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“I’m closer than you think.”

I undo my belt. The sound is loud in the quiet. My cock starts to stir. I hate that it is this easy. I want it anyway.

“Then come in here and put your mouth on me.”

A soft tap on the line.

“Not yet,” the close voice says. “Wait.”

The doorway fills.

Grey coverall. Hood up. White mask. Black gloves. That is all I can see.

I should run.

I don’t.

“You didn’t have to dress up,” I say. “Halloween isn’t until tomorrow.”

The figure does not answer. It steps in and shuts the door.

“Take it off,” I say. “I want your mouth, not a joke.”

Nothing.

I step closer because I am hard and this is the kind of game she would play. I reach for the jaw of the mask.

A gloved hand catches my wrist.

“Slow,” the close voice says, and now it is coming out of the mask. Same voice. “The rest of it. Off.”

Shirt. Button by button, then shoes. Trousers. Socks. I hook my thumbs in my briefs and look at the white face for the joke. I push them down. My cock stands up against my stomach, wet at the head. The air is cold on my skin.

“On your knees.”

I go down. The tile is cold on my knees. The figure steps in. A gloved hand slides into my hair and tips my head back. It looks like they are about to put their mouth on me.

Something hot drags across my stomach while I am still looking up. It feels like a hand at first. Then it burns. I make a sound that should be pain and comes out like sex instead. I grab myself with both hands. Blood runs through my fingers.

“Ivy. Stop.”

The figure does not step back. Coverall against my bare skin. The mask presses to my mouth and stays there, hard plastic where a mouth should be. The other glove wraps my cock. Tight. Then it strokes me. Slow at first. Base to the wet head. Once. Twice.

“This is too far,” I say. My voice is already thin. “Ivy. Fuck. Take it off.”

A gloved hand stays wrapped around my cock. The other goes around my hip and shoves a finger up my ass, wet with my own blood. I jerk. The sound I make goes into the mask. The finger pulls out and pushes back in. Deeper. Then a second finger stretches me open and starts to fuck me on them, in and out, filthy and steady, while the first hand works my cock like the cut on my stomach is not even there.

I am still hard. Harder even. Blood on my hands. Blood on the glove. I fuck forward into the fist and back onto those fingers because I cannot stop it. The wet sound of it fills the copy room. My thighs shake. I am close and I hate that I am close.

“Don’t stop,” I hear myself say. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

The knife comes out of my stomach. The fingers stay in my ass and keep sliding, keep opening me, keep hitting that spot that makes my cock jump in the glove. The hand on me twists on the upstroke. My mouth opens against the mask.

I am going to come. I can feel it start low, stupid and hot, with my own blood running down my stomach and someone else’s fingers buried in my ass.

It does not happen yet.

The glove on my cock slows down on purpose. Tight at the base. A thumb smears the wet over the head until it hurts. The fingers in my ass pull out to the tips and shove back in hard. I shout into the mask.