7. Trip
SEVEN
TRIP
S he started sending me photos.
After that first dick bursting photo, nothing explicit, for a long minute.
A soft crop of her mouth with lip gloss smeared just right. Her cleavage in a loose hoodie, no bra, hair messy like she'd just woken up. A voice memo once, barely a whisper.
“I can’t stop thinking about your voice.”
And that was it. That was the moment I realized I had to do it.
She wants masked men? I'll give her one.
I have my gear ready. Tactical mask. Gloves. Combat boots. All black.
The kind you don’t find at a costume store. The kind you wear when shit gets real. When adrenaline meets blood and everything in between stops mattering.
I pull the mask down over my face, adjusting the lighting in the garage, and hit record.
No voice at first. Just the sound of heavy boots on concrete. Gloved hands, dragging down my chest. A close-up of me clenching my fists and cracking my neck.
Thirst trap? Maybe.
But this one was for her.
The caption reads:
“You think you're in control, killstreak. But I’ve already decided how this ends.”
I post it to my backup MaskTok. The one with just enough traction to be anonymous.
The comments roll in fast.
“Okay, but ruin me?”
“The boots, sir ”
“Not me saving this for later.”
She doesn’t comment. But I see her like it.
And two hours later, I get a Snap from her.
She’s bent over in front of her mirror. Just a thong and her crop top. Hair up. Body glistening.
No words. Just a caption.
“Still not in control?”
I grip my phone so hard that I swear the screen might crack.
The next video I record is darker. Shot it from the waist up, shirtless under the mask. Black tattoos crawling across my chest, veins rising under the heat. My breath is controlled. Measured.
My voice is gravely and low, it cuts through the silence.
“I don’t care who else you talk to. Who else you let touch you. Just know this: when I want you, I won’t ask. I’ll take.”
I don’t tag her. Don’t follow her from that account.
But I know she sees it.
Later that night, she snaps me a video.
She’s on her knees in her room, a toy between her legs, whispering my name like it’s a secret she’s not supposed to tell.
I nearly come without touching myself.
Patrick’s still in the picture. Playing it cool. Charming. Manipulative.
I watch him like I have been. But now, through Lydia.
I knew his voice before I heard it.
He hasn’t changed much.
Still smooth. Still pretty. Still dangerous in a way that smells like bleach and a locked room.
We’d run in the same underground circles a few years back, work that never made it onto resumes. Shit that lived between wars and contracts. He likes to play innocent now. Pretend he was just security for rich assholes.
But I’d seen what he did when no one was watching.
And now, he’s watching her.
Lydia has no idea who she’s pulled into her orbit.
But I do.
And that’s why I won’t let her go.
Not just because I want her.
Because I know what he wants, too.