From Ghost to Goddess: The Birth of the Jackal

The Ghost’s Oblivion

I’m Sebastian Falk, 76, and I’ve killed for 54 years. They called me the Ghost—not for disguises, but because my face was nothing. Brown eyes, thinning gray hair, a voice that evaporated. Since 1971, I’ve been the blade of the Obsidian Veil, a shadow network beyond the CIA, bloodier than cartels. They don’t just kill—they rig wars, crash economies, all for profit and power. I was their silent death, unseen, unremembered.

Six months ago, I made my last hit. A cartel enforcer in Juarez, his skull split on a tiled floor, blood pooling under my boots. I stood over him, hands steady, but my soul cracked. I was done. The Veil demands psych evaluations to retire, ensuring you stay quiet. That’s how I met Dr. Samantha Potter, assigned to guide me out. But she’s not guiding me—she’s remaking me into something I buried long ago.

**Day 1: The Exit Begins**

Potter’s office is cold, all glass and chrome in a Portland skyscraper. She’s mid-forties, black hair sleek as oil, eyes sharp as blades. The Veil briefed her on every kill, every alias. I sit, my scarred hands heavy, feeling all 76 years.

“Sebastian, leaving the Veil means facing your past,” she says, her voice smooth, almost too warm. “Tell me about who you were before. Your childhood, your dreams. What made you the Ghost?”

I shift, uneasy. “Indiana, 1950s. Small town, nothing to it. Dad was a drunk, Mom walked out when I was nine. I was scrawny, shy, invisible. High school was worse—sat in the back, ignored. I drew in notebooks to escape, kept to myself.”

Her eyes spark, and she leans forward, her blouse hugging her curves. “What did you draw? Tell me about that world you escaped to.”

I hesitate, the memory raw. “A woman. Blonde, green eyes, beautiful. I called her Sabrina, close to my name, like she was part of me. She was everything I wasn’t—confident, desired. After Mom left, I’d draw her for hours. I’d imagine her as a cheerleader at my high school, fucking the quarterback in the locker room, her tits bouncing as she rode him, or making love to a bisexual cheerleader under the bleachers, their pussies pressed together. Not like I wanted to be a woman—just her. Sabrina. I wondered what it’d be like to be seen, to be wanted.”

Potter’s smile is subtle, her eyes hungry. “That’s powerful, Sebastian. Sabrina sounds like your true self, waiting to emerge. Let’s explore that. I’d like to try hypnosis to help you process. Close your eyes, relax, let my voice guide you.”

I do, her words like a warm tide. “Picture a quiet place,” she says. “Now, see a woman—young, radiant, powerful. She’s everything you could be, free of your shadows. Let her come to you.” My mind slips, heavy, sinking into darkness.

That night, I dream. I’m in a mirror, and it’s her—Sabrina, straight from my high school sketches. Blonde hair spilling over bare shoulders, green eyes sharp as knives, a body built for sin—full tits, tight pussy barely covered by a black slip. She’s in a Berlin alley, 1971, my first kill. She holds a bloody knife over the defector’s body, smiling wickedly. I wake, my cock semi-hard, straining but not fully rising—age and neglect have robbed me of that fire. My heart pounds. She’s back.

**Day 2: The Marriage**

Potter digs deeper. “Tell me about your personal life,” she says, her pen tapping softly. “You mentioned a marriage. What was that like?”

I sigh, the weight heavy. “Ellen. Married her in ’75, four years into the Veil. She thought I was a pharma salesman, always traveling. I was killing—Berlin, Moscow, Chicago. We had two kids, Mark and Lisa. She left in ’92, took them. Found a banker, someone home every night. The kids are grown, don’t talk to me. Think I’m a deadbeat.”

Potter leans closer, her perfume sharp. “You hid so much from her. Did Sabrina ever surface during those years?”

I pause, the memory sharp. “Once, in ’85. I had a dream. I was Sabrina, fucking Ellen’s sister, Claire. She’s a lesbian, always drawn to bold women. In the dream, I was Sabrina, early 20s, my tits pressed against her, my pussy wet as we fucked, her hands gripping my ass. Woke up ashamed, buried it.”

“That’s significant,” Potter says, her voice soft, almost seductive. “Sabrina was always there, yearning to be free. Let’s go deeper. Close your eyes.”

Her hypnosis pulls me under. “See that woman,” she whispers. “Young, radiant, a goddess of desire and power. She’s your truth.” That night, Sabrina’s in a 1978 Chicago sauna, my mob capo hit. She’s naked, straddling him, her pussy grinding, tits swaying as she fucks him senseless. She slips a blade into his ribs, blood spraying across her skin, her laugh wild. I wake, my cock half-stirring again, weak and useless, my body craving her power.

**Day 3: The Army Years**

Potter probes my military past. “How did you become so lethal?” she asks, her eyes locked on mine.

“Vietnam made me,” I say. “Joined at 18 in ’67, sniper by 19. I could hit a man at 800 yards, no wobble. Special Forces by ’70, trained in stealth—ghosting through jungles, killing without a sound. The Veil recruited me in ’71, saw my forgettable face, my skills. I was born to disappear.”

“But Sabrina doesn’t disappear,” Potter says, her voice low, intimate. “She’s seen, desired, unstoppable. You created her to be that. Let’s find her again.” She hypnotizes me, whispering of a “young, powerful woman, free of limits.”

That night, Sabrina’s in a 1985 Moscow hotel, my KGB hit. She’s fucking the officer, her tits bouncing, pussy tight as she rides him hard. She loops a wire around his throat, cums as he chokes, her body trembling with pleasure. I wake, my cock struggling, semi-hard, a faint echo of what it once was.

**Day 4-7: The Dreams Deepen**

Each day, Potter pushes me to recount kills—Berlin 1971, Chicago 1978, Moscow 1985, Paris 1990, Bangkok 1997. I tell her about poisoning a diplomat in Paris, stabbing a triad boss in Bangkok. She listens, too eager, then hypnotizes me. “Picture her,” she says. “Young, blonde, a body that commands. She’s your freedom.”

Each night, Sabrina takes my kills. In Paris, she fucks the diplomat, her pussy wet, tits pressed against him, then poisons his champagne. In Bangkok, she seduces the boss’s guard, slits his throat mid-thrust, her tits slick with sweat, then stabs the boss with a hairpin. I wake each time, my cock half-trying, failing, my body screaming for her life.

**Day 8: The Revelation**

I break, the dreams too strong. “It’s Sabrina,” I tell Potter, my voice raw. “She’s in my dreams, doing my kills. She’s the woman I drew in high school, the one I imagined fucking the quarterback, loving a cheerleader. She’s me, but… better.”

Potter’s eyes blaze, her smile sharp. “Sabrina’s your truth, Sebastian. You’ve always wanted to be her—young, beautiful, powerful. The Veil can make it happen. Let me explain how.”

She leans forward, her voice intense but steady. “Our technology is unmatched—hormones to reshape your body, surgeries to sculpt every curve, neural reprogramming to erase your past. You’d become Sabrina, early 20s, with a body that commands—full, perfect breasts, a tight, responsive pussy, a face that stops hearts. You’d be the Veil’s ultimate weapon, the Jackal, a femme fatale who uses her beauty and ruthlessness to kill. You’d seduce men, women, anyone, then end them without a trace. No more hiding as the Ghost. You’d be desired, feared, alive.”

I swallow hard. “And the Veil? What are they, really?”

Potter’s smile tightens, but she answers, her voice low and deliberate. “The Obsidian Veil is more than assassins. We’re architects of the world’s shadows. We topple regimes, manipulate markets, start wars—all for power and profit. Our clients are the unseen elite—billionaires, warlords, shadow governments. We’ve transformed operatives before, men into women, old into young, crafting perfect killers who blend seduction and death. You’d be our masterpiece, Sabrina Fox, the Jackal. But it’s more than a weapon—it’s your chance to live as the woman you dreamed of, the one you drew after your mother left, the one who could fuck and conquer the world.”

**Day 9-12: The Obsession**

Potter’s words consume me. Each session, she paints Sabrina’s life. “Imagine it,” she says, her voice a seductive pull. “You’re young, blonde, your breasts drawing every eye, your pussy a key to any door. You’d fuck anyone—men, women—then kill with a smile. The Veil needs that. You were born for it.”

Her hypnosis deepens, whispering of a “young, radiant goddess.” My dreams intensify—a 2003 Miami coke lord, Sabrina dancing, tits swaying, poisoning his drink as she kisses him; a 2010 Dubai arms dealer, her thighs snapping his spine as she cums, her pussy clenching. I’m fading—Ellen, the kids, my kills dissolve. Sabrina’s realer every night. I wake each morning, my cock semi-hard, a weak flicker, my body betraying me.

**Day 13: The Plan**

Potter lays out the final step. “To become Sabrina, we erase Sebastian completely,” she says, her voice cold and certain. “The Veil will stage your death—a fire in your Oregon cabin, a cadaver in your place, dental records faked. No one will look for you. The neural wipes will erase everything—your wife, your kids, your 54 years of kills. You’ll be Sabrina, body and soul, with no past to chain you.”

I’m terrified, but I’m hers. “Do it,” I say, voice shaking. “Make me Sabrina.”

**Day 14: The Transformation**

The process is hell. Hormones flood my veins, burning, reshaping my bones, softening my skin into smooth, youthful curves. Surgeries carve me—my cock becomes a pussy, alive and electric, pulsing with every touch. My chest swells, tits full and heavy, sensitive, exactly as I drew them. My face is sculpted—green eyes, blonde hair, lips made for sin. I’m the woman from my high school notebooks, early 20s, flawless, radiant. The neural wipes are brutal—my mind fractures, Ellen’s smile, my kids’ voices, every kill, all gone. I’m not Sebastian anymore.

That night, the Veil stages the fire. My cabin burns to ash, a cadaver in my bed, the world believing Sebastian Falk is dead. I’m born anew.

**Sabrina Fox, The Jackal**

I’m Sabrina Fox, early 20s, and Sebastian Falk is nothing. I’m the Veil’s perfect weapon, a femme fatale with a body that destroys—tits that command, a pussy that gets me anything, green eyes that cut like knives. I’m bisexual, unstoppable, everything I was meant to be. It’s 2025, and I’m in a Miami bar, neon lights pulsing, music pounding. My black dress clings to my curves, tits straining the fabric, heels clicking as I spot my target—a tech CEO, mid-30s, cocky, sipping bourbon at the bar.

I saunter over, hips swaying, eyes locked on his. “Room for one more?” I purr, sliding onto the stool, my thigh brushing his, my pussy already wet with anticipation.

He grins, eyes glued to my cleavage. “Hell yeah. I’m Ethan. You are…?”

“Sabrina,” I say, my hand grazing his arm, my perfume teasing. “You look like a man who likes to play dangerous games.”

He laughs, ego flaring. “You have no idea, sweetheart. What’s a girl like you doing here?”

“Looking for someone worth my time,” I say, my fingers trailing up his thigh, brushing his cock through his pants. “You game?” We talk, his hands wandering, my tits grazing his chest. I lean in, kissing him, my tongue deep, my pussy throbbing as I grind against him. He’s hard, desperate, as I fuck him in a dark corner booth, my dress hiked up, his cock deep inside me, my tits bouncing with every thrust. I slip poison into his bourbon when he’s distracted, then ride him harder, cumming as he drinks, his body convulsing as he chokes, my pleasure peaking with his death.

Next, a Russian arms dealer in a New York club, 2025. She’s 40, sharp, in a red dress, sipping vodka. I’m in leather, tits high, pussy pulsing as I approach. “Dance with me,” I say, my voice a low invitation, my hand brushing her hip.

She smirks, intrigued. “Bold move. I’m Natasha. And you?”

“Sabrina,” I reply, pulling her close, our bodies grinding to the beat. “You like bold?” My tits press against her, my pussy hot against her thigh as we move. She moans, and I kiss her, deep and hungry, my tongue exploring hers. We slip into a private room, her hands ripping at my leather, my pussy wet as I fuck her, scissoring hard, our clits rubbing, her gasps filling the air. I slip a needle into her neck mid-orgasm, poison fast and silent. She collapses, her body still warm, and I walk away, alive, my pussy still tingling.

The Veil worships me. I’m their Jackal, fucking and killing without remorse. Men, women—I use my tits, my pussy, my blades, my will. Potter watches, her smile cold, but I don’t care. I’m Sabrina Fox, the woman I was born to be, and the world is mine to break.