a year since our last savage bangs.
Restaurant buzzes with travelers. I sip water—no booze on duty. Pascal barrels in, grins. ‘Fuck, Julie, you gained curves!’ He pecks my cheek, sits. Orders poutine. I gag at the thought after endless fries. ‘Toilets first,’ I whisper. Server nods as we slip away. Push him into the stall, yank his belt, drop to knees on cold tile. His thick cop cock springs free. I swallow deep, eyes locked on his. Expert throat work—he knows I own him. Grunts, floods my mouth with hot spurts. I gulp every drop. ‘Appetizer for the omble chevalier,’ I purr, wiping lips.
The Stopover
Back at table, water pitcher sweats. Fish arrives with salad. I spill the case: billionaire Bouchard, runaway son-in-law Marc, kid Manuel, rural Québec hideout hunches. Pascal listens, probes. Boom—clarity hits mid-bite. ‘Saint-Tite! Western festival vols, cowboy vibes match their horse fetish.’ I toss cash, grab his hand. ‘Fuck me upstairs, big-dicked cop slut.’ Elevator rises. He gropes my ass hard, fingers digging into poutine-greased cheeks. ‘Love this extra padding.’ Door beeps open. Fumble key card, stumble in. Clothes rip off in frenzy.
The Transit
Huge Italian shower steams up. Soapy hands everywhere. He presses behind, tongue on neck, tweaking my heavy tits, pinching nipples stiff. Licks down spine. I bend, palms on glass wall overlooking the room. Ass out, pussy dripping. ‘Ram that baton in me!’ He grips love handles, slams deep. Pounds like a piston, balls slapping wet. I snatch showerhead, blast clit with jet. Cheek mashed to glass, tits squished flat, orgasm rips through—screaming silent. His strong hands clamp hips, legs quake as he unloads inside, synced perfectly.
Towels dry us. Collapse on king bed, city lights flickering. Laugh about menopause boosting my nympho drive. He warns on Bouchard dangers. I smirk—plan’s forming: turn Marc into inside mole. Dawn breaks. Quick breakfast, kiss goodbye. He slinks to wife. I wheel suitcase out, key card drop at desk. Engine roars to life. Saint-Tite awaits, 45km west. That anonymous hotel blur—raw throatfuck, soapy railing, urgent release—fuels my hunt. One-night transit fire before the road claims me again.