The air in the room was no longer air; it was a medium, thick with Peter's essence. It felt less like a scent and more like a pressure, a palpable fog that curled into the lungs and rewired the nervous system.

Every breath was an infusion of him.

Victoria moved to kneel before Celeste, a gesture of intimacy. But as she leaned in, Celeste's body went rigid. Her back arched violently, head thrown back as if pulled by an invisible string. Her legs lifted, wrapping around a phantom presence, hips undulating in a frantic, silent rhythm against the empty space above her.

"I can feel him..." she gasped, her voice a broken whisper. Her hands clawed at the air where his shoulders should be. "Right there... don't stop..." A full-body shudder wracked her frame, leaving her trembling on the floor.

Ortega reached for Emma's hand, seeking simple connection. The moment their fingers brushed, Ortega recoiled as if electrocuted. Her breath hitched, a desperate wheeze. Her own hands flew to her throat, not in panic, but in a mimicry of a longed-for pressure.

"Please..." she begged the suffocating air, her eyes wide and unfocused. "Like you always do..."

Ashby leaned in to kiss Sophia neck, a tender gesture. But Sophia cried out, her body jerking as if struck. A vivid red mark bloomed on her skin where no mouth had touched her. She bared her throat to the room, a silent offering to an absent master.

Ashby could only stare, a witness to a possession she couldn't share.

A gentle, comforting touch from Gabrielle on Isabella's knee made Isabella scream. Not in pain, but in overwhelming sensory memory. She curled into a tighter ball, her entire body flinching as if being traced by an unseen mouth.

"I can still feel it..." she sobbed into the floor, her voice muffled. "Everywhere..."

The room became a symphony of phantom touch. A brush of arms sent Luna scrambling backward, whimpering about hands "tearing her open." Anya stood frozen, staring at her own hands as if they were alien objects, terrified that any touch she offered would merely be a conduit for his presence, erasing her own.

They moved like marionettes guided by a ghost, their bodies responding to a script only they could feel. Moans were not expressions of pleasure but echoes of a memory so vivid it became real-time torture.

The smoke-filled air crackled with the static of their shared, desperate hallucinations. Sweat-sheened skin glistened in the low light. The space was not filled with passion, but with a profound, terrifying devotion.

Their own bodies had become prisons of sensation, each nerve ending a loyal subject to a king who was merely watching.

He was at the center of it all, the silent architect of this beautiful ruin. The pheromones were not an invitation; they were a command that had rewritten their very perception of touch at his command. It wasn't just desire. It was total, cellular-level possession.

And in their desperate, aching movements, it was clear they never, ever wanted it to end.

*

The others were lost in the haze of phantom sensations, but my attention was fixed on Sofia. Her eyes, usually filled with a vibrant, almost chaotic energy, were now wide, hollow pools of pure need. She was my Little Ghost, and she was ready to be haunted.

I didn't speak. I simply walked toward her, and she began to tremble, a fine, constant shiver that made her seem like a mirage. When I stood before her, she didn't reach for me. She just looked up, her lips parted in a silent plea.

I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh above her ass, and turned her around. A sharp gasp escaped her as I bent her over the arm of a low, velvet couch.

The smoke and Pheromones were cool against her feverish skin. I hooked my thumbs into the pussy in one swift, practiced motion. She was already dripping, her slickness gleaming in the dim light.

There was no preamble. I positioned myself at her entrance, the broad head of my cock pressing against her wet heat. I drove into her with a single, deep, punishing thrust that buried me to the hilt.

Sofia's entire body seized. A sound tore from her throat—not a moan, but a sharp, fractured cry that was half pain, half ecstasy. This was the trigger.

The Little Ghost awakened.

Her back arched violently, her head whipping back as her consciousness seemed to leave her body. Her eyes rolled white, and a guttural stream of nonsense, of pleas and curses and worship, poured from her lips.

"Yesss... more... break me, Peter! Shatter your little ghost! Fuck the soul out of me!"

I set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each thrust slamming deep into her core. My hips were a machine, pounding into her with a force that shook the couch. With every inward drive, my pelvis ground against her ass, sending shockwaves through her small frame.

Her arms, which had been braced on the couch, gave way. She collapsed forward, her upper body pressed into the velvet, but her ass stayed high, a perfect offering for my relentless assault. Her fingers clawed at the fabric, tearing it.

"That's it! That's it! I'm not here! I'm gone! I'm your ghost! Your little fuck-ghost!" she wailed, her voice echoing in the room, a stark contrast to the silent, phantom struggles of the others.

I leaned over her, covering her body with mine, one hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back. My other hand snaked around her hip, finding her clit. I pressed down hard, circling the swollen nub in time with my thrusts.

The effect was catastrophic. Her babbling dissolved into incoherent screams. Her body began to convulse around my cock, a series of intense, fluttering spasms that milked me relentlessly. It was a raw, exorcism of an orgasm, so powerful it seemed to vibrate through both of us.

I fucked her so fast, hard and brutal for fifteen minutes like that.

"Come for me, Ghost," I growled into her ear, my pace never faltering. "Let me feel you disappear."

A final, shattering cry was her only answer as her body went limp beneath me, completely spent. I followed her over the edge, pumping my own release deep inside her with a few last, deep grinds, marking the territory I had so thoroughly conquered.

For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing. Then, slowly, the light returned to Sofia's eyes. The Little Ghost had retreated, leaving behind a blissfully empty, utterly claimed woman.

She shuddered as I pulled out, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. She was whole, because for a few moments, she had been blissfully, perfectly shattered.

"My Little Ghost's cunt is tight..."

My cock... free—veined, thick as Sophia's wrist found it, flushed dark with need, the bulbous head glistening with pre-cum. Throb. Throb. The pulse echoed in the smoky air.

Sophia didn't hesitate. She shoved a marble stool aside, bending over it, bracing her hands on the cool surface. Her back arched, presenting her glistening, swollen pussy—already dripping, pink lips parted, bare and ready.

"Now, Eros. Now." Her voice was a broken sob of need.

I stepped behind her, hands gripping the smooth curves of her hips. The moment my cockhead nudged her entrance, Sophia went rigid.

"OH FUCK!" The pheromones hit her—a tidal wave of pure sensation. My touch wasn't just physical; it was spiritual. Every nerve ending screamed.

I pushed.

Her tightness resisted for a split second—then yielded. The thick head of my cock split her open, stretching her wide around my impossible girth. "AHHHHHH—!" Sofia's scream tore through the haze, raw and primal, her knuckles white on the stool. "TOO BIG! OH GOD, PETER—!"

"Take it," I growled, voice like gravel, my grip on her hips iron. "Every. Fucking. Inch. I know you love it"

I thrust—hard, deep, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. "FUCKING HELL!" Sophia's body convulsed, back bowing violently as my cock slammed against her cervix. I felt her inner walls ripple—a spasm of shock, pain, and blinding pleasure—clamping down on my invading length like a velvet vise.

"Your cunt is so tight..." I snarled, pulling out slowly until only the tip remained inside her, feeling every slick ridge of her gripping me.

I slammed back in. Harder. Deeper.

SLAP!

The sound of skin hitting skin echoed. "OH YES! RIGHT THERE!" Sofia's scream climbed octaves. "FUCK YOUR PUSSY! WRECK IT!"

I set a rhythm—brutal, relentless. Out. Slam in. Out. Slam in. Each thrust drove her forward onto her toes, gasping, whimpering. My balls slapped against her clit with every stroke, adding sharp jolts of pleasure-pain to the deep, overwhelming fullness of being split wide open by my cock.

The pheromones saturated her senses. My cock wasn't just filling her—it was rewriting her reality. "Eros... Peter... Eros..." became her only prayer, chanted with every desperate gasp, every shuddering moan, as I fucked her with the force of a god claiming his altar.

Her pussy gripped me like a drowning hand, slick, hot, perfect. I felt the tension coil in her—the imminent eruption she couldn't stop.

"Come for me, slut," I commanded, one hand sliding around to find her clit, rubbing it hard in time with my brutal thrusts. "Now."

"PETER—!" She shattered. Her pussy convulsed violently, squirting hot juices around my pistoning cock, her entire body shaking as a cataclysmic orgasm ripped through her, triggered by the divine punishment of my cock owning her cunt. I roared, feeling her walls milk me relentlessly, and kept fucking her through it, riding her convulsions, pounding into her swollen, hypersensitive flesh as she sobbed and screamed my name.

Mine. Claimed. Fucked. utterly.

****

A/N: Since you guys do not like many sex chapters, I will end at the next coming chapter. Until you tell me otherwise.

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