It’s her tongue I’m envisioning dragging down my throat, her body’s pressure on my back, her hand on my waist. It’s her lips kissing my chest, between my breasts, and eventually pinching my nipples. Fuck, I could think about her tongue swirling my hardened peaks all day. I squeeze one tit and pulse the wand against the other. Water drips into my mouth, my jaw sagging with every second that I’m under this spell.
Yet, as I arch into the fantasy, it’s no longer Gemma’s hands that I see touching me. It’s black-gloved hands—the same that my stalker left behind at the studio the other night. I grunt and curse myself for letting her invade this perfectly good daydream.
Still, for whatever fucked up reason, I can’t push her out.
Suddenly, it’s my stalker’s mouth kissing down my stomach, her mask scratching my skin. It’s her ribbed glove stroking my clit—the vibration from the wand already weakening my knees. It’s her on her knees in front of me, her hiking one of my legs over her shoulder, and telling me to close my eyes so I can’t see her when she lifts the bottom of her mask up and drags her tongue against my clit.
I swallow a desperate cry and rock against the wand just as I would her mouth, my fingers gripping the roots of my hair. My first orgasm rises as I move my hand to brace against the glass. I come, breath caught as I try to keep myself from trembling, yet all I can hear is the sound of her voice changer in my head.
“That’s my good little rockstar. Come for me again,”while moving her fingers inside me.
Get out of my head.
Think of Gemma.
I sit on the shower bench, lay the vibrator on my clit, and slide my fingers between my thighs. I’m drenched, slick with the hot water and my release. I slip two fingers inside myself and slowly work my body through the wave of my first orgasm and into a second.
“Do you hear that? Your pussy makes such sweet music for me.”
I can’t get rid of her.
Fuck it.
I change the settings on my vibrator to a pulse and curl my fingers inside my pussy, allowing my stalker’s masked image to enrapture my mind as it wants to. I’m liquid on this seat, muscles somehow tense and loose all at once. This orgasm scratches the pathetic little itch in the back of my mind that can’t stop thinking about getting absolutely railed. I’m holding on, riding out the perfect dose of dopamine that doesn’t want this to stop. Shit, right there.Right there. Right—
I come hard enough that white lights dance behind my closed eyes. Warm liquid coats my fingers and thighs. I can’t stop it, and my body jerks and trembles as I envision my stalker slowing her motions, savoring this release, and licking my cunt, my thighs, and my abdomen. Her tongue swipes over her lips when she eventually lifts her head, and I’m so dazed that when she lifts her mask off, I hardly comprehend Gemma’s face appearing from beneath it.
“I love the way you taste, rockstar,” she whispers before pressing her lips to mine—
Wait.
I jerk off the bench and trip. The vibrator hits the glass. My knees hit the floor, and I finally find my bearings when I double over on my palms. My heartbeat pounds my eardrums.
Gemma.
Gemma as…
God, what is wrong with me?
We’ve already had this conversation.
Fantasizing that Gemma is my stalker?Again?Shit.Get a fucking grip, Bonnie.I already know it isn’t her from the text messages the other day.
I can’t tell if that reality is the reason disappointment lingers in the back of my mind as I wash my hair.
All that work for an orgasm—fortwoorgasms—just for reality to bring that high down to a disparaging low.
Fuck my life.
And fuck my stalker for getting in my head like this.
The vision is still haunting me when I get out of the shower and wander over to my dresser again. My phone lights up, and the possibility that it’s Gemma makes me quickly grab it.
Please be Gemma.
Get me out of my fucking head—
Wish not granted.
