34. Madelyn
MADELYN
My stalker is carrying me over his shoulder to the first floor, leading me through the same path of decorative lights I saw before, and I know what the endgame is.
He’s going to fuck me.
He’s going to take my virginity, and I’m biting my bottom lip and squeezing my legs together, because, God help me—I’m so sick for wanting this. For the heat pooling between my thighs with thoughts of it.
As much as I hate this guy, no one’s ever been this way with me. So focused, so attentive, showering me with gifts, trying to give me what I want, what I need, in such a peculiar way. Fixated on me and nothing else.
There was one once—who made my judgment foggy, gave me mixed signals when we were younger, made me wonder about what ifs—and then disappeared for seven years.
Even if it was me, the one who pushed him away—he never fought back, he just left. Every single man I met in my life, starting with my father, left me, but not him.
Devon won’t leave, even if I beg him to.
And I’m well aware I’m being the biggest whore in history by letting Devon do this to me while Kayden is God knows where. He promised me he’s alive, and I’m choosing to believe that.
Maybe in fact, I’m helping him, because if he’s somewhere safe for now, if he didn’t leave me, I’m delaying this psycho from going to him and harming him. Maybe I’m doing what’s best for him, too.
It’s time for me to stop denying myself this one thing. Devon will never let me go—he said it. So I stop fighting. I let him take me and enjoy the ride.
My gaze fixes on the ground now, where, unlike before, my eyes catch on a mysterious dark stain.
Is that…blood?
A chill transpires through my naked spine.
Why didn’t I see it before?
That’s not Kayden’s. No. I won’t let that ruin this moment.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
It may be Joseph’s. That makes more sense. He took a big blow. It may not be blood at all.
A lump materializes at the back of my throat.
Devon stops right by the reception.
The entrance is decorated with small candle lights I didn’t see before and a blanket of petals imitates a red carpet leading us in. He strolls in, where the path made of dark-colored flowers and candles illuminates the way, to the last door.
At the back of the reception, there’s a room resembling the storage room. It’s the copy machine room. A small, narrow space, where there’s nothing but a copy machine and piles of paper for refills.
Candles are placed in every corner of the room, petals spread around them too. The main path mimicking the red carpet stops right at the copy machine.
He opens the lid with one hand and rests me on top of the clear, cold surface. Except it isn’t hard, nor cold. When my bottom lands on the machine, it’s soft and smooth. He placed a round cushion on it. I stare down at it—a heart-shaped one, dark red.
This is…
“What is this?”
Devon clears his throat. “It’s not the most romantic, but I did my best to make it memorable. It’s our first time after all, my wife.” He pauses. “I imagine us years from now, telling our friends the story of how we met, and—”
“And we’re going to tell them you fucked me against a copy machine?”
“No, baby. You’re going to tell your friends that. And don’t pretend you girls don’t talk naughty.”
I can’t help myself; the nerves, combined with the ridiculousness of the situation, scrapes a laugh out of my throat.
“Whatever.”
Then, he takes out his phone and presses a few things on it.
I squint my eyes at the sudden glow, taking a few moments to adjust. The room’s brighter than before—the same decorations that were scattered around the first floor are hung from the walls, giving it a celebratory vibe.
I stare at Devon, in this newfound light, and he’s clearer. No traces of shadow on him.
He’s broad-shouldered and tall, wearing all black. The hoodie covers his hair, and the mask fits his face structure perfectly, concealing his identity well.
I examine him, try my best to find a clue about who I’m dealing with. I come up empty.
“I like the darkness better,” I say, pressing my hands to my sides.
The light intimidates me, brings out the doubt within me. Reminds me I’m out of my mind for doing this.
Letting a stranger take something I’ve been keeping for so long.
“That’s too bad. I’m not dimming the lights.” He pushes the phone into the pocket of his hoodie. “I need to see all of you while I do this. Every single part. So I can memorize it and cherish it.”
“Oh, yes. This is going up your wall of fame, isn’t it, hubby?”
“I like to see you warm up to the idea of it, my wife.” Devon laughs, another robotic cackle. He leans forward, robbing me of the temporary distance between us, arms locking my body in between them. “That’s it. Don’t resist it. Let me give you what you deserve.”
My heartbeat picks up. He can be so black and white. Sweet at times, reckless at others, even funny.
This moment leans to cheesy, and there’s a warmth in my chest I don’t want to recognize.
My very own masked man is about to take me in the copy machine room.
I am one-hundred-percent certain why we’re here.
It’s in my diary, and he knows it, too.
Being fucked in the copy machine room.
Of all my fantasies, he picked this one for my first time.
Of course, my own idea differed—and I might have added a ‘while being sent to make copies, with others working in the room next door.’ And adding an alternative of ‘after being accidentally locked in the room with a hot stranger…or a not-so-stranger, but still hot.’
Devon makes sure to play with my fantasies and make them his own. Twisting them.
My body turns hypersensitive with thoughts of it. I’m curious, willing to let this moment reach its natural course.
Maybe, if I catch Devon off guard, if he’s so deep in it, I can find out the real him. Who’s the man behind the mask.
I can unmask him.
He places his palms on my legs, moving to my thighs as he spreads them open.
“Such a pretty pussy,” he says. “And it’s all mine.”
He takes out his phone and clicks on the screen again. The swirling sound of the machine coming to life underneath me startles me. Did he turn the electricity back on?
His other hand cements my open legs to the machine, and he slides the cushion out from under me.
“Just for a moment,” he whispers, pressing something on the machine.
A moment later, a printed sheet slips out from the side of it. He picks up the paper and spins it toward me.
He made a copy of my pussy.
“It’s a piece of art, really. It begged to be captured,” he says, folding the piece of paper in four and pushing it into one of his pockets. “It’s going into my personal collection.”
My cheeks blush with warmth as he pushes the cushion back under me.
He clicks away at his phone screen again, a soft melody revealing itself. A familiar tune about a guy who wants to stay awake to hear his lover’s breathing. He rests the phone behind me on the machine, letting the melody transform the room.
“You’re really going all the way with this,” I say.
I can’t believe he’s even playing music.
“I’m trying. I want you to remember this.” He keeps my legs apart and puts himself between them, rubbing circles on my inner thighs with his thumbs. “Are you ready, baby?”
I gnaw at my bottom lip and stare at this neon mask, a slow nod.
I let myself be overpowered by my emotions. Feeling every single stroke as he moves one of his hands to my center, pressing his thumb against my clit, and circling it.
It doesn’t take long for me to get in the mood, my body relaxing against his touch.
I hold onto the sides of the machine as he slams a finger into my pussy, pumping it in and out while still massaging my clit. Mumbles form at my mouth, making me incoherent, which I soon replace with moans, unable to keep quiet.
“Yes. More.”
He adds another finger, stretching me roughly.
I close my eyes and do something atrocious. I imagine the one who’s touching me is the one I can’t have. The one who plagues every single page of my diary—the one who ruined me and started the diary.
Imagining him makes me hypersensitive, heightening every single touch of Devon’s fingers. I arch myself toward him. He keeps fucking me with his fingers. I thrust back and forth, asking for more, deeper, faster.
“Fuck, you’re so good.” My orgasm curls at my belly. I’m almost there. I can feel it. “Please, don’t stop.”
He does, he listens to me for once, a fucking good boy, and he lets his fingers ravish my pussy. Giving me exactly what I need. What I’ve been needing all along.
Hands other than mine on my body, cherishing my most sensitive parts.
I thrust deeper into his fingers.
“D-don’t,” he says. It’s stitched, stuttering, and weirdly familiar.
The voice doesn’t sound robotic or artificial anymore. Or did I imagine it?
He pulls his fingers out of my pussy, and I’m left needy, as he visibly taps at the microphone strapped to his mask.
Then, he lifts me off the machine and spins me around, making me prop against the glass instead, slightly bending, elbows against the cushion.
“Don’t you dare turn around. Or I’ll stop,” he whispers, and I’m questioning my hearing.
That—didn’t sound like a voice modifier either.
One of his hands goes to the back of my neck, holding me firmly.
Soft lips lay a trail of kisses along my spine as his wet tongue peeks out and joins in. Delicate strokes that stop at the small of my back.
It’s evident that he’s not wearing the mask now, and I am so damn tempted to turn around and look.
His hand leaves my neck, and he spreads both my ass cheeks open and falls to his knees.
A cold breeze is exposing the back of my pussy, until it isn’t anymore. He’s blowing hot air into me.
I squirm at the sensation, my core throbbing, needy. I look over my shoulder and down at him. Try to catch him, but the mask is lifted over his forehead, and it covers my peripheral vision. I can’t see his face.
The first touch is the deadliest. His tongue parts the lips of my pussy apart from behind.
Warmth floods through my veins, and my whole body vibrates with pleasure.