Three
DOMINIC
Nicki’s ballerina flats slap against the library floor, that wild curly hair flying behind her like a flag of surrender she hasn’t officially waved yet.
The mask narrows my world to a strip. I see her back, the white tank top riding up, the denim shorts hugging her bubble ass as she bolts for the exit.
I could let her make it. The thought flickers for half a second before my body decides otherwise.
My boots are silent, but my breathing isn’t. It echoes back at me through the plastic, hot and fast, and I fucking love the sound. Love that she can hear it. Love that every exhale tells her I’m coming.
Ten feet from the door. Her hand already reaches for the handle.
I close the distance in three strides, and my arm hooks around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet. She screams—a real one this time with no hand to muffle it—and the sound bounces off the empty shelves.
“No!” She thrashes, heels kicking at my shins, nails scraping down my forearm. “Let me go! Get the fuck off me!”
I spin her, tighten my grip, and start walking her back toward the romance aisle. She fights the entire way, twisting, arching, her elbow jamming back into my ribs hard enough to make me grunt. Good girl. Fight. I want you to.
Back in the aisle, her phone lies on the floor, the screen shattered. My hand throbs where her teeth sank into it, four distinct crescents of pain pulsing with my heartbeat. I flex it against her hip, pressing the bite marks into her skin.
Let her feel what she did to me. Let her know her mark is on my body the way mine is about to be all over hers.
“Get off me.” Her voice cracks on the last word. Ragged, desperate, even, and not commanding at all.
I pin her against the bookshelf with my full weight, the mask pressing cold and hollow against the back of her neck. My chest heaves against her back, my breath coming hard through the plastic, hot enough I can feel it dampening the collar of her tank top.
She drives her elbows back, catching me in the sternum. Her nails rake my forearms, leaving burning trails. It makes my cock throb and I let out a guttural groan.
“Fuck!”
I let her struggle. Let her burn through whatever fight she’s got left.
Her muscles tremble against me, her breathing shallow and fast, and I wait.
Wait until I feel the exact moment her body gives up—that subtle shift from resistance to acceptance, her weight settling back against me instead of pushing away.
That’s when I move.
My hand drops to the waistband of her shorts, yanking them open and down to her knees in one rough pull. Ooh, my girl’s commando. Just like me. How fucking perfect.
I cup her bare pussy, and Jesus fucking Christ, she’s soaked. I press my fingers against her, feeling her clit hard and swollen.
“Fuck,” I growl against the back of her neck. “You’re dripping.”
“I’m not—” she starts, but her hips push back against my hand before she can finish the lie.
I slide two fingers through her wetness, gathering it, spreading it. She’s so fucking wet I can hear it. I curl my fingers and push them inside her, deep, and her whole body jerks.
“Oh, God!” Her forehead drops against the shelf. “Oh, fuck!”
I fuck her with my fingers, slow then fast, my thumb grinding circles on her clit. Her thighs shake. Her breathing goes ragged, then stops entirely when I hit a spot that makes her back arch and a moan tear out of her throat so loud it should wake the dead.
“Right there,” she gasps. “Fuck, right there, don’t stop. Keep going. Keep—”
Laughing darkly, I rasp, “Like I’m going to stop when being inside you is all I’ve been able to think about for months.”
I speed up, my fingers driving into her, my thumb relentless on her clit, and she comes with a scream that echoes off every wall in this goddamn library.
Her pussy clenches around my fingers so hard it almost hurts, pulsing, dripping, and I keep going until she’s shaking and begging me to stop through the aftershocks.
Then I spin her around.
Her face is flushed, her lips parted, those warm brown eyes wide and dazed. There’s a smear of blood on her lip—mine or hers, I don’t fucking care. I grab her wrist and press her hand to the front of my jeans.
“Be a good girl and take my dick out.”
Her fingers fumble with my button and zipper, but she gets my jeans undone and pulls my cock out.
She gasps and licks her lips, her eyes glued to the head that’s slick with pre-cum. Just as she tightens her grip, I wrap my fingers around her wrist to stop her.
“I want you to kiss it,” I demand.
Bending down, she does as I say. She presses her lips against the head, soft, hesitant, and then her tongue flicks out and tastes me.
The sound I make isn’t human. She takes me into her mouth, her lips stretching around my cock, and the heat of her is fucking obscene. Her tongue works the underside, her hand stroking what she can’t fit, and I have to grip the shelf behind her head to keep from coming down her throat.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan. “That mouth of yours.”
I’m already close—too close. So, I grab a fistful of her curls and yank her off me, spinning her back around before she can protest. One hand on her hip, the other in her hair, as I thrust into her in one brutal move, burying my cock to the hilt.
She cries out—a raw, broken sound—and her fingers scramble for purchase on the edge of the shelf. Her back arches, her ass pressing against my hips, and I fuck her. Hard. Deep. Each thrust drives the shelf into the wall with a thud that shakes the books.
“Fuck,” she sobs. “Oh my God, fuck, more… harder… please.”
My hand slides from her hip to her throat, fingers pressing just below her jaw. Not enough to cut off her air—just enough to control it. Her pulse hammers against my palm, fast and frantic, and when I squeeze, her breath catches in a way that makes her pussy clamp down on my cock like a vise.
“You like that?” I rasp into her ear. “You like being fucked by a stranger in a mask?”
“Y-yes.” The word is barely there, uttered between ragged breaths. “Yes, fuck, yes… I want… more.”
I pound into her, my hips slapping against her ass, skin on skin, the sound filthy and loud in the empty library. Her moans are continuous now, broken by gasps every time my hand tightens on her throat. Her fingers curl around the edge of the shelf so hard her knuckles go white.
She comes again with a strangled cry, her body shuddering, her pussy squeezing my cock with pulses I can feel in my fucking toes.
I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
I fuck her through it, harder, deeper, until she’s sobbing and begging, and I feel the third orgasm building in her. I know this is the one that’s going to take us both over the edge.
“Come for me,” I growl. “Come on my cock one more time.”
She does. Her whole body goes rigid, her back bowing, a scream tearing out of her. Her pussy is clamping down on me like it’s trying to break me. And that’s it—I’m done.
I bury myself to the root and come so hard my vision blanks, pumping cum deep inside her, my forearm locked across her shoulders, my free hand pressed flat against the shelf beside her face.
We stay like that. Breathing. Shaking. Connected.
A paperback slides off the shelf and lands open on the floor beside us, pages splayed like it’s taking a bow.
She’s still trembling. Her hands braced on the shelf, knuckles white, legs shaking so badly I can see the muscle twitches in her thighs. Post-orgasm wreckage looks fucking beautiful on my girl.
I don’t pull out right away. I stay inside her, letting her feel every last pulse of me, and when I finally slide free, my cum follows in a warm rush down her inner thigh.
The sight of it—my fucking jizz on her skin, leaking out of her—sends a surge of something possessive through my chest that’s closer to violence than affection.
My hand cups her pussy before she can move, fingers pressing against her swollen lips, gathering the cum as it drips. She moans as she tries to shift away, but I hold her hip with my other hand and push my fingers back inside her, working my cum deeper.
“I want it to stay in you,” I murmur against the shell of her ear.
Her breath hitches. I push two fingers in deep, curl them, feel her walls grip me, and then I pull them out slick with both of us.
Before she can react, I grab her jaw and force my fingers into her mouth.
“Mhmm, taste us, baby,” I croon. Fucking croon.
Her eyes fly wide. For a second I think she’ll bite me again, but then her tongue moves against my fingers. Tentative at first, then hungrier.
She sucks our cum off my skin, her lips wrapped around my knuckles, and the sight of it—her mouth on me, her eyes locked on mine through the mask’s eyeholes—nearly makes me hard again.
I pull my fingers free, loving the string of spit that connects her mouth to my fingers. Sadly, I break it as I take a step back. Oh well.
“A-are we done now?” she asks, hope flickering across her face.
I watch it happen in real time—the calculation, the assessment. Can she run now? Is he done? The answers to those questions are sure and no. In that order.
She reaches down with shaking hands and pulls her shorts back up, adjusting the waistband with the awkward haste of someone trying to reassemble dignity that’s long gone.
I tuck myself back into my jeans and zip up. I discreetly check that the capped syringe is still there. And it is.
Nicki’s not looking at me. Her eyes are on the floor, on her shattered phone, on anywhere but the man in the white mask who just fucked her against a library shelf.
Her curls are wild, stuck to her neck with sweat, and there’s a flush across her chest that disappears beneath the neckline of her tank top.
I give her three seconds of peace—I’m considerate like that.
Then, with the syringe in hand, I move.
Before she can react, I have the needle in her neck and press the plunger down in one smooth motion. Her body goes rigid—a full-body flinch so violent it knocks a book off the shelf. Her free hand flies up, nails clawing at my wrist, digging in deep enough to draw fresh blood.
“Wh—” The word dies in her throat.
Her eyes find mine, wide and terrified, and I watch the drug hit her system like a wave. First, the rigidity, her muscles locking, her back arching. Then the collapse. Her knees buckle, her fingers loosen on my arm, her head drops forward.
I catch her before she hits the floor. Her weight goes slack against me, complete dead weight, and I lower her gently to the floor. I hold two fingers at her throat, pressing into the warm pulse point beneath her jaw.
Her pulse’s a little fast, but that’s the adrenaline. She’s fine. I’ll make sure of it.
“Hey.” I brush a curl off her forehead. Her skin is warm, damp with sweat. “You’re okay. I promise I’ll take good care of you, baby.”
I scoop her up—one arm under her knees, one behind her back—and she weighs nothing. Less than nothing. Her head lolls against my shoulder as I adjust my grip to keep her secure against my chest.
The library’s main exit swings open with my shoulder. The night air hits us like a wall—thick, humid, heavy with the smell of cut grass and distant rain. Cicadas scream from the treeline beyond the parking lot, a constant electric whine that drowns out everything else.
There are no streetlights back here. Just the dull glow from the library’s emergency exit sign casting everything in weak red.
My motorcycle sits on the gravel service path behind the building, exactly where I left it. Carefully, I settle her on the seat in front of me, her back against my chest, her head tipped back onto my shoulder.
Her body is completely limp, arms dangling at her sides, legs splayed. I wrap one arm across her torso, pinning her to me, and with my free hand I reach up and pull off the mask.
The plastic peels away from my skin with a sound like tape.
Fuck, it feels good to have that thing off.
It was totally worth it for the fantasy, and, well, it’s how I operate on TikTok.
Where Nicki’s all about sharing everything with her community, mine only ever sees my naked upper body and the mask.
After securing the mask between us, I start the bike. The vibration runs through both our bodies, her limp form shuddering against me with each rev.
I kick the stand back and pull out onto the back road, gravel spitting under the tires. The library shrinks in my mirrors, then disappears behind the trees.