Then my scalp prickles again.
I freeze. I listen. I hear footsteps. I think,It’s probably nothing.Then I look over my shoulder and see a powerful figure in black. I see a skull mask. I cry out in surprise. I stop thinking.
I run in the only open direction, into the park—and he chases me.
At first, as I race along the paved path, with the streetlamps casting dull light into the rose garden, I’m very aware of my body. The plug feels huge inside me as it rubs and bumps with each jarring step. My cock is stiff, my skin hot, my heart racing. But those details fade from my awareness. As I flee into the deeper shadows, I feel dizzied and light. All the heat in my body, all the pressure, all the clashing, chaotic emotion becomes electric.
I leap a rosebush at the end of the garden. I hear it snag, but I don’t feel it. I race into the dark heart of the park. I’m fast. I haven’t run since everything started, but I know this park well with its miles of trails winding through hundreds of wooded acres. I don’t have a plan. I don’t make a decision. I simply run what I know.
I feel like I’m flying through the moonlight-slashed darkness. It’s almost euphoric, surreal, and a hazy, half-formed thought says that it’s just me here, that he’s stopped, or maybe never even existed.
Then my foot catches.
I’m briefly airborne, truly flying, before I crash to the ground. Terror jars into me, twisting up with the surrealness, reshaping it into nightmare because I hear his footsteps. Heisreal—and I haven’t outpaced him.
I scramble up. As I try to locate him in the darkness, I hear a deep, unnatural voice command me: “Run.”
And I do. There’s no euphoria this time. That feeling, I realize now in its absence, came from some part of me that believed this was my fantasy, but it’s not. And yet, innotbeing my fantasy, itis.
My terror becomes real. I’m not flying through a dreamlike darkness—I’m being hunted in the midnight isolation of a wooded trail. We are predator and prey, and if he catches me, he will destroy me. That is fear in its purest, truest form.
So when he does catch me, when his hand grabs the back of my jacket, I scream. Yanked off balance, I flail and stumble. I crash again to the ground, borne down by a huge, powerful body.
Shouting and thrashing, I claw at the dirt, but there’s no escaping the hands, the legs, the weight. Fear crashes wildly inside me, so absolute that even when he says, raspingly, “Did you really think they could keep me from you?” it doesn’t reach me, doesn’t calm me—and that’s the point.
I don’t want to be calm.
I’m face down in the dirt, clawing at a tree root, trying to pull myself away. I’m crying and choking and shaking as his hand forces its way under me and grips my hard cock through my jeans. His other hand finds my throat and squeezes.
When he speaks again, I realize with a thrill of fresh terror that he’s using a voice modulator. “Do you want to try your safe word?”
This time, it registers. Itishim. The one who’s watched me, stalked me, commanded me. It’shisplug that’s inside me, that I’m clenching on so hard that I’m dizzy with arousal as much as with terror.
But the fact that this is my fantasy, playing out like I wanted but, somehow, unlike I ever could have imagined, doesn’t cut through my my terror—because he saidtry.
I cantrymy safe word.
Would he respect it? Would he stop? Would I want him to?
“Please,” I whine instead because I don’t want to know the answers to any of those questions. “Please.”
That’s not my safe word, so all he does is chuckle in my ear. The sound through the voice modulator is cruel, almost demonic.
Releasing my dick, his fingers pop the button of my jeans. He glides the zipper down.
“You could say it,” he tells me as he settles his hips against my ass. At the press of his huge, hard cock, I shiver. I clench on the plug.
“You could try it,” he tells me as his hand closes on my stiff dick through the thin fabric of my briefs. I gasp at the firm, hot touch then cough at the dirt I’ve breathed in.
“But you won’t,” he tells me as he tugs my ass harder against him. “Because what you want”—his other hand slides up frommy throat to cover my mouth—“is for me to fuck you until you break.”
I whine against his hand, half in fear, half in shame—because my cock is kicking at his words, at the threat and the acceptance, at the promise that he’ll do it, that hecan.
He shudders against me as both his hands flex, gripping harder on my face and dick. His thumb rubs the underside of my cockhead. As my precum leaks through the fabric, he rumbles in dark pleasure.
He doesn’t let go of my mouth when he draws back to yank down my jeans. He doesn’t let go when he tugs down my briefs to bare my ass, leaving the material caught on my leaking dick. He doesn’t let me speak.
Thank god he doesn’t. I need this to be real.
