Page 12 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

I hike up my skirt, spreading my legs for the camera. Lightning zaps through me as I part my glistening pussy and circle my clit.

The bastard’s arrogance is exasperating, but I don’t want him to go away. If I’m already this turned on from his dirty texts… what more could he do to me?

Wincing, I stop touching myself. My core winds tight with frustration, but I still obey his orders and wait until my lust ebbs. I rub my clit again, two fingers dragging to my entrance, teasing, but not pushing inside. When I balance on the brink, I end the recording and send it.

I’ve never denied myself an orgasm and now I know why. It’s hell.

Waiting for his response is like sitting on a beehive. My lower body buzzes with need and I want to come so badly it hurts. Finally, my phone chimes.

Unknown

Damn, I wish I could feel how wet your gorgeous pussy is for me. You’d take Daddy’s thick cock so well.

Imagine my hands on your waist, sliding lower and lower until I cup your sex, my thumb slowly massaging your clit.

I whimper . I’ve never whimpered before, but the pulsing in my center is too much. My resistance melts like snow in spring. Suddenly, I’d do anything he ordered me to, I’d crawl and beg for another dirty text.

My dignity has left the building, though I’m not sad to see her go. Bye, bitch! You didn’t put up much of a fight, anyway.

Me

I’ll be good for you, Daddy…

Unknown

Stretch your cunt with three fingers, my sweet girl. Fuck yourself until you’re close, but don’t come. Got that?

Me

Yes, Sir.

Starting a new recording, I push three fingers against my entrance. I’m soaked, but I usually start with two fingers and work my way up. Three right away will be tough. That’s probably why he told me to do it.

He knows it’ll hurt a bit and he wants to see me torture myself for him. This man is a twisted sadist, but I’m as depraved as he is because I want to be in pain for him.

I lay back on the platform, and my inner muscles burn as I shove my fingers deep into my pussy. The stranger’s video replays in my mind, melding with my favorite fantasy: The masked man.

My thrusts pick up speed. In my imagination, I hear the anonymous stranger’s moans coming from under the mask, feel his pierced cock stretching me and grinding along my g-spot.

Stopping physically hurts. Pleasure aches cascade through me as I send the recording, but my notifications stay dry.

I can’t believe he’s making me wait after being so pushy and impatient! Now he’s really done it. I’ll block his stupid ass and?—

A message comes through with a video attached.

Unknown

Watch. That’s what you do to me, Sugar.

I tap play and my heart stumbles. The stranger cradles his balls with one hand, the other stroking himself until his hips stutter. His cock swells and throbs. Cum erupts from the head, spilling over his fingers, and I wish he’d be spilling into me instead.

Another message appears at the top of the screen.

Unknown

Do you wanna come, too?

Me

I do, Sir.

Unknown

Beg for it.

Me

Please, Daddy, can I have an orgasm? I need to come or I’m going crazy!

Embarrassment lights up my face. I don’t know myself like this, so submissive and willing. But there’s something about his messages and his unwavering confidence that demands respect on an animalistic level—even over text.

Unknown

That’s my good girl, asking for permission. You earned your orgasm tonight.

Let me see you come all over your fingers for Daddy.

This time, I don’t hesitate and set up the phone to record.

My fingers slide easily into me now. I ride them like I would ride his cock, imagining his hands gripping my hips as he guides my movements. Stars scatter under my skin when I unravel. I forget where I am, moaning freely while I chase every spark of pleasure.

Crash !

I freeze—with my fingers buried in my pussy.

What the hell was that bang? It sounded close by.

Chills creep along my back as I slip my hand from between my legs and quit the recording. Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I jump off the pedestal to collect my panties and put them on.

It’s quiet now. Did I imagine the noise? I might’ve gotten a little too into the stalker fantasy and?—

The light in the projector room turns on.

My heart catapults into my throat. With a muffled squeal, I drop behind the nearest row of seats like I’m starring in a secret agent parody.

A cold sweat breaks on my brow.

Okay, the sound was definitely real. And whoever is up there is real, too. Unless we’re talking ghosts, and I would’ve noticed paranormal activities during my months working here.

I’m sure I locked the entrance. I tried it twice because I’ve seen too many horror movies where lone women leave their doors open and get murdered. Couldn’t happen to me. No, sir!

I’m always vigilant—unless I’m sexting with a hot stranger.

Apart from a murderer breaking in, there’s only one person who can enter the theater at this hour and just thinking the name makes me shudder.

Colton Walker.

Crouching, I grab the mop from the cleaning trolley and try swinging it. Should I break the handle across my thigh like they do in action movies? Then I’d have something to stab the intruder with, but I’m not the athletic type. And honestly, that stunt always looks like it would really hurt my leg.

Deep breaths, Hailey.

This can’t be how I die. I just had the most amazing sexting session with a mysterious hot guy and I didn’t even get to ask his name yet. It simply can’t end like this.

But if this isn’t a break in and Colt heard me moaning, I’ll have to change my name, run away to another country, and live off the grid in a cabin with no electricity, which sounds frankly awful.

Actually, forget about him hearing me.

What if he saw me?!

From the projector room, he’d have a great view of me going to town like a rabbit in mating season, humping my own hand for the camera.

White-knuckling the mop, I skulk toward the exit.

Let it be a murderer. Please, please, fucking please-with-a-cherry-on-top, let it be a crazy murderer instead of my dead ex’s brother.