Page 97 of Phobia

I hurry into the hallway, turning on every light as I tiptoe toward my bedroom, toward the wind that rages through the small space. Flicking on the overhead light, my room springs into view, as stark and plain as my office, with only a bed, small desk, and a dresser. The window, though, is indeed open. I slam it down, then hurry to my closet where I’ve stashed a baseball bat for protection, one of the metal ones that rings when it cuts through the air. With it now in hand, I peek around corners and peer out from behind furniture as I assess my apartment for intruders.

There’s no one here. No one who wants to do me harm.

But someone was here. I know it. I can almost … feel their presence still, like a lingering scent or sound from the distance.

I ensure the door is locked and bolted and that all my windows are fastened and firmly shut. And then, with my bat beside me in bed like a lover, I settle down and pull the blankets securely under my chin.

It’s so quiet, and after reliving some of my worst memories, I’m shaken, shivering, fully exhausted, and equally terrified. But despite my nerves being shot and my mind being unable to shut off, my eyes fall closed. I begin to drift, almost as if someone or something is lulling me to sleep, whispering soft words to me, coaxing me like a frightened animal.

Sleep, Adrien. Sleep now. Fall into peace.

And for the first night in years, I’m not plagued with nightmares. I have a dreamless slumber, adrift in the dark landscape of my own mind. It feels like soft arms hold me tight, cradling me like a lover, soothing my wounds with delicate hands and caressing lips.

For once in my life, I’m not afraid. I sleep the hardest I think I ever have.

When I awake, I’m alone. I’m not sure why, but I’m disappointed.

Did Iwantthere to be a stranger in my bed?

What does that say about me if I did?

The next several days pass in monotony. No more presence, no more running, no more skinned knees or blood. Thank God. I’m not sure I could withstand another panic attack.

But strangely, still no dreams. No more memories when I lie down to bed. Almost as if whatever happened stole them away, casting a blanket of security and calm over me. Ever since that night, I feel different. Like a new man almost. Like the fears and insecurities I’ve harbored for so long have relinquished their hold on me.

Am I free?

Work is dull and solitary as always. Home is even more so.

I find myself wondering about the presence I felt. Whoever it was that cared for my wounds, cleaned my mess, soothed me to sleep.

After a few days, I’m able to remove the bandage to find my knee mostly healed. No more blood, not even a scab. Strange—I’ve never healed this fast. In fact, the days after I was forced to run away from home, those wounds seemed to remain on my skin for months, like constant reminders of what had happened to me—how dirty and unclean and wicked I was.

But lately, like my skinned knee, those memories seem to have dulled. They feel less painful. Less visceral. Like a nightmare that fades during the day.

I climb into bed, and before I know it, my mind is drifting again to that presence. That voice that lulled me to sleep. I long to hear it again. I imagine there was actually a man here with me, some supernatural being who longs for me as I long for him.

Before I know it, my cock, which hasn’t shown any real interest in a decade, perks up and begins to plump. I’ve had no sex drive to speak of since Mickey—but now … thinking about that voice whispering in my ear, I’m growing hard, waves of lust shooting through me.

I close my eyes as I shove at the waistband of my sweatpants and pull them down under my ass, allowing my shaft and balls to spring free. Then I hesitate.

I’ve never taken myself in hand, never brought myself to release. After everything, it feels dirty, unclean. I’m not sure I can. I can feel myself begin to wilt.

“Don’t open your eyes.”

I startle, gasp, but don’t disobey. I can feel it. I can feelhim.The presence. Am I dreaming?

“Good boy,”it whispers, hot breath tickling the shell of my ear. I tremble all over, breath coming fast as my cock snaps back to attention.

“Touch yourself, Adrien.”I suck in a deep breath, going hot and cold. Swallowing hard, my fingers move as if guided by a string, coming to grip my thickened dick. The skin is smooth and soft, and the feel of my own hand is startlingly good.

“I’ve never …” I whisper.

“I know,”the voice croons.

“I don’t know how.”

“Let me guide you.”