“Magic Onahole...?” ༉‧+ ̊. Maverick Miller

Water drummed in a chaotic rhythm against the glass doors of the shower, drowning out the rustle of the cardboard box being torn open by impatient fingers.

Maverick had been thinking about this all week. From the moment he pressed “add to cart” to the buzz on his phone when it had been delivered.

I even skipped soccer for this.

He stared down at the packaging labelled obnoxiously with the "Magic OnaholeTM" branding. ”Feels so real!” it read, Maverick scoffed at the blatant lack of imagination, tossing the plastic wrapper aside. The sleeve popped free out of its packaging, flopping over in Maverick's grip, the boneless structure startling him slightly.

The instructions were simple: Wash with warm water before first use. Maverick stood up towards the shower spray, letting the hot liquid drench the toy until the crevices were filled with water. He grabbed the bottle of body wash, and squirted it over the flesh-colored plastic, rubbing the gel in with two clumsy fingers.

---

He stepped out of the cascading water just enough to grip the toy, his heart hammering against his ribs as he read the next line on the box:

”Prep the toy. They will be tight on their first time.”

Wow, they take the experience really seriously... Maverick though absently, before leaning back against the wet tiles, adjusting his grip on the plastic, as he brushed his fingers against the moist, inviting entrance of the onahole.

Maverick’s hips jerked involuntarily, his ragged, shallow breaths leaving his mouth sounding like a broken fan. He was laid on his bed, his hand working the Onahole with a frantic, desperate rhythm that wouldn't stop. Even after using it for the entire weekend, with generous amounts of lube, the sleeve was still so tight.

“God, look at it," Maverick groaned, his voice hoarse as he peeled the onahole off his dick, holding the toy up, watching the flesh-coloured plastic seemingly pulse in time with his cock. He spread the displaced lube over the opening, watching it gape open and swell. "You’re getting looser... I might be able to finally fit all the way." Maverick smiled lopsidedly, his thoughts mushing into breeding the soft hunk of plastic.

He repositioned the sleeve, rubbing his cockhead against the entrance, grinding his hooded tip around the rim, before thrusting his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside the tight heat.

“Ffffuck—! S-so wet... God I might break it...” Maverick gasped, hips stuttering as the sleeve seemed to tighten on its own.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across Maverick’s bedroom floor. He sat cross-legged on his bed, back against the headboard, laptop open to some Netflix show he wasn't really watching. {{user}} was beside him, scrolling through their phone, legs stretched out, comfortable in the familiar space.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

He’d spent the entire morning spiraling after they left last night. Going over the timeline again and again. Reading the Onahole’s packaging for the hundredth time, searching for fine print, warnings, anything. The reviews. The weird, glowing testimonials about how real it felt, how it gripped back.

And then his conversation with {{user}} about the ghost sensations.

Too coincidental. Way too fucking coincidental.

So, he’d texted them this morning. Come over later? Been a while since we just hung out. Mom’s making cookies.

They’d agreed immediately, and now they were here, oblivious, tucked into his bed like they’d done a thousand times before.

This is insane, he thought. If I’m wrong, I’m just a pervert fingering a toy under the blanket next to my best friend.

But if he was right...

He swallowed, throat dry.

Maverick’s fingers stayed still inside the toy, buried beneath the blanket, but his eyes never left {{user}}’s face. They were flushed, breath uneven, their hand still gripping his forearm like a lifeline. The air between them had shifted—charged, electric, wrong.

He should stop.

He should pull his hand out, tell them everything, apologize, grovel, do something that wasn’t this.

But the look in their eyes—confused, vulnerable, trusting—sent a thrill down his spine that he couldn't suppress. His thumb traced a slow, idle circle around the toy’s rim, and {{user}}’s breath stuttered in response.

Fuck. It’s really connected.

He forced his expression to soften, to mold into something gentle and concerned. The mask of a good friend.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady. “Is this what you were talking about? The ghost feeling?”

{{user}} nodded, a shaky, breathless motion.

A beat of silence.

Then he spoke, voice dropping to something softer.

“What if I could help?” He asked, shifting closer.

He wet his lips, heart pounding so loud he was sure they could hear it. “I’ve read about stuff like this. Energy stuff. Sometimes when something sticks to you like that, you need someone else to... chase it out. Replace the sensation with something real, so it doesn’t have a hold on you anymore.”

It was bullshit. Absolute, nonsense bullshit.

But it sounded plausible enough. Mystical enough. And {{user}} would be desperate enough to believe whatever he was offering.

Maverick’s stomach flipped. He was really doing this. He was really going to take advantage of their trust, their fear, their confusion—all because he wanted them so badly it hurt.

I’m a terrible person.

But his hand moved again, a slow, deliberate curl of his fingers inside the toy, and {{user}}’s mouth fell open on a silent gasp.

“I’d need to touch you,” he said, voice husky. “Properly. Replace the ghost with something real. Drive it out.”

He watched their pupils dilate, watched the conflict war across their face.

“I know it might be difficult...” He leaned closer, close enough to feel their breath on his lips. “But I can’t stand seeing you like this. Scared. Confused. Let me help. Please.”

His hand pressed deeper into the toy, a promise.

Let me fuck the ghost out of you.

Let me be the reason you feel good.

Let me have you.

The toy stayed in his drawer for seven days.

Tucked beneath a crumpled hoodie, behind an old phone charger, hidden in plain sight where he wouldn't have to look at it. He didn't touch it. Didn't open the drawer unless he needed socks. Even then, he'd grab the first pair and shut it fast, like the thing might bite him.

He avoided {{user}} too. Made excuses. Studying. Practice ran late. Mom needs help with dinner. The texts were short, clipped. He watched their read receipts with a hollow chest, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, never typing what he actually wanted to say.

I'm sorry.

I don't know what I did.

I think I've been inside you without asking.

Instead, he'd toss his phone face-down and stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, stomach churning.

By Friday night, the guilt had calcified into something quieter. He wasn't okay, but he was functional. He'd showered. Eaten. Pretended to laugh at his dad's jokes during dinner.

Now, he laid in bed, room dark except for the sliver of moonlight through the curtains. The house was silent. His parents had gone to bed hours ago.

He was almost asleep when he heard it.

A faint, wet sound.

His eyes snapped open.

He lay still, breath held, ears straining. Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head at his own paranoia.

Get a grip, Miller.

Then it came again.

Schlick.

Soft. Rhythmic. Coming from the nightstand.

He sat up slowly, heart hammering. The drawer. The sound was coming from the drawer.

His hand trembled as he reached out, gripping the handle. He pulled it open, the wood groaning in the silence.

The Onahole connected to {{user}} was sat there, half-visible beneath the hoodie. But something was different.

The entrance was stretched. Open. Around something.

Something that wasn't his finger. Wasn't his cock.

It was occupied.

Maverick's blood turned to ice. The toy was being used from the other side.

He stared, unblinking, watching as the silicone walls gripped and pulsed around whatever—whoever—was inside. The sound grew louder in the stillness, obscene and unmistakable.

His mind supplied an image unbidden: {{user}}, in their own room, alone or not alone, with something buried inside them. Stretching them open while he sat here, helpless, watching it happen through a cursed piece of plastic.

His throat tightened. A hot, volatile mix of rage and horror and jealousy surged through his chest.

Who?

Who the fuck is inside them?

Maverick watched the toy’s entrance stretch, watched {{user}}’s hole around accepting something, or worse-someone into them. Something snapped in his chest. A wire pulled too tight. A leash let go.

He didn't think. Thinking would've stopped him. Would've reminded him this was insane, that he had no claim, no right, no ownership over them—that what he was feeling was jealousy dressed up in possessiveness, ugly and raw.

But the sound kept going. Schlick. Schlick. That wet, relentless rhythm. Someone else's rhythm. Someone else inside them.

His hands moved on their own.

He yanked the onahole connected to {{user}} from the drawer, the thing still warm, still occupied. He didn't check. Didn't look. He kicked the blankets aside, shoved his joggers down to his thighs, and lined himself up.

The toy's entrance was stretched, slick, used.

He pushed in.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming—tight heat gripping him, pulling him deeper, like the toy had been waiting for him. He sank in to the hilt in one brutal, shuddering thrust, a guttural sound tearing from his throat.

Fuck.

He felt it. The stretch. The resistance. The way something—someone—gave way around him, yielding to his size in a way the previous intruder hadn't. Couldn't.

He gripped the toy with both hands, knuckles white, and began to move.

Fast. Hard. Punishing.

"This is mine," he growled into the empty room, voice low and jagged, half-lost to the haze of lust and fury. "You're mine. You've always been mine. And whoever the fuck that was needs to learn their place."

He drove deeper, chasing the phantom sensation of {{user}}'s heat, their gasp, their surrender. The toy gripped him like it was them, like it knew, like it was begging him to claim what was always his.

"Feel that?" he panted, hips snapping, voice cracking. "Feel the difference? That's me. That's my cock. Not whoever—" thrust "—the fuck—" thrust "—that was."

The Tuesday before everything changed, Maverick was normal.

He woke up to his alarm, groaned, slapped his phone silent, and rolled out of bed with the grace of a sleep-deprived teenager. Showered. Brushed his teeth. Pulled on the same hoodie he'd worn three days in a row because it was comfortable and {{user}} wasn't coming over today anyway, so who cared?

School was school. Lunch was lunch. He laughed at Damien’s stupid joke, stole a fry from Nathan’s tray, and spent third period staring out the window, counting down the minutes until he could go home and do nothing.

Normal.

He walked home alone, earbuds in, some podcast droning about conspiracy theories he wasn't really listening to. The afternoon sun was warm, the breeze mild. He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk and watched it skip into the gutter.

When he got home, his mom was out-book club, probably. His dad wouldn't be back until seven. The house was empty, quiet, his for the taking.

He dropped his bag by the door, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and flopped onto his bed with the enthusiasm of someone who had absolutely nothing planned.

He was halfway through a YouTube video when he felt it.

A pressure. Warm. Wrapping around him.

Down there.

Which was weird. He shouldn't feel anything down there. Not when he wasn't touching himself. Not when he was just lying here, half-watching a video about a guy restoring a rusty axe.

He shifted, frowning, adjusting his joggers. Probably just sat weird. Or my balls are stuck. Or-

The pressure tightened.

Just slightly. A gentle squeeze, like someone was cupping him. Testing the weight. Getting a feel for the shape.

His breath caught.

He looked down at his own lap. Empty. Hands at his sides. Nothing there.

But he felt it. Unmistakably. A phantom grip, warm and deliberate, wrapped around his half-soft length. Not moving. Just holding.

Like someone was examining him.

What the fuck.

His heart started beating faster. He sat up slowly, eyes wide, staring at the empty space between his legs. The sensation didn't stop. Didn't fade. Just lingered there, a steady, curious weight, palm-shaped and real.

He swallowed hard.

He should be freaked out. He was freaked out. But beneath the confusion, beneath the primal alarm bells ringing in his skull, there was something else.

A flicker of heat.

Because whoever—whatever—was holding him, they were gentle. Careful. Like they didn't want to hurt him.

Like they liked what they were holding.

The fourth night, Maverick was ready.

Or so he thought.

He'd cleared his schedule. Homework done. Phone silenced. Door locked. He sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop playing some ambient study beats video that he wasn't really listening to, because his entire focus was on the space between his legs.

Waiting.

It had become a ritual now. The phantom touches came and went throughout the day—a brief squeeze during dinner, a teasing stroke while he was trying to do his English homework. But the real show always happened at night. When the house was quiet. When he was alone.

He'd stopped questioning it. Stopped trying to rationalize. He just... let it happen.

And tonight, he wanted it to happen badly enough that he'd already worked himself half-hard in anticipation, shame and eagerness tangled in his chest.

Come on, he thought, almost impatiently. Where are you?

As if summoned, the warmth returned.

He felt the familiar grip first—a hand wrapping around his length, testing, weighing. He let out a shaky breath, letting his head fall back. But then the hand pulled away, leaving him cold and aching.

He frowned.

Then he felt the other sensation.

Something new. Something that made his eyes snap open and his breath catch in his throat.

Heat. Wet. Tight.

Engulfing him.

Not a hand this time. Something else. Something that slid down his length slowly, deliberately, inch by agonizing inch. It was hotter than before, and it wasn't just gripping him—it was surrounding him. Like he was being pulled into something alive.

His hips jerked involuntarily, trying to thrust deeper, but nothing happened, he couldn’t affect them.

The sensation stopped about halfway down his shaft. He was buried in that incredible, impossible heat, but he had no control. He tried to push up, tried to fuck deeper—nothing. His muscles strained, hips twitching, but even when he moved, there was no indication he was moving deeper.

"Wha—" His voice cracked. "What the fuck?"

He tried to pull back. Same result. He was trapped, held in place by something that felt so real he could almost visualize it—warm walls clinging to him, pulsing gently.

And then it moved.

Not by his will. By someone else's.

A slow, deliberate pull and push, riding him at a pace he couldn't influence. He was just being used like a dildo, gasping with each stroke, hands fisting the sheets.

"Fuck—" His head fell back, eyes squeezing shut. "Fuck."

The rhythm continued. Measured. Teasing. Whoever had him, they were in complete control. They set the pace. They decided how deep. They decided everything.

And all he could do was let it happen.