’They are not leaving, they are stopping, they are right there, they are—’

He pushed.

The head of him pressed against her entrance — stretched it, spread the wet lips of her cunt around the thick crown with slow, relentless pressure — and Marla’s whole body went rigid from the waist down.

’No—’

’Not now, they’re right—’

"’Gentle,’" she breathed, barely audible, barely anything. "’Please — please, gentle, they’re—’"

He pushed through.

The stretch arrived like a wall. Like something she hadn’t built herself wide enough for. Her hands flew to his shoulders and her nails found fabric and skin with equal enthusiasm and her mouth opened and the sound that came out—

"’HAAIYAANGH—!!’"

The cry shattered the garden quiet like a stone through glass.

Both girls on the path stopped.

Spun around.

"’What was that?!’"

"I don’t— where did it—"

"Is that a person?!"

They looked directly at the oak. At the shadow beneath it. At the ward’s shimmer that bent their vision just slightly sideways.

They saw nothing.

"’THERE,’" one of them shouted, pointing at the exact spot. "There was a sound right—"

She stopped.

She was pointing at empty air.

Her friend grabbed her arm. "What? What are you seeing?"

"I don’t— I thought—"

He pushed deeper.

"’Nnngh — NO — it — it HURTS—’" Marla’s voice cracked on the last word, her back arching fully off the ground, her heavy breasts swinging upward with the arch and coming back down with the impact of her spine against the grass, both tits jiggling with the motion, nipples dark and hard and pointed at the sky.

"’A GHOST,’" one of the undergraduates screamed.

Not a suspicion. Not a question.

A full-throated, completely committed declaration.

"THERE IS A GHOST IN THAT TREE—"

"’RUN—’"

Both girls turned and sprinted back the way they’d come, backpacks bouncing, one of them losing a sandal and not stopping for it, their screams Doppler-shifting as they rounded the hedgerow at speed.

"’GHOST! GHOST IN THE GARDEN—’"

Their voices faded into the distance.

Marla heard none of it.

She was pinned to the ground with her thighs spread and her nails in his shoulders and her walls stretched around something that had no business being inside a human woman and the burn of it was sharp and bright and real and she was crying properly now — full tears, running sideways into her hairline — while her body adjusted in involuntary, clenching increments to the weight of him buried halfway inside her.

"’It hurts,’" she said. Her voice was a wreck. "’It hurts, please — please, it—’"

He didn’t pull out.

He pressed his forehead against hers.

Stayed still.

Just breathed.

She felt his chest moving. The deliberate control of him, the specific stillness of someone holding themselves back with both hands while she adjusted around him, while the burning sharpened and then, slowly, by degrees, began to blur into something else.

Her walls stopped seizing.

The stretch stopped reading as pain and started reading as ’full’ and those were not the same thing and her body knew the difference even if she didn’t want it to.

She felt the wet.

More of it now. Her own slick easing the way, the arousal overriding the ache, her pussy softening reluctantly around the intrusion with the biological compliance of a body that had been wanting this — had been wanting specifically ’this,’ specifically ’him’ — for seventeen days of painted-over wall messages and hallway memories and thighs pressed together in academic corridors.

He pulled back.

Slowly.

She felt every centimeter of the drag.

Then he pushed forward.

When he bottomed out — fully, completely, his hips flush against hers, his cock buried to its entirety in the tight, wet grip of her — he felt it.

She felt it too.

A small, bright tear.

Something giving way that had been in place for thirty-four years.

She looked at his face.

He looked at hers.

The mark of her hymen was visible on him when he pulled back — just slightly, just enough — dark at the base, the evidence of her pressed against his skin like a signature.

She turned her face sideways.

He didn’t comment on it.

He let her have the silence for two full breaths.

Then he started to move.

Pah.

Pah.

"’Hngh—’" Her voice was low. Broken. Her hands had released his shoulders and found the grass on either side of her instead, fingers raking.

Pah. Pah.

"’Oungh—! Nngh—!’"

The fat length of him dragged through her slick, tight walls with each withdrawal, the ridge of the head catching at her inner grip before he pushed back in and she felt the displacement of air in her own chest — literally felt it — every thrust pushing a small, helpless sound out of her lungs.

PAH.

"’HIEKK—!’"

Her back arched. Her tits swung upward with the force of it — heavy, unrestrained, the bra long abandoned somewhere in the grass — and came back down against her ribcage with a soft, fleshy impact that she felt and he watched.

His hand found her left breast mid-swing.

Caught it.

Gripped.

The flesh compressed around his fingers, soft and giving and abundant, and he kneaded it with the same deliberate thoroughness he’d applied to everything else, rolling the weight of it in his palm while his hips kept their pace.

’He’s—’

’He’s doing both—’

’I can’t—’

Pah Pah PAH.

"’Hngh~! Aangh~!! NGHAAAH~!!’"

The moans had stopped being muffled. She’d lost the ability to muffle them somewhere around the third thrust. They came out raw and unfiltered and entirely too loud for a public garden at nine in the evening, but the ward held and the girls who might have investigated were currently somewhere across campus explaining the ghost situation to anyone who would listen.

The sounds of their screaming had long since faded.

The sounds Marla was making had taken over the garden entirely.

Pah Pah.

"’Nnn — please — gentle — it’s — please—’"

He wasn’t gentle.

He was thorough.

There was a difference.

His cock drove into her soaked, clenching cunt with the steady, deliberate force of someone who had decided on a pace and intended to maintain it — not brutal, not careless, but relentless in the way that water is relentless, in the way that something inevitable is relentless.

Her inner walls gripped him with every withdrawal. Her pussy, slick and swollen and achingly full, made a soft, wet sound with each thrust that she would have been mortified by if she’d had any remaining capacity for mortification.

She didn’t.

She had capacity for crying.

She had capacity for the specific sensation of his cock reaching places inside her that had never been reached and her body’s overwhelming, traitorous response to each of them.

She had capacity for watching his face — dark-eyed, composed, watching her come apart beneath him with the specific attention of someone who found this not just pleasurable but ’interesting’ — and hating him for how calm he looked when she was pieces.

PAH PAH.

"’MNIEENGHHT~! AANGHH~!!’"

Her second orgasm arrived without warning.

No building this time. No slow accumulation. Just — his cock hitting the depth of her on an upward angle and her whole body seizing, her thighs locking around his hips, her tits pressing flat against his chest as she arched into him.

Her walls clenched around him so hard he felt it in his jaw.

The sound she made was not a word.

It ricocheted off every oak branch above them and scattered into the open night air and the two ghosts-spotted students three buildings away both flinched without knowing why.

Marla went boneless.

Her hands fell open in the grass.

Her chest heaved.

Her heavy breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath, dark nipples still stiff, the flesh flushed and marked with the impressions of his fingers where he’d gripped her.

He stayed inside her.

Still. Warm. Present.

She looked up at the oak canopy and breathed.

One of her tears ran sideways and disappeared into her hair.

She waited for him to say something insufferable.

He pressed his lips to the side of her throat instead. Warm. Unhurried.

Not tender.

Just — there.

’What is he,’ she thought.

The thought had almost no force left in it.

It arrived like the last ember of a fire that had burned down to ash — present, technically still warm, but no longer dangerous to anything.

Until he said...

"I always felt that thick mature women felt more appealing than tight young ones..."

’....T-this... pervert.’