Science 13

Apple blows into the room, blithely unaware that she narrowly misses your foot, which would have resulted in a catastrophic trip and pratfall. Her device is in both hands, LED lights shining, but not half as bright as her eyes as she absently closes the door behind her and waves the gizmo around.

“I knew it,” she mutters delightedly. “Look at that! There’s something here! It’s so strong in this room. What are you doing down there?” She finally pauses to look down at you.

You’re seated on the floor, sweaty, still disheveled, shirtless, and wearing tight jeans with an absolutely massive bulge. The imprint of your shaft is explicit.

Her eyes widen slightly, and her face becomes oddly slack. She seems to forget about the contraption and its readings.

“Oh,” she says, and it only comes out as a whisper.

You can almost feel her gaze working its way down your chest, lingering on your abs, before settling on your package.

She blinks a few times, apparently confused. “Oh,” she repeats.

“OK, um,” you say, not at your most articulate. You need to get her out of here. “I’m, uh, changing. Can you give me a few minutes?”

She doesn’t seem to hear you. She licks her lips, and you’ve seen this almost zombie-like hunger in the eyes of your family a few times since this trouble began. It’s more intense for Apple.

Her outfit of little khaki shorts and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt with a dignified floral pattern is tasteful and appropriate for the weather. At this moment, it might as well be lingerie. Her body is small and streamlined. She lacks Delta’s modest but impactful curves, yet there’s still something distinctly feminine about her slim figure. You weren’t great about objectifying even before all of this. The haunting has made you a thousand times worse.

She’s breathing harder and faster, staring at you. She absently straightens her glasses and takes a hesitant step forward, then thumps to her knees without warning, her delicate hands grabbing for your jeans.

It doesn’t even occur to you to do anything other than go along with it. It’s impressive that you’ve held back as long as you have. You help her. You must smell like an orgy, but that obviously doesn’t bother her. You get your cock free, and she doesn’t know what to do. Your family once briefly fostered a dog that was said to have ADHD; it could never stay interested in one thing for more than two seconds.

That’s Apple now. Awestruck, she fondles your cock with both hands, but then those hands are on your abs. Then your chest. She squeezes your muscles as though you’re alien from another planet, something she’s never seen before. Your toes curl when she gives your rigid nipple a little lick.

You’re one second from pushing her down and climbing on top when she abruptly brings her mouth to your cock.

You hiss and throw a panicked look at the closet. Sure enough, the door is ajar. It’s not as though you don’t care, but it’s not nearly enough to stop you.

Apple can’t fit you in her mouth, and she has no idea how to give head. But her tongue feels amazing, and her innocent face, crooked glasses, and everything else—it’s so sexy that you don’t want her to stop. You love it, but it’s still nothing more than a tease. You need relief. You’re about to take over and hurriedly blast the biggest, stickiest load of your life all over her face, hair, and glasses—but you notice her other hand in her shorts. She’s touching herself.

She notices you looking, and although you’ve been in a room with this woman for all of two minutes, you are perfectly in tune. She’s inexperienced, but whatever barrier that presents, the power of the haunting punches straight through it.

She pulls away from you, desperately opening buttons just enough to whip that shirt over her head, revealing a boring sports bra. You’re kicking off your jeans and underwear. She’s naked in seconds, pale all over with faint tan lines revealing her summer uniform of shorts and tee. She’s basically untrimmed down there, and every muscle in her body becomes as hard as steel once your mouth is on her breast and your fingers are between her legs.

You have to cover her mouth, and your exploration of her body is cursory. In your normal state of mind, you might take time to appreciate her a bit more, but that’s not on the menu tonight. You bring her into your lap, wincing at the sharp pain in your shoulder when she bites you hard as you enter her.

But she’s tight, and there’s something else… You hold her close, lucid thoughts trying to get through as she shudders, her pussy like a vice. You move, and she grunts in pain. You have slept with a lot of women, but most of them were not virgins. That’s enough to stop you.

You’re about to speak, but she starts to move, her face buried in your neck, hips working desperately—yet not too fast or too hard; she’s in some discomfort, but that doesn’t deter her. You’re twice her size, but she’s leading. If it’s not experience, then it’s instinct putting this feverish yet graceful, vigorous rhythm into her hips.

You’re so connected to body, yet also detached from it; being under the influence of the haunting really does share a lot with smoking weed. The smoothness of her skin, her almost fragile slenderness, the way her bottom softens, then firms up when she brings her hips in toward you, corresponding to her squeezing—you can’t fight it.

You’re both lost in it, so there’s no thought about trying to last. When you let go, it’s so big that it hurts. Your cock aches as it expands and contracts, pumping a copious stream straight into her. You grunt, and it throbs again, forcing even more out.

Suddenly drained, you ease down onto your back. She’s on top of you, flushed and cross-eyed. Ticklish stickiness tells you what’s going on down there, and as your faculties return, you try not to think about how your mother can probably see your thick load bubbling and oozing out of this girl around your dick.

Apple is coming to her senses. Lucidity returns to her eyes, and the clearer they get, the redder her face becomes. She looks overwhelmed, not to mention mortified. Guilt stabs you, but you don’t know what to say. You’re still inside her.

“It’s not us,” you gasp. “It’s the ghost.”