Chapter Nineteen #2
I swallow the shard of fear as he doesn’t touch. And he moves around me, I can feel him, somehow. A whisper of a breeze made in the stillness, the uneven in-draw of breath, the creak of the floorboard.
And I want to scream.
I want him more.
Time stops as he does, and I honestly don’t know when or if he moves again. The moment suspends, and all I can hear is my ragged breathing, the roar of my blood and the hammering beat of my heart.
My pussy throbs, getting wetter with each moment, and my nipples ache and harden, like they need his touch.
Then the bed dips and every sensation in me goes crazy.
His hands move over me, rough, shoving up my shirt as his mouth comes down on one hard nipple, biting and sucking, and I let out a strangled sob.
The attack is sudden, intense, and everything tangles inside.
It’s real, a dream. He’s a stranger I’ve let creep into my home. Break in.
I want more.
I need to see him. Hear him.
The Ghost moves down, and I twist and turn, trying to throw him off. It’s instinct, pure instinct to fight.
He rips off my shorts, and I’m exposed to him.
And what the hell am I doing? The thought surges along with yes, yes, yes, I need this, I want this, yes.
“Be a good girl,” he whispers in that low gravel voice, “and you won’t get hurt.”
Something cool and smooth presses against my throat, and I whimper, going still.
“I’ll be good, I promise. Please don’t hurt me.”
The words somehow become real, and the thing against my throat’s a knife and he’s a faceless, horrible attacker who doesn’t care, and I know, I know, if I plead or thrash, he’ll hurt me, and yet…
“Please don’t…please…”
But he moves the knife and pushes my thighs apart roughly.
I try to close them, but he’s too strong.
His hands are big, slightly roughened, and then he bites my thighs. One and then the other.
I cry out.
He pushes his face into my pussy, his tongue sliding into me, up along my wet inner lips, sucking as he goes, and something as pleasurable as an orgasm sings in me.
As his tongue drives me wild, he pushes two fingers into me.
I think I come.
My body flares with pleasure and fear, and I’m gone on a sea of sensations, lost in the hard lick of his tongue, the nibble of his teeth, and the slow, even thrust of his fingers.
He sucks and licks and bites my clit. Nothing too hard, just the right side of rough, the right side of pain, and it’s too much, not enough.
I stop trying to fight and surge into him, pulling hard at my restraints, needing to touch him as I push into his mouth, giving him deeper access for his thrusting fingers.
I wrap my thighs around his shoulders as I rub into his face, because I’m there, I’m there, right on the edge.
He pulls the hand not in me away and pushes one of my thighs down and open against the bed, pinning me there.
The Ghost takes over, this is his desire, his need, and if mine flowers under him, good, but otherwise, he just wants to feast, his way.
And that thought makes me wild inside, the flares of intense pleasure spark out, lights me up, and my clit is a ball of singing nerve endings, the too much is now not enough, but I’m at his mercy, and he licks me back to the peak, where I tremble.
He hooks his fingers in me, and rubs my G-spot, right as he bites down on my clit, strumming it with his tongue.
I lose my mind.
My body explodes into the kind of orgasmic bliss that puts what happened in the restaurant into insignificant territory.
I quiver and spasm as the orgasm flings me up into a wild, storming sky, and I’m the elements. The pleasure ripples, pulsates, and I shatter into a million pieces, my pussy crushing down on his fingers, over and over.
He pulls free.
A zip hisses and then he’s there, big, so damn big, and hard, pushing into me, taking me deep.
I scream out.
And he laughs.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, low.
I pull a hand free, somehow, and I slam it down on him, trying to push him off, fighting him.
It’s pure instinct, because even as I fight, I lift my hips to him, to get him deeper.
He thrusts into me hard, easily fighting off my attempt to fight back, and he slams my hand down by the wrist next to my head on the pillow.
He fucks into me, hard and deep, his cock hitting places I didn’t know existed, places so deep it almost hurts, but really, it doesn’t, it’s just a different, deeper, harder kind of pleasure that’s waiting to build.
I want to fight off the hand on my wrist so I can rip off the blindfold. I’m not sure why I don’t. Except maybe he’ll walk if I do that, and right now, as I struggle and fight and wrap my legs around his hips, I can’t afford that.
This is too good. Too intense, too perfect.
I like the wildness. The way he fits. The animalistic things he awakens within me.
Each thrust goes deeper, stretches me, makes me insane for more. And incredibly, it all builds again, the need to come, the need to be set free.
Who needs to see him when it’s like this, so fucking good?
He grunts in my ear, and his control slips, he thrusts harder, faster, and I’m swept along, my clit stimulated with each thrust.
I start to shatter, my pussy spasming around him, and it’s too much, I think, even for him, because he lets out a guttural growl and starts to hammer into me, causing my orgasm to hit me harder, wilder, and then his cock swells and twitches as he cums, hard, in me.
He pulls out, groaning, kissing my throat, my breasts, my stomach. And then he moves, the bed shifting, and he lets go of my free hand, tying it back into place, looser than before.
His weight moves off the bed, and the zip hisses again.
“Ghost?”
He doesn’t say a word.
“Are you there?”
Nothing else, and I listen for the sound of breathing, the telltale creak of the floorboard or my front door.
Not a damn thing.
“Ghost? Don’t—Don’t leave me like this.”
But I don’t even feel a presence, and a soft breeze hits me, along with the louder sounds of the evening from outside my window.
Fury rakes through me, and I pull free of the binds with one hand and free my other. Then I yank the blindfold off and toss it to the floor.
The light from my main lamp in here is on, flooding the place with golden light, the shadows where the soft light doesn’t touch not moving.
I scramble for my shorts and pull them on and tug down my shirt.
I feel violated. Satiated. Angry. Happy.
Getting to my feet, I go to the window and look out, but the fire escape hasn’t been dropped down and besides, I’d have heard it.
I rush to the door, but it’s locked. I pull it open and peer out, but no one or nothing moves in the hall or on the stairs.
Running, I go back to the window and search the street. A lone couple walks by, and a car moves up the road, but it didn’t just pull out.
Wherever he went, he’s gone.
Like the wind.
A Ghost.
The Ghost.
I shiver, and I close the window, stripping off to go and take a shower.
I’m not going to work smelling like sex. Not with someone like Isaac there.
My legs almost buckle as I let the water sluice over me.
“What the hell, Vi,” I whisper. “What the hell did you just allow to happen?”
Giddy laughter bubbles up, sharply edged with hysteria.
It wasn’t just sex.
That was groundbreaking, profound, and it scratched so many itches I had, some I never knew about. And I know I want to go further.
He’s opened something wild up in me.
I finish the shower, dry off, and dress for bed, this time just pulling on a pair of panties and a T-shirt. For some reason, I don’t want to ruin the Kermit sleepwear, so I fold them and push them under the pillow on the other side of my queen bed.
It’s something I don’t want to think about.
I turn off the big lamp and climb into bed, switching on the small one on my beside table, and I grab my phone.
No messages from The Ghost.
Lead settles in me, souring the giddiness.
Surely, he should contact me. Isn’t there something called aftercare? Or is this the way this game is played? Hot, wild sex in game form, delivered and left the way it comes, unexpected, abrupt?
I don’t know.
But I want to explore it, the way everything works, the experiences in the wild. I want all of it.
I put my phone down and turn off the light.
It wasn’t a knife, was it? The thing he held against my throat was smooth and cool like one, but there wasn’t a sharp edge.
Knives have two edges, the back and the thin, dangerous one.
So maybe…
Maybe it was just something like a metal ruler. He must have brought it with him, had it out long enough for it to cool in the air.
I think about it.
Is it a problem I liked it, liked every aspect, and I’m now panting for more?
This feels like a slippery slope, one with no end, and will I, with each time we do this, need the boundaries pushed farther and farther?
I don’t know, and it worries me a little.
Because…where will this end?
And more so, how far am I willing to go to satisfy my apparently ever-growing fantasies?