11. Kennedy
Kennedy
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe beneath the weight of the man on top of me.
His mask loomed inches from my face, bone-white and grinning, like death itself had crawled out of the walls and onto my chest. His gloved hand was huge, fingers splayed wide and unforgiving, and his body was solid and terrifyingly real, pressing me into the mattress until I felt like I might sink right through it.
My heart thundered, and every cell in my body screamed for me to do something. To kick, to bite, to thrash. But I still couldn’t seem to move. I was frozen, like prey beneath a predator’s claws.
A sob made its way up my throat, muffled by the man’s heavy hand. Then something suddenly occurred to me.
The cops were outside, and my security system was on. There was no way this man could’ve sneaked in without setting off the alarm. Not unless he had the code. And the only person I’d given the code to was Dec, who was currently locked up in the drunk tank at Corwin Bay PD.
The man didn’t move or say anything. He just looked down at me, like he was waiting for something. Waiting for what, though? What the hell did he want from me?
My limbs still wouldn’t respond, and suddenly my brain was grasping at another idea.
This isn’t real.
It couldn’t be. It had to be another one of those dreams. The ones that crawled out of the dark part of my psyche, leaving me soaked in sweat and shame. The ones I’d wake from gasping and flushed, with my hands already between my legs, working frantically until I came so hard I saw stars.
Just a dream.
A sick, twisted fantasy dredged up by my worst memories and my filthiest impulses. And in dreams, I didn’t have to be good. Didn’t have to be ashamed, either. I could want the things I wasn’t supposed to, and I could do them, too.
The man leaned in, his masked face inches from mine. His breath was warm against my cheek, and his body was a furnace of heat and menace. His voice, when it came, was deep and masculine, muffled by the mask so I couldn’t quite place it despite an odd sense of familiarity.
“This is what you want,” he muttered.
Not a question. A statement. Like he already knew me, inside and out.
I didn’t even try to deny it. I just nodded.
His head tilted, and I felt his stare burning through the skull mask. His next words were low and commanding. “Don’t scream.”
Then his hand lifted from my mouth.
I didn’t scream. I moaned. It escaped without permission, a whimper of pure wanton need as my hips arched upward, chasing the friction of the man’s body.
His gloved hand came up to my chest. In his other hand, something was gleaming. A knife. My breath caught as the cold kiss of metal touched just below my collarbone, and I shivered… but not from fear.
The blade moved slowly down the center of the oversized T-shirt I’d worn to sleep, slicing cleanly through the thin cotton. The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and my skin prickled under the sudden exposure, nipples hardening against the air and the heat of his gaze.
I should’ve felt terrified, but I only felt seen .
The knife hovered at my throat now, the tip barely touching the delicate skin just beneath my jaw. A whisper of pressure. A promise. “Tell me exactly what you want, Kennedy,” the masked man demanded, voice low and gravelly.
I swallowed, eyes locked on him. “I… I want this,” I breathed, barely able to get the words out.
“Be. More. Specific,” he hissed, each word striking like a whipcrack.
My breath hitched, and shame curled in my gut. But beneath that was deeper, darker desire. “You… you know what I want,” I murmured, still barely able to force the words out. “You’re already inside my head.”
“I need to hear you say it.” The tip of the knife dug into my skin, hard enough to sting. “Last chance, baby girl.”
I swallowed hard and released a shaky breath. “I want you inside me,” I whispered. “And… I want you to make it hurt.”
“Good girl,” he muttered. As he spoke, he slowly dragged the flat of the blade down my sternum, letting the cold steel trail over my skin. “Finally being honest.”
He pressed the blade against the swell of my breast with just enough pressure to make me gasp, and my back arched, chasing the danger like it was pleasure. Like I’d never known the difference.
My wrists itched to be bound. My throat ached for his hand. My whole body trembled under the weight of his presence, and the weight of finally giving in.
To the darkness.
To the lust.
To him .
The knife slipped lower. His other hand was back on me now, palm flat on my chest, fingers splayed between my breasts. He wasn’t gentle or slow. He touched me like I was his. Like he’d already claimed every inch of me in his mind, and now he was just confirming it in flesh.
I gasped when his gloved fingers caught the waistband of my satin shorts and dragged them down my hips, baring me completely. The blade followed, tracing a stinging line down my thigh that made me cry out with anticipation.
He leaned closer, and I felt the warm huff of his breath against my cheek, the mask brushing my skin as he spoke.
“You’ve wanted this for so long,” he muttered.
Once again, there was no room for doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Just certainty. He really knew me. My fears, my cravings, every filthy secret I’d buried so deep that not even therapy could dig them out.
I nodded, breath coming fast. “Yes.”
“You dreamed about this. You wrote about it, too,” he went on, his voice a guttural whisper. “Didn’t you?”
I nodded again.
He leaned even closer. “You wanted to be hunted. To be claimed. Used.”
Another fervent nod. “Yes.”
A gloved hand wrapped around my throat then. Not squeezing hard, just resting there, claiming me. I moaned again; a desperate, involuntary sound that made his hand tighten slightly.
He finally pulled away and slid his hand lower, down my stomach and between my legs. Gloved fingers parted me, finding me soaked and trembling, and a low growl rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating through me as he pushed one thick finger inside without preamble.
My body arched, pleasure clashing hard against panic as the knife kept hovering nearby. “More,” I gasped, grinding down on his hand. “Please.”
He gave me what I asked for. Another finger. More pressure. More control. He took it all like it belonged to him… and maybe it did. Maybe it always had.
When I started to come undone beneath him, thighs shaking, hips bucking against his hand, he leaned down again, mask brushing my temple, voice dark and amused. “Good girl.”
My orgasm hit fast, ripping through me in jagged waves as I cried out, voice cracking from the force of it. My back bowed off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets like they could anchor me, but there was no grounding to be found. Not when he was still inside me. Not when he’d barely even started.
His fingers didn’t slow. Instead, he pushed harder, deeper, curling them with cruel precision until the overstimulation made me squirm. I whimpered, half-wild now, unsure whether I was trying to escape the pleasure or chase it again.
“Don’t try to run,” he said softly. “Not from this.”
The blade reappeared in my hazy vision, catching the moonlight through my window as if to remind me that it had never really left. The masked man dragged the flat edge up my inner thigh again, slow and reverent, until it pressed just beside where I was spread open for him.
I didn’t flinch or beg him to stop. I just stared up at the mask looming above me, heart racing, skin flushed, body throbbing with need.
He made a pleased sound low in his throat. “Good.”
The knife slid away again, and in the next moment he was undoing his belt. The metal buckle clinked in the dark, slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to hear it. Anticipation spiked like lightning in my veins.
When the belt came down around my wrists, I let him bind me without a fight. He pulled the leather tight, securing my hands above my head and locking them to the bedhead with practiced ease. I was helpless beneath him now; exposed, panting, dripping with desperation.
His masked face tilted again, and he leaned down. “You know you’re mine now, don’t you?”
I nodded. My mouth was too dry to speak.
His hand came to my throat again, squeezing just enough to send stars dancing at the edges of my vision. “Say it.”
“I-I’m yours,” I gasped.
He made a low, hungry sound and shifted between my legs. The thick head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and I bucked toward it instinctively, shameless and greedy. “Beg,” he said.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Louder.”
“Please,” I cried, writhing beneath him. “Please fuck me.”
He gave me what I asked for, sinking into me in one harsh, unforgiving thrust. I choked on a scream as he stretched and filled me, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a cocktail that was a hundred times better than any drug.
He didn’t stop, didn’t let me adjust. He just pounded into me, driving his cock deep with every thrust. The mask loomed above me, a stark reminder of his anonymity, his mystery, his darkness. But right now, I didn't care who he was. I didn’t even care if this was a dream or not.
All I cared about was the feeling.
My thighs squeezed his hips, pulling him in, urging him deeper. He fucked me hard and fast, unrelenting, taking me like he knew exactly what I wanted. Like he could read my thoughts, desires, and fantasies, and had crafted this experience just for me.
"Yes," I moaned, grinding against him. "Oh, god… please, don't stop."
A deep, masculine chuckle. "Such a good girl for me."
“Yes,” I panted. “Don't stop. Please… don't ever stop."
But he did. He withdrew, undid the belt to release my arms, and then rolled me onto my stomach, roughly pulling me up onto my hands and knees. My back arched instinctively, exposing every inch of my bare ass and pussy.
"Please!" I begged, my body screaming for release. He couldn't stop now. Not when I wanted more, more, more.
The man’s gloved fingers plunged between my legs again, gathering my wetness and spreading it over my asshole. Then the head of his cock was there, nudging the tight ring.
“I’m gonna take your ass, and it’s gonna hurt,” he said. “But you’ll love every second of it, won’t you?”
“Yes!” I cried, quaking with anticipation. “Please…”
As I answered him, there was a cold press on the back of my left leg, mere inches below my ass. It was the knife, yet again.
"Don’t move, baby," he growled near my ear. The tip of his cock was still lined up with my asshole, but he wasn’t thrusting forward. Not yet.
My breath hitched as his blade pressed harder, dragging a deliberate, burning line. Only when the pain sharpened did I understand: he was carving three lines on me. Marking me with the letter 'K'. Claiming my whole body as his before he claimed my ass.
I bit the inside of my cheek to silence my cry as the final line was cut. The pain was sharp, but my desire to be his burned hotter.
"Good girl," he muttered, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
Finally, he thrust into my ass.
I cried out, and then bit the inside of my wrist to muffle the sound. It hurt, so fucking badly, but the pain was laced with something else. Something intoxicating.
The masked man chuckled as his cock drove deep into my ass, and his gloved hand fisted in my hair, pulling hard enough to make me whimper. “So fucking tight,” he growled. “How many times has this ass been fucked, Kennedy?”
“Never,” I gasped.
I’d asked my ex-boyfriend if we could try anal once, but he wrinkled his nose and shook his head, eyes flashing with disgust. I was surprised, because I thought he was more adventurous than that, but clearly I was mistaken. I never brought it up again, too ashamed of my desires.
“Good. Then it’s all mine.” The masked man withdrew before thrusting in again, hard enough to make me howl. A split-second later, his hand came down on my left ass-cheek in a sizzling crack. “This ass belongs to me.”
It was too much. I was going to come again. I knew I shouldn’t be this horny, or this needy, but I couldn’t stop myself, even though I was getting fucked by a total monster.
I exploded all over his shaft a second later, throbbing and gasping. He didn’t let me catch my breath as I climaxed. Just kept brutally fucking my ass through the exquisite pain and pleasure.
He slapped me again a minute later, hard enough to leave fingerprints on my ass. Then he slipped two of those fingers into my pussy, pumping them into me as his cock thrust continuously into my ass.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasped. “ Fuck .”
“That’s it, baby,” he growled. “Take it all.”
My senses were going haywire. I felt like I was about to collapse.
The Carver’s movements turned erratic, and he pulled out of my ass and pussy with wet popping sounds before roughly yanking me around to face him. “Swallow it,” he ordered, pumping his shaft with one hand. “Swallow it like the depraved little cum-slut you are.”
I probably should’ve been horrified by the idea of letting him cum in my mouth after his cock had just been buried deep inside my ass. Instead, the thought of doing something so dirty, so wrong, made my clit throb even harder.
I opened my mouth, preparing for the onslaught, and with that, the masked man let out a groan and shoved the tip between my lips just in time for me to catch his hot, spurting release. I did exactly as he commanded, swallowing it all down.
Finally, he pulled away, and I sucked in a heaving breath. He looked down at me, and somehow, despite the mask, I knew he was smirking.
“Hope you’re not tired yet, baby,” he growled, reaching for his belt again. “It’s time for round two...”