Morgan Myst

Soap corners him after the fifth time he cancelled, all crooked grin and too bright eyes, leaning into Ghost’s space. “Ye’re skippin’ again, LT. What’s the matter? Bird got ye on a curfew?”

Ghost doesn’t answer at first. Just shoulders his bag higher and keeps walking. But Soap follows, wheedling in that relentless way of his. “C’mon, Simon. Ye’ve not bought a round in weeks. Ye skint? Need a loan? Or is it her? Ye spendin’ all yer money on that pretty thing ye’ve been seein’?”

Ghost stops, turns just enough for Soap to see the flat line of his mouth beneath the mask. “Money’s tight.”

“Tight?” Soap barks a laugh, but it dies quick when he clocks the look in Ghost’s eyes. “You? The fuck’re ye spendin’ it on, then?”

Ghost doesn’t elaborate, just walks away. Soap watches him go, brow furrowed, and later- when it’s just the three of them and a half empty bottle- he tells the others what little he got.

“She’s drainin’ him,” Soap says. “He’s cuttin’ back on everythin’ else. Won’t even split a pizza. Says he’s savin’.”

Price swirls what’s left in his glass. “Seen it before. Good men go soft for the right pair of legs and a sweet smile. Ghost’s got discipline, aye, but he’s still a man. And men like that… they’ve got bank. No one to spend it on before. Makes ‘em easy marks.”

“Gold digger,” Gaz mutters, not quite under his breath, shaking his head at another brother lost. “Better men’ve fallen for less.”

They keep this to themselves, where Ghost can’t hear them. Wouldn’t matter if they did. He’s already gone- head, heart, and wallet- in a way none of them have ever seen. They think he’s blind to it. That he’s being played.

What they don’t see is the way Ghost’s cock twitches, thickening in the grey confines of his pants, every time he pushes his tongue past the sticky-sweet barrier of your sixty dollar lipstick until it smears, thumb dragging across your lower lip, deliberate, spreading the color onto your chin.

Doesn’t see how hard he gets until he’s dizzy with it, one fist buried tight in your blown out hair, gripping at the roots and ruining the careful- expensive- work the stylist did until damp strands stick to your skin.

Blunt head already drooling a thick pool of pre, balls aching as he watches the mascara run down your flushed cheeks, lashes clumping, while he feeds his cock into your perfect warm mouth until the flared head gags the back of your throat.

And maybe he is just a man- a weak, greedy, obsessed man- as he swipes his card on yet another several-hundred-dollar clothing purchase despite your soft protests, already half hard at the thought of how he’s going to rip those pretty new things off your body the second the door closes behind you both, bullying his cock into your cunt around the remains of yet another tattered pair of fifty dollar lacy panties.

You always say something about the cost, about how he can’t keep doing this, but Ghost just shakes his head once, sharp and final. “Can. Will. Shut up an’ let me see what I bought.”

The lads can think what they want. Let them whisper about gold diggers and better men falling. They don’t see how turned on Ghost gets spoiling you rotten, just so he can see you all soft and wrecked, expensive clothes twisted and stained, hair a mess, face streaked with him after he fucks you stupid.

This video has been deleted off of YouTube.

Anthony Ramos and Jasmine Cephas Jones in Mind Over Matter