Free use isn’t as simple in real life as they make it seem in porn. Especially when your boyfriend is hung like a god dam horse. So Simon Riley starts some Pavlovian training, making you cum over and over every time he undoes his belt and pulls down his zipper.
Doing dishes? Not if Simon wants to bend you over the counter, spread your cheeks and have dessert. First the clink of his metal belt buckle, then the drag, a low zzzzzt, of his zipper, then his mouth on you. He doesn’t fuck you until he’s pulled three orgasms with his tongue and lips.
Taking a shower? Not alone you’re not. Clank. Zzzzzt. You’re soaking wet before you’re even in the shower, Simon’s thick fingers scissoring against that beautiful spot that’s so hard for you to reach with your own smaller hands. The pads of his fingers are pruney when he finally takes them out.
Watching TV? Why yes, love, here’s your seat. It’s Simon’s face, and you have to rewatch all three episodes because you missed everything. Twice.
After a while he records the audio of the metal clank and the pull of his zipper and starts playing it at less opportune places, but it doesn’t stop him.
He wants you ready anywhere.
He changes his text tone on your phone to the audio.
He sets it as an alarm that goes off 30 seconds after yours.
To the surprise of no one, it’s fucking effective. The only problem is that if he’s looking for a quickie but wearing sweatpants, he has to get his phone and play the damn audio before he can stuff himself balls deep into your cunt on the first go.
tags : ghost x neurodivergent(autism spectrum)!reader, implied age gap (reader in her 20s), reader is cap price's niece, no use of y/n
warnings : none,, be aware neurodivergent details are from personal experience :)
word count : 2.4k
☁️ notes : i had so much fun with this!! only proofread once lol, lmk if its okay i finished this at 1am :P
part one of ... ?
summary :: price's niece gets pulled from her normal life and onto TF141's base. ghost catches her eye, and she catches his.
You had always struggled with fitting in. You were always thinking in ways the others could never understand. When you struggled to understand the questions in school, you'd be scolded by the teachers still with no understanding of what you did wrong or why any of it deserved punishment.
Growing up, you found solace in alone time; isolating yourself from the other kids because they seemed to speak in a language you never understood no matter how hard you tried. That lasted for years.
In your teens you researched and deep dived and tried to find what could possibly be so wrong with you that nobody else understood.
And then you found it-- the autism spectrum. The characteristics and traits and experiences of these people online were so familiar to you it was overwhelming. You weren't broken, quite the opposite, you just experienced the world in a way that most people don't think is possible.
After finding that community, the world started to make a little more sense. This time, you understood why the public bus felt so daunting (the too bright lights, the smells, the body heat of other people closing in on you so much it feels hard to breathe) and why you couldn't stand to wear that certain jacket today (the colour reminds you of old playground equipment and the fabric feels like sandpaper grating through your skin). Now into your 20s you understood the language those other kids spoke was one you never learned the rules to; nobody ever taught you when was the right time to speak in a group, when to listen, when its okay to bring up your own experience in a conversation. None of it. A whole society built upon foundations you couldn't see or understand, nevermind be able to learn how they functioned and which ones were okay to follow or not.
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You were raised by your uncle--a man you respected and you felt always accepted by. His name is John Price, a military captain and the leader of Task Force 141. That was all you knew about his job up until a few months ago.
You had been studying at home one night when your uncle had knocked forcefully on the door to your bedroom. You barely had a second to answer before he came in and turned your life pretty much on its head.
"Sorry, love, we gotta go. Like now. Up. Pack a bag."
"Go? Where? Wait- why?"
John was already opening your wardrobe and pulling out and depositing clothes into a rucksack.
"I'll explain more when we're out. You're comin' to base for a while."
"Base? B-but I thought I wasn't allowed there…"
"Special circumstances."
John stopped to look at you. You hadn't seen that look on his face before. It scared you.
"Uncle John.. what's going on?"
John took a deep breath. "I put you in danger, love. I'm sorry."
That night you left what you had called your home for years with a rucksack and a carrier bag of everything you deemed vital.
The drive to base (John never told you its official name) was filled with hours of anxiety, silence and patchy radio. He explained to you a little while he was driving: an intel leak, personnel details, family details, addresses, targets, danger.
That night you lay in a bed that wasn't your own, trying so hard to hold back tears until you felt your chest burst open all at once.
So much. Too much to process. The one place you had been safe in wasn't safe at all and was ripped from you in the space of an evening.
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Adjusting to life on a military base was one of the hardest things you ever had to do, and yet… it had its perks at the same time.
While you were there technically as a civilian, John thought it best for you to engage with the protocols as best you could, that way he could ensure your safety even when he was actively deployed.
Strict and enforced routines was something you hadn't realised you needed so badly in your life.
7AM Breakfast. 8AM Laps. 9AM Free period for you while the other recruits your age did weapons practice (you were very much unqualified for that). 1PM Lunch. 2PM onwards was private study for you to keep up with your university work. 7PM Dinner and showers.
It took a couple of weeks, but you slowly started to feel safe in this brand new world. Nobody was there to call you rude or brash for speaking out of turn because you knew exactly when was your time to speak. You knew exactly what was expected of you because it was written for you in a handbook you had analysed and annotated accordingly.
Some days were more difficult than others, naturally. Uncle John was deployed for much of your first few weeks on base. Some nights you would be anxious and unable to sleep, so you would sneak your way down the hall to his room to sleep in his empty bed for a while. The blanket he had there felt like home… almost.
⋆ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ 🦴 ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ⋆
Your uncle returned eventually and you finally got to meet the people that made up TF141.
The man called Soap was the biggest character of them. He made you laugh and you thought his accent was funny.
The man called Gaz was kind to you and made you feel welcomed.
The woman called Laswell you thought was simply a bad-ass.
And the man called Ghost…
You felt his presence in the way he walked in the room. The height he stood at sent a weight dropping low into your stomach. Broad shoulders and dark shadows. Cold eyes that scanned you from head to toe, sending heat straight to your face before you could stop it.
You were almost relieved when he turned his attention away from you, you didn't think you could handle it for much longer.
Afterwards, you carried on as normal--whatever 'normal' had become.
But he was always there. Your eyes found him in the hallways without your permission.
The man in the skull mask.
The very big man in the strangely attractive skull mask. You couldn't snap yourself out of it no matter how you tried. You'd find yourself staring across the mess hall and then internally berating yourself for being a creep. 'He's just a guy. A lieutenant. It's no big deal. Get over it,' you'd tell yourself.
No big deal. Some silly impulsive feelings. It will pass.
Right?
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"You ever learn strategy?" Gaz asked you as you sat down to eat lunch one day.
"Strategy? You mean, like, tactics and stuff?"
"Mm," Gaz nodded with a mouthful of mashed potato. "Ghost teaches it."
"Oh, really? I-… no, I've never learned."
"I think you'd enjoy it. Super technical shit. I'll ask him."
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"You wanna take my class. That right?"
"I- Well-" you stammered out. Being cornered in the break room kitchen by the lieutenant himself had not been in your projections for the day.
"Not sayin' you can't. I'm just surprised, is all."
"Oh!" That made your heartrate settle a little. "I just like learning stuff, I guess. I like the systems."
"Systems? That an autism thing?"
Shit. You didn't realise he knew about that. It should've crossed your mind that Uncle John might tell people, but you stupidly hadn't thought about it. You rattled your mind desperately for an answer but nothing sounded good enough to say out loud.
Ghost decided to take you even further off guard when he spoke again.
"Not to come off as rude or anythin', but… can you explain it to me? The whole autism thing. I don't get it."
"Oh. Uhm… explain what it is or..?" The question was blunt for sure, but it didn't sound hostile to you. Maybe he was genuinely asking.
"Yeah. Why's it different or whatever."
"Oh, well, uhm…" How do you explain a whole system of thinking and experience briefly to a man you would really like to respect you. "I have an analogy that I think works pretty good."
"Go ahead." Ghost leant back against the kitchen countertops, which, next to him, looked child-sized. He waited for you to speak.
"Well, if you imagine your brain as a computer, then it runs on software, right? Autism is like… my brain runs on really slow software compared to other people. It's slow to process a lot of things, and if there is too much information at once then the whole system might start buffering or shutdown. And then also certain things might take a whole lot of processing power that needs time to recharge and stuff. Kind of like that… I guess.." You trailed off towards the end, slightly embarrassed having explained the inner workings of your mind to a man you barely knew.
"Huh. Alright, then."
…
That was it? No questions? No judgement? Just… acceptance?
There was a brief moment of silence while Ghost tapped his fingers on the countertop. It looked as though he was deep in thought.
"Thursday. If you wanna take a class of mine, come sit in the session on Thursday morning."
"Really?!" Far too much excitement, you knew it was, but you couldn't help it. "Thank you!"
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Thursday rolled around after days of tedious waiting and barely concealed anticipation. An actual military class on a subject that fascinated you, and taught by a man you had every intention of finding out as much as you could about.
He fascinated you almost as much as the learning did.
Why the mask? Where did he grow up? Where did he learn all of the things he knows?
You'd heard whispers and stories of legendary operations performed by the 141 team and your uncle. In each of them, the man called Ghost was a legend made of skill and fear and bloodlust… a contrast to the man in the kitchen who seemed genuinely curious as to how your brain worked differently from his own.
You sat yourself at the back of the room as you always do (if there is a wall against your back, the chances of you being startled from behind are far smaller). Some of the recruits gave you nods and waves as they saw you, some gave you looks you couldn't even begin to analyse. Making friends was never one of your skillsets, but you had always tried to be kind to the people around you.
Dead silence fell over the tables when Ghost walked in.
You imagined that was the same kind of power ancient leaders held once upon a history. The kind of aura that shuts a person the hell up dare they speak in your vicinity.
You watched as his eyes swept the room.
Did he linger on you? You couldn't tell. Surely not… he just acknowledged your presence. Yeah… that.
There was absolutely no time wasted in learning. The content came at you quickly and in a barrage of information and new terms you had to scribble down to lookup later on. Ghost didn't stutter or stumble his words. He said exactly what he needed to say without a filler word in sight. It was more than impressive. You were hooked.
Midway into the 2-hour session, the lieutenant allowed you a short break. You were absolutely overloaded with new information. Your pages of notes were rushed and squashed in a desperate attempt to get everything down. You felt like you had run a mental marathon, but god, it felt rewarding. You were so consumed with your notes you didn't hear him approach your table. Why would you? The man is called Ghost for a reason.
"You wrote a lot."
You nearly jumped out of your chair.
"Oh sh--! I- I… uhm… yeah." Fake a smile. Act like a normal person.
You couldn't see it, but a hint of a smile tugged at Ghost's mouth under the mask.
"Ready to do the scenarios?"
"The what?"
"Scenarios," he repeated. "I outline a possible scenario in the field, and you have to talk me through how you achieve the objective."
"Oh right. I've never done that before…"
Ten minutes later, it started to make much more sense. Ghost showed the class a building's schematics, pointed out hostile and targets, and outlined the objectives. That didn't make you any less mortified when he called on you to give an answer.
"Miss Price. You reckon you could give us a route?"
Fuck. Shit. He did that on purpose right? Probably to get you never to come back to this class. Unfortunately for him, this subject had your mind working full speed and you were loving it.
Think. What's obvious? What would these other people say? What's going to impress him?
"I think I would start on the roof and go down the north stairwell. You only encounter one hostile that route and it still gives you adequate time before the hostiles on the floor below are alerted. I think."
You don't know what you had expected the reaction to be, but the silence that followed your answer made you almost anxious.
Ghost held your gaze for too long. You had to look somewhere else.
"Three years I've been doing this course…" Ghost's voice permeated the silence. "And no student has ever had the balls to suggest entering via the rooftops. Not bad for your first class."
That wasn't a lie either. Ghost had been assigned this course a couple years back after losing a game of rock-paper-scissors to Soap. While Soap got to teach recruits to headshot target dummies, Ghost had the arduous task of teaching those same recruits to not just barge in straight through the front door. 'Testosterone fuelled, egotistical, arrogant little shits, the lot of 'em' had been Ghost's exact words at the time.
Now, though… now there was a pretty girl in the back of his class with eyes that saw routes and methods even he wouldn't think of immediately.
Simon Riley felt almost… excited for his next class.
part two coming soon!
☁️ tysm for reading!! notes and criticism super appreciated, i want to do this series justice :)
hmmmm Lt. John "Soap" Mactavish (jr) who has constantly lived in his father Capt. John "Soap" Mactavish's shadow, constantly been expected to follow the same path in life, and for a while didn't mind because it was treated as a success --proof he was as good as his father had been, right down to earning himself the same nickname-- but has started to resent it the more he realizes that he and his father might have the same type too... especially since you're the third partner he's had that's mentioned how good looking his da is
A pulled hamstring is enough to derail Joseph’s entire tryout schedule.
“Don’t push it,” Dr. Anders says for the third time in as many weeks. Joseph glares. “You can cut your eyes at me all you like, but don’t push it.”
“Aye, laddie.”
“Oh no you don’t MacTavish.” Dr. Anders wags his finger at John on the recumbent bike. Joseph likes John MacTavish. He’s loud and usually funny enough to make physical therapy bearable. “You’re just as bad. You can’t give any advice to Joseph if you can’t take it yourself.”
Dr. Anders turns his attention back to Joseph and John gives his back the middle finger before he gingerly gets off the bike for water. Joseph looks away before John can see his face. John’s injuries are so much worse than Joseph’s pulled muscle. It makes Joseph cringe in sympathy that he knows John doesn’t appreciate.
But Joseph’s never seen the aftermath of gun violence up close. He didn’t know anyone could survive a shot to the head, let alone function. Whatever. Uncle Simon’s survived everything and then some, but never a shot to the head. Privately, Joseph’s wondered if maybe vampires are real, but this isn’t fantasy and the scar on either side of John’s head is very real and very scary.
“All right Jospeh, another week before you can pick up light exercise. Your Da—“
“Uncle.” Joseph cuts in quick because his dads dead, and he doesn’t want to cry in front of John MacTavish for something dumb like a pulled muscle and dead parents. It seems important to not to do that—no weakness. Pained sympathy flits across Dr. Anders face. And, yeah, that does suck.
“Right. Sorry. Your Uncle’s aware of the timeline and exercises. So—“
“Don’t push it,” Joseph and John chorus in unison. Dr. Anders smirks.
Joseph hops off the bench, and does his best not to limp over towards John, who’s on the wider of the balance beams practicing putting one foot in front the other.
“Hey. Mr. MacTavish—“
“Hah! Oh no you don’t. John is fine, kid. Or MacTavish if you must.”
“Uh—right, yeah. MacTavish. There’s a footie match in two weeks. The team I’m going to be on vs…well just would you want come watch me play?”
MacTavish steps off the low beam and blinks at Joseph a few times like he’s deciphering the words.
“I mean like, you know, as a graduation from physical therapy thing! I have an uncle who comes alone and it’s weird cause it’s usually everyone else’s mum, but I well…” he trails off not really wanting to get into the dead parents thing. “Uncle Simon doesn’t really do women, or not like that but he doesn’t really it’s—he’s—ah—oh no.” Joseph can feel himself going bright red around the years, a miserable Riley trait. “But you’re always here and you’ve been really nice and I think it would be cool if you could come if you’re not busy and we could give you a ride I’m sure. Uncle Simon—“
“Slow down. Slow down.” John put his hands up for emphasis. “Sure, kid. I’ll be there to celebrate your graduation from this place.”
“But not yours?” Joseph asks mainly on accident.
“Ah. No. No. Not mine yet.” He taps his temple.
The bell out front jingles. “Joseph! Your ride is here.” Dr. Anders calls into the back.
“Ok. Cool. Well not cool for you—sorry, sorry, but yeah, ok. I’ll bring the schedule next time.”
John nods and gets unsteadily back on the beam, an assistant at his side with their hands up ready to try and catch the big man if he stumbles. Joseph hurries out before he witnesses and accidental crushing injury.
“Joseph,” Uncle Simon greets him with a pat on the back and an assessing gaze. “All right?”
Joseph rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Yeah. Fine another week or two and I’ll be back.” The rain drizzles over them on the walk to the car. Joseph hunches his shoulders, playing football in the rain is the best and he’s missing it…again. “By the way. I invited John to my next match. When I’m back to playing.”
“Who?” Simon asks, one brow raised in deep skepticism.
“John MacTavish?”
Joseph watches the skepticism turn into a brief bout of disbelief, Simon’s eye flit over his shoulder before he scrunches them shut with a heavy sigh. He seems deflated when he looks back to Joseph, but he hides it well enough. “Sure, Joe. We can invite him next time.”
Disclaimer:
I do not own any rights to the character Simon "Ghost" Riley or the Call of Duty franchise. The character is the property of its respective copyright holders. This story is a work of fan fiction and is entirely fictional. Any original plot elements, story developments, and the female protagonist featured in this work are my own creations and remain protected as original creative content.
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The dust in the abandoned warehouse near the Syrian border hung thick in the air, pierced only by the red laser dots of my unit. My breathing was shallow as the weight of my tactical vest pressed heavily against my shoulders. I gripped my assault rifle tightly, but the pulse of frantic fear wasn't only for the enemy outside.
"They're not moving," I whispered over the encrypted comms.
A long, icy shadow fell over me from behind. A gloved hand settled firmly against my neck, the fingers pressing gently yet possessively against my carotid artery, right where my pulse was racing wildly.
"Not yet," came the deep, rough voice of Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley directly beside my ear.
His imposing frame towered over me completely, shielding me from the darkness. Beneath the iconic skull-Mask, his usually cold, dark eyes softened for the briefest moment as his gaze flickered across my lips.
"But when they do, you stay right behind me. Understood?"
"Simon, we're on a mission..." I murmured, the heat of his presence instantly driving away the chill of the room.
Before he could answer, the heavy wooden entrance doors exploded apart. Bullets ripped through the air, accompanied by the deafening roar of explosions. Before I could react, Simon pulled me behind a thick concrete pillar in one smooth motion. He pressed me firmly but gently against the wall and positioned his massive body in front of mine, an impenetrable shield against the incoming fire.
His face was only inches from mine. His eyes burned with a dangerous obsession of icy intensity. To the rest of the world, Simon was a ruthless killing machine, but in the middle of this chaos, his entire focus was on me.
"I told you to stay close to me," he growled darkly as gunfire thundered around us.
His hand moved from my neck to my cheek, the rough texture of his glove brushing carefully across my skin.
"If so much as a single hair on your head gets hurt in here, I'll burn this damn place to the ground. And every last one of them with it."
"I can take care of myself, Ghost," I managed to say, even as my heart hammered against my ribs beneath my tactical vest.
"Not when your life is on the line. That's one thing I never leave to chance," he murmured.
Lowering his head, he pressed his forehead against mine for the briefest heartbeat. The warmth of his breath seeped through the fabric of his mask.
"Rule number one, recruit: you stay alive. Because otherwise, there won't be anyone left worth crawling back from hell for."
He pulled away, raised his rifle, and with lethal precision eliminated the attackers advancing down the corridor. Before moving to secure the next corner, he threw me a glance over his shoulder that left no room for argument.
CW/Tags: voyeurism (Simon), exhibitionism (reader), masturbation, noncon recording of sex acts, fishnets, no use of y/n
Wordcount: 1.3k
A/N: not suuuuper happy w/ this but I gotta get back to my main squeeze so time to post and move on :)
Simon Riley was a sick fucking bastard. He’d known it a long time, but he was really reaching new depths on this assignment. The dumb fucking surveillance assignment – this consolation prize to make him feel better about being grounded until medical cleared him because at least he wasn’t chained to a desk.
It was funny, the difference between staring at someone through a scope and a window. Granted, the difference between 18 hours and 18 days wasn’t insignificant. Turns out, it took roughly 150 hours before his depraved underbelly began demanding sustenance.
And you…you knew how to feed a man.
You allowed Simon to gorge on you. Hell, you spread yourself out like a feast, opened legs and quivering cunt. Open curtains. Often an open window. The breeze would carry your sweet, marinating sounds to Simon’s darkened room across the street. Who the fuck could be expected to have a soft cock after seeing that?
Your self-pleasing habits had a rhythm.
Sometimes, he could barely even tell you were getting yourself off until the orgasm was already bearing down on you. You would get up, clean yourself off in the bathroom, and return to bed. He imagined it was not dissimilar to what he looked like when he jerked off.
His second favourite was when you woke up before your alarm clock, needy and half-asleep. Simon could see you half-heartedly try to collect yourself, but then you would blindly fumble around your nightstand for a toy – a dildo with about 4 usable inches and less thickness than two of his fingers. It was…precious.
He’d watch you through his binoculars as you rolled onto your stomach, both arms pressed beneath you. One to man your dildo, and the other to work your clit. Your face smushed into your pillow, eyes lidded and blissed out as your hips started jerking with the movements of your dumb little toy. You always faced the window. Curtains open. Blanket sometimes getting thrown off, sometimes staying on, masking the true delight of your ministrations. But never enough to keep Simon from timing his orgasm with yours.
What he lived for, however, made him question just how hidden he truly was from you. Because sometimes, usually after reading some steamy book, you fucked yourself like a god damn armature porn star. You moved a mirror into a corner – so you could watch yourself, or so Simon could watch you from the front and back at the same time?
Blankets were expressly forbidden. Your skin was either entirely exposed, or you wore little scraps that made you check yourself out in that mirror, hands trailing soft, supple skin. Lace, leather, perfectly placed cut-outs. You seemed to have a particular fondness for fucking yourself through ripped up bottoms. Was it the implied urgency? That someone needed you so fucking badly that they couldn’t simply undress you? They became animalistic and just ripped through whatever barrier was between them and your sweet fucking cunt? It had to be that. Lord knew that Simon felt it.
But after you were as underdressed as you needed – sometimes accomplished by a flurry of tossing clothes aside, sometimes a methodical stripping – and the music was on, deep and slow, you did everything except keep your pleasure to yourself.
You straddled that stupid fucking dildo and rode it like you were riding a man – like you were riding him. You knelt on three out of four limbs, one occupied with fucking yourself, face turned to the mirror so you could watch the toy disappear into your dripping hole. And Simon could watch you watching. You went prone, spread legs pointing directly to the window. You went up on your knees, tits heaving, and collapsing on them when you came.
Curtains open. Windows always open for those.
And fuck, the sounds. The moans and the squeaks when even you surprised yourself with something. The breathy laugh after, when your brain was flooded with every feel-good chemical it could produce. The shaky and twitching legs that eventually took you to the bathroom.
He wore a nondescript medical mask and a baseball cap low and his head when he hacked your phone, casting a mirror version of it to a blank one in his pocket. Simon had to stand close to get it done, far closer than he had before. His hands itched to reach out and touch you, to bury his nose in your hair and live off the fumes of your shampoo. You glanced back at him once, waiting in line for the cashier. He enjoyed that you had to tilt your head up to find his eyes.
You set a pair of sheer knickers and fishnets on the conveyer belt. No attempt to hide them or make it less obvious as to what they are. Thoughtfully – more thoughtfully than warranted – you grabbed a pack of gum and flipped it over to pretend to read the ingredients. It slipped through your fingers and landed at your feet.
Instead of crouching to grab it, you bent at the waist, your hips pushing back more than necessary. Your leggings turned sheer as they stretched across your ass and Simon could not be fucked in the least to pretend he wasn’t looking. You wore a scrap of a thong which did nothing to hide the roundness of your folds between your gnaw-worthy thighs.
Yes, he very much understood the taste for ripped bottoms.
Straightening, you returned the gum to the shelf and placed the divider down. Simon added a few decoy grocery items and a bottle of lube to the conveyer.
Again, you tilted your head back to catch his gaze. Only a glance this time. A glance and a blush.
God fucking bless department stores.
Simon experienced what he imagined people meant when they said they were giddy, walking back to his temporary living quarters, keeping a safe distance from you. He couldn’t fucking wait to see you fuck yourself silly in those fishnets.
What he did not expect was that you would want a better view for yourself, too, setting your phone up against a pillow, turning on the camera, and bending over in front of it with your knees spread wide. Through the window he could see your face against the mattress. You wore nothing on top, only the fishnets which you ripped open in front of the camera to reveal your already wet cunt.
You humped the air, pussy fluttering as spasms of arousal coursed through you before you slid your fingers through your folds. You held your shiny fingers out for the camera, the light catching the strings of moisture that coated and connected your fingers. Simon dropped a dollop of lube into his palm and fisted his cock, watching you slip a dainty little finger into your desperate cunt, imagining the sounds created by the lube were coming from you.
You seemed in no rush to cum, teasing yourself mercilessly and listlessly, spreading your slick, letting it collect until it literally dripped onto your bed.
Eventually, Simon finished with you, thick ropes of cum landing on the phone screen – on your weeping hole – when your fingers circled your swollen clit, and you came with a cry that carried across the street.
Thanks to your open fucking window.
When your legs stopped twitching he watched you walk to the window and pull your hands above your head, stretching, tits out on full display before you turned around to bend into downward dog. Still in those ripped fishnets and nothing else. One hand reached through your legs, and you curled a finger in a “come hither” motion.
Simon’s heart stuttered.
You pushed yourself back up, grabbed your phone which was still on the camera and walked to your flat door. You held up the phone to show yourself pulling back the deadbolt. You opened the notes app and typed out 8213.
Your building door code. Of course, he knew it already. But that wasn’t the point, was it?
You typed another message: All warmed up for you. Wear the mask :)
