Page 67 of Marked By Feral Monsters
The hand teased my pebbled skin, inching beneath my sleep shorts, and I squeezed my eyes shut. "This isn't real," I whispered into the dark, silent room. "It's not real."
I held in a gasp when the ghostly hand parted my lower lips, spreading the wetness I couldn't hold in if I tried. I slapped a hand over my mouth when a moan escaped me.
The contrasting temperatures, the icy fingers sinking into my heated core, eliciting pleasure laced with fear, had me whimpering and rolling my hips. They plunged deeper, two fingers, then a third, faster, so fast I could hear the noisy squelching of my pussy as they worked me over.
This wasn't a dream.
It felt too good. Too real. And it wasn't an abstract idea of a ghost: creaky floors and flickering lights, strange sounds at all hours. It was tangible. Visceral. It wastouching me.And I was just… letting it.
The madness of the situation finally dawned on me. I gasped and sat up, ready to jump out of bed when the force of a second palm, flat on my chest, shoved me back down onto the mattress.
Get up, Dina! Scream! Run!
I thought those things, but I didn't move. I just kept rolling my hips. It was the most exciting moment of my life.
A slideshow of all the things that brought me here, to this house, to that moment, flickered inconveniently through my mind.
Loneliness. My old one-bedroom apartment, my only company, a sad spider plant that I over-watered with too much attention. Working from home meant I had to go out of my way to meet people, but I hated small talk. Even generic contentment felt perpetually out of reach. Pent up with boredom, the dread of suffering through another day of the grind—wake up, work, cook food, go to sleep, do it all over again the next day—it was suffocating. Like being buried alive.
Soul-crushing and predictable.Boring.
I'm a data analyst. My job consists of moving numbers from one macro to another. Repeatedly. Then auditing them. Then I do it all over again.
But now I have secrets. Mysteries. A haunted house.
Wake up, work, cook food, go to sleep. I could do all those things.
But maybe I could also allow cold, ghostly fingers to pry me open, even if that meant I was going insane.
"Who's there?" I cried. "What is this?"
Silence.
Maybe it was just a desperate attempt to escape the unbearable weight of waking up every day. But it didn't really matter to me at that moment, because while I was scared, I was also ready to take it.
The fingers kept plunging, in and out. Faster now. I was moaning, and I bent my knees so I could take it even deeper. And then the other hand, which held me down on the mattress, pulled down my tank top and squeezed my breast. I looked down and could see the movement, the fabric bunching, my nipple exposed to the night air, hard and pointed.
This was real. But itwasn'treal; how could it be?
Did I care?was my next thought, as my knees shook and I rocked my hips.
No, I didn't care. The hands worked me over, fast yet thoughtful and seductive, until a cold thumb pressed on my clit and thrummed. I screamed into the silence, legs shaking against the cold hands. I took it all.
When I came down, the hands didn't retreat. They touched me how I imagined being embraced by a lover. Cradling, nuzzling. A hand wrapped around the back of my neck, holding my nape, while a burst of tingling cool, like champagne fizz, danced across my lips.
I opened up and kissed him back.
And that was the night I met Eric.
Eric
"Damn you, piece of shit motherfucker!" Dina yells into the dining room, a place she's converted into a temporary home office. She lifts her laptop, poised to slam it down. I watch with amusement as anger colors her expression. Her teeth snarl, strands of her wild hair falling from her ponytail.
She lets out a slow, exaggerated exhale, then gently sets the laptop down. "This is it. I'm destined to spend my days analyzing and calculating incorrect data because the internet is so fucking slow and took so long to catch up that I'm reading the wrong goddamn numbers over and over again!" Her voice rises at the end of her tirade, but she takes another deep breath and sits back down in her chair.
I wish I could comfort her, or help in some way. Leaning over, I read the details on her computer screen, but they mean nothing to me. Greta didn't own a computer, so I'd never seen one before Dina moved in.
A lot changed when Dina moved in.
