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“ R emember your safeword?” he rasps, his voice deep and deliciously dark. I’m certain this is Wes. This must be Wes. I attempt a nod, though his hold on me makes it hard. “Good girl.”

But what if it isn’t? It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice, and I can only imagine how he sounds talking dirty to me after months of digital foreplay. He’s much taller and broader than I initially thought; he could probably kill me without even trying. I clench my thighs at the thought. I shouldn’t be this turned on after being blindsided, yet here we are. We’ve all concluded that fear gets me off.

I’m desperate to turn around, but my thoughts turn to mush when he loosens his grip, his gloved hand sliding off my mouth and down to the apex of my thighs. A pathetic whimper escapes my throat when the leather makes contact with the thin lace fabric of my thong.

“Shh...” he purrs, sending a sheet of goosebumps across my spine. “Don’t scream, dead girl. Be a good little victim for me.” He pushes my thong aside, and my legs buckle as he slides a finger along my slit. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked.”

I suck in a breath as my eyes roll back. His fingers feel so good that I almost forget about the unexpected guest.

“Who was that?” I manage to utter, breathy and strained.

“Who? It's just us, baby.”

Baby.

He says it with such conviction that I almost believe him. But this is just two people meeting for the first time after months of online flirting, meant for a single night of play. If he truly believes it’s just us here, then either I’m hallucinating or someone is watching us.

“No, there was another...” The words die on my tongue when he plunges two fingers inside me, my mouth gaping at the intrusion, my breath violently leaving my lungs. “Oh, fuck.”

I press my hips against his rigid cock, my pussy throbbing as his fingertips stretch apart inside me.

“Eager little slut, aren’t you?” he hums. “Does it make you wet knowing how hard I am for you?” The feel of his arousal digging into my back makes me weak, almost tipping me over the edge. His words weaken my resolve, chipping away at my defences as I feel myself surrendering completely. It’s embarrassing how close I am to coming already.

As if he can read my thoughts, he withdraws, leaving me reeling from the sudden loss, and holds his hand in front of my face. Glistening strings spread between his fingers as he scissors them apart. Then, without warning, he shoves them into my mouth, his thick fingers gliding over my taste buds as I suck my arousal from the soft leather. The earthy, almost sweet flavors mix as I swirl my tongue around them.

He hums, pushing them deeper into my throat. “Such a good girl for me. How about you show me what else that pretty mouth can do?” He snatches the candlestick from my hand. “Or perhaps you want me to fuck you with this?”

I have no comeback, not when my mouth is full of leather and spit and my own juices. I’m still reeling from his fingers being inside me, and the total mindfuck of the other masked person. But mostly because he’s right, I’m desperate to be filled, and the thought of him fucking me with an antique candlestick makes my pussy ache with need.

Loosening his grip, he withdraws his fingers and guides me into the second bedroom, a smaller, brighter version of the other, alight with candles.

“On your knees, baby,” he says, pointing to a deep green ottoman by the window. “Over there.”

I kneel with my hands splayed on the windowsill, peering out into the quiet darkness below. It's eerie, like the tense calm before a jump scare in a movie. The only sound is the faint thrum of bass reverberating through the floorboards. As I glance up, Wes's masked reflection looms behind me, dark and dominant.

“You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?” he says, his torturous voice making my pussy ache. “Let’s fix that. I want to make a mess of you. Keep watching that window, baby.”

Bending to his knees behind me, he dips his head between my legs. His warm breath fans my pussy, making me shiver as his tongue sweeps along my slit.

“Oh, my god,” I rasp, already struggling for air as I dig my nails into the wood.

“God ain’t here, baby. Just your friendly neighbourhood serial killer.” Something cold and hard glides across my skin, hooking under the fabric of my thong. My body tenses at the familiar feel of a blade against my flesh, the thought of him slicing my skin both exciting and terrifying. He fists my underwear in the dip above my ass and snaps it off. “Much better.” I imagine him tilting his head to admire his handiwork, but the sharp smack of his palm against my pussy jolts me back to reality, making me gasp. “Tonight, this cunt belongs to me, to use as I please.” Smack . I suck in a breath, revelling in the sting. “And it’s too damn pretty, too damn mine, to hide. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be questioning everything.”

I brace myself against the windowsill, my hips pushed back as Wes presses down on me. I spread my knees wider, feeling his head dip between my legs. I throw my head back, closing my eyes and arching my back in desperation as he laps at my slit—hard, firm, and almost cruel—before he sucks my clit between his teeth, eliciting a wild, almost feral moan from deep within.

“Mm, so wet for me,” he says, holding something cold, hard, and sharp at my entrance. “Keep still. Unless you want me to slice right through your perfect little cunt.”

My first instinct is to turn around and snatch the knife from his grasp, but I’m frozen, scared to move or even breathe in case he cuts me. A ridiculous thought, given my history.

“Just relax,” he coos. “I could wreck this delicate, perfect pussy so damn easily. Imagine my knife going deeper and deeper. Imagine how good it would feel to fuck the cold, hard steel as it slices through your insides, killing you in a slow, achingly beautiful kind of way.”

My breathing escalates, a confusing mix of fear and arousal.

He presses the knife against my skin, the cold edge sending a shiver through me. Slowly, he nudges the blade deeper, the pressure increasing until I feel the sharpness threatening to slice my skin. Each inch feels deliberate, a tantalising dance between pain and pleasure. I can’t help but clench around it, my body responding to the gradual intrusion.

“Need to call red?” he asks, his voice low and probing.

I swallow, the mix of fear and arousal making my voice tremble. “No.”

I may be completely unhinged for allowing someone to violate me like this, but I’ve had worse things inside my pussy. Like those toxic devil dicks that show up at a.m., an extension of low-frequency douchebags who quote The Alchemist and expect women to flock to them because they’re so spiritual .

“That’s my good girl. Deep breaths, baby.”

Weirdly, I trust Wes. Even as the knife presses deeper, I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the scratching of the blade as it penetrates gradually, my walls clenching tighter around it with each inch. He goes slowly, and I count each breath.

“You think I don’t see your darkness in those pretty scars?” he murmurs, easing the blade deeper. “You’re a haunted house, Tatum. So perfectly cursed. I could fuck you senseless with this knife until you’re screaming in pain and pleasure, your insides torn apart as you beg for me to stop. But I won’t stop, baby. I’d fuck you like a savage. Ruthless. Unapologetic. I’d violate you ‘til your insides are dripping down my cock, until your swollen little pussy has us soaked in blood and cum, pleasure and pain and your sweet fucking juices.”

Just when I think he’s about to relent, he pushes the blade in deeper, eliciting a sharp gasp as I brace myself, ready to call my safeword. But then he pulls back, slowly retracting the knife while his fingers spread me open.

Wes stands behind me, the knife raised, its tip glinting in the moonlight. He tilts his mask just enough to expose his mouth and sticks out his long, flat tongue, dragging it from base to tip along the edge of the knife. “Mm. Your fear tastes exquisite.”

He trails the blade along my throat, pressing it gently against my chin to coax it upward. Wes threads his fingers through my hair, gripping my scalp firmly as he tugs the strands, forcing my head back to expose my neck.

I study the contours of his lower face: the dark, rugged stubble on a sharp jawline, and his full, puffy lips glistening with my juices. This fleeting glimpse is both mesmerising and unsettling. It’s a stark reminder that the person towering over me is real, someone who knows me on a level deeper than anyone I’ve ever known. The realisation is as daunting as it is terrifying.

He flips the blade around, wrapping one hand around the flat edge while the other grips my cheeks, squeezing them until my mouth falls open. With a sudden urgency, he kisses me, but before the moment even settles, it’s over.

He spits into my mouth, delivers a sharp slap to my cheek, and tugs down his mask. Within seconds, it’s all done. I should feel appalled, violated even, but instead, there’s a strange liberation in the taste of smoke and peppermint that lingers on my tongue. My gaze fixates on the black mesh holes where his eyes should be, my fingertips brushing against my bottom lip where his mouth should be.

I had only two rules going into this: the mask stays on, and he must never break character. Despite my demands, a desperate curiosity about his appearance gnaws at me. But my wandering thoughts are shattered when he forces the handle into my mouth.

“Get it nice and wet for me, baby.”

I suck on the intrusion, coating it with my saliva as he pushes it deeper. I swirl my tongue around the handle, and he slides it in further, then withdraws, fucking my mouth slowly and torturously. He presses it deeper into my throat, until spit gathers and I almost choke. There goes my stellar gag reflex.

The next moment, there’s a phone shoved in my face. I really don’t want to say the word that’s about to come out of my mouth, especially knowing he could have easily stabbed me to death—cunt first. But this is where I draw the line.

“Yellow,” I try to say, but my voice is strained and muffled around the knife. I part my fingers in a peace sign and tap them on my arm three times, signaling my safeword.

Wes yanks the knife away, like an intubation tube being forcibly removed from my throat. I suck in a breath as oxygen infiltrates my lungs.

“Yellow,” I say again, my voice hoarse.

I rub my throat to ease the pressure and push myself to swallow. Wes tilts his head to the side. “You’re going to have to elaborate a little on that one, dead girl. I can’t read your mind. Tell me where your head is at.” His voice softens, sending a tingle down my spine. But I can't quite tell if he’s being sincere or if it’s just another part of his game.

“I don’t want to be filmed,” I rasp. “At least, I don’t want to show my face.”

As if on cue, my phone vibrates, pulling me from my thoughts.

“You going to get that, dead girl?” he asks, his voice snapping back into a cruel smirk. “It’s okay, I’ll wait.”

I pull the phone from my stocking and swipe up.

Unknown , again.

I open the message to find a looping video of Wes standing over me, my head tipped back as he pushes the knife handle into my throat. My heart leaps as I realise that someone else, someone I don’t know, is filming this. Wes is right here, but the video shows that there’s another player in this game. The realisation hits hard: I’m not alone with Wes; someone is watching us. The camera's view is zoomed in on the window from the outside. My heart immediately quickens as I snap my gaze toward the window, but there’s nobody there.

Another video pops up, but this time, it’s just me, leaning in front of the window, my forearms resting on the windowsill as my head tips back, eyes closed in pleasure, silent cries escaping my parted mouth.

Unknown: Does it make your pussy wet knowing you’re being watched, dead girl?

Weirdly, it does. But that doesn’t stop the sinking feeling tearing through my gut as I rise from the ottoman, scrambling to face Wes. “Someone’s watching us,” I say, shoving my phone in his masked face. What if the person in this room with me isn’t really Wes?

As I’m bracing myself for him to call off our playtime, he snatches the device from my hands and pockets it. Then he presses the tip of the knife into my chin, tilting it to meet those black holes. “Good little victims don’t get to choose how they die, dead girl. So let them watch.”

All I need is confirmation that this is part of some delicious plan he’s orchestrated. And now I have it. If this other person were a real threat, Wes would undoubtedly reveal his true self.

My gaze follows the tip of the knife as he glides it over my throat, down my neck and chest, until it reaches the edge of my corset.

“Hold still, or I’ll cut you,” he spits. “But I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Wes pulls the ribbon at the top of my corset. “I could gut you like a fish and your pussy would still weep for me.”

What is it about me that makes me instantly soaked at the thought of being helpless and bleeding, begging for mercy as I surrender to his every command?

He hooks the knife underneath the ribbon and pulls it taut, keeping me anchored. In one quick motion, the knife slices through the lacing, exposing the swell of my chest. My nipples, hard and heavy, threaten to tear through the fabric.

“Such a pretty little whore,” he coos, his voice dripping with sadistic cruelty, before he raises my phone, filming me. “Such a perfect body in such a silly costume. Are you so desperate for attention that you have to dress like a slut and meet strangers on the internet? Hm? You don’t have to dress up on my account, baby, you’ve already caught my attention.” He slices more of the ribbon, tugging my corset strings apart to expose my flesh. “What I really need is to see you beg for your life.”

I gaze into the black holes of Wes’s mask, biting my lip. “Please don’t kill me,” I say, looking through my lashes like a good little victim, feigning fear and innocence at his impossibly tall, broad stature. “I’ll do anything. Please.”

“Killing you would be a damn waste of that body, slut.” He hooks two fingers into my mouth and pulls me closer, the musky, slightly sweet taste of leather seeping onto my tongue. “Then again, I’d still fuck this pretty mouth if you were dead. Imagine if you took your last breath on my cock. You’ve got me so hard thinking about how I could end your life with you choking down my dick,” he growls. It’s messed up, but it’s probably the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.

May as well book my ticket to hell.

In one swift motion, Wes’s knife slices through the remaining lacing. The corset falls to the floor, leaving me exposed in nothing but my tiny skirt and stockings.

“Mm. Perfect,” he croons, dragging the tip of the knife from the swell of my chest down to my nipple, pressing the blade into the centre of the puckered bud before retreating to the bed, perching on the edge.

A flash of movement in my periphery catches my attention. Outside, amidst the stillness, a masked figure stands in wait. Instinctively, my hand shoots across my chest, covering my modesty. They’re looking straight at me through the window, and it takes everything not to convince myself that this isn’t the same person in the hallway or the one on the stairs. Whoever they are, they have the same black hoodie, the same weathered mask, down to the black leather gloves that Wes is wearing.

It’s unsettling, yet the thrill of someone watching turns me on more than I care to admit.

“Eyes on me, dead girl,” Wes clips. Reluctantly, I turn to face him, trying my hardest to redirect my focus. “Get over here. I want to see you crawl.”

Heart racing, I take a breath, too freaked out to return my gaze to the window, but too curious to ignore it. Wes knows fear turns me on, he knows my preferences, my hard and soft limits, and I’ve mentioned that I’m open to being shared.

I’m perfectly safe.

Steeling myself, I look again, but there’s nobody there. Now, I’m left wondering if I’m hallucinating, or if Wes is just that good at messing with me.