“How? I don’t intend to leave any evidence.” I try to still my breathing, closing my eyes so I can pretend for a split second that his mask isn’t turning my insides into a category five hurricane of lust. “Fucking look at me when I’m talking to you, Cindy Lou. Don’t be rude.”
“You’re a freak!” I yell, pressing my fingers to my cinched forehead, trying to puzzle out if this is just some hallucination or bad dream.
That chuckle comes again as he shoves his hand down between my legs, making instant contact with my slit as my chest heaves. “And you’re a whore. A wet, Grinch-loving little Whoville whore.”
I can’t help it when my head knocks against the headboard, my back arching, pushing my belly outward so that the evidence of my ‘situation’, which I prayed he wouldn’t notice, becomes clear.
“Well,well, Cindy Lou, what a bump I have found! That tummy looks cozy and wonderfully round.” His sing-song rhyme is saccharine sweet and level ten bananas. He settles the knife on the nightstand with a clunk, just out of reach, his fingers moving up and down my folds as his other hand comes to rest on the mound of my belly. “Could it really be true, what I’m starting to see?” He growls, the mask moving eerily with each word. “A baby-to-be? Could it be? Could it be?”
His Dr. Seuss mimicry is making me understand just how unhinged this intruder must be.
“No.” I shake my head, pressing my hands together in front of me like I’m praying.
Please, God, just let me get out of here alive. My condition is something I’ve barely even let myself acknowledge, but this masked man ready to defile me has sniffed out my secret like a dog on a scent.
“Yes.” He hisses. “Ababy. You’re fucking knocked up. That makes this all the sweeter and just proves what a dirty little whore you really are. And those tits… Those veins.”
His hand leaves my belly to grab at me, to squeeze the weight of my breast before pinching down on the nipple so that a spray of milk arches into the air.
“Well, fuck, yes. Could this get any fucking better? You’ve got milk for Santy, too. A wet cunt, and a ripe, full belly. Proof, if any more were needed, that your name is on the naughty list. And now milk! Milk, for Christ’s sake.”
He reaches up to the mask, cradling his chin for a moment. The rubber at his cheeks stretches as he grins.
“I need to taste.” His face lowers as I whimper, and he feeds my squirting peak to his lips, sucking it into the warm heat of his mouth as he latches on with a long, slow suck, and a groan that sounds like it comes from the depths of hell itself.
“Please,” I stutter as the glint of the blade on the nightstand catches the light from the window.
Call it a mother bear’s instinct, but now that the threat is not just about me, the shame of my wetness and curling claws of desire for this sick fantasy let go, and I dart my hand to the side while he’s distracted suckling on my tit.
The knife scrapes, spinning on the smooth wooden surface, and I curse as my fingers fumble for the handle. Then I finally pull the hilt into my palm as I clench my thighs together and push. His mouth pops off my breast as I launch myself off the other side of the bed, away from him, feet landing with a thud and slipping on the wood floor.
I wield the blade unsteadily in a trembling hand over the messed sheets as he rises back to full height.
“Now,” I start, battling the fear balling in my belly. My voice is tight, my mouth drier than a desert as I push bravery into my words. “Just let me get to the door and out of here, and I won’t hurt you.”
He lowers his chin, the moonlight catching those dark eyes behind the mask. I hate the seeping arousal that continues to coat my thighs as I step back, flicking the knife in a gesture for him to move away.
What’s left of my shirt falls down my upper arms, catching at my elbows, the cool air of the room reminding me that I’m basically naked.
Where am I going to go? Out into the blizzard?
If I could get down the stairs, grab the keys to mine or Mom’s car, get to the garage, wait for it to open…he’d be on me by the time the door opened.
My plan is quickly unraveling as the Grinch presses his palms in front of him, rubbing them together. “Oh, Cindy Lou, you want to kill Santy? You’re only making me want to fuck you harder. And keep you. Forever.”
“Please... You don’t have to…” I know the likelihood of inflicting a fatal wound without injuring myself or the baby is minuscule. My shoulders slump.
I’m fucked. But not in the way he means.
For me, for my baby, I drop the knife to the floor with a clatter. All the memories of what happened to put me in this precarious, lonely prison of carrying a child without being able to tell anyone pound inside my head like ten-thousand lumps of coal.
I’ve ignored the reality of my situation for too long, pretending that if I didn’t acknowledge it, it would go away. Now, I need to do whatever I can to protect the life growing inside me.
“If I do everything you want.” I force my spine straight, but inside, I’m breaking. “You keep your mask on, then you leave. I won’t fight you. I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Do whatever you tell me. You just need to promise you won’t hurt me or my baby.”
He stands there in the dim light for a breath, rubbing his hands slowly back and forth, his chest filling, then he runs his tongue along the top of his teeth.
His hand darts out, fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing my windpipe as sparks flicker behind my lids at the pressure.
