Page 42 of Terror Tuesday

Behind my sleeping figure stands Vanq. Masked. Dark. Watching.

Dread rips through me when I realize it’s not a photo…

It’s avideo.

I creep closer, heart hammering so loud I can barely hear the wind anymore. With a shaky finger, I press play and sit slowly, knees drawn to my chest. Blanket held up to my nose like a shield.

The screen flickers to life.

There I am, barely moving. Chest rising steadily in the dim light of my room. And thereheis, stepping closer. His gloved hand moves to the edge of the bed. He crouches. Stares at me for a long moment as if he’s studying my breathing. Then…he reaches up and removes the lower half of his mask.

I don’t see his full face. Just the mouth. A hint of stubble. A jaw that could break a vow.

And then…he kisses me.

There’s no sound. No moaning. It’s almost sweet, but more like…

Reverent?

I touch my lips with my fingers, a tingle charging through them like a reverie.

It’s only a moment until he stands again, and with a sly movement, he lowers himself between my thighs. With gloved hands, the shards of my destroyed costume are peeled away like flower petals. His fingers tear off the last of my soakedunderwear, then he spreads me open with a veneration that makes my skin crawl, but my heart beats harder in response. Like he’s uncovering the rarest of buried treasures.

The mask lingers, staring at my pussy for so long, I wonder if that’s all he’ll do.

In the next second, he’s pressing his entire face into my core.

A spine-tingling cold rushes through me until I shiver. Everything tenses, my knees squeezing together, but I can’t look away. In the video, I twitch, my back bows, bare breasts jiggle. Seeking more of his pleasure, my hips shift higher, and I grip the sheets, even while asleep. My breath, though slow, is uneven. A tiny moan slips past my parted lips.

He’s ravenous. His head shakes back and forth, then he slips in a finger, using his tongue to lick me and flick me until my arousal coats his chin. Sopping wet sounds cling to the air as he plunges his hand inside and out. I’m wrecked, but unaware.

And then…I come.

The orgasm rips through me on-screen—visibly, unmistakably. I arch. I whimper. My thighs convulse around the man. And Vanq...he stays buried in me until the very last quake has passed, until my last squeaky breath shatters the room. Then he rises. Pulls his mask back down. And stands over me like a lord approving his peasant’s work.

Low and deep, he addresses the camera, and another shiver runs through me. “You couldn’t say no…so don’t feel guilty that your body answered yes.”

Without fanfare or smoke, he vanishes from the frame.

The video ends with a black screen that feels like it dooms my soul.

I sit there, frozen, the scream caught somewhere beneath my ribs, clawing to get out.

What the fuck.

Some recollections invade my thoughts. This seems somewhatfamiliar. Almost as if it had been a dream of mine from a long time ago. Hands shake as I throw off my blanket and run to the desk drawer. My diary. I need it.

Licking a finger, I flip back a few pages, skimming past confessionals, nightmares, plans for Terror Tuesday—and then I find it.

A single butterfly wing drawn in ink on the top corner of a page.

I skim the entry beneath it.

What if the only way I could enjoy sex was if I wasn’t awake for it? What if I could give myself permission to feel it without the shame—if I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t stop it, maybe I could finally let myself want it?

He read this.

And hedid it.