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24

DELILAH

A sharp sting hits my cheek, making me grumble as I’m dragged out of unconsciousness. It happens again and my chin sticks to something wet and smooth as I attempt to lift my head that has suddenly become too heavy for my neck to carry.

The grogginess gives way to panic as my memories jolt me. The freak is real, and he was touching me. He held me in place with his hand between my legs while he forced me to speak to Asher.

My head snaps up and I blink to clear my vision. Everything is light but there’s something compressing my lungs and each breath is a struggle.

I can’t move my arms or legs, and blink a few more times to get my sight to adjust. The kitchen floor is sparkling, so much so that I can see my own reflection before I register the way my calves are secured to the dining chair. Each leg is tied to the chair legs with plastic wrap, the transparent material pulled taut around my muscles, and my skin bunches at either end of my knees. My knees are on the outside frame of the seat, which forces my legs apart. The same has been done to my biceps against the wooden frame and the plastic wrap squeaks when I attempt to move my hands.

The only thing covering my naked body is the same plastic wrapped around my chest. Everything else is exposed. My skin heats and I try to shift in the seat, but it wobbles as though the wooden support has been undone.

Heavy booted footsteps move behind me, and I freeze in place. They’re close, too close, and I didn’t even notice them in the fog. Each step is slow and the plastic wrap crinkles with my harsh breathing. A black, latex-gloved hand reaches over my shoulder and taps my cheek twice. “You nearly missed breakfast.”

Whatever mental issue I have is magnified by a hundred in him. This is too real to be a hallucination or something my mind has conjured. Each sense is activated as he walks away and the oven door rattles. Sugar, butter, and citrus hit my sinuses. The comforting smells trick me into being able to breathe easier.

The new dining table hasn’t been delivered and the space is too open, leaving me on display, and I watch the birds take flight from the trees at the back of the property. It’s all so open, and I want to be them. I want to be free and to fly.

Instead, I’m treated like leftovers no one wanted and wrapped in plastic.

Wood scrapes against the tile in time with his booted steps until he’s finished dragging a chair opposite me. There’s a new mask, it still covers his eyes and mouth, but the creepy clown mask has a wide smile with blood-red lips smudged towards the fake eyes painted on it. He hasn’t changed out of his stalker uniform of black cargo pants, and the black hoodie does nothing to diminish his frame. He’s tall, a few inches taller than Asher, so he must be six foot four or five.

The freak sits back in the seat, and I pray for the floor to give way and the glass to spontaneously shatter so he falls out of the house.

It doesn’t, unfortunately, and he rests a tray of pastries on his thighs, steam rising from the croissants and lemon puffs. I always loved them when I was younger. My nanny would make them every Saturday and let me sneak one after she warmed them in the oven.

Ignoring the freak, I stare out at the trees. He can’t know anything about me. It’s just a coincidence that he’s picked something that I have a connection with. He grabs the front of my chair and drags me forward, the wooden seat sliding as though it’s separate from the rest of the chair, and he has the fucking audacity to act like I’m inconveniencing him.

“Open up, koukla mou.” He lifts a lemon puff off the tray.

My neck isn’t attached to anything, so I turn my head to the side and bite down on my own teeth. The smooth latex glides across my skin as he wraps his fingers around my jaw, the digits digging in. He forcefully tugs until I’m looking at him.

I can feel the heat of my glare as the freak sits there and drops the pastry to the tray. Little crumbs flake off and attach themselves to his pants, which he doesn’t brush away, and the chair screeches as he leans forward until my nose nearly touches the mask.

“I’m better than him. I try to feed you, but you ignore me. He made you skip a meal, and you fucking crawled like his personal whore?”

“Wife,” I correct as the plastic rubs against my skin, burning with each squeak. I try to free myself and argue. “Are you watching us, you sick fuck?”

He shakes his head and pushes my face back. His fingers add another burn against my jaw, and he looks me up and down as he playfully says, “I watch you.” Sitting back in his seat, he lifts the pastry again and brings it to my lips. “Keep better company and I wouldn’t have to.”

I laugh. I don’t mean to, but this shit has gone a million miles past insane and he’s fucking nuts. “What? You’re the better company with your creepy habits?”

He looks at me head-on and despite being unable to see his eyes, my laugh dies in my throat. His shoulders tense and his voice is even deeper as he says, “If you think your husband is innocent or truthful, you really are mental.”

“He is truthful. He isn’t the one hiding behind masks or breaking into a random person’s house. That’s you.”

Tilting his head side to side, he assesses me with the pastry in his hand halfway to my face, but he continues watching me. His entire body tenses before he erupts into laughter, full of joy. Someone as freakish as him shouldn’t be able to have such a nice laugh. It slowly tapers off as he shakes his head and forcefully shoves the pastry against my lips. Lemon crème is smushed into my skin and I can’t escape it as I push my head back.

“You know,” he says, “I forgot that you were funny.” He sighs and lifts the tray off his lap, drops it to the floor with a deafening crack, and darkly asks, “Does this make you more agreeable?”

He stands and pushes the pastry flat against my mouth with his fingers pressed against my cheek as he seethes, “I try to be fucking nice to you, but it’s always fucking him. I cleaned you up, I give you the truth, I give you what you fucking want. I always fucking have, and it is still him you’re thinking about!”

My neck is awkwardly bent as he pulls his hand back and the squashed food falls from my face, crumbs hitting my thighs and sticking to the static of the plastic wrap around my chest as he hooks his foot around the front leg of the chair. It knocks me off balance and I sharply inhale as I wait to topple backwards.

His gloved hand snatches the top of my head, and he keeps me suspended on the two back legs. Every breath causes it to rock, and I try to rationalize with the nutcase.

“The new furniture will be delivered soon. They’ll hear me scream.”

He leans forward and drops his voice. “Good.” He inhales, and the mask brushes my jaw before he adds, “Warm that throat up for me.”

Why the fuck am I not disgusted?

There’s something else wrong with me. I should be. But it’s exactly like he said—exciting. The insanity in him makes me feel sane after months of losing my mind. I want more of it to prove that he’s real and I hate him for not revealing himself in front of anyone else. I hate him for being a ghost only I can see and making everyone, including myself, question whether I’m experiencing things correctly. But when he touches me, I know that he’s real because he’s warm and feels human. He doesn’t feel fake or imagined and as fucked up as it is, I need him to continue touching me so that I can feel the comfort of being able to trust my own mind.

He moves back and keeps one hand on my hair while the other goes to his zipper and I hate that too. I hate myself most because I can’t stop my mouth from watering. Rather than admit it’s because of the fucked up situation, I collect it all and spit at him. Looking from my spit on his inner forearm to me, he pauses on his zipper. I expect a punch to the face or something equally violent, but he slaps his fingers off my forehead and says, “Bad.” Another light slap against my forehead. “Girl.” He does it again. “No. Spitting.”

Each word is timed with his fingers pinging off my forehead and I don’t know what the fuck is going on. He broke into my house while I was sleeping, drugged me, chased me, tied me to this fucking chair, but he’s slapping his fingers off my head.

The chair wobbles as I pull my head back. “Get the fuck off me.”

He tuts and threads his fingers through my hair to pull me further back and shake my head. “Okay, I’ll let you use spit on my dick.”

Positioning his legs either side of my waist, he walks forward, dipping me lower, and straddles my chest. The clown mask is even more sinister in this light, and I shout over the plastic squeaking in my attempt to get free. “Get the fuck out!”

He shakes his head and forces me to do the same. “Why would I do that when we’re finally alone? Your husband won’t be home now that he knows you’re busy and you’ve even started painting again.” He leans into me and deepens his voice to ask, “Will you paint me and all the wicked things you’re too afraid to tell him you like?”

Instead of telling him to go fuck himself like I should, I turn meek and answer honestly. “I don’t do portraits or people.”

Comfort washes over me as he softly says, “I know, Delilah.”

It’s said so gently as though he really does know me. No malice or contempt. Before I can attempt to coax information out of him, he sighs as he undoes his zipper. I refuse to make this easy on him and sink into the guilt, so I lock my jaw.

His dick is wet, and he trails his precum across my jawline. When he reaches my chin, he fills with humor and taps his dick against my lips. “Knock.” Another tap. “Knock.”

I glare up at him, refusing to open my mouth as much as I want to. If he wants me to do it, he can force me. That way I can tell myself it’s not something I’m excited about, all the blame will solely be on him, and he’ll be wrong about me.

“ If I’m not real, why do you want me to be?” His taunt echoes in my untrustworthy mind.

I don’t want him to be real for any other reason than to prove I’m not crazy. It’s not because I like the thought of him watching me, or because he’s right about me needing more.

But if he’s real, and I’m not imagining him, he knows me. He knows things I have never told anyone, not even Asher.

He takes in a controlled breath and slaps his heavy dick off my lips. “Open.”

I bite down and harden my stare.

He does it again, more forcefully, and his voice is deeper. “You opened for him when he did it. Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

I want to argue that he has no right to watch Asher and me together, but I like the thought of it pissing him off. I love knowing that while I’m lost in my husband, this weird twat knows he’s nothing to me.

Another sigh and he plants his feet. My scalp stings as he tightens his fingers in my hair. The latex causes some of the strands to snap, and he roughly drags me down until I’m nearly touching the floor. The force causes me to loosen my jaw, but I quickly correct it as he pulls me back up.

“Stubborn as fuck,” he curses, “for no fucking reason.”

My resolve hardens and I’m content with never opening my mouth again. Disappointment sinks into me as he stops trying to pry my lips open. I should be ecstatic at the prospect of him giving up, but I’ve accepted that I’m fucked up.

He doesn’t remove himself from straddling my chest and lets go of his dick. The gloved hand wraps around my nose and fully cuts off my air, so I’m lightheaded, and the chair wobbles as my body attempts to fight him. Dark spots dance in the edge of my vision and my mouth automatically opens.

I’m not able to choke down air because he pushes into my mouth and groans, “Missed this filthy fucking mouth.”

My knees dig into the edge of the seat as I try to clench my thighs together, making the plastic wrap squeak horribly. His hold on my hair tightens and I rock as he fucks my face by pulling me up with his hold on my hair. He’s huge, and with the combination of having my air temporarily cut off and now the invasion of his dick in my throat, I choke.

“Shut the fuck up. Did you complain to that ungrateful cunt?”

His fingers slap my cheek and he slowly thrusts forward. The clown mask is all I can see while his dick cuts off my air. He’s big and thick, and it doesn’t allow much room for air to pass through the sides. The corners of my lips burn from being stretched.

I swallow around him and breathe through my nose, which is rewarded with the softness returning as he strokes the side of my neck with the back of his knuckles. He doesn’t look away from me and I don’t blink as my eyes water. The creepy clown mask blurs and he coos, “Cry for me, koukla mou. Let me see your pretty tears.”

He buries himself in my throat, and I blink, pushing the tears collecting against my lashes over the edge. His dick pulses in my throat and he groans, “More. Rivers. That’s what I need.”

My mind doesn’t translate it as sinister. I find the creepy request endearing after years of memories of crying alone and hiding any pain. My entire life has been filled with those moments I would erupt, each time I was alone, but he’s finding something beautiful in it. I don’t need to hide the ugly parts because he’s drawn to them. It’s a strange form of acceptance that this person who has no code is allowing me to be my true self and makes me feel more like me than anyone else has in my entire life. I don’t have to be nice, kind, or whatever society or my parents instilled in me. I get to make bad decisions—fuck up—without fear of judgement. I’m not bound by the constraints of being “ladylike” or a Leroux. For the first time, I’m just Delilah.

More tears slip from the corners of my eyes, and he speeds up, turning feral. The wooden legs of the chair creak as I gag and choke. The motion doesn’t help my gagging as it rocks my stomach, and his voice is deeper.

“Don’t you fucking dare throw up on my dick like a filthy whore.”

My nose touches the front of his hoodie, and he pulls it up so I’m touching his skin. As soon as the tip of my nose brushes between his hips, he shudders and cups the back of my head, keeping me in place. My air is fully cut off as he sits on my chest and squashes my nose with his full weight on me. My throat works on instinct, trying to gulp down air as he demands, “Little longer.”

I nod and try to relax my throat, but his hoodie slips as he leans forward, obstructing my vision. Rubber squeaks and excitement makes it easier to remain unmoving at the thought of what he looks like. I moan around him and my muscles tense as he strokes two fingers through my slit. There’s no other touch and he hums, the vibration working through his body and into my chest. I copy it without meaning to and his voice sounds different, clearer, but my senses are all hazy from the lack of air.

“I’ve missed you, Delilah. So fucking much.”

His thrusts are shallow and the rubber squeaks again. Whatever he’s doing is making his movements clumsy and I turn lightheaded.