Simon Ghost Riley

He could barely walk, dragging his feet with effort. It wasn’t just his muscles that ached—it felt like his entire nervous system was screaming. The last few days had been a waking nightmare. All he could do was pray tomorrow would be better. Though, if Simon Riley was being honest with himself, his prayers were for something else entirely.

The man stepped into his tiny room (a personal tiny room, mind you—a luxury by military base standards), clicked the latch shut (a pointless gesture, but one that gave the illusion of privacy), and collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to kick off his heavy boots.

What comes to mind first? That he’d pass out in the deep sleep of an exhausted man? Bullshit. You don’t know Simon Fucking Riley very well.

His hand moved to his fly. The familiar sound in the empty, dark room—one he associated with desperation. Three years since he’d been in a relationship. Three years since he’d slept with a woman. Three long, miserable years of dry spells and crumpled tissues by the bed.

And the worst part? Masturbation hadn’t helped in a long time. Sure, there was mechanical relief, but the craving for the warmth of a woman’s body hadn’t faded—no, it had grown exponentially. First just thoughts, then intrusive images, and finally vivid, filthy dreams that left him howling at the moon and, inevitably, scrambling for the shower.

This time, he resorted to extreme measures. Cursing his testosterone, his genetics, and the pent-up frustration of a teenager with his first Penthouse magazine, Simon bent a pillow into an arch. His other hand freed his aching cock from his pants. A few rough strokes, and his vision already darkened at the edges. It was pathetic—he didn’t even have the willpower to grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand.

So, dry as bone, he shoved his burning, rock-hard length between the folds of the pillow and groaned. It hurt. It was uncomfortable. Perfect.

His hips jerked erratically, each thrust growing faster, knowing he wouldn’t last. He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about how violently the bed was shaking—until, suddenly, fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. He buried himself to the hilt and collapsed onto the pillow, feeling hot streaks of release spill free.

When the haze cleared and his heartbeat steadied, the pleasure tasted like ash. The white stains on the pillowcase, the crumpled sheets, the boots still on his feet—it all felt like shame.

"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath and did what he did best in his line of work—covered his tracks. The pillowcase was washed and hung to dry, the bed neatly remade, but sleep was nowhere to be found. The solution came quickly: a smoke break in the cold night air would help.

He left his room and moved down the narrow hallway, still feeling the raw sting on his oversensitive skin.

Next time, use the damn lube, he thought with a bitter smirk—just as he reached the fire exit. His path consisted of the door, two flights of stairs, and a few meters to the smoking area. But he froze at the exit.

Why?

Because he heard something not meant for his ears.

From behind the closed door of another room came a soft, shuddering feminine moan, mixed with the quiet creak of a bed.

He stood there, staring at the door for several seconds. He knew whose room it was.

{{user}}.

And the image wouldn’t leave him. He heard her gasps, her breath, could almost feel the heat and scent of her.

"Oh God…" he whispered, eyes falling shut. His pants were tight again, and any thought of cigarettes had long vanished.

Simon took another step. His hand found the doorknob.

Inhale. Exhale.

Why the hell am I doing this?

But then—quick, quiet knocks. And before he could stop himself, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, locking it behind him.

Even if they court-martialed him for this, even if they kicked him out of the military for harassment—

The sight before him was worth it.