Page 15 of Lights Out

Until tonight, I honestly thought my obsession was just a phase. That Iwasall talk, and my recently awakened kink waspurely driven by the overwhelming abundance of masked men on my social media feed. I was convinced that a new trend would gain traction online, and I’d be into bondage by the end of the month instead.

Silly me.

I knew better now. This wasn’t just a passing fancy for me. It was my ride-or-die fantasy, and the fact that I might be living it out made me feel more alive than anything else had in months.

But I wasn’t stupid. My years working as a trauma nurse had taught me that this was much more likely to end in tragedy than anything else. I’d checked my entire house, top to bottom, and knew he wasn’t inside. I’d also braced chairs against both my front and back doors, as well as my bedroom. I was as safe as I could be for now, and as soon as I got this overwhelmingneedout of my system, I’d go back to being terrified and angry.

The video started over, and I pulled my phone in for a close-up view as the Faceless Man flattened a big hand over his abs and then slid it torturously slow into his unbuttoned jeans. He stroked downward first, tugging his dick from base to tip. I moaned and imagined the feel of it in my hand, so wide I could barely wrap my fingers around it, hard as steel, soft as silk, and warm enough to set my blood on fire.

I wasn’t lying in my comments; I wanted to crawl to this man. Give him the most toe-curling, leg-shaking, dick-throbbing, sheet-gripping, soul-sucking, ball-draining head of his life. I was close just thinking about it, so I let the fantasy play out in my mind as I inserted myself into the video, joining him on the bed and replacing his hand with my mouth, choking down that dick until my eyes watered and my pussy clenched. I wanted his hands in my hair, gripping so hard it hurt as he fucked my mouth.

I craned my head up to stare at the mask,his mask,that he’d left for me like some macabre memento. It was all too easy toimagine him staring out of it, watching me while I shoved the vibrator deep and held it in place.

I was done teasing myself, needed to come like I needed to breathe. The small nub at the base of the device thrummed against my clit in a way that had my spine arching off the bed. My phone fell from numb fingers, and I slammed my eyes shut as my entire being spiraled down into the sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs.

Oh, god, I was going to –

“Fuck!” I half-yelled/half-moaned as light exploded behind my closed lids, and an orgasm tore through me with as much violence as pleasure.

I lay there panting afterward, half dazed and still aroused. Shit. This wasn’t good. A man had broken into my house, and instead of calling the cops, I’d masturbated on top of whatever evidence might remain. No way could I call them now. How the hell would I explain myself?

“And why didn’t you call us immediately?” they would ask.

“Sorry, officer. I was too busy diddling myself instead.”

Ugh. And also? I’d asked for this. I wasn’t victim-blaming myself; I had literally begged for it to happen. At one point, I’d even left a comment offering him money to break in and wait for me in the dark. How would that hold up in court? His defense could probably argue that all their client had done was take me at my word. I should ask the hospital’s lawyers about it. Technically, I was one of their clients as an employee. That meant they couldn’t tell all my coworkers about the freaky shit I was into outside of work, right? Client privilege and all that?

I got up and cleaned myself off. I was soaked. Wetter than I’d been in a long time. Regular sex was fine, cathartic even, but at this point, it’d become less exciting than it used to be and more about stress relief and the need for physical intimacy withanother person – a reminder that people could give each other pleasure instead of pain.

My job was truly starting to impact my life. I’d known it was a possibility going in. School had tried to prepare me. Back when I’d first entered the career field, my on-the-job trainer and other co-workers had told me how much of a toll trauma nursing could take on someone, detailing the sky-high divorce rates at the hospital, PTSD diagnoses, and addiction issues, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been too naïve and headstrong. No one had been there when my mom needed it, and I couldn’t let what happened to her happen to anyone else if there was something I could do about it.

Now, I was starting to become numb. I’d seen so much shit that my faith in humanity was at rock bottom, and I’d lost contact with everyone but my nursing and other first responder friends because no one else understood what I faced day in and day out. Even sex had lost its thrill. Or at least, vanilla sex had. What I had just done proved that I needed something spicier to get me off. Something darker with a sharp edge of danger.

A softmeowpulled me from my thoughts. Right. I’d locked Fred in the bathroom. It made me feel like a bad parent after the night he’d had. He’d probably hidden under my bed and only came out when I got home. He didn’t like or trust most people, especially men (who could blame him?), and he’d run from or hissed at every guy I’d ever invited over. A stranger being in his space when I wasn’t even here must have scared him shitless.

I got changed into pajamas and then let Fred out. He zoomed into my room and went straight to the door. Poor guy probably had to pee.

My nerves returning, I scooped my gun off the dresser and carefully slid the chair from beneath the knob, half afraid that someone was waiting to bust inside. I flicked open the lock and then cracked the door, gun aimed. No one stood in the shorthall separating the bedrooms – thank god – and I’d left so many lights on that I didn’t see anyone anywhere else when I craned my head around the corner and looked into my open-concept living area.

Still, my paranoia had reached an all-time high, and while Fred raced toward his litter box, I cleared my house for the second time. A chime had me turning back toward my bedroom when I was done. I’d left my phone in there. Had completely forgotten to respond to the video the Faceless Man sent me.

A blush stole up my cheeks. If only he knew the reason why. He’d probably be even more convinced that I approved of what he’d done and was hopeful for a repeat, preferably while I was home.

I scooped my phone off the dresser and froze. Was I hopeful for a repeat? I shook my head. No. Absolutely not. That would be crazy, right? But there was no denying the heat blooming in my core or how my heart tripped in response to the thought.

My phone chimed again, and I glanced down at it. I saw two new social media notifications. The Faceless Man had sent me more messages.

My fingers shook as I unlocked the screen. What had he said? Did he send another video? And why was I so desperate to find out when I should be blocking and reporting his ass?

It wasn’t another video. Just two simple, heart-stopping messages.

Sleep tight.

Alyssa.

I blinked. Not Aly. Alyssa. My full name. That I hadn’t used in my profile, comments, or anywhere else on this goddamn app. I wasn’t even surprised. He’d broken into my house, so he must have learned my full name, and god only knew how much else about me before he came here. Still, having him type it out felteven more intrusive for some reason, and not in an entirely bad way, either.

What the hell did I say back to him? Thank you? Go fuck yourself, you creep? Try something like this again, and I’ll shoot you? Get your ass back here right now, you monster, you can’t leave me this turned on?

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