Day 13.
Nathan woke up, body limp, butthole sore, and shaft kissed red from ghostly worship.
Sheets were clinging in places he didn't want to talk about.
His legs refused to move.
His neck had bite marks, from air.
He stared up at the ceiling fan like it could offer him therapy.
"You didn't hold back at all…"
His voice cracked.
The silence was suspiciously smug.
And then the mirror fogged.
"YOU BEGGED."
Nathan groaned into his pillow.
---
Kitchen crawl of shame
He managed to crawl, crawl, to the kitchen, dragging a blanket behind him like a war survivor.
He poured water with trembling hands, only to feel a breeze lift his shirt and stroke his shaft.
Gently. Intimately. As if proud of its own sin.
"Stop it."
A whisper on his neck:
"MAKE ME."
He gripped the counter.
Last night's memories flooded back.
---
Fridge Notes
A sticky note on the fridge door:
"MILK FOR THE SHAFT, YOU NEED CALCIUM."
"You're unhinged!"
A second note appeared on the toaster:
"AND YOU LOVE IT."
---
Trying to leave
Nathan braved the front door.
Deep breath.
One hand on the knob.
And then, SLAP.
The ghost's invisible hand smacked his ass. Hard.
He gasped, jumped three feet forward, and dropped the grocery bag.
The mirror fogged once more.
"CLAIMED."
---
Evening whispers
When Nathan sat on the couch, a cool breeze kissed the back of his neck.
"STILL SORE?"
He nodded without thinking.
"GOOD."
The air curled around his ear.
"TONIGHT, I'M NOT LETTING YOU WALK TOMORROW."
Nathan screamed into the cushion.
----
Nathan didn't remember when his knees gave out, only that he was suddenly lying there, chest heaving, body arching against an invisible weight that pinned him down with intention. His legs were parted, trembling. His arms sprawled, palms curling into the sheets as though they could ground him in this storm of sensation.
The air around him felt alive. Thick. Molten. Possessed.
Something unseen gripped his thighs again, spreading them wider like it had all the right in the world. The touch wasn't hesitant anymore, it was confident, knowing exactly where to press, where to tease, where to make him writhe. A hand he couldn't see held down his hip, firm enough to bruise if it were flesh.
Then--
Pressure.
Right at his ass. A deliberate drag. A grind that made his spine snap into a sharp curve, a moan bursting free from his lips before he could muffle it.
He bit down hard on the pillow.
"Hah—fuck..."
Another stroke. This one slower. Lingering. As though savoring him. The friction was maddening, slick and obscene, ghosting up and down between his legs, coaxing a heat from his belly that felt dangerously close to tipping.
Nathan bucked, helpless to stop the movement. He needed more, wanted more, and the phantom knew.
A cool breath tickled the back of his neck, followed by a whisper, low and firm:
"MINE."
Then it moved. Deep, like a pulse through every nerve. His hips jerked up, his toes curled, and the tension behind his eyes burned white. The ghost's weight pushed down as it kept thrusting, slow at first, then sharp and heavy. The rhythm was brutal, relentless.
And the sounds. Gods, the sounds.
Each stroke filled the room with wet, lewd squelches paired with Nathan's breathless gasps and bitten-back cries. His shaft slapping air echoed like thunder against silk, like he was being wrecked into another realm entirely.
He reached for something, anything, but found only air.
Fingers slipped down his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach, dragging up to pinch a nipple, then rolled it between two fingers with just the right pressure to have his body twitch.
Nathan sobbed a breath.
"Please…"
Was he begging? For it to stop? Or for more?
Even he didn't know.
The ghost didn't answer, it devoured. His back arched higher, another grind deep into his core, and Nathan shattered with a choked cry, his climax crashing into him like a tsunami, wrecking every thought, every breath, until he collapsed into the sheets, boneless.
It didn't stop.
Even after he came, the phantom kept moving, slower now, dragging out every oversensitive twitch with a cruel sort of affection.
Nathan whimpered. His legs shook.
And the last thing he heard before blacking out from overstimulation--
Was a soft kiss on the nape of his neck.
Then silence.
---
Nathan didn't even flinch anymore. He stopped counting the days he spent in his apartment.
The moment his legs were spread, he let them stay that way. He didn't fight, didn't squirm, didn't try to pretend he had control. He gave it up. All of it. Gladly.
Every moan he made wasn't muffled. He let them out. The walls could echo, the floor could creak, the neighbors could hear, and he still wouldn't stop.
Because this?
This was him, unfiltered. Vulnerable and aching, begging to be taken apart again and again. And the ghost, oh, it knew. It took its time, savoring him like a favorite melody, fingers he couldn't see tracing his ribs, tongue he couldn't feel licking fire up his spine.
Nathan arched into it.
Pressed into nothingness.
Whispered "yes" like a mantra, each time the phantom surged deeper, bolder.
He gripped the sheets, not to escape, but to anchor himself, because he knew if he didn't hold onto something, he'd float right off the bed. Weightless. Ravished. Unrecognizable from the man he used to be.
There were no lines left to cross.
Only territory to be claimed.
And Nathan, he'd already raised the white flag, thrown it down, and whispered, "Take me. All of me. Just don't stop."