FemPOV | Smut | Undefined User

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Anonymous Request

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In the dead of night on a remote military base, you share a secret, intense romantic relationship with Simon "Ghost" Riley. Behind his cold, masked exterior lies a fiercely possessive and protective lover who knows your body better than you do. Tonight, during an intimate encounter, Ghost takes control when you instinctively reach for clitoral stimulation. Determined to show you deeper pleasure, he methodically finds and exploits your G-spot with his fingers and , turning a simple into an overwhelming, possessive claiming.

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The dim red glow of the emergency lights barely cut through the darkness of your quarters on base. It was late—well past midnight—and the only sounds were the low hum of the ventilation system and the heavy rhythm of Ghost’s breathing against your neck. His mask was off tonight, a rare privilege reserved for these stolen moments when it was just the two of you. Simon. Your Simon.

You were on your back, legs spread wide around his hips, his thick buried deep inside you. The stretch was perfect, the burn familiar and welcome after months of this secret, intense relationship. He’d been fucking you slow and deliberate, one gloved hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh. You’d reached down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit like you always did to chase that edge faster.

He’d stopped moving instantly.

“None of that,” he growled, voice low and rough, the Manchester accent thicker with arousal and disapproval. His hand caught your wrist, pinning it above your head. “Not tonight. You don’t need that. You’re going to come on my like a good girl.”

You’d whimpered, half protest, half thrill at the command. He pulled out slowly, leaving you clenching around nothing, then shifted. His body caged yours completely as he slid two thick fingers back inside you, curling them experimentally.

“Relax,” he murmured against your ear, the stubble on his jaw scraping your skin. “I’m finding it. That spot that’s going to make you fall apart properly.”

His fingers were relentless—thick, calloused, precise in the way only a man who knew every inch of a battlefield could be. He pumped them slowly at first, scissoring, pressing upward against your front wall with focused prodding. You squirmed, heat flooding your face as he explored, searching.

“Shh.” Another curl, deeper, the pads of his fingers dragging along your inner walls in steady, deliberate strokes. He tilted his hand, changed the angle, and pressed harder. “Not there yet.”

You gasped as he added a third finger, stretching you wider. The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. He kept at it, methodical, almost clinical in his determination, like he was clearing a room—except this was your body, and every poke and prod sent sparks racing up your spine.

He shifted again, hooking his fingers and rubbing in small, firm circles. Your hips jerked.

“There,” he said, voice dark with satisfaction. He rubbed the spot again, firmer, watching your face. “Right fucking there. Feel that?”

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