4. Abby
4
ABBY
“ D on’t scream.” The harsh, inhuman growl threads through the haze of my oxygen-starved brain. His gloved hand is clamped over my nose and mouth, and my muffled cries sputter and die as my lungs begin to burn. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, making the midnight shadows in my apartment lengthen to obscure my limited view.
My cheek is pressed against the peeling ivory paint on the inside of my front door. His hard body cages mine from behind.
The shadows darken, and my lashes flutter. I’m going to float away. Only his firm grip is keeping me anchored to reality.
My knees fold, and his hard chest presses against my back as he releases a sharp curse. His massive body pins mine, preventing me from falling. His smothering hand drops from my face.
“Breathe.”
I suck in a ragged, desperate breath, and my entire body convulses at the burn of oxygen flooding my deprived lungs.
Before I can find the air to release a cry for help, icy metal kisses my throat, and my chest seizes again; I don’t dare to draw breath when the knife could pierce my skin at the smallest movement.
Spiky fear dances through my veins in sharp, sparkling snowflakes. The chill is thrilling even as it shreds me. A bizarre urge to release the unspent adrenaline on a maddened laugh bubbles up in my tight chest, but the knife at my throat renders me silent.
The gloved hand slides down the length of my arms, and my nerve endings jump at the perverse caress. Each of my fine hairs tickles as the buttery smooth leather brushes over my goosebumps.
His leather-clad fingers slide over my hair before skating down my nape. I shiver at the gentle contact. It’s so at odds with the violence of the scene that my mind spins into a surreal state. My eyes slide closed, trying hide from what’s happening to me.
I hear him inhale deeply, as though he’s savoring the scent of my abject terror. His chest rumbles at my back when he releases a low hum of primal, masculine satisfaction. The sound of his pleasure vibrates through me, making my heart stutter and my belly quake.
The gloved hand traces my side, exploring the dip at my waist and the soft curve of my hip. It splays possessively over my stomach, and he applies pressure to tuck me more tightly against his hard body.
Time blurs. As he touches me, exploring at his leisure, a strange heat blossoms beneath the surface of my skin. It makes my cheeks burn and my breath come in shallow pants, as though I’ve been running a mile in the Charleston summer.
“You’re wet.” The observation is as rough as his curse. With disapproval? Or desire?
Something slick coats his glove when he traces the shape of my lips: my own traitorous arousal.
“Look at me.”
I keep my eyes resolutely shut, hiding from the horror of the darkest part of my soul.
His fist tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back. Little sparks of pain light up my scalp, and my eyes fly open on a gasp.
“Look at me.”
Forest green eyes glow like some sort of demonic creature, bright points of light glowering from the darkened sockets of the skull. It stands out in macabre contrast to the black ski mask, fixing me with a perpetual, cruel grin.
“You’re so beautiful, Abigail.”
My name lilts on the last. That voice. That accent.
Those eyes…
I jolt awake in my bed, sitting bolt upright. My eyes dart around my darkened apartment, searching the shadows for signs of my attacker.
I hug my arms tightly to my chest and focus on my five senses.
My skin is clammy beneath my hot fingertips. I hear my own sawing breaths echoing in my ears. I taste copper on my tongue and realize that I bit the inside of my cheek during my nightmare. The peeling, pale blue wallpaper in my bedroom reminds me of the peeling paint on my front door. And the scent that surrounds me is musky with my unmistakable arousal.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. It feels filthy, and my fingers itch with the need to scrape the grime away.
I heave in ragged breaths and struggle to purge the darkness of the nightmare.
The masked man never said my name during the attack. His voice had been low and gravelly, not smooth and cultured with an English accent. His eyes had been black pools in my shadowy apartment; there had been no green glow.
My emotions are a snarled mess. In the stillness of sleep, my subconscious melded my horrific ordeal with the man I’ve fantasized about: Dane.
Because the awful truth is that both turn me on.
My sweat-slicked skin isn’t the only part of me that’s damp in the wake of my traumatic nightmare. I’m all too familiar with the traitorous wetness between my legs.
My fingernails bite into my upper arms, but I manage to resist the urge to scrape away the toxic sludge that seems to roll beneath the surface of my skin in nauseating waves.
I flex my fingers and force my vise grip to release so that I can reach for the ancient laptop I keep tucked beneath my nightstand. Even in the darkness, I find it with practiced ease. I prop my back against my pillows, and comfort blankets me when the familiar weight of the laptop settles onto my thighs.
My fingers shake as I open it and enter my password. The website where I’ve catalogued my secret shame under an anonymous pen name is bookmarked, so I access it with a single click. Instead of typing out a new erotic story that blurs the lines of consent, I navigate to the messenger service.
My heart sinks when I notice the gray check mark beside my pen pal’s screenname. GentAnon is offline.
I glance at the time on the top right of my screen. One-seventeen AM.
It’s not uncommon for my trusted stranger to be online at this time. I tap out a message and hold my breath.
CagedBird
Are you awake?
My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I flex my fingers in an attempt to dispel the residual shaking from my nightmare. A pang lances my stomach, and I almost double over at the sudden surge of nausea. I hug my arms to my chest and struggle to drag in painful breaths while I anxiously await his reply.
The check mark turns green, and three dots appear. He has an alert set up on his phone for our late-night conversations, just like I do.
Iron bands mercifully loosen around my chest when his answering message appears:
GentAnon
For you? Always. What filthy things are on your mind, little dove?
My breath hitches on a soft sob at the visceral relief of his online presence.
We’ve been exchanging fantasies for two months now. My steamy pen pal found kinship in my dark erotica that I posted on the Eroticlit online forum, and he DMed me one day to tell me how much he admires my writing. What started as compliments slowly turned to questions about my disturbing, secret urges, and then the dirty messages started.
My fingers finally steady as calm settles over me. I’m safe with my anonymous admirer. In this secret space, I can purge my inner darkness in a way I’ve never known before. I’ve always had my painting as an outlet, but I’ve never been able to share my shameful fantasies with another person.
In the wake of the horrific attack, I’m craving safety, even though our clandestine connection is fucked up. There’s a perverse security in expressing my secret self with this stranger who shares my deepest, darkest fantasies.
Three dots appear. I’ve allowed too many seconds to pass before replying. His admonishment lights up my screen.
GentAnon
Don’t keep me waiting, little dove. You know the consequences of denying me.
My pulse quickens, and my core heats. I sink into our game, hiding from the horrors of my real life by losing myself in the thrill of our anonymous correspondence.
CagedBird
Fuck your consequences.
GentAnon
Such a dirty mouth for a sweet girl. I’ll tame that tongue of yours with my cock down your pretty throat.
My clit pulses, and a familiar thrill dances up my spine—sharp sparks that prickle their way over my scalp, as though he’s pulling my hair while he forces his cock into my unwilling mouth.
CagedBird
I’ll scream. Someone will hear.
GentAnon
We both know you won’t. No one will save you from me. The threat of my knife is enough to keep you quiet. Besides, you’ll be too busy swallowing my cum to scream.
For an awful moment, my attacker’s cold blade kisses my neck in a phantom cut. My hands still as though his gloved fingers are shackling my wrists again. A whimper catches in my constricted throat.
What am I doing?
I came while I was violated last night, and now I’m seeking to relive the same thrill with my sexy pen pal.
This isn’t a distraction. It’s not catharsis.
It’s a sick compulsion.
I’ve made myself a magnet for predatory men. They must be able to sense that some part of me wants it. I deserve what happened to me last night. My filthy messages with GentAnon are proof of that.
It’s why I won’t go to the cops to report the assault. And the prospect of scandalizing my family with a story in the news makes my stomach churn.
I swallow against the burn at the back of my throat and snap my laptop closed. My phone immediately pings with an alert. GentAnon has sent me another message.
I can’t face it. Sharing my inner darkness is too shameful to bear, even with my anonymous pen pal.
I scramble to my feet and stumble toward my beloved easel, moving through my small apartment in a drunken lurch. The soft glow of my lamps doesn’t fully illuminate the space, but it’s only right for me to paint this forbidden scene while cloaked in shadow.
My brush moves over the blank canvas in feverish strokes. I make a desperate attempt to release my inner darkness through my art.
A macabre white skull coalesces on my canvas, and striking green eyes blaze from its black sockets.