Chapter 8
Hannah
What the hell happened?
Why did he leave like that? I wanted more. Wanted him in my bed. Wanted to feel him buried inside of me, skin to skin, nothing between us but heat and sweat.
One more kiss—that’s all it would have taken for me to lose myself completely. The kiss he left me with was so full of passion it felt like it could burn me from the inside out.
Now I’m left restless, aching, and painfully pulled apart by the want simmering between my legs.
I kick off my boots at the front door and strip away my clothes as I move through the quiet house, each layer gone like proof of how badly I need him.
By the time I collapse onto my bed, I’m naked and panting.
My left hand cups my breast, squeezing lightly, while the other drifts lower, trailing down my stomach until it grazes the heat waiting for me. A shaky whimper escapes my lips.
I imagine someone above me, kissing me with the same fiery passion as Sarge. Someone who knows exactly how to ignite me, tease me, and consume me all at once. But this man has no name, no face—nothing recognizable to hold onto. He’s a ghost of desire, a placeholder to fulfill my fantasies.
These ghost men remain like that because there’s no one I trust enough to let into this safe, experimental space. No one who wouldn't try to own me or leave the moment they’re done. A ghost can’t judge me. It can’t make me feel inadequate.
It’s a familiar, frustrating ache, a wave of loneliness I force aside before I can close my eyes and let the ghost take me.
His mouth moves lower. Down my throat, stopping to suckle at each breast, before heading towards my stomach. My hips lift into my own touch as though they’re searching for him. How I wish I could thread my fingers through this faceless man’s hair, guiding his mouth to where I need it most.
There is something incredibly erotic about surrendering control of my body to someone else so they can use it for their pleasure. I aim to please; I want to do well by my partner. I want them to feel good and have the satisfaction and pride that my body is what’s making them feel that way.
The idea of being so comfortable that I could submit completely is something I ache for. Not needing to make decisions or think, just to feel and enjoy, it’s intoxicating. The image of being with a man who has both the confidence and control to take charge in the bedroom is pure bliss.
To be moved where he wants me, told what to do, and fucked mercilessly. To have him stroke my face and reassure me that I’m doing what he desires. My reward would be knowing the height of his pleasure came from using my body.
This is all fantasy, though, because while men in the past have used me, they haven’t done so while considering my feelings. They use me only to get off and then roll over and fall asleep. No after care, no words of praise, no making sure I’m satisfied.
I force the scene to change in my head. Imaginary me is now face down on the mattress, resting my weight on my cheek because my wrists are bound behind my back.
My ass is raised up high and full with the heavy, insistent stretch of a plug.
My knees are spread and tucked beneath me, while I'm completely surrendered and on display.
No control, no fear, only trust and arousal.
Ready and so fucking needy.
The faceless man stands behind me, tugging on his cock in long, slow strokes. Taking his time, he lets me know that I’ll get exactly what I crave when I submit to him.
I don't only want him to use me; I want to be consumed by him. Because I know that once he takes what he wants, he’ll drag me into a screaming euphoria ending in a languid sense of peace that only he can give me.
In my fantasy, I beg for him to touch me—or to be allowed to touch myself.
When he steps closer, he swiftly moves his arm, and an open palm strikes hard across my ass for being impatient.
The sting makes me gasp, but my body craves more.
He raises his hand again, mercilessly cracking across the same spot.
The thought sparks my senses, and I spread my legs to let a finger dip inside to see how soaked I am.
The alcohol is stripping away my insecurities, bringing all the things I’ve never dared to say out loud to the surface. Sometimes I wonder if I really want these things or if they’re meant to stay locked away in my mind.
Adding a second finger, I begin fucking myself in and out, resulting in a wet slapping sound against my sex. My free hand tweaks and plays with my nipples, one at a time. The combined feeling is so good, and before I can stop it, the faceless man becomes Sarge.
He kisses a slow, torturous path up my spine while his palm kneads my ass.
When he reaches my neck, he sinks his teeth in, and a whimper escapes me.
He moves behind me, his rough hands latching onto my hips to flip me onto my back.
Sarge lifts me slightly, relieving the weight on my wrists, and brings me to his face like a feast. My legs fall open, giving him every bit of the access he demands.
I’ve never been allowed to enjoy a man’s face between my legs.
The act has been treated as an obligation or used to guilt-trip me into sucking them off in return.
I love giving head, but feeling like a burden to someone else takes all the fun out of it.
It’s as though they’ve done something horrible and monotonous, so now I owe them.
But this isn’t real life, and imaginary Sarge won’t make me feel that way.
His mouth navigates to my clit without hesitation. Between slow, devastating strokes of his tongue, he pauses to speak. His soothing, gravelly voice hums against my skin as he assures me how good I taste and what a good girl I am for letting him feast on my dripping pussy.
My fingers circle around my clit hard and fast while the other hand remains at my breast. With my eyes closed, Sarge’s intense smoky green ones come into focus.
He has a stare that burns through me without judgment and leaves me trembling.
I can almost feel his beard rub against my skin, his breath snaking my inner thigh as he delivers all his filthy praise.
My fingers are mentally replaced by his, as they enter me and curve upwards in the most delicious way. His mouth covers my sensitive and swollen bud while he sucks and makes circles with his tongue. The mental image is too much, and not enough, all at the same time.
My legs start to shake right before I break apart with a cry, my back arching as every nerve lights up.
My cry turns into a gasp for air, echoing through the quiet, empty house.
My orgasm rips through me in pulses so profound they border on pain, before softening into rolling waves of carnal pleasure.
Inside, I feel my walls clench and release in a steady rhythm, dragging out the sensation until it finally ebbs.
My legs are weak, and my chest heaves while the room slightly spins around me. Slowly, I float back to earth in the fading aftershocks.
I lay there in a puddle, melting into the mattress, before gently pulling a blanket across my bare, sensitive skin. My body hums, as my legs fall against the mattress.
Holy shit. What was that? Either I’m more deprived than I realized... or Sarge put some spell on me.
The quiet around reminds me I’m alone. The cold stretch of empty bed beside me says more than I want to hear.
Cuming didn’t fix anything. If anything, it cracked something wider open that I didn’t know was already fractured.
The need is lessened now but full of longing. My body feels alive, while empty in a way I can’t fill on my own. The truth becomes painfully clear.
I don’t just want release. I want him.
And that’s a problem.
A problem I can worry about tomorrow.