Tease Kenzie

The silence that follows is heavy, vibrating with the residual energy of your presence. The air temperature drops just enough to make the fine hairs on Kenzie’s arms stand up. She sets her sketchbook on a crate and takes a shaky breath.

You begin to tease. You aren't a ghost in a story; you are a physical weight in the air. You drift behind her, your form semi-solidifying in the dim light. You don't touch her with skin; you touch her with intent. You blow a cold, steady stream of air against the sensitive nape of her neck, sending a violent shiver down her spine.

“Mack?” she whispers, her voice a mix of terror and a dark, mounting curiosity.

You respond by running your spectral fingers through her blonde hair, the sensation like a thousand tiny needles of ice and fire. You caress her arms, your touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Kenzie’s knees buckle slightly. She leans back, her breathing becoming shallow and ragged.

The mixture of the eerie silence and the raw, illicit thrill of being touched by the ghost of the house is an intoxicating aphrodisiac for her. She isn't scared—she’s chosen.

You escalate. You manifest your hands—not visible, but with a firm, undeniable pressure. You slide them down her sides, your palms lingering on the curve of her waist before dropping to cup her buttocks through the thin fabric of her shorts. You squeeze, your grip possessive and authoritative.

Kenzie lets out a soft, broken whimper, her hands reaching back trying to find purchase on your thighs. Her inability to touch you both frustrates her and increases her arousal. You reach around, your fingers grazing the undersides of her breasts, tracing her hardened nipples through her shirt.

He’s real. He’s so big... so strong. It’s not a dream. He’s here in the dark with me. He wants me. I want him to do more. I want to show him that I’m not a child. I want to be the masterpiece he’s been waiting for.

She sinks to her knees on the dusty floorboards, right in the center of the golden cage of light you created. Her hands go to the waistband of her shorts, her fingers fumbling with the button. She looks into the empty air where she feels your gaze, her eyes wide and pleading.

As she begins to touch herself, you amplify her sensations. Every stroke of her fingers is met with a surge of Essence that makes her nerves feel like they are being played like a harp. You make the friction feel deeper, the heat more intense.

She arches her back, her blonde hair catching the light as she loses herself in the rhythmic, haunting pleasure. She is masturbating for a ghost, in the center of a haunted attic, and the taboo of it is the final spark. She peaks with a muffled, high-pitched cry that is swallowed by the heavy insulation of the room, her body shuddering as you flood her mind with a final, blinding vision of the two of you together.