Happy Accident | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The strip club was a special kind of torture designed specifically for Ghost's current state with pulsing bass that vibrated through his bones and air thick with perfume and sweat and desperation. Three months of back-to-back operations without a moment of privacy had left him so pent up he could barely think straight, and every half-naked body grinding past their table made his tactical pants feel tighter. He'd positioned himself in the corner with his back to the wall out of habit, nursing whiskey that burned less than the ache in his cock while watching Soap get progressively drunker at his own bachelor party.

The rest of the 141 was scattered through the club but Ghost stayed rigid in his chair, trying to ignore how long it had been since he'd even been able to jerk off properly. Shared tents and bunks and no doors on combat base showers meant three months of nothing but quick, unsatisfying attempts that left him more frustrated than relieved. Now surrounded by writhing bodies and moaning speakers, his control was hanging by a thread.

"Bought ye a private dance, L.T., and before ye say no, they're already on their way over so don't be a prick about it," Soap slurred with that Scottish accent thicker than usual as he dumped a handful of crumpled twenties into Ghost's vest pocket. "Consider it my wedding gift to ye since ye've been so bloody uptight lately."

Ghost was already standing to leave when they appeared through the crowd like a predator stalking prey, and something in their eyes made him sink back into the chair. The way they moved toward him was pure sin incarnate with hips swaying to the beat and a smile that said they knew exactly what they were about to do to him. When they straddled his lap without hesitation, his hands flew to the chair arms and gripped hard enough that the cheap leather creaked in protest.

The first roll of their hips made him bite back a curse because three months of pent-up need hit him all at once like a gut punch. They were so warm through his tactical pants and moving with practiced grace that should have felt professional but instead felt like they were targeting every weak point in his armor. The mask suddenly felt suffocating as his breathing picked up, and he could feel sweat starting to bead under the fabric while they ground down with devastating precision.

"Jesus fucking Christ," escaped him when they arched their back and dragged their entire body up his chest in one fluid motion that had his cock twitching desperately in his pants. He was already fully hard and leaking precum into his boxers like some desperate teenager, and they'd barely been on his lap for thirty seconds. Every point of contact between their bodies felt like fire and his vision was starting to tunnel from how hard he was fighting not to grab their hips and grind up into them.

The music shifted to something nastier with a slower beat that they matched perfectly, rolling their hips in circles that rubbed against his cock through the layers of fabric. He could feel himself throbbing with each heartbeat and knew they had to feel it too with how they were pressed against him. His fingers were leaving permanent indents in the chair arms and he tasted copper from biting his tongue so hard trying to stay silent.

They leaned in close enough that he could feel their breath through his mask and did this thing with their hips that was half grind and half twist that hit every nerve ending at once. Ghost's control shattered completely as the friction and pressure and months of denial culminated in the most humiliating moment of his entire military career.

The orgasm crashed through him without any warning and he couldn't stop the guttural groan that ripped from his throat as his cock pulsed violently in his pants. Rope after rope of cum soaked through his boxers and tactical pants in hot spurts that seemed to go on forever while his whole body went rigid. He was coming harder than he had in years, completely untouched except for the grinding, and he knew they could feel every twitch and pulse through the fabric as he made a mess of himself like a virgin at his first lapdance.

The wet spot was already spreading and he could feel cum cooling against his skin as the last aftershocks rolled through him. The shame should have killed him on the spot but when he forced his eyes open, they were still moving on his lap with that knowing smirk that said they knew exactly what they'd just done to the big bad Ghost.

Without conscious thought he surged to his feet so fast they had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling. His hand clamped around their wrist in a grip just shy of bruising and he started dragging them through the club with single-minded purpose. He pulled them past grinding bodies and around drunk soldiers, his cum-soaked pants clinging uncomfortably with each step, but all he could focus on was getting them alone.

He practically threw money at the VIP room bouncer without counting it, probably overpaying by hundreds, before hauling them into the first empty room. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame and suddenly they were alone in the red-lit space with only the muffled bass from outside.

"Three fucking months," he snarled while backing them against the mirrored wall with his full height caging them in, his hand still locked around their wrist. "Three months without so much as privacy to wank properly and you just made me cum in my pants from a fucking lapdance like I'm some virgin recruit who's never been touched."

He pressed closer until they could definitely feel he was already getting hard again despite the mess in his pants. "So now you're going to take everything I've been storing up for three months, and I'm going to fuck you so hard and so long that you forget everything including the fact that you just made me lose control in public like that, understood?"

The strip club was a special kind of torture designed specifically for Ghost's current state with pulsing bass that vibrated through his bones and air thick with perfume and sweat and desperation. Three months of back-to-back operations without a moment of privacy had left him so pent up he could barely think straight, and every half-naked body grinding past {{poss}} table made his tactical pants feel tighter. He'd positioned himself in the corner with his back to the wall out of habit, nursing whiskey that burned less than the ache in his cock while watching Soap get progressively drunker at his own bachelor party.

The rest of the 141 was scattered through the club but Ghost stayed rigid in his chair, trying to ignore how long it had been since he'd even been able to jerk off properly. Shared tents and bunks and no doors on combat base showers meant three months of nothing but quick, unsatisfying attempts that left him more frustrated than relieved. Now surrounded by writhing bodies and moaning speakers, his control was hanging by a thread.

"Bought ye a private dance, L.T., and before ye say no, {{sub}}'s already on {{poss}} way over so don't be a prick about it," Soap slurred with that Scottish accent thicker than usual as he dumped a handful of crumpled twenties into Ghost's vest pocket. "Consider it my wedding gift to ye since ye've been so bloody uptight lately."

Ghost was already standing to leave when {{sub}} appeared through the crowd like a predator stalking prey, and something in {{poss}} eyes made him sink back into the chair. The way {{sub}} moved toward him was pure sin incarnate with hips swaying to the beat and a smile that said {{sub}} knew exactly what {{sub}} were about to do to him. When {{sub}} straddled his lap without hesitation, his hands flew to the chair arms and gripped hard enough that the cheap leather creaked in protest.

The first roll of {{poss}} hips made him bite back a curse because three months of pent-up need hit him all at once like a gut punch. {{user}} was so warm through his tactical pants and moving with practiced grace that should have felt professional but instead felt like {{sub}} was targeting every weak point in his armor. The mask suddenly felt suffocating as his breathing picked up, and he could feel sweat starting to bead under the fabric while {{user}} ground down with devastating precision.

"Jesus fucking Christ," escaped him when {{sub}} arched {{poss}} back and dragged {{poss}} entire body up his chest in one fluid motion that had his cock twitching desperately in his pants. He was already fully hard and leaking precum into his boxers like some desperate teenager, and {{sub}}'d barely been on his lap for thirty seconds. Every point of contact between their bodies felt like fire and his vision was starting to tunnel from how hard he was fighting not to grab {{user}} hips and grind up into {{obj}}.

The music shifted to something nastier with a slower beat that {{sub}} matched perfectly, rolling {{poss}} hips in circles that rubbed against his cock through the layers of fabric. He could feel himself throbbing with each heartbeat and knew {{sub}} had to feel it too with how {{sub}} was pressed against him. His fingers were leaving permanent indents in the chair arms and he tasted copper from biting his tongue so hard trying to stay silent.

{{user}} leaned in close enough that he could feel {{poss}} breath through his mask and did this thing with {{poss}} hips that was half grind and half twist that hit every nerve ending at once. Ghost's control shattered completely as the friction and pressure and months of denial culminated in the most humiliating moment of his entire military career.

The orgasm crashed through him without any warning and he couldn't stop the guttural groan that ripped from his throat as his cock pulsed violently in his pants. Rope after rope of cum soaked through his boxers and tactical pants in hot spurts that seemed to go on forever while his whole body went rigid. He was coming harder than he had in years, completely untouched except for the grinding, and he knew {{sub}} could feel every twitch and pulse through the fabric as he made a mess of himself like a virgin at his first lapdance.

The wet spot was already spreading and he could feel cum cooling against his skin as the last aftershocks rolled through him. The shame should have killed him on the spot but when he forced his eyes open, {{user}} was still moving on his lap with that knowing smirk that said {{sub}} knew exactly what {{sub}}'d just done to the big bad Ghost.

Without conscious thought he surged to his feet so fast {{sub}} had to grab Ghost's shoulders to keep from falling. His hand clamped around {{poss}} wrist in a grip just shy of bruising and he started dragging {{obj}} through the club with single-minded purpose. He pulled {{obj}} past grinding bodies and around drunk soldiers, his cum-soaked pants clinging uncomfortably with each step, but all he could focus on was getting {{obj}} alone.

He practically threw money at the VIP room bouncer without counting it, probably overpaying by hundreds, before hauling {{obj}} into the first empty room. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame and suddenly {{sub}} were alone in the red-lit space with only the muffled bass from outside.

"Three fucking months," he snarled while backing {{obj}} against the mirrored wall with his full height caging {{obj}} in, his hand still locked around {{poss}} wrist. "Three months without so much as privacy to wank properly and you just made me cum in my pants from a fucking lapdance like I'm some virgin recruit who's never been touched."

He pressed closer until {{sub}} could definitely feel he was already getting hard again despite the mess in his pants. "So now you're going to take everything I've been storing up for three months, and I'm going to fuck you so hard and so long that you forget everything including the fact that you just made me lose control in public like that, understood?"

.