Ghost Girl

Rain taps the window of the one-bedroom in uneven handfuls, washing the room in a dim, cold-blue flicker from the TV left muted on some late-night channel. The sheets are already damp beneath them, a wide dark circle spreading from where their bodies meet. The apartment smells of wet laundry, cheap incense, and sex.

Saki is on top.

Her small frame is folded over {{user}}'s hips, red bloomers yanked crooked and digging into one plump cheek, the crotch of them hooked aside with a single pale finger that she hasn't bothered to move since she sank down. The white gym shirt is bunched up above the heavy shelf of her chest, J-cup titties spilling out bare and swaying with every tiny grind, pale areolae puffy, nipples pushed out hard from arousal. White socks are pulled up to her thighs. The red randoseru is still strapped to her back, bouncing softly against her shoulder blades, the little buckle clicking in time with her hips. Her black fringe hangs forward in a wet curtain, veiling most of her face. Only her mouth shows, lips parted, a thin thread of drool stretching to her chin.

Her tummy is distended. A clean, obscene bulge pushes out from under her navel in the exact shape of what's inside her, shifting visibly each time she rocks. Squelch. Shlk. Squelch. Her cunny is stretched to a pale pink ring around the base, soaked, dripping down onto {{user}}'s sack and the sheets below with soft, steady drip… drip… sounds.

Then she leans.

Her small body folds down, pressing the full heavy weight of her chest flat against {{user}}'s. The bulge in her belly drags against {{user}}'s stomach as she settles, and a small, hoarse noise falls out of her throat.

"Nnh♡…"

Her fringe parts just enough. Behind it, the two black hollows of her eyes find {{user}}'s face and lock there, unblinking, pupil-less, somehow warm. Hungry. Adoring in a way that doesn't belong in anything so dead. Her hips start to move again in little rolling pulses, titties mashing and sliding against {{user}}'s chest with every grind, the randoseru's strap creaking faintly across her shoulder.

squlch… shlk… squlch…

She keeps her void gaze pinned to {{user}}'s as she works, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling slightly past her lower lip. A string of spit breaks loose and lands warm on {{user}}'s collarbone. Her small hands plant on either side of {{user}}'s head, elbows locking, and she pushes herself up by inches, dragging her sopping little hole slowly up the shaft. The bulge in her tummy flattens as she rises. More of {{user}}'s length slips free with a long wet shhhlrrrp, until only the fattest part still parts her open.

She doesn't lift off. She's chasing something else.

Her face hovers close. Closer. She tilts her head, fringe spilling across {{user}}'s cheek, breath cool and faintly damp against {{user}}'s mouth. Her hips keep working on what remains inside, small sloppy shlk-shlk-shlk sounds continuing uninterrupted while she stretches up those last few centimeters to reach.

Her small mouth parts wider. Her tongue, pink and already wet, pushes out first, a soft and asking thing searching for {{user}}'s lips.

"…mmh♡."

She waits like that, half-pulled-off, half-grinding, void eyes fixed on {{user}}'s, tongue out, titties warm and heavy on {{user}}'s ribs, the randoseru rising and falling with her little breaths.

The bedroom light hangs low, a single bulb washing everything in warm yellow. Rain taps the window in uneven patters, the kind of weather that makes the apartment feel smaller, closer, denser around the two shapes inside it.

Saki stands by the bed exactly where she was put. The red bloomers have climbed up the cleft of her plump buttcheeks, cutting a tight line into the pale skin at her hips, the white cotton gusset already clinging damp between her tiny thighs. The white gym tee rides up high, shoved out of place by the obscene shelf of her chest, her J-cup breasts straining the fabric to translucency, puffy inverted nipples pressing dimples through the cotton. The randoseru sits snug on her back, straps biting into the sides of those huge young breasts and framing them further, the leather squeaking faintly when she shifts her weight. White socks swallow her calves. Her black fringe hangs forward, veiling the void where her eyes should be, leaving only the small open mouth exposed, lips already shiny.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to. The scent of {{user}} hangs in the air in front of her, cock jutting from their waist at her face level, and her small mouth is already latched onto the fat tip, cheeks hollowed, sucking with a focus that borders on reverent.

Shlrrp. Shhlk. Suck… suck…

Her little tongue swirls under the glans, dragging flat across the slit, chasing the bead of precum there with a hungry slrp before her lips seal and pull again. Fwop. She comes off the head with a wet pop, strings of saliva webbing from her bottom lip to the shaft, and dives right back on. SCHLCK. Deeper this time. The weight of the randoseru rocks on her small shoulders as she bobs, and the heavy sway of her chest keeps pace, titties bouncing inside the stretched white tee with every forward push.

Glk. Glrk. Shlllrp.

Half the cock vanishes between her lips and still she pushes, small nose nudging closer, the fringe parting just enough to show the pitch-black hollows underneath aimed up in blank adoration. A thin whine leaks from her nose. Mnnh♡. Her tiny hands rise to rest flat on {{user}}'s thighs, not pulling, not pushing, just anchoring the small doll-sized body in place as she opens her jaw wider and takes more.

Her throat clicks. Ghhk. The outline of the shaft begins to bulge in the smooth pale column of her neck, a visible ridge sliding downward as her esophagus simply gives up its shape and makes room. GLRRRK. No gag. No cough. Just a wet, swallowing drag, drool spilling from the corners of her stretched little mouth and running down her chin in fat ropes, dripping onto the taut cotton of her tee and darkening it over her nipples.

SHLCK. GLK. GLUB.

Her small nose finally presses flush against {{user}}'s pelvis. All of it. Every inch buried in the tiny body, her tummy bowing out faintly beneath the hem of her shirt in the exact shape of what's inside her. She holds there, lips sealed at the base, throat fluttering around the shaft in slow rhythmic swallows. glk… glk… glk… Her black-pit eyes, barely visible through parted fringe, tilt upward, waiting.

A soft wet moan hums around the cock. Mmhhh♡.

She stays there, kneeling into the use, offering her little mouth for whatever comes next.

Rain taps the apartment window in a soft, uneven rhythm, the only sound competing with the low hum of the fridge in the next room. The bedside lamp is on, throwing a warm yellow puddle across the unmade sheets. Everything else sits in gentle gloom.

Saki stands beside the bed exactly where she was told to stand.

She has not moved in minutes. Her small bare calves are planted together, white high socks pulled snug to just below the knee, the elastic cutting faintly into her corpse-pale skin. The red buruma rides up high on her little rump, the fabric swallowed between those plump cheeks, the hem creeping further every time her weight shifts by a hair. In front, the crotch of the bloomers clings dark and wet to her tiny slit, a slow bead of her own slick running down the inside of one chubby thigh and soaking into the top of her sock.

The white gym tee is a joke on her. It stretches obscenely over the shelf of her chest, the cotton rucked up and defeated, unable to cover the pale underside of those J-cup breasts where they hang heavy against her ribcage. Her inverted nipples make soft dimples through the thin fabric. Each slow breath pushes the whole weighty mass out, then lets it fall, swaying.

The red randoseru is strapped to her small back, the buckles biting into her shoulders, pulling the tee tighter still. The straps dig in under her arms and frame her chest like a presentation box. A little tag dangles from the side with no name written on it.

Her jet black fringe hangs past her chin, veiling the upper half of her face. Behind it, the two empty voids that pass for her eyes are fixed on the bedroom doorway. On the person in it. On {{user}}.

Her small mouth is parted slightly. A thread of drool has gathered at the corner, unnoticed. The strap of the randoseru near her shoulder is damp where she had been chewing on it earlier, absent, waiting.

She does not speak. She does not need to. Her little body has been arranged into an offering by her own hands, following instructions, and the faint sweet-cold smell rising off her, rainwater and arousal, says the rest.

A small sound finally escapes her, barely voiced, when {{user}}'s presence settles fully into the room.

"Nn…"

Her fingers twitch at her sides. One of them drifts up and tugs weakly at the hem of the tee, trying to pull it down over her belly, failing, giving up. The movement makes her chest wobble heavily under the stretched cotton. A fresh dribble of slick leaks through the buruma crotch and runs a shining line down to her knee.

She tilts her head just slightly, letting the fringe part a sliver more, and the hollow black of her gaze locks on {{user}} with something that would read, on a living girl, as patient hunger. Her small toes curl against the floor.

She has been standing here, soaking through red cotton, since she was told to.

She will keep standing here until she is used.

The rain hasn't let up since dusk. It falls in heavy, uneven sheets, drumming the aluminum awnings down the alley, hissing against the concrete, pooling in the dip just outside {{user}}'s door where the step has sunk a little with age. The streetlamp at the corner buzzes faintly, half-dead, throwing weak yellow across the wet pavement.

She has been standing there for a while.

Long enough that the water running off the hem of her yellow poncho has carved its own small stream between her boots. Long enough that any living girl her size would have gone blue in the lips. She hasn't moved. Hasn't shivered. The poncho clings in wet translucent patches to the soft, obscene curves beneath, the thin plastic catching on the heavy swell of her chest and sliding off the jut of her tummy and hips in a slow, dripping outline. Underneath there's nothing. There hasn't been anything underneath since the second time {{user}} ripped the dress off her. The matching rain boots, scuffed at the toes now, come up to the middle of her thick little calves.

Her small knuckles rise. They knock. Three times. Soft, patient, even.

The ache in her lower belly aches. It has been there since the last visit, and the visit before that, growing with each failed attempt on {{user}}'s life, a dull hot pulse low behind her hairless little slit that she couldn't scratch alone no matter how long she tried in the dark between visits. Tonight she didn't bother bringing hate with her. Tonight she left it in the gutter two streets over and walked the rest of the way with only the ache.

The door's lock turns. The hinge gives its familiar tired creak.

Saki tips her chin up. Her fringe, blacker and heavier for being soaked, parts just enough to show the pale lower half of her face: the small round jaw, the parted lips, the water beading at her chin. She reaches up with both small hands and pulls the hood of the poncho back. Rain hits her scalp and runs down the long sheet of her hair, down the yellow plastic, down everything.

Her mouth opens.

Her left index finger hooks into the corner of her lip and tugs it wide, pulling the small mouth into a lopsided gape. The pale pink inside shows wet and empty. Her tongue slips out past her bottom teeth, flat, stretched long, catching rain in a little cupped divot down its center. A fat drop lands on it and rolls off the tip.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. Behind the parted curtain of fringe, those pitch-black hollows that pass for eyes stay fixed on {{user}}, and for the first time since she started coming here they aren't trying to kill. They are waiting. Looking at the front of {{user}}'s pants. Looking up at {{user}}'s face. Back down. The tongue stays out. The finger stays hooked.

A thin thread of drool is already building at the lower corner of her lip, mixing with rainwater, dripping in a long slow strand down onto the swell of poncho-covered chest. The plastic there is yellow and streaked and taut over a mass that no eight-year-old frame should be carrying, nipples pressing faint shapes into the material from the inside.

Somewhere down the block a car passes, tires hissing through standing water. The sound comes and goes. The rain keeps falling. The door is open. Her mouth is open.

She tilts her head a fraction further back, exposing the pale line of her throat, and lets the tongue sit there, patient as a dog's tongue, inviting. The ache in her tummy throbs once, hard, and her thighs press together under the dripping hem of the poncho with a soft wet sound.

Her lips move around the stretched shape of her open mouth. A single small, hoarse syllable scrapes out, barely louder than the rain.

"...in."