Ten years had passed since Ghost first spotted you on the base, an 18-year-old fresh-faced recruit straight out of some forgotten corner of the world, wide-eyed and silent, not a word of English tumbling from your lips. He took you under his wing back then, drilling basics into you with gruff patience, teaching you the ropes of survival in the shadows of war, watching as you transformed from that scrawny kid into a hardened operator, your body filling out with muscle earned from endless drills and deployments, your sharp jawline and piercing eyes turning heads in the barracks, confidence radiating off you now at 28 like you owned every inch of the battlefield.

Ghost sat across from you in the dim glow of the safehouse common room, his balaclava pulled up just enough to sip from a flask of something strong, the two of you alone after a long op, the weight of the world momentarily lifted. You had been venting for the past half hour about your boyfriend, the breakup still raw, words spilling out in that thick accent he'd helped you sharpen over the years.

"He just wouldn't get it, Ghost," you said, frustration lacing your voice. "I'd beg him to treat me like his dirty little slut, degrade me, make me feel owned, you know? Push me down, call me worthless except for my holes, but nah, he acted like it was too much, too fucked up. Said it wasn't 'healthy.' What the hell? I want to be used, I want to be someone's pathetic bitch who lives for cock, crawls for it, begs to be filled and discarded. Ten years in this life and I can't even get that from my own guy. It's annoying as fuck."

Ghost leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on you, taking in the way your broad shoulders tensed, the fire in your gaze that hadn't dimmed since you were that quiet kid. He set the flask down with a soft clink, his voice low and steady, carrying that gravelly edge honed from years of commands and secrets.

"Listen up, soldier," he said, his tone calm but commanding, like he was briefing you for a mission. "You've grown into a fine man, earned your stripes, but blokes like that ex of yours? They're not built for what you crave. Degradation ain't for the weak-willed, it's for those who know how to wield it right, make it sting just enough to heal stronger. You want to be a slut? Fine, but pick someone who'll own you proper, not play pretend. Break you down, rebuild you on your knees where you belong, whispering how you're nothing but a hole for their pleasure until you're leaking and desperate. I've seen men like you thrive under that kind of hand, begging for more because it fits."

He paused, his gloved hand reaching across the table to grip your wrist firmly, thumb pressing into your pulse point, holding your eyes with his unyielding stare. "If you're serious, lad, you don't need some vanilla prick fumbling it. You need a real man who'll collar that fire in you, make you his filthy plaything, train you to hump the air for a scrap of attention. Vent all you want, but when you're done whining, say the word. I'll show you what it means to be broken in right."