Chapter Three – Wren #3
I try to keep my eyes open, to keep staring up at him while he touches me, but eventually I can’t. It becomes too much. The way he touches me, how my body responds. It’s like this man has a secret key straight to my soul, and tonight he decided to finally use it.
And he’s using it well.
Oh, God, is he using it well.
My body is at a fever pitch almost immediately.
My lungs can barely inhale before they feel the need to sharply exhale.
Every single part of me feels hotter than ever, and I want to claw this white dress off me, tell the man to peel the tights all the way down my legs, and order him to take me somewhere private, where we could really get into things.
Who am I? Who did this guy turn me into when I wasn’t looking? That’s not a thought the old Wren would ever have, but it’s the only thought that comes to my mind as the masked man plays my body like a fiddle.
After a minute or so, my breath catches. A pressure builds in my lower stomach. Every single movement of his fingers around my clit threatens to send me into space. I can’t push it off, can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. It demands recognition, the pleasure boiling inside of me, hotter than ever.
The moment the orgasm rips out of me, I feel weightless, but at the same time, my knees wobble.
If it wasn’t for the hand between my legs, I might’ve fallen to the floor as the searing hot pleasure surges through me.
As it is, it takes everything in me to not cry out and make what we’re doing completely obvious to anyone nearby.
I have to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from making any sounds.
The orgasm is hot, the kind that takes hold of you by the throat and refuses to let go—mostly because the masked man doesn’t stop there.
No, he keeps going, keeps touching me, keeps stimulating my clit like he has nowhere else to be, and I am absolute putty in his grip.
At this point, he can do whatever he wants to me, and I will have no self-restraint to tell him to stop.
Stop. We shouldn’t do this. I don’t even know who you are.
All those things and more I could say, and yet I already know if I try to, they’ll all fall flat and sound like lies. I don’t want to stop. Even if the strange familiarity I feel turns out to be wrong and I don’t know who this guy is, I can’t say I care one bit. It feels too darn good.
There is nothing on my mind, nothing but the smoldering pleasure coursing through every vein in my body as the masked man continues to touch me.
My clit swells under the attention, and if anything, it’s primed and ready for another orgasm, one the man must be chasing, because I lose myself to another release not too long after the first.
It’s enough to make my head spin and make all of my clothes feel so tight. This stupid dress. The bra underneath. Every inch of my skin feels hot, even as the pressure in my lower half slowly subsides.
After the second orgasm, the man’s fingers abandon my clit, in search of something a tad lower on my body, something not too far away. One of his fingers traces the rim of my entrance, and I manage to crack my eyes open.
He’s still steadily staring down at me, as if I’m the only thing that matters at this party, the one and only person who has his attention here.
Though his mask is as blank as a mask could be, I can easily imagine the man behind it smirking like crazy, the approval on his face as he takes whatever he wants from me.
When he pushes a single finger inside of me, I whimper.
I can’t help it. I might not be a virgin anymore, but I’m still not quite used to the feeling of anything inside of me.
That said, it doesn’t feel bad or anything.
No, if anything, it feels good, like my body secretly wants to be full of something, anything, and it will gladly take a finger or two if it can’t get a dick.
That finger moves in and out of me slowly at first, like he wants me to get used to it before he pushes in a second.
The moment he adds a second finger in me, I let out a low whine, unable to keep it in.
I might’ve been able to stifle the orgasms from before, but this…
this is an entirely new sensation for me.
It’s a good one, too. Better than good. I understand how people might chase this feeling, how no one really cares about consequences or what comes the next day. It feels so darn good I want to lose my mind.
I don’t know how long we stand there, together, with his fingers inside of me, but I do know that eventually those fingers pick up the pace, plunging in and out of me with quick, rapid-fire speed that makes me wonder if the masked man is imagining pinning me down on a bed and using his dick in the same way.
If he spoke and told me to go with him somewhere more private?
I don’t think I’d have the heart to tell him no.
I think I’d let him take me by the hand and lead me wherever he wanted—not a smart thing to do when you’re a girl.
Going anywhere with a stranger could lead to some bad, bad things, but at this point, I think I’d be willing to risk it.
Whoever he is, he has me, somehow. He has me utterly and completely.
While his fingers work my inner core, he eventually puts his thumb on my clit and applies pressure there.
The combined sensation immediately sends me tumbling over the edge again, and this time I can’t help but moan.
My hands find his chest, and I cling to him like he’s my lifeline. I swear I see stars.
I want to go on forever like this, with the masked man, but he clearly has other ideas.
It’s only when the orgasm fades, only when I’m steady on my feet again, that the masked man withdraws his fingers from my pulsating core.
My mouth opens, a question forming—namely, why he’s stopping—but no words escape me.
He is measured in pulling his hand out of my tights and stepping away.
My dress falls to cover me once more, and though there’s only a foot or so of space between us, it’s like nothing happened.
The only evidence is the slight buzz in my body, the slickness that coats his fingers, and the bulge in his black pants.
The man slowly tilts his head at me, but I don’t know what he’s trying to say. Again, I attempt to speak, to gather my words and ask him something, anything. Where he’s going, who he is, why me; but yet again, no words come out. I’m mute, rendered speechless by this guy, whoever he is.
My secret masked man.
He doesn’t say a word, either, nor does he remove his mask. The only thing he does is turn from me and walk away, as if he didn’t just rock my world in plain view.
Once he rounds the hall, I snap out of it and try to go after him, but the man is fast, much faster than I gave him credit for. By the time I locate him, he’s already slipping out of the house through the front door, thereby leaving the party, just like that.
My feet stop a good twenty or so feet away from the door, and my mouth hangs open a bit as I struggle to catch my breath.
My body still feels like it’s riding cloud nine, parts of me all tingly, and maybe that’s why I just can’t believe he left.
He came to the party, came straight to me, did things to me I normally wouldn’t let a stranger do to me, and then left.
It’s almost like he came here with a mission, and that mission was me. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, I’m nobody. I’m just Wren. That’s what Logan said that night, wasn’t it? I’m a pathetic girl who needs to stay in her lane.
But the way the masked man looked at me, how he seemingly came straight for me and ignored literally everyone else at the party?
You don’t do that to nobody. You don’t go purposefully seeking nobody out.
Though I didn’t get to see his face or know his identity, that masked man made me feel like I’m somebody, like I’m important.
Call me silly and naive, but isn’t that how it should be? Shouldn’t the person you’re with make you feel good inside? They shouldn’t insult you, yell at you, ridicule you and then leave you. They definitely shouldn’t pretend you don’t exist after you get hit by a car.
I stand there, staring at the front door to the house, wishing the masked man would come back. I don’t know who he is, but suddenly I’m dying to find out just who my mysterious stranger is behind the mask.
And, beyond that, I want to know if my intuition is right and he came here for me.