He spread my cheeks and spat on my asshole, once, twice, lubing that tight hole up so there was no confusion what the hell was going to happen. He worked it in with his thumb while I sobbed and trembled. Ever so smoothly, he pressed the head of his cock, rock-hard again and still slick with my spit, orgasm, and his cum, against that tight ring of muscle.
I braced myself and held my breath the second he pushed in.
He wasn’t rough, was even gentle as he worked that thick cock in and out, continuously spitting on his dick and my hole, making sure it was nice and lubed up for this ass fucking.
The burn was immense, white-hot, and impossible to ignore. He didn’t stop, just continued to push forward inch by thick inch until his hips met my ass and I was impaled, stuffed so full I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. My hands scrabbled at the porcelain, fingers aching, as he let me feel every throbbing vein.
Then he started moving.
Slow. Torturously slow, dragging out until only the head remained, then sliding back in to the root. Each thrust forced a broken cry of pain and pleasure from my throat. And all the while, he kept spitting more saliva, making sure I was soaked and that my asshole was drenched for this.
My clit throbbed untouched, swollen and desperate. He reached around as if he read my mind, and pinched it hard between two fingers, rolling it viciously until I was pushing back on him, fucking myself on his cock. I begged in hoarse whispers for more, and he gave me everything.
The pace turned brutal. His hips slammed against my ass, the wet slap of skin echoing off tile. One hand fisted my hair, yanking my head back so I had to watch us in the clear patch of mirror—him in the mask, me ruined and crying and taking it like the perfect little whore he’d made me.
I came with his cock buried in my ass and his fingers at my clit. The orgasm was so intense my vision tunneled, pussy clenching on nothing. He growled, shoved deep, and flooded my ass with heated spunk, pulse after pulse until I felt it deep in my guts as he came a second time.
I collapsed against the sink, and he pulled out and lifted me into his arms, carrying me to the bed. We were a tangle of limbs on the mattress, his body pressed right up against me. Still damp from the shower, water cooled on our skin as my whole body trembled with aftershocks.
I didn’t know this man. He’d taken me roughly in an alley, taken something I hadn’t freely given him… at first. Yet, here we were embracing on my bed after he’d broken into my home and fucked me.
I must have fallen asleep because, when I woke, I was alone in my bed. A note scrawled in black marker on a torn piece of paper was on the nightstand.
Don’t wear panties tomorrow. Nothing else under your skirt. Or I’ll punish you twice as hard.
I stayed on the bed for a long time, fingers tracing the bruises already blooming on my hips and smiling like I’d lost my mind while his cum leaked from both holes.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
3
Ididn’t even know his name, or at least, that’s what I told myself in the beginning. I didn’t know what he looked like beneath that mask.
But that was the thrill, the excitement of what we were doing.
It was dangerous and reckless. And it felt so fucking good.
It was one in the morning, and the diner’s neon buzzing light looked sickly pink through the rain-streaked windows. The graveyard shift was dead except for two truckers nursing burnt coffee and a man—probably drunk—asleep in the corner booth.
I’d obeyed the note he’d left. No panties under my little black uniform dress. The bell above the door dinged, and I looked up. My heart raced, blood rushing hot as I watched the big man walk in and slide into the booth in the back corner like he owned the place.
He was handsome in a rough, rugged way. He wore a dark hoodie pulled low, stubble shadowing a powerful jaw. His focus was trained on me, expression flat and hungry. There was something about him that felt off… but so achingly familiar.
He ordered coffee. Black. Didn’t touch the cup once. Just watched me, unblinking, while I refilled salt shakers with shaking hands.
I made my rounds for refills, and when I reached his booth, he leaned forward just enough for his voice—low, muffled, and meant only for me—to reach my ears.
“I hope you listened to me, babygirl.”
I froze, head snapping toward him. My clit throbbed, swollen and desperate. Because now that I really stared into those eyes… I knew him. I had to stay in character for the fantasy.
My father, Oliver, stared back at me.
He was maskless tonight, but the game was the same. Stranger danger. Forbidden predator. Daddy and daughter’s dirty little secret.
“Finish your tables,” he murmured, leaning back and finally lifting the mug to his lips for a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine.
When I finally brought his check, he caught my wrist in one, huge hand and yanked me down until my breasts nearly spilled from the low neckline of my dress, my mouth an inch from his.
