Prey (a.k.a. possessed by a horny spirit)
There isn’t much Agent Nine can do when he’s taken over by something with a hunger for the pleasures of mortal flesh.
1.3k, erotic short, cis M masturbation with non-consensual body possession.
Agent Nine’s seen a lot of things in his life. A lot of things. He’d never seen anything that made him believe in demons, spirits, or ghosts, though.
Until now.
He stares, unbelieving, through his own eyes, a helpless passenger in his body as it walks across the room and comes to a stop in front of the full-length mirror.
“Mmm… Yes,” says the thing in there with him, thoughtfully. It’s his voice but not his tone; the eyes reflected in the mirror are his eyes but not — they’re still blue, yes, but they’re too blue now; sharp and piercing and electric. Like lightning turned to ice. “Yes, I think this will do just fine. Even with the moustache.”
If Agent Nine could talk, he would bristle at that — what, exactly, is wrong with the moustache? — but the kneejerk indignation disappears again a moment later when the thing continues its inspection of the body it’s taken over. His hands lift, through no will of his own; his fingers run through his own hair and brush across his lips in a shivering sensation that he does still feel, but…
It’s as if from a distance, he realizes. Like an echo of touch, or — the dark irony isn’t lost on him — a ghost of the feeling itself.
His tongue makes a tsk sound and the thing shakes his head. “This outfit will not do, however.”
As Agent Nine watches in the mirror, unable to look away — literally; he can’t so much as close his eyes or turn his head because he doesn’t have those anymore — his suit jacket is stripped off and tossed aside. His tie follows, and his hands work with quick, efficient motions to neatly roll his shirt-sleeves up to his elbows.
“I suppose that’s a bit better, at least,” his mouth says musingly in that tone that isn’t his — it’s a little more clipped and precise, a little haughty, with a faint accent that he can’t quite place.
Another shiver of muted, sparking sensation follows as his hands are run up his body a scant moment of consideration later. They pause to undo the top buttons of his shirt… and then they continue, trailing slowly over his own chest, his belly, his neck and cheek. He watches his fingertips slide along his jawline and onto his parted lips in a deliberately sensual movement; he doesn’t even need to feel the spike in sensation or the intake of breath that accompanies it to know that the thing inside him is doing this for… pleasure.
He would swallow hard if he could, phantom breath catching as it strikes him that he’s… he’s never seen himself like this before. He didn’t know he could stand with that confident pose at all, let alone while shamelessly touching himself in front of a mirror.
And the thing is doing exactly that, using his body. His tongue is licking his lips and one hand is slipping downwards, and a groan that isn’t his but sounds like it rises in his throat as that hand grips his filling erection through his suit pants.
“Ahh…” his body breathes, a sigh of pure bliss as his hips press forward into the touch. He can still feel the echoing sensations of it all; aimless heat is building in his sense of self, a rising warmth that’s almost entirely separate from the physical sensation he’s only partly connected to. “Ah, yes… We are going to put this to very good use. Oh, stop panicking in there,” the thing adds with not-his voice, smirking into the mirror. “You’ll get the body back at dawn. Just relax and… enjoy the ride for tonight.”
He can’t do that, he shouldn’t. He should… he should fight, somehow; he knows he should. Hell, for all he knows, this thing is flat-out lying to him. But the shameful truth is, not only does he not have the foggiest idea how to fight this… A part of him doesn’t even want to, not really.
The thing has gone back to ignoring him after that one comment, all its attention fixed on itself — on him — the mirror. And it’s… it is enjoying his body more than he ever has, really. The fingers of one hand are still exploring, wandering between his own mouth and his chest and rubbing lightly over the stiffened peaks of his nipples through the soft, thin fabric of his shirt; the other hand is lazily tugging, working his rapidly-stiffening cock through the coarser material of his pants.
And because whatever — or whoever — has taken him over is avidly watching its own little show, Agent Nine has no choice but to watch along with it. Watch, and try to tell himself he’s not, at some level, enjoying the experience, while his fingers move to unfasten his pants and pull out his now-straining cock; while his hand wraps around the heat of his own shaft and strokes; back and forth, luxurious and unhurried as the thing speeds up only gradually.
Bit by bit, it drives them closer: their chest beginning to heave with their shared body’s panting breaths; flushed cock beginning to leak, growing slick and slippery at the tip; hips rolling and hand pumping, stroking, coaxing as it picks up the pace. He doesn’t know if this thing is doing things that it likes with his body, or if it somehow already knows what Agent Nine’s body likes even better than he himself does; but he can feel how horribly good it is, how unbelievably hard he is, how hot the need roaring behind his cock is as climax looms and tightens, threatening in its imminent, inescapable promise.
The thing grunts with his throat, then it growls; his hand jerks and stutters in its quick rhythm; and a rapidly-thundering heartbeat later they’re soaring over that edge in an explosive rush of pure bliss. Even though they’re not his anymore, Agent Nine feels his toes curling in his shoes as his body shudders and clenches and paints glistening trails of release up the mirror and onto the floor between his feet.
And… He is panting from the pleasure of it, somehow, the sensation fully distinct from his physically-heaving chest as the thing in his body catches its breath again. His head tilts back, a lazily pleased, open-mouthed, and entirely unfamiliar smile spreading crookedly over his face as the thing inside him watches itself through his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Mm…” his voice hums, the sound somewhere between a contented sigh and something that could nearly be called a purr. “Delightful. I have so missed this.”
With one final, slow stroke, Agent Nine’s hand releases his spent cock and lifts to his lips once more. His own taste coats his tongue as it moves to lick and suck his fingers clean, slow and languid, the thing controlling his body sighing again with clear enjoyment.
If Agent Nine still had his own ears, he knows they would be burning at the sight he makes in the mirror: his cock still out and softening, streaks of come sliding slowly down the reflective glass, his fingers between his lips and tongue flickering pink and wet between them as he savours every last, slippery smear.
The thing — maybe it can sense his thoughts, though he can’t sense anything from it save for a general feeling of reckless, and unsettlingly feral, delight — grins at the mirror, those bright, too-blue eyes dancing in the reflection.
“We are going to have fun tonight. Oh, yes,” it says; and a few moments later, Agent Nine is watching through his own eyes as his body heads out the door — pants thankfully done up again, at least — and stalks into the night in search of what he can only manage to think of as…
Prey.
