Chapter Text
The sun flares accusatorily at Ghost as it rises, barging through a sliver in the heavy blackout curtains. Not closing them properly would usually warrant an exasperated scoff from his wife as the morning light invades her sleep. She doesn't stir.
Nor does Sarah, a gently snoring ball of warmth encased in his arms and a dinosaur onesie. Ghost holds her close to his chest, careful not to wake her as he takes her back to her bed, wincing as he leans down to tuck her in. The pain ignited in his lower spine will no doubt become all too familiar now that he's consigned himself to matching a teenage boy's libido.
He stays for a moment to watch his daughter settle, brushing a tendril of her golden curls from her face. Even after all these years, he still can't believe he created something so innocent. Anything moulded by his blood-stained hands is usually tainted with the air of pollution, streaks of acidic corrosion left by his every touch.
Ghost trudges back to his marital bed where his wife remains motionless, bar the rise and fall of her chest, which is significantly smoother than the wheezing pulls of air he had fallen asleep listening to. It takes a minute or two of shaking her for the answering twitches and groans to morph into a response.
"Simon?" Tilly drones, cotton mouth evident from the rasp deep in her throat.
There's a glass of water on the nightstand. Ghost doesn't offer it to her. Instead, he flays open the curtains, inviting a swarm of harsh light in.
Tilly winces as she sits up, eyes slamming shut and one hand coming up to clasp at her forehead as if her grip would be enough to prevent her brain from bursting through her skull.
"What were you thinking?" Ghost asks, unrelenting as he crowds her, "Drinking until you pass out? In front of Sarah?"
"I–" Tilly croaks, the valley engraved between her brows growing more profound as she battles the pull of gravity. It coaxes her into the bed's embrace that promises more warmth than her husband.
Ghost sits beside her as she hunches on the mattress, "It's okay. I forgive you," he sighs.
After a heavy tick of silence, Ghost finally hands her the glass of water.
"What time is it?" She asks him through sips, too nauseous to gulp it down the way her every cell craves.
"Seven thirty."
The water is quickly abandoned in favour of Tilly frantically kicking her legs out from the tangled sheets and rifling through the wardrobe to look for an adequately steam-pressed blazer.
"Why didn't you wake me sooner?" She mutters, batting Ghost's hand away when he goes to steady her.
If she's worried about being late, she won't be worrying about last night.
"I tried."
Tilly ignores him, telling Ghost with a scowl that it was a rhetorical question asked solely as a deflection of responsibility. To say that Ghost is getting sick of translating her mind games would be an understatement. At least Johnny gives him a straight answer, often followed by sir, dad, or please.
Miraculously, she dresses without incident and stumbles into the kitchen despite her weapons-grade hangover. Ghost follows behind, being grumbled at any time he offers help. So, instead, he just watches as Tilly scrubs at the bloody crescent of her lipstick from last night's wine glass.
Ghost manages to corner her before she can run off to work. He cups her cheeks and doesn't show it when the lingering stench of alcohol makes his stomach churn, or when the sight of her face sparks resentment rather than joy.
"Matilda," he hums, slow and careful, "don't beat yourself up too much."
Her eyes dart around, unwilling to meet his.
"We'll have our date night tonight, just the two of us. I can cook if you're not up to it," Ghost says.
Tilly flares at the accusation. "I can do it. I'll cook for you."
Giving her an encouraging smile, Ghost strokes across her cheekbone. Her skin feels withered under the pad of his thumb. It's sunken, dull, and creased in perpetual worry despite the privileged ease of her life. It's miles away from the softness of adolescent cheeks Ghost has grown so accustomed to.
He leans down to press his lips against Tilly's, just quickly, to say goodbye. At first, she shudders, then she kisses him back like she's got something to prove. Ghost pulls away first.
"I love you," he says clinically.
Tilly's eyes well with tears, and she quickly reaches into her handbag to hide them behind her Prada sunglasses.
"I love you too," she whispers, giving him a strained smile as she hurries out the door like she can't stand being in the same room as him for another second.
Usually, Ghost can read her well, but that was bloody confusing.
Once the rumble of the Land Rover is out of range, Ghost goes about his daily routine of wiping all of the security camera footage. It's not like his wife ever looks at it enough to notice the substantial chunks missing from the times Johnny has been over without her knowledge. Tilly had agreed to the cameras for Ghost's peace of mind. Now he gets the luxury of scanning through the footage to find moments where the nanny cams have picked up on Johnny's keening as he begs to be f*cked harder, rougher, to make it hurt.
While wiping the main hard drive, he transfers some of his favourite clips to his laptop. The cameras are well hidden. Johnny likely doesn't know most of them exist, but Ghost knows precisely where they are. It's easy to manoeuvre the boy somewhere that ensures his c*nt is spread out on display for Ghost to watch himself split open later. He has his favourite moments pinned down to the exact frames.
His collection is perfect for days like today when he's missing his boy. It's Johnny's day off, which would usually involve one of them texting some bullsh*t excuse to see each other – Hey Johnny, you left a piece of lint here last night, do you need to come get it? Then Ghost would f*ck him on top of the dryer. Hey Dad, I've lost my phone, mind if I come search for it at yours? Then Johnny would barely get a foot in the door before his back was pressed against it, Ghost's tongue working into his c*nt.
Ghost doesn't have that luxury today. Thanks to the spyware he installed, he's watching Johnny make plans with his friends in real time. He knows exactly who's going, when they'll be meeting, and where. It's just a waiting game to see if Johnny will tell him.
Strike one is his boy not asking permission before promising his time to anyone other than Ghost. Therefore, he doesn't send Johnny his usual good morning text.
Sarah stops his possessive fantasies from teetering over the edge and freefalling into reality. The urge to follow Johnny about his day is quelled by his daughter proudly telling him that she didn't have any more bad dreams thanks to him. Ghost is relieved that she seems to have forgotten the distress of being unable to wake her mother. At least she doesn't mention it. She's used to her mum being long gone for work by the time she wakes up. Tilly's absence is hardly a novelty for either of them.
That afternoon, Ghost drops Sarah off at Gracie's. As much as it irks him to have Sarah out of his sight for so long, the sleepover will allow him to smooth things over a bit with Tilly.
Tilly keeps her feelings under lock and key. Seeing her waver this morning can only mean one thing – she's suspicious.
It's impossible to tell how much, if anything, she remembers of the night before. Not that she would disclose it willingly either way. If she doesn't remember, she'll have to admit that she lost control, risking her health and her chances of pregnancy in the process. If she does remember, she'll have to admit that her husband, the man she built an entire life around, is far from the salt-of-the-Earth man she thought he had become with her guidance. Neither is an option for Tilly.
Her desire to keep up appearances works well in Ghost's favour. He can pull the veneer of a loving husband back on just as quickly as he can pull on his old skull mask, letting her believe that she would even be in the running for the object of his desires.
Johnny was right. Each version of him, both lucid and subconscious, is a crucial variable in the equation of Simon Riley. It's clear now which version he prefers – which comes naturally and which feels like a prison. From stolen moments between the bars, he's tasted salvation, tasted Johnny. The key to his freedom was sacrificed in marriage, but Ghost is proficient in breaching barricades when the promise of what lies ahead is fruitful.
And there is no fruit sweeter than Johnny.
By the time he returns to the sofa, beer in hand, the new clips have finished uploading to his laptop. Ghost gets comfortable, discarding his constricting jeans and sprawling out in just his shirt and boxers, imposing despite his lowered guard.
Before he can truly let go and sink into his perverted gratification, Ghost takes out his phone to check Johnny's location. The GPS coordinates show him heading to the park. He's left home without telling Ghost where he's going. That's strike two.
Taking a swig of his ice-cold beer, Ghost casts his laptop screen onto the TV, akin to how he does when Tilly wants to watch home videos of her and her daughter. He hits play. It's Ghost's turn to watch home videos of him and his son.
Up on the big screen, he has his boy lying back on the same sacred sofa he's watching from. Johnny's wearing nothing but a pathetic little pleasure frown as Ghost f*cks into him deep and torturously slow, making him feel every inch of the heavy drag of his co*ck. Mean, deliberate, letting the kid know just how good his puss* feels. Johnny gasps when the hand cupping his chest goes to pinch at a nipple, his back arching up beautifully into the touch, lashes fluttering, sweet little sounds spilling from between his f*cked open lips. So pretty. He could watch his boy spread out beneath him for eternity. Especially when it's like this: Johnny's neediness keeps slipping through the cracks, threatening to overtake his bratty teasing.
"You gonna f*ck me this slow all day?"
"I'll f*ck you however I like, kid."
Ghost swears he can still feel how Johnny's c*nt had pulsed around him at the words, the phantom tight heat making his co*ck throb against the thin fabric of his boxers. Nothing gets him hard like his baby boy does. Nothing's ever been so f*cking tempting. He strokes the outline of co*ck absentmindedly, just to soothe the ache as the following clip auto-plays.
Johnny squeals as Ghost hooks his arms under his soft thighs and stands, holding the boy up like he weighs nothing, lowering him back down onto his co*ck, still dripping from Johnny's greedy hole. All Johnny can do is for dear life as Ghost sets a punishing rhythm, more than making up for what felt like hours of the slow rocking of their hips. Held up like this, Johnny is entirely at Ghost's mercy, reduced to sobbing out desperate gasps and pleas whilst his dad uses him as a fleshlight. All semblance of bratty resistance is long forgotten.
The next video loads, and Johnny's on his knees, still-gaping c*nt laid bare to the camera as he dutifully cleans up the mess he made by cumming all over Ghost's co*ck. Smiling up at him, reverential, the boy moans out thank you like a prayer as Ghost paints his face and tongue with each surge of his release. Baptised, born again from Ghost's seed.
"That's more like it, son. Just had to f*ck some manners into you."
Ghost's co*ck pulses in his hand, the tip poking out from the leg hole of his boxers, red and leaking and demanding more than the teasing strokes he's been giving it.
His phone buzzes.
Attachment: IMG_0832
It's from Johnny – a semi-blurry selfie of him outside, face flushed and hair tousled. His football jersey is plastered against him in the oppressive afternoon sun, looking from afar as if it had been painted on. He's standing in goal and flashing a cheeky juvenile grin to the camera, the reason for which becomes apparent when the follow-up text appears.
i'm a keeper ;p
You have no idea, sweetheart.
Johnny immediately reacts to his reply with a heart emoji. The puns and selfies are common, but Ghost can't help but smile at how he was so obviously baiting for a compliment, giddy when he got one. Clearly, Ghost's silence has compelled him to prod at Ghost for the validation he craves. Ghost wants to see just how far the kid will go to get it.
can i come over later??
No.
why not?!!
I'm having dinner with the Mrs.
Ghost watches as the three little dots appear, disappear, reappear for a little longer, then finally vanish for good.
It's a shame you're not free right now.
It's not a taunt, not really, just a little petty. But how else is he supposed to teach Johnny that he is Ghost's property and is expected to behave as such? Truth be told, he probably has just enough time between Johnny's football practice ending and his wife coming home to f*ck the kid's throat hard and rough until he loses all ability to swallow, reducing him to a crying drooling mess. Only for Johnny would that be a reward, not a punishment.
Unlike the others, his last message isn't read immediately. Ghost can only assume they're playing another match, or Johnny is being a stroppy teenager over being denied co*ck.
Ghost hopes it's the latter. The image of Johnny sitting on the bench, arms crossed impudently with a scorned little pout on his face, makes Ghost's dick twitch. He smirks to himself as he frees it from his boxers and gives it a few leisurely jerks, gripping it at the base and angling his phone in a way that emphasises the length. Then he takes a picture. Composition is more Johnny's thing, but even Ghost can admire how the light catches on the glistening head and casts shadows over each thick vein, framed between thickly muscled thighs.
Attachment: IMG_0062
Part of Ghost hopes that Johnny has rejoined the game, leaving his phone on the bench for one of his unsuspecting friends to see the name 'Dad' pop up in his notifications and obliviously assume it's something wholesome. Maybe they'd open it and find out what a dirty little boy Johnny really is.
But clearly, the kid had been sulking, because as soon as the image is delivered, the message flags as read. He should have known his boy would be a slave to his childlike curiosity.
dad wtf!!! i'm in public
Then go somewhere private and send me something nice to look at.
i can't
we're about to play another match
Excuses. If you want to please me, make it happen.
Not five minutes later, Ghost's phone buzzes again with another picture from Johnny. The boy has his back pressed up against the graffitied wall of the park's grimy public toilet, shorts and boxers pulled halfway down his soft and slender thighs. In the low light, Ghost can make out the boy's little co*ck and inner labia poking out from between the puffy lips of his c*nt. The hand wrapped around his co*ck speeds up automatically at the sight.
Beautiful. Lift your top up for me, sweet thing.
Ghost groans when the next picture comes through, hips jerking up into his fist. Johnny's got the hem of his shirt held up in his teeth, exposing miles of that tanned skin, hips canted up to show off how his fingers are parting the soft petals of his c*nt. The grip Ghost's hand has around his co*ck pales in comparison. His attention is drawn back up to the boy's face, eyes all wide in doe-like innocence as if he didn't just abandon his team to send his dad pictures of his spread-open c*nt in a filthy public toilet.
That's my good boy. Go play with your friends.
sure dad
i love you!!
His baby boy is so sweet Ghost is almost tempted to forgive him for his trespasses. But right now, it would mean nothing. Johnny may have picked up that something is amiss, but he likely doesn't know why, or Ghost hopes he would have apologised by now. He's not one to forgive the unrepentant.
Now isn't the time to think up an adequate punishment. Not while Ghost's eyes remain transfixed, distracted as always by that pretty pink picture. Ghost roughly jerks his co*ck, gaze raking up from the kid's ripe hole up to the expanse of his hips, admiring the way his hip bones jut out like they're begging to be bitten. Every inch of him looks like an invitation to be claimed.
An idea slithers from the murky depths of Ghost's mind. He sends the last picture Johnny shared to Tilly's iPad lying unassumingly on the coffee table. The larger screen and improved resolution bring his attention to the occasional freckles dotting the sunny planes of Johnny's torso that Ghost yearns to map with his teeth.
Ghost grabs his phone and hits record, ensuring both Johnny's picture and his co*ck are in frame. Shameless, he shows it off a bit, long and languid strokes from base to tip, culminating in him rubbing at the sensitive head and squeezing out another bead of precum. He lets go, letting his co*ck spring up towards his stomach before it bobs back down from the weight of it, unable to stop the chuckle that rumbles out of him at the knowledge of how much Johnny is going to f*cking love this.
The sight of Johnny beneath his co*ck never fails to make it throb. Ghost can't take it anymore. He grips his co*ck, jerking it in harsh tugs now that his attention has zeroed back in on the sight of his little boy spreading that pretty puss* out just for him. Johnny's flushed cheeks and long eyelashes look like they were made to be dripping in cum, his lush red lips spread thin as he holds his shirt up between his teeth for Ghost to see how his dusky pink nipples have perked up. He's got to make Johnny get them pierced just so he can tug on them meanly whilst they're still fresh and sore.
f*ck. That's it. Ghost feels his balls tighten up as his org*sm surges through him, intense like the thrum of adrenaline. The first thick jet of cum hits the screen, right on the pixels of Johnny's c*nt. The sight alone sends another wave cascading through him, this time shooting even further, coating Johnny's face and the coffee table beyond it. He's panting, growling, no doubt sounding like a feral beast in the recording, but he can't bring himself to care as he milks out the last drops. Broad streaks of opaline paint an obscene picture in front of him.
Because he's feeling generous, he breathes out, "Love you too, kid," then ends the video, sending it without a second thought.
Ghost melts into the sofa as the heady co*cktail of dopamine and oxytocin flood his body, mellow and sweet like honey, reducing his bones to liquid. He doesn't have it in him to resist the way his eyes droop closed, head nodding down to his chest as he drifts off.
He's on the beach with Sarah, digging a moat around her sandcastle. She's the mermaid queen, adamant that her tail is that of a mosasaurus rather than the traditional dolphin. The glittery printed scales on her Ariel swimming costume catch the sun like the ripples of the rockpools he's chasing her around, playing the big bad shark threatening to hunt her down. When Sarah darts behind a rock, Ghost circles around the other side to catch her by surprise.
She's gone. Vanished into thin air. He calls out for her. He scans the beach. The ocean. The cliffs. Anything for a glimpse of her. His eyes lock on the now-flattened sandcastle. He's consumed with the knowledge that Sarah is buried under there. In a blink, he's clawing at the sand. A roar of manic desperation tears out of Ghost's hollow chest when every inch of sand he uncovers is quickly filled again.
Being a light sleeper has saved his life on many occasions. This evening, it's saved by the sound of heavy wheels crunching against the gravelled driveway. Ghost swears he feels the exact millisecond when his synapses fire an executive warning of danger straight to his adrenal glands, his body moving on autopilot before his brain fully wakes.
He disconnects his laptop from the TV, slamming it shut and shoving it under the sofa cushions. The view before him makes him grimace. Grabbing a fistful of tissues, Ghost hurriedly mops up the half-dried crime scene he created. The oak coffee table has a noticeable dark patch from where it's stained wood. He hides it under Tilly's stack of celebrity gossip magazines.
As he hears the key turn in the lock, Ghost spits on the iPad screen and polishes it with his palm to clear the more stubborn streaks. Then, deletes Johnny's picture in a last-ditch effort to cover his tracks.
Tilly approaches just as he flicks open a news app and pretends to read. Her demeanour is the categoric opposite of how she was this morning. She must have showered somewhere because he can't smell any of the residual alcohol that was assaulting his senses this morning, and her hair looks freshly styled.
"Did you get my text?" She asks airily, leaning down to kiss his stubbled cheek.
She eyes up his bare legs, lingering on the bulge in his boxers. Ghost knows they're not stained, but it still feels the sharp electric burst of paranoia.
"Only just woke up. Everything okay?"
No, really, he wants to know. Sure, she's had plenty of time for the hangover to wear off and an abundance of overpriced coffee, but this feels like a performance.
"I'm perfect. I only texted to let you know I'd be late getting home." Tilly places a lingering kiss on his mouth, smiling in a way that accentuates her crow's feet. "I'm going to get dinner started soon," she says, then turns to leave.
"Want any help?" Ghost asks.
But Tilly shakes her head, walking away with what looks like a deliberate sway of her hips. Ghost cranes his neck to watch as she walks upstairs carrying two large paper carrier bags indicative of a large purchase at some overpriced designer. What the f*ck is she playing at?
Ghost shrugs, turning on the TV and cycling through the channels until he lands on some mindless action movie with enough noise to quiet his own mental chaos. He barely notices when Tilly appears and replaces his old, forgotten beer with a fresh, cold one.
"Cheers love," he grunts, looking up at her.
Bloody hell. It's been years since he's seen her this dressed up. She's wearing a short baby-pink dress with t-shirt sleeves and a white collar. The design is vaguely reminiscent of Sarah's summer dresses for school, with the addition of a pearled white bow laced between the collars. God help him, Ghost's first thought is of how divine Johnny would look in it.
But Tilly looks nice, too. Her hair is pulled back in a high pony, her curls like waterfalls of chocolate flowing down to the base of her neck. Her makeup is subtle, but it's doing wonders for her. Whatever she's done differently this time has made her look about ten years younger.
Her behaviour is so bizarre that Ghost almost forgets that he's supposed to be putting on a performance of his own. He's played this role so well, and for so long, part of him had started to believe he really was capable of being the honest man she expected of him.
Ghost's tactic is simple – pretend she's Johnny.
It's not easy. She's too tall as he prowls up to her, bringing one hand up to her neck and tracing his thumb over her jawbone, up to her ear, and back to her chin. His eyes lock on to her lips, plumped with gloss and tinged the same peachy pink as her nipples. Despite the makeup, this close he can still see the fine wrinkles lining her forehead and the indent of her smile lines.
Pretend she's Johnny.
"You look f*cking delicious," he groans.
Tilly's eyes bloom in surprise, clearly not expecting a reaction that intense.
Ghost kisses her eagerly, disregarding the grim stickiness of her lip gloss. Even without the distraction of his favourite new toy, he can't remember the last time he kissed his wife like this. The hand not cupping her jaw grabs her waist and pulls her flush against him, his tongue flicking against her lower lip.
She pulls away, gasping. "Simon," she breathes, hands braced on his broad chest.
"I missed you today," he tells Johnny.
The eyes before him, hazel, wrong, harbour sadness like a fugitive.
"Do you think you can stand to be without me long enough to finish cooking us dinner?" She teases.
"I'll be just fine," Ghost says, giving her one last peck as she heads back to the kitchen.
Feeling slightly underdressed in comparison, Ghost downs his beer and then heads upstairs to put on some trousers. The fanciest things he's willing to wear are a pair of jeans – no way is he wearing dress slacks in his own home – and a form-fitting button-down with the sleeves rolled up the forearms, both complimentary shades of black.
The itch under his skin compels him to check on Johnny once again. Ghost still hasn't heard from him. It's been hours. There's no way he's still at football practice.
Johnny's location shows him at a pub, and Ghost's stomach plummets. He scrolls through his accesses on the boy's phone until he finds the microphone, permitting himself to listen in. The voices are muffled, Johnny's phone is likely stuffed in a pocket. But he can vaguely make out Garrick's teasing voice telling Johnny that he's been no fun lately; how come it's the first time in weeks that they've managed to get him to join them in the pub, and he's turning down free drinks?
He better be f*cking turning them down. Ghost's blood simmers into scorching rage. What Ghost wouldn't give to go down there and slam the head of every patron who looked at his boy too long into the bar. What he would do to the ones trying to buy Johnny drinks don't bear thinking about.
Ringing in his ears nearly prevents him from hearing when Johnny puts his foot down and says his goodbyes, followed by Alex's playful retort, "Fine by us, mate, take your lemonade and piss off."
Ghost watches the blip move around on the map in front of him. Like seeing the Earth from space, that little blue dot is his entire world. He watches it leave the pub and head towards the taxi rank. He sends Johnny twenty quid to cover his travel fares. The desire to buy his boy a new car resurfaces, this time not just for the sake of spoiling him but more to ensure strange old men aren't driving him around.
Switching his phone from silent to vibrate gives him a little peace of mind now that he's plotted Johnny's route home. He will be notified if the kid deviates too far off course.
When he joins Tilly in the dining room, she switches off the overhead lights in favour of the soft glow of the wall scones and a couple of candles. The table is covered in a wine-red table runner that contrasts against the dark walnut. Their finest tableware is arranged meticulously, the cutlery polished so that it glints and flickers in time with the dancing flames, the waltz observed by a vase of fresh roses.
Ghost fights the urge to roll his eyes. Tilly knows he hates all the pomp and circ*mstance, especially regarding meals. When you've spent most of your life choking down barely edible slop out of MRE bags, there comes a point where it's preferable to fine dining. Food is mostly fuel to him.
He goes through the motions, chewing his steak and mechanically asking his wife about her day. He listens to her prattle on about office drama. She tells him how her coworker's husband has been sleeping in the spare room again after their most recent scandal, the two of them constantly at each other's throats. He nods along, wondering if the coworker had put her up to this façade of a doting housewife and if Tilly had her own stories to share.
Halfway through her next tale of how the office know-it-all just got put on performance review, his phone buzzes in a flurry of messages. He knows they're from Johnny; nobody else bombards him like this. The kid likely just saw his video, and from the feeling of his phone vibrating a hole through his pocket, he's losing his mind over it. Ghost hides his smirk in a sip of the outrageously expensive twenty-five-year-old bourbon Tilly bought this afternoon. It's a little too aged for his liking; truth be told, he's always preferred the harsh bite of the cheap sh*t.
"Did you give your sample to the clinic?" Tilly asks out of nowhere, her usual bluntness dragging him back to reality.
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, it would be a waste of time for us to go for the egg extraction tomorrow if they've got nothing to fertilise them with," she says matter-of-factly.
Ghost is only glad he's finished eating. Trust Tilly to make the thought of knocking someone up clinical and unappealing.
"We should pack after dinner," she continues, "if we leave early enough, we can unpack at Mum's first. That way, we can relax once it's done."
The thought of spending any length of time with his mother-in-law makes his stomach churn even more. She loathes him. A feeling that is very much mutual.
He'd much rather stay here. He could have Johnny all to himself with his wife and daughter gone for the weekend. There would be no time constraints, no sneaking around, no worrying that they might wake Sarah. The thought has him chomping at the bit like a stallion at the starting gates.
"Oh, you must've forgotten after your episode last night, love," Ghost says, watching as his words corrupt Tilly's amiable expression but continuing nonetheless, "I told you yesterday. An important consultation came up. I can't come with you."
Tilly frowns into her wine glass filled with sparkling cordial. "I see. Must have slipped my mind."
She launches into another boring office tale. Her droning is accompanied by the images shifting in Ghost's mind of all the positions he can put Johnny's young and pliable frame in tomorrow. As far as Tilly is concerned, the desire in his eyes is for her. As far as Tilly is concerned, Ghost doesn't mind how her grey hairs blink at him in the candlelight, a flashing reminder of her age.
When Tilly clears their empty plates and puts the dessert in the oven, Ghost gets to check his messages.
As suspected, they're all from Johnny.
fuuuuck
your co*ck is so perfect
Attachment: VIDEO_131729.mp4
Ghost hits play.
Johnny's lying back on his bed, lazily pumping two fingers into his puss*. Ghost has to fumble to silence his phone. Even with the volume turned nearly all the way down, he can still distinctly hear how soaked the boy is. He shows those slim fingers off to the camera, glazed with slick and the tips pruning up from how much he's been playing in his own mess. Ghost's beastly hunger is awoken, a calling to devour.
my fingers don't feel as good as yours
yours are nice and thick
Knowing that Johnny's at home, f*cking himself on his fingers and no doubt whining pathetically that they're not big enough for him has Ghost white-knuckling his phone. He watches the video again, and f*ck, the kid's wearing the shirt Ghost had lent him a week ago. Was Johnny wearing it at the pub? Did he walk around smelling like him? It's a silent claim. A plea. Stealing his dad's shirts to be surrounded by his scent, just aching to get f*cked stupid.
Ghost tenses his thighs, spreading them slightly to accommodate his rapidly growing semi. The wank he had earlier clearly wasn't enough. He needs to f*ck something, and if he can't have Johnny, then his wife will have to do.
As Tilly enters carrying two ramekins of chocolate souffle, Ghost's dark eyes track her like a coiled python, insidious pools of ink, never parting from her even as she places the dishes down.
"What? Do you not want dessert?" She asks, disbelieving.
Ghost strikes. Standing so suddenly that Tilly automatically steps back to allow room for his bulk, bumping her arse against the table in the process. He crowds her against the unyielding wood, broad hands claiming her hips and thumbs digging into her barren womb as he slides them up to rest on her waist.
"No. I want you."
Tilly blinks, eyebrows shooting up in welcome surprise at her husband's eagerness. Right as she tilts her face up, inching up on her toes for a kiss, Ghost's grip on her waist turns punishing, and he spins her around. His oppressive weight against her back has her pinned.
"Simon!" Tilly squawks, playfully scandalised, "What's gotten into you?"
She's uncharacteristically appreciative of the way he's roughing her up, one still hand clasped on her hip as the other veers up her torso to her breast, kneading it as he nibbles at her earlobe. She doesn't even scold him for getting saliva all over her eighteen-carat gold earring.
"I told you," he says, lips ghosting against her ear, pressing his now very hard co*ck into the small of her back, "I missed you."
"Goodness," Tilly breathes.
The candles flare and jump like a warning, their orange light awaiting any gap between their bodies to worm through. Ghost grants them passage by placing a hand on Tilly's upper back and pushing until she's bent at the waist, forearms braced on the table.
Ghost quickly swipes his tongue between his thumb and forefinger then pinches the wick of each candle to extinguish the flames, just in case.
Tilly tries to crane her neck around and look at him.
"Eyes forward," he barks in a voice he hasn't heard since he was last on active duty.
She acquiesces, her breath quickening. With her facing away, she can't see when he takes out his phone and texts Johnny back one-handed.
Dirty boy, showing off that pretty c*nt to your dad.
Playing with it the way I taught you?
Ghost trails his free hand down Tilly's spine, all the way to the hem of her dress. His fingers dip beneath it, tips grazing against shivering flesh as he grips the fabric and pulls harshly, yanking the dress up over her hips with a crackle of over-stretched seams. She hums at his touch, awkwardly shifting her hips back to bump against the crotch of his jeans where his co*ck is straining. Tilly isn't good at presenting; nobody in their right mind would pitch her against Johnny in a bid for fertile breeding stock.
The vase of roses turns their faces away, protecting their soft petals and baring their thorns to Ghost.
yeah
feels so good
Attachment: VIDEO_131731.mp4
Johnny's propped his phone up against his duvet, leaning back into his pillows as one hand strokes his co*ck and the other f*cks three fingers into his sloppy hole. Precisely the same way Ghost likes to when he makes the boy sit in his lap, facing away and bracing his feet up on his powerful thighs.
That's strike three. Ghost had made the rules about touching what's his very clear the first time they f*cked.
Does it still belong to me?
always<3
I don't remember you asking me for permission to touch it.
can't help it
you got me so wet
Vicious delight fills Ghost's chest when a punishment takes shape in his mind. Johnny's made it all too easy with his wanton desperation. Ghost will keep showing off what Johnny's aching for so desperately.
Ghost will show him giving it to someone else instead.
Reaching down, Ghost pulls his co*ck out. He makes sure the flash isn't on and takes the quickest blurriest picture of his co*ck resting on his wife's panties.
Attachment: IMG_0063
This is your fault.
I'm going to have to take it out on her now.
“Simon, wait. Slow down,” Tilly hisses, playful acceptance of Ghost’s antics dancing around fear.
Ghost ignores her. He shoves her panties to one side, wincing as his co*ckhead catches against dry folds. Even the fat glob of saliva Ghost spits onto her c*nt can't mimic the heavenly silk of Johnny's juice-ripe c*nt. He's always sopping wet and ready for it; there's never been an occasion where Ghost's slipped his hand down into his son's little panties and hasn't been able to easily glide over his slick hole.
no!!!
that's not fair dad
i need it more than she does
Stop whining. You knew the rules.
"I said slow down,” Tilly snaps, “Can you– Ah!" She winces, back rounding as she mashes her hip bones into the table in a fruitless attempt to squirm away from Ghost's brutish invasion.
She isn't tight; childbirth has seen to that, but the rough friction of pushing into an unwelcoming hole is enough to make Ghost grit his teeth. Pain-laden breaths flutter from the body in front of him, holding back. Ghost is holding back, too. There's a sour taste behind his molars, hot poison bubbling up from rotten viscera and splattering his brain with fierce resentment. He f*cks into the warm body, but the sounds it makes are wrong; it feels wrong, smells wrong, can't take him as deep.
not my fault
it's been too long
i can't stop thinking about your co*ck
It hasn't even been 24hrs you desperate slag.
Attachment: VIDEO_131732.mp4
There are four fingers crammed into Johnny's c*nt, keening at the stretch every time his hips grind down into his hand. Frustration beats against Ghost's temples, unable to hear his sweet boy crying out for him. Instead, he's forced to listen to the complaints of the old table and the now-shrill cries of the equally used-up old bint he's slamming into.
my fingers aren't enough
i need yours
Poor thing. You're going to have to sort yourself out, daddy's busy.
Tilly's hands have knotted themselves in the table runner in her feverish clambering, searching enough leverage to push Ghost off of her. She's held in place between the heavy table and the even heavier weight of her husband's sin. Her face is forced upwards in silent prayer, and the grip Ghost has in her ponytail is holding it there so she can't twist her neck around and discover that this is Johnny's fault.
Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Ghost's fantasies are pushed further from him with each of Tilly's squeals, and when her arms flail around to try and loosen his grip on her hair and nearly knock his phone – his only connection to Johnny – out of his hand.
Part of her must be enjoying this. She's always revelled in having something to complain about. Tilly hitting against the table, the snap of Ghost's hips, her grunts and wails, and the thunk of candlesticks hitting the floor all make for a symphony of hate conducted for his wife.
please dad
you know your son can take it better than mummy can
Jesus f*cking Christ, that blindsides him. The siren call of Johnny's forbidden wiles flashes hot in his groin and dissolves in a rush across his body, up his spine. He shudders through his org*sm, violently saccharine as he abuses the gatekeeper of his wife's desolate womb.
If that doesn't get the bitch pregnant, nothing will.
He doesn't see Tilly for the rest of the night. The only evidence of her existence is a few drops of blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards and another bottle missing from the wine rack.
