Chapter 7 Abby
ABBY
“Don’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 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.
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.
“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 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 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 ordeal with the man I’ve fantasized about: Dane.
Because the awful truth is that both turn me on.
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. 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.
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 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 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. 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.
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.
GentAnon
I like a little fight in you. Clipping your wings is such a pleasure, my little dove.
My core turns molten, and I squirm beneath my duvet as my clit begins to pulse in response to his crass threats. They should terrify me, but the thrill that fizzes through my veins is subversively alluring. I’m addicted to this fear, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
And I want him to burn me up until I don’t have any thoughts left except for the desire to submit to his perverted will.
CagedBird
Tell me what you want to do to me.
GentAnon
Making demands? That’s not how this works. Beg.
Arousal wets my labia, and my inner muscles clench.
“Please…” I whisper the plea aloud as I type it.
I allow my eyes to drift closed for a moment. Dane’s gorgeous face fills my mind, and in the darkness of my fantasy, his dangerous frown is directed at me. His green eyes spark with displeasure, and I tense in anticipation of his retribution.
My messenger pings an alert, and my eyes snap open.
GentAnon
“Please” isn’t good enough. Get on your knees and show me how sorry you are.
CagedBird
Make me.
GentAnon
Stubbornness is a distasteful trait in such a pretty toy. I’ll break you of that.
My breaths come fast and shallow, and my hand skims down my belly.
GentAnon
Don’t you dare touch yourself. Wait for my permission.
All of my muscles coil tight with the effort of restraining myself, but I still on his command. It’s unnerving that he knows me so well, but that disturbing fact only stokes my lust.
GentAnon
If you don’t want to kneel for me, I’ll bind your ankles to your thighs and force you onto your knees.
Then you won’t be capable of doing more than crawling for me.
I think I’d like to have you as my needy pet.
I’ll slip a ring gag between your teeth so that you can’t do anything but whimper and drool for my cock.
My inner thighs are slick with my desire, and I’m aching to touch myself.
But I won’t. I’m enjoying our game too much to deny his control, even if he’s not here to witness any disobedience.
CagedBird
You left my hands free. Your pet still has claws.
GentAnon
Claw at me all you want. It will make taming you all the more satisfying.
I can feel your nails sinking into my forearm while I pin your throat.
You writhe and whine, but you’re so small and weak.
So breakable. Your fingers soften as your vision tunnels.
You can’t breathe unless I allow it. You’re trapped on your bound legs, and you melt into my arms. It’s almost too easy to wrap the rope around your wrists.
Do you hear me laughing, little dove? It’s no effort at all to subdue you.
You’re my tame pet now, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m your master. I own you.
Green eyes flash through my mind, and sensual lips curve in a cruel smirk. My core contracts, desperate to be filled.
CagedBird
Please. I need to come. I need to touch myself.
GentAnon
Naughty thing. Pets don’t talk. You’ll take my cock in your mouth and moan around my dick if you want to beg me for an orgasm.
CagedBird
I love how your cock tastes, Master. I love when you use me for your own pleasure.
GentAnon
Sweet little pet. You feel so good when I’m fucking your mouth. I know you’re trembling for release. Your cunt must be aching, but you aren’t allowed to come yet. This is your punishment. You earned it. Show me how sorry you are.
CagedBird
Deeper, please. I don’t want to breathe unless you allow it. Make me suffer for you, Master.
My lungs are burning. I’m not breathing, my body bending to his will even though he’s nothing more than words on a screen.
GentAnon
Swallow everything I give you, and come for me. Now, little dove.
I shatter at the barest brush of my fingers over my swollen clit. Ecstasy crashes through me in vicious waves, and I bite down on my other fist to hold back a scream.
In this moment of cruel bliss, I’m stripped down to my most primal, perverted self. Tears slip down my cheeks as I sob my release. Deep in my soul, I know that this is where I belong: alone in the dark with my shameful secrets.
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. My filthy messages with GentAnon are proof of that.
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 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. A macabre white skull coalesces on my canvas, and striking green eyes blaze from its black sockets.