Cristoir stepped off the train in Whitby with the same arrogance hed always had.
Thirty-five, still broad and certain, he wore a pair of cheap grey boxers under his trackies, the kind sold in multipacks that sat loose on his hips and did nothing to hide the soft outline of his cock.
He told himself the weekend away was only for the sea air and a few pints. The boarding house on the hill smelled of beeswax and damp stone.
The landlady handed him the key and mentioned the draft in the third-floor room. Cristoir barely listened to her words of warning.
He dropped his bag, poured whiskey, and stretched out on the four-poster bed in the cheap grey boxers and a plain T-shirt planning to fuck as much pussy as he could.
Sleep came after the second glass. Near midnight the temperature plummeted.
A cold hand closed around his ankle and dragged him flat. Cristoir sat up cursing.
The figure at the foot of the bed was tall and lean, dark hair falling across a high forehead, eyes the colour of wet slate, dressed in the high-collared coat of a dead century.
“Edmund,” the ghost said. “This house is mine. Tonight so are you.”
Cristoir swung a fist. It passed through nothing. Invisible force slammed him onto his back and stripped the trackies away in one hard pull.
Cristoir tried to struggle but the invisible hands held him down.
The cheap grey boxers stayed. Edmund’s gaze dropped to the thin fabric and the soft cock resting inside it.
“Straight divorced dad in supermarket cotton. Look at you pretending you still own anything.”
Cristoir fought to sit up. The force held him. Edmund reached down and squeezed him through the cheap boxers until the soft flesh thickened against his will.
Edmund sucked and licked cristoirs growing cock in the cheap fabric.
The ghost’s voice stayed low and almost gentle while his grip stayed rough.
“You will wear what I choose. These come off.”
The grey boxers were yanked down and tossed aside . From the wardrobe Edmund drew a pair of tiny white briefs, the kind that looked like they belonged on a much younger man, the pouch barely large enough and the back cut high.
Cristoir twisted and swore. The force pinned his wrists. Edmund forced his legs into the tiny briefs and pulled them up until the thin cotton dug into the crease of his thighs and cupped his balls in a tight shallow pouch.
His cock strained against the fabric almost at once, the head already pushing at the waistband.
“There,” Edmund murmured. “Now you look like what you are. A cocky man reduced to little white scraps.”
Cristoir tried to tear them off. His hands would not obey. Edmund pushed him onto his stomach, peeled the tiny briefs down just far enough to expose his arse, and spat directly onto his hole.
The cold spit landed wet and thick. Cristoir jerked and tried to close his legs. The ghost’s thumbs spread him open and another long strand of spit dripped onto the tight ring.
Edmund rubbed it in with two fingers, slow and filthy, then spat again until the hole glistened.
“Straight men always clench the hardest the first time.”
The cold cock pressed against the spit-slick entrance and pushed inside without pause. Cristoir shouted and fought, hips bucking, fists beating the mattress.
Edmund held him down and fucked him with long deep strokes that forced every inch in. The stretch burned. The tiny briefs stayed tangled around Cristoir’s thighs, the pouch stretched tight over his leaking cock.
Edmund reached under and stroked him through the thin cotton in time with the thrusts, grip firm and unhurried.
Cristoir came first, shooting into the tiny briefs until the fabric clung wet and translucent. Edmund kept fucking him through it, then pulled out, spat once more onto the open hole, and pushed back in to finish with hard short strokes that left Cristoir shaking and full of cold spend.
The ghost withdrew and ordered him to stand. Cristoir’s legs barely held. The tiny white briefs were pulled back up over the mess.
Edmund made him walk the length of the room, turn, bend, and show how the thin cotton now stuck to his cock and balls.
“You will keep these on. Every time you try to take them off I will put them back and make it worse.”
Cristoir spent the next day fighting and losing. At dinner the ghost yanked the tiny briefs down under the table while the other guests ate a few feet away.
Cold fingers wrapped around his cock and stroked him slowly until he leaked onto the floorboards. When Cristoir tried to stand the force held him seated and the stroking continued until he came with a choked sound into the napkin he had grabbed too late. Edmund’s voice brushed his ear.
“Straight men taste the same when they break.”
Later, at the reception desk while the landlady sorted post, the ghost forced Cristoir to lean forward over the counter.
The tiny briefs were peeled down. Edmund spat twice onto his hole, spread the wetness with his tongue in long slow licks, then mounted him right there.
Cristoir’s hands gripped the wood. He tried to push back and only drove the cold cock deeper. The fucking was steady and deep, almost sensual in its relentless rhythm, while the landlady kept her eyes fixed on the ledger and pretended not to hear the wet sounds.
Cristoir came against the front of the desk, cock untouched, the tiny briefs still around his thighs.
Edmund finished inside him, pulled out, and wiped the excess spit and spend across Cristoir’s hole with two fingers before tugging the briefs back into place.
The cum dripped down and out of cristoirs straight arsehole as hotel goers gave him dirty looks around him.
That night Cristoir tried to sleep on his stomach. The tiny briefs were eased down again. Edmund’s tongue returned, slow and thorough, rimming the already tender hole while one cold hand held Cristoir’s cock in a loose fist that refused to let him finish.
Cristoir begged to cum as the waves of orgasm overlapped his straight senses.
The ghost spat between licks, pushing the wetness inside with his tongue, until Cristoir’s hips moved against his will and soft broken noises left his throat.
Only when Cristoir was shaking and open did Edmund mount him again, fucking him face-down with deep rolling thrusts that felt almost careful and still left no room for escape.
Cristoir came into the sheets with the tiny briefs stretched under his hips, the fabric soaked through.
By the third night the arrogance had cracked but not vanished. Cristoir still cursed when the ghost appeared. He still tried to close his legs when the tiny briefs came down.
He still clenched against the first push of cold cock. Each resistance only earned more spit, more slow filthy attention to his hole, more thorough use of his body.
Edmund made him kneel and open his mouth for the cold length while describing how the straight divorced dad now took ghost cock better than most men who claimed to want it.
He made Cristoir hold his own cheeks open so the ghost could spit from a height and watch the thick strand land and slide inside.
He fucked him in front of the tall mirror so Cristoir had to watch his own face change from anger to helpless flush while the tiny white briefs hung from one ankle.
On the final morning Cristoir woke already hard inside the thin cotton. Edmund stood over him and said nothing. Cristoir’s hands moved on their own. He peeled the tiny briefs down, turned onto his knees, and reached back to spread himself.
Uttering two words he begged " use me" ..
The ghost spat once, twice, three times until the hole was wet and shining. Then he pushed inside and fucked the cocky arrogant man with long sensual strokes that ground against the place that made Cristoir’s arms give out.
Cristoir came untouched, spilling onto the sheets while the ghost kept moving inside him.
When Edmund finally finished he left the spent cock resting against Cristoir’s open hole and spoke quietly.
“You fought. You wore the cheap boxers like armour. Now you wear these and you open when I spit. That is who you are in this house.”
Cristoir stayed on his knees long after the presence faded. He pulled the tiny white briefs back up over the mess and packed them carefully into his bag.
At the station he sat on the train with the thin cotton still on, the fabric damp against him, and felt the last pieces of the old arrogance settle into something smaller and quieter.
He returned the next Halloween wearing a fresh pair of cheap grey boxers under his trackies, as if the ordinary cotton could protect him. Edmund stripped them away within the first hour and forced the tiny white briefs back on.
The ghost spat on his hole before every fucking, rimmed him until the spit and tongue made him shake, and used his body with the same relentless sensual filth as before.
Cristoir still tried to fight the first night. By the second he was holding himself open without being told. By the third he came with the ghost’s name on his tongue and the tiny briefs soaked through.
Each year the pattern held. The cocky straight man arrived in cheap boxers. The ghost took them away, dressed him in the tiny white scraps, spat on his hole, and fucked him until the resistance turned into open need.
The arrogance never fully returned. In its place settled the knowledge that humiliation could be slow and wet and thorough, and that the cold dominance of the Whitby ghost had become the only place where Cristoir’s body finally told the truth.
Hello, my name is Ricky rousing I write stories about cocky arrogant men who become submissive. Please see more of my stories here: Amazon.co.uk and follow me on x for updates rickyrouse (@rickyrouse83511) on X
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