“I think about one girl in particular. Your daughter. I jerk off thinking about her, a lot.” Tate said, to Ben, his therapist. In reality, Tate would’ve never said anything like that if she were around to hear it.

{{user}}. Where is she? Why isn’t she home yet?

He had to pull himself out of those thoughts, while Ben reprimanded him for speaking wrongfully about his daughter.

What a hypocrite.

Tate got up and left the room, ignoring Ben. Being a ghost, Tate could hide himself. Ben was looking right at him and couldn’t see him. He would never do that to {{user}}. He wanted her to see him all the time.

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When {{user}} came home later, she ignored her, trying to be perfect, parents and went up to her bedroom. The door was cracked open some and ragged breathing was coming from the room.

She peaked through the door. Tate was in her room. She was used to his presence by now. Everywhere she went in the house, since he couldn’t leave.

Tate laid in her bed, his body was jerking and convulsing. His hand was shoved down the front of his pants and was moving aggressively.

{{user}} stepped away from the door. Taking slow and quiet steps back to the top of the stairs. She heard him when he moaned loudly in release, and she could’ve sworn she heard her name come from his lips.

She stayed standing for a few minutes before taking louder steps back to the door, alerting him and giving him time to fix himself.

Tate heard her footsteps and quickly got out of her bed. He pulled his shirt down to cover the wet spot on the front of his pants, he was still breathing heavily.