Chapter 6 Elias
SIX
Elias
Fear prickles along my scalp and down my spine. Someone is following me.
Before that message from ForbiddenX, I know I was being watched, but this feels different. This is something else, something dangerous.
This feels real.
And, yes, that is what I asked for, but there was that message about my case being under review.
When that first popped up on my phone, my heart sank with disappointment.
Then, quickly, my face heated with shame.
My fantasy was unacceptable and had been canceled.
Then, worse, I thought, No, this is because he changed his mind. He doesn’t want me.
There was some implication that something had gone wrong, with ForbiddenX assuring me that I was safe but advising me to report any suspicious activity. That gave me hope, briefly. I thought, He does want me, but they’ve told him, for some reason, to stop.
But then there was nothing. He never texted me with commands, never corrected me when I didn’t use a plug. He stopped watching me. Rejected me. I couldn’t even pay someone to accept me. But what did I expect when I exposed my darkest needs and impulses to … whoever?
Because they are dark. They’re horrifying. Wrong. Because even now, with someone following me, driving me off my path, away from home? My fear is mixed with excitement. My cock is stiffening.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Maybe it’s the plug inside me.
I don’t know what made me use it today, especially this one, the biggest one.
After several days of not using anything, it hurt.
But maybe that’s what I wanted. It helped me cry, a little.
But the pain didn’t last. It became pleasure, and that was even more painful because in the fullness, I’ve felt only emptiness.
I’ve known, all day, that there would be nothing at the end of it.
My hand, yes, and my imagination, but no promise of anything more.
But this, now, is something—until, suddenly, it’s not.
He’s gone. I can feel it: the void behind me, a safe and lonely, terrible nothingness.
I slow my pace as I near the park. I stop clenching on the plug. I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.
Am I that desperate, that pathetic? Do I really want someone to hurt me?
No. I’ve seen enough of it to know that it’s ugly and awful.
And yet … my relief isn’t pure. It’s tainted with disappointment. I’m on my own.
Then my scalp prickles again.
I freeze. I listen. I hear footsteps. I think, It’s probably nothing. Then I look over my shoulder and see a powerful figure in black. I see a skull mask. I cry out in surprise. I stop thinking.
I run in the only open direction, into the park—and he chases me.
At first, as I race along the paved path, with the streetlamps casting dull light into the rose garden, I’m very aware of my body.
The plug feels huge inside me as it rubs and bumps with each jarring step.
My cock is stiff, my skin hot, my heart racing.
But those details fade from my awareness.
As I flee into the deeper shadows, I feel dizzied and light.
All the heat in my body, all the pressure, all the clashing, chaotic emotion becomes electric.
I leap a rosebush at the end of the garden.
I hear it snag, but I don’t feel it. I race into the dark heart of the park.
I’m fast. I haven’t run since everything started, but I know this park well with its miles of trails winding through hundreds of wooded acres.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t make a decision. I simply run what I know.
I feel like I’m flying through the moonlight-slashed darkness. It’s almost euphoric, surreal, and a hazy, half-formed thought says that it’s just me here, that he’s stopped, or maybe never even existed.
Then my foot catches.
I’m briefly airborne, truly flying, before I crash to the ground. Terror jars into me, twisting up with the surrealness, reshaping it into nightmare because I hear his footsteps. He is real—and I haven’t outpaced him.
I scramble up. As I try to locate him in the darkness, I hear a deep, unnatural voice command me: “Run.”
And I do. There’s no euphoria this time. That feeling, I realize now in its absence, came from some part of me that believed this was my fantasy, but it’s not. And yet, in not being my fantasy, it is.
My terror becomes real. I’m not flying through a dreamlike darkness—I’m being hunted in the midnight isolation of a wooded trail. We are predator and prey, and if he catches me, he will destroy me. That is fear in its purest, truest form.
So when he does catch me, when his hand grabs the back of my jacket, I scream. Yanked off balance, I flail and stumble. I crash again to the ground, borne down by a huge, powerful body.
Shouting and thrashing, I claw at the dirt, but there’s no escaping the hands, the legs, the weight. Fear crashes wildly inside me, so absolute that even when he says, raspingly, “Did you really think they could keep me from you?” it doesn’t reach me, doesn’t calm me—and that’s the point.
I don’t want to be calm.
I’m face down in the dirt, clawing at a tree root, trying to pull myself away. I’m crying and choking and shaking as his hand forces its way under me and grips my hard cock through my jeans. His other hand finds my throat and squeezes.
When he speaks again, I realize with a thrill of fresh terror that he’s using a voice modulator. “Do you want to try your safe word?”
This time, it registers. It is him. The one who’s watched me, stalked me, commanded me. It’s his plug that’s inside me, that I’m clenching on so hard that I’m dizzy with arousal as much as with terror.
But the fact that this is my fantasy, playing out like I wanted but, somehow, unlike I ever could have imagined, doesn’t cut through my my terror—because he said try.
I can try my safe word.
Would he respect it? Would he stop? Would I want him to?
“Please,” I whine instead because I don’t want to know the answers to any of those questions. “Please.”
That’s not my safe word, so all he does is chuckle in my ear. The sound through the voice modulator is cruel, almost demonic.
Releasing my dick, his fingers pop the button of my jeans. He glides the zipper down.
“You could say it,” he tells me as he settles his hips against my ass. At the press of his huge, hard cock, I shiver. I clench on the plug.
“You could try it,” he tells me as his hand closes on my stiff dick through the thin fabric of my briefs. I gasp at the firm, hot touch then cough at the dirt I’ve breathed in.
“But you won’t,” he tells me as he tugs my ass harder against him. “Because what you want”—his other hand slides up from my throat to cover my mouth—“is for me to fuck you until you break.”
I whine against his hand, half in fear, half in shame—because my cock is kicking at his words, at the threat and the acceptance, at the promise that he’ll do it, that he can.
He shudders against me as both his hands flex, gripping harder on my face and dick. His thumb rubs the underside of my cockhead. As my precum leaks through the fabric, he rumbles in dark pleasure.
He doesn’t let go of my mouth when he draws back to yank down my jeans. He doesn’t let go when he tugs down my briefs to bare my ass, leaving the material caught on my leaking dick. He doesn’t let me speak.
Thank god he doesn’t. I need this to be real.
When he finds the plug, I squeeze my eyes shut and whine in renewed shame, but he drowns it out with an awful, animalistic sound. He pulls my hips up until I’m on my knees in the dirt, my ass fully exposed, the plug on display. I cry out against his hand as he pulls it from me.
My hole gapes and flutters. The emptiness is awful.
It’s all I can feel, all I can think about, so I’m not tracking what he’s doing as he moves around.
I’m not ready when the fat, lubed tip of his dick pushes into me.
I shout in alarm and pain, realizing vaguely that my mouth is uncovered, that his hand is now gripping my shoulder to hold me in place as his huge cock pushes into me, deeper than the plug could reach, stretching me, filling me beyond what I can handle.
“Stop!” I shout, clawing at the dirt, pulling at the tree roots, trying to escape. “Fuck! Hnn—please—don’t!”
But my safe word is red, so he just lets me yell as he forces his way into me.
I start crying. He doesn’t comfort me, doesn’t pause.
He just starts fucking me. He forces me into the position he wants.
He spreads my legs further until my underwear rips and my dick swings stiffly free.
He smashes my cheek into the dirt, forces my back to arch as his cock tunnels inside me, dragging through me, thrusting deep.
He doesn’t care that I’m crying, so I don’t have to try to stop. He doesn’t care that I keep shouting and clawing at the ground, so I don’t have to repress it. He doesn’t answer as I gasp no and please and I can’t, so I don’t have to worry about him stopping.
He just fucks me with the raw primality that I’ve fantasized about so many times.
He fucks me until the sensation of grit under my knees and cheek vanishes, until I don’t feel the cold air on my skin or hear myself anymore, until all I know is the rhythm of his dick pistoning inside me—and I come so hard that I scream and thrash as my cock, untouched, spurts wildly.
He smashes me down, holding me in place as I buck under him, spilling in the dirt, straining and spasming through the hard, wrenching pulses.
He just keeps fucking me until I’m gasping and shuddering, until I’m done.
I’m only half conscious when it’s over, when he settles on the ground with me, his arms around me, his cock still a huge, hard rod inside me. My mind spins. My body shudders.
I don’t know how much time passes before he starts to fuck me again. I’m quieter this time, moaning and whimpering as his cock tunnels into me. I’m hard, but I feel too vulnerable now, too exposed.
I don’t know how he knows this, but he must because he covers my mouth again. He grips my cock. He gives me a smaller, tighter space to exist in so that I stop thinking about myself and just feel my body being fucked.
He holds me close as I come again, bucking against him, spilling all over his hand. He still doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking me.
I’m pliant in his arms. I have no resistance left. I cry. I whimper. I come again and again. Then, when his cock pulses hotly inside me, I cry out against his hand and spill once more, painting his hand with my cum as he fills me with his.
And when he whispers in my ear, “You’re perfect,” I’m defenseless enough to believe him.