Epilogue Jillian #2
I open my mouth to respond, but his finger presses against my lips.
“Already breaking the rules,” he tuts. “We haven’t even started.”
I close my mouth. My pulse is hammering everywhere. But I wait.
He takes my hand and leads me out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I know the layout by heart, but blindfolded, every step feels new.
“Stop,” he says. “Right here. Don’t move.”
I stop. The carpet is soft under my bare feet. Then he lets go of my hand, and I hear him moving around me. His footsteps are slow and heavy. Predatory. I shiver uncontrollably, but I don’t dare make a peep.
Leather fingertips drag across my bare shoulders. Down my right arm to the wrist, then gone. Pause. Breath. Then up my spine, one finger tracing each vertebra through the thin fabric.
The zipper at my back comes down tooth by tooth. He peels the costume off my shoulders, works it down past my ribs, and stops at my waist. Cool air kisses my bare skin. I’m half-dressed and half-not, caught somewhere in between, with a masked monster stripping me at his leisure.
His mouth finds my ear. “Your fear looks so pretty in the dark, little fox.”
I hear a sound of rustling fabric, and then something rough and fibrous loops around my left wrist. Rope, I think.
He winds it twice, pulls it snug, then guides both wrists together behind my back.
His fingers work fast and sure, threading and cinching, and I feel knot after knot lock into place against the bones of my wrists.
The binding forces my shoulders back and my chest forward. I’m standing blind and bound in my own bedroom, breasts bare, spine arched, and completely unable to cover a single inch of myself.
I am also soaking wet.
But Kir—sorry, the Masked Man—doesn’t touch me where I want.
His gloved finger traces the rope instead, following its path from wrist to wrist, pressing into the gap where braided fiber meets skin.
He checks the tension against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. Two fingers. Measuring. Adjusting.
Then, with no warning, he shoves me forward onto the bed. My cheek smashes into the sheets as I land facedown.
The Fear threatens. Once upon a time, facedown meant gone. Ceiling crack. Gray sock. Lights out, nobody home.
Now, it means here. Right here. I’m present in a way I used to never let myself become. Why wouldn’t I be present? Everything I’ve ever wanted is with me in this room.
He tugs the costume down over my hips, past my thighs, off my ankles, then sets it aside. I’m facedown in nothing but lace underwear and a blindfold, wrists bound behind my back, helpless, alive.
Behind me, I hear him moving. There’s the clink of a buckle and the harsh whisper of leather sliding free from belt loops.
I have to bite my lip to stop from yelping when the belt touches the back of my thigh.
He paints it gently down to the crease behind my knee, then back up, slow, letting the leather warm against my skin.
Up over the curve of my ass, across to the other thigh, down again.
A lazy, patient figure eight that makes every muscle in my body coil tight.
The waiting is the worst part. Or the best part. They’re kind of the same thing.
Until the first strike cracks across my ass. I gasp into the sheet, fingers clawing at nothing but empty air. The sting spreads outward in a hot wave that I feel all the way to my toes.
His mouth presses against the welt he just gave me. Warm lips, then his tongue, flat and slow, tracing the line of heat he just put there. My hips jerk involuntarily. Pain then comfort, punishment then reward. It’s so nice to relax into a world with clear rules.
In the dark, good girls get to cum.
Bad girls are forced to scream.
The second strike comes harder. As before, Kir’s mouth follows immediately to soothe the fiery pain.
“Who do you belong to?” he rumbles against my skin.
His deep voice oozes up my bared body like liquid fire to reach my ears.
He’s so effortlessly seductive, sex incarnate. I want to give him all of me.
But it wouldn’t be fun to do that right away.
So my bratty ass decides to answer, “Gee, I dunno… the mailman?”
Therefore, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when the third strike nearly takes my ass cheek off. My back bows off the mattress and a moan rips out of me before I can clamp my teeth shut.
His breathing changes behind me. Just barely. A fraction of a hitch, a tiny crack in that ironclad composure, but I savor it like the greedy slut he turns me into. I fucking love this. I love knowing I can make him slip, even for a second, before he pulls himself back together.
“I’m going to give you one more chance,” he snarls. “Who do you belong to?” The belt rests against the back of my thigh like a leather warning.
“You,” I breathe into the sheet. “I belong to you.”
The belt disappears. His gloved hand replaces it, sliding between my legs from behind, pressing flat against the soaked lace at my center.
He doesn’t move his fingers; I haven’t earned that yet.
He just holds them there, taunting me. I try to grind against his palm, but the angle is wrong and my wrists are bound and I can’t get any leverage at all.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Then his hand is gone and I want to scream.
The belt taps my inner thigh twice. Light. Almost gentle. “I have a few more questions. Who’s the only man who gets to see you like this?”
I press my lips together. Not because I don’t know the answer. Because I want to see what happens when I don’t give it to him.
Three seconds pass. Four. Five.
The strike lands on the crease where my ass meets my thigh. I bury my face into the pillows and scream again.
“Try again,” he suggests.
“You! Only you. Nobody else.”
“Mm. Yes. Yes.” His hand comes back. This time, his thumb presses a slow line up the center of the panties. He holds me down with his other hand on the small of my back, pinning me flat while his thumb makes one more pass. Then nothing.
I whimper into the sheets.
“Last question.” His mouth is close to my ear now. I can feel the fabric of the mask brush my cheek. “Who’s going to make you fall apart tonight?”
“You are,” I whisper immediately. I’m out of brattiness faster than usual tonight. Sometimes, I put up a long fight and he’s forced to break me down completely. Tonight, though, I just want him as fast as I can get him. “Please. I need it so bad, baby. You are. Just you.”
The belt clatters to the floor. I hear him reach for something else, there’s a strange shiiiink noise, and then cold metal presses flat against my lower back.
My jaw falls open.
It’s a knife. The flat of it, not the edge, but my body doesn’t seem too concerned about that distinction, especially not when he teases it under the waistband of my underwear. The steel is freezing against my overheated skin.
“Breathe,” he orders.
I do, albeit barely.
He shimmies the flat under the lace at my hip. One quick sawing motion and the fabric gives way with a soft rip. He does the same on the other side, peels the ruined scrap away, and sets it aside.
Then his bare fingers—gloves off now, when did that happen?
—touch my needy cunt and I nearly white out.
Two fingers push inside and I feel my body suck them in, clutching around them.
He puts the other hand on my clit, rubbing a wide orbit.
It builds and tightens and spirals, and I’m right there, right at the edge—
He pulls his hand away completely.
I whine wordlessly. The ropes bite into my wrists as I writhe and flop around.
His palm flattens against the small of my back and pins me to the mattress until I get the message and stop moving.
“I told you: No cumming until I say so. You weren’t about to cum without permission now, were you?
” I feel his eyes boring into the back of my head.
“Were you, little fox? Because that would make you a very bad girl. And bad girls don’t get to cum.
Don’t you want to be a good girl for me? ”
I nod frantically, still facedown.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes! Yes, I want to be a good girl. Please. Just… please.” I’m drooling onto the bedsheets now. My center is spasming. It needs something big and hard to bear down on or I’m going to lose my ever-loving mind.
“Very well,” he says. “We’ll see how good you can be. I’ll give you the chance to prove to me you want it.”
Thus begins what has to be at least thirty minutes of edging.
I lose track of what implements are working on me.
Whether it’s a knife or a belt, fingers or his hot, slutty mouth, he brings me right to the tipping point and then pulls back, over and over.
He waits between rounds until I’m kicking my feet and screaming into the pillows before he starts from the top again.
Every time he pulls away, I die a little.
Every time he comes back, I’m reborn.
By the last round, I’m not a person anymore.
I’m a trembling, soaking, sweaty mess, face smashed sideways into the sheets, drool on my chin, mascara far beyond saving.
His fingers push inside me again and his thumb finds a good spot and my whole body locks up and I know—I know—if he stops this time, I will actually, literally perish.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please, please, please.”
There’s a note in my voice now that we both recognize. It’s the same desperate, broken surrender I gave him on my kitchen floor almost a year ago, the first time he touched me, when all I had to do was ask.
The Masked Man’s fingers go still inside me. His breathing changes.
Then, so quiet I almost miss it, he says with lusty approval, “That’s the sound of a very good girl.”