Chapter Five #3
His palm cracks across my ass, and my yelp chokes against the tape. What the fuck? Is he psychic?
smack. smack. smack.
Rainfire strikes my thighs, my ass, even a warning pat to my pussy that leaves me shuddering. His other hand fists in my hair, keeping me arched just so.
My chest swells. My skin burns. The twinge-flash-crack of each hit tumbles through me like a storm—nerves alight, every last particle primed, riding that razor-edge between agony and ecstasy.
And the worst part?
I’m all in.
“That’s it,” he purrs, dragging his fingers through the mess between my thighs. “Let me see how much you liked his hands on you.”
smack.
“F-mmph.”
“You were so eager for him, weren’t you?” Another slap, this time higher—stinging the very spot Custom-Mask touched. “Letting him paw at you like some cheap thrill.”
His fingers dig into my hips. “You don’t even know his name.”
I don’t know yours either, jerk, I mumble, but what escapes is barely more than garbled protest: “Mmph dohn noh yuhs eeduh juhk.”
One pull, and I’m arched back against him, his voice a lethal whisper: “You wanna come?”
I nod so hard my sweat-damp hair whips my own face.
smack.
“Beg. And make it sound like you mean it this time.”
“Puh … puh-ees-mmph …”
“What’s that?”
“Puhh … muh mm guh!”
Please make me come, damn it. And—God knows what convinces him.
Dollar-Store answers—captain, crew, and ship, ready to burn this whole enterprise to hell.
His fingers curve inside me, stretching—fucking. Hard, harder, the heel of his palm grinding in just right as his hips punch up. His other hand finds my nipple, rolls it to a point. Tugging. Pinching. Teasing.
He works me from both ends until my skull hums with empty static.
Gasp after gurgle after shuddered breath. Just when the stars recede, he slaps my pussy.
Once.
Twice.
I gasp into the duct tape. Tears sting my eyes, but fuck if Dollar-Store doesn’t know exactly what I need.
He curls those fingers like a dark magician, probing deeper—dragging my release out by the throat. “Like this?”
“Thisss.” Barely a whisper behind the gag.
Holy hell—I’m flying, breaking, melting—ready to shatter.
A heartbeat. Three seconds of savage bliss. A thousand years packed into one ragged exhale.
I arch back.
He bows forward.
Our bodies slot together like shared breath—like we’ve done this before in some other life where knives and masks didn’t matter.
I roll my hips, wordlessly begging him to push in, fill, wreck—
The bastard retreats.
Leaving me breathing hard, forehead against the bark, the echo of his fingers inside me.
A flash of silver. Cold steel kisses my inner wrist.
I tense. One twitch, and he could nick an artery without even trying.
The tape splits. Clean. Precise. No hesitation.
My arms drop, shoulders aching, tingles fizzling from wrists to fingertips.
One brutal spin—
And I’m facing him.
Dollar-Store Ghostface. Same bargain-bin mask.
Except now? I see it.
Moonlight spills through that gaping maw, feeding the void beneath. The cheap plastic warps the shadows just right—or wrong—turning the frozen scream into something that watches. Craves.
Even the frayed edges look less like bad stitching and more like torn-up skin.
My pulse jackhammers in my throat as I shove at his chest—the guy who could slice me up from crotch to belly.
He doesn’t so much as sway. His bare hand—calloused, furnace-hot—locks around my neck. The knife thuds to the ground as his other hand finds the edge of the tape at the corner of my mouth. “Make a sound, and they’ll hear you. One.”
A cruelly slow drag—adhesive pulling at fragile skin—until the sting zips up my spine in electric waves, pooling low. My body jerks, instinct fighting restraint, but I swallow the scream.
His thumb pauses where tape meets flesh.
“Two.”
Another deliberate tug—the sticky strip surrendering in uneven bursts.
Goddammit. Guess this is one way to exfoliate.
“Doing so well.” His other palm glides down my back—unbearably patient—mapping the tension between my shoulder blades.
Millimeter by millimeter, he peels the tape loose. Fire licks up my jaw. But the real burn’s lower. Deeper.
“Three …” He tears the rest off in one brutal rip.
Fucking. Hell. Sonofabitch.
My lips sting—wet with blood, sweat, or spit, I can’t tell.
“You …” My mouth’s raw. Everything burns. My brain screams, ‘Get the hell away from him.’ But the rest of me? Coiled tight and trembling beneath every furious inhale.
“You asshole,” I manage. “What if I had to safeword?”
His free hand slides between my thighs—warm, heavy pressure.
“Nah, you’re not even close to tapping out, little fox. Don’t pretend you want gentle. You want to see what I’ll do when I stop holding back.”
I want to bite him. Scream. Wrap my legs around his waist and dare him to ruin me.
Instead, I toss out one last shred of defiance. “You’re still a dick.”
That mask tilts.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But I’m your dick.”
That’s when I take in the rest of him—chest streaked with body paint, abs gleaming. His cock peeks out of his jeans—angry, throbbing, pearling at the tip.
I look him dead in the eyeholes. “Prove it.”