Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
My skin is clammy beneath my hot fingertips. I hear my own sawing breaths echoing in my ears. I taste copper on my tongue and realize that I bit the inside of my cheek during my nightmare. The peeling, pale blue wallpaper in my bedroom reminds me of the peeling paint on my front door. And the scent that surrounds me is musky with my unmistakable arousal.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. It feels filthy, and my fingers itch with the need to scrape the grime away.
I heave in ragged breaths and struggle to purge the darkness of the nightmare.
The masked man never said my name during the attack. His voice had been low and gravelly, not smooth and cultured with an English accent. His eyes had been black pools in my shadowy apartment; there had been no green glow.
My emotions are a snarled mess. In the stillness of sleep, my subconscious melded my horrific ordeal with the man I’ve fantasized about: Dane.
Because the awful truth is that both turn me on.
My sweat-slicked skin isn’t the only part of me that’s damp in the wake of my traumatic nightmare. I’m all too familiar with the traitorous wetness between my legs.
My fingernails bite into my upper arms, but I manage to resist the urge to scrape away the toxic sludge that seems to roll beneath the surface of my skin in nauseating waves.
I flex my fingers and force my vise grip to release so that I can reach for the ancient laptop I keep tucked beneath my nightstand. Even in the darkness, I find it with practiced ease. I prop my back against my pillows, and comfort blankets me when the familiar weight of the laptop settles onto my thighs.
My fingers shake as I open it and enter my password. The website where I’ve catalogued my secret shame under an anonymous pen name is bookmarked, so I access it with a single click. Instead of typing out a new erotic story that blurs the lines of consent, I navigate to the messenger service.
My heart sinks when I notice the gray check mark beside my pen pal’s screenname. GentAnon is offline.
I glance at the time on the top right of my screen. One-seventeen AM.
It’s not uncommon for my trusted stranger to be online at this time. I tap out a message and hold my breath.
CagedBird
Are you awake?
My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I flex my fingers in an attempt to dispel the residual shaking from my nightmare. A pang lances my stomach, and I almost double over at the sudden surge of nausea. I hug my arms to my chest and struggle to drag in painful breaths while I anxiously await his reply.
The check mark turns green, and three dots appear. He has an alert set up on his phone for our late-night conversations, just like I do.
Iron bands mercifully loosen around my chest when his answering message appears:
GentAnon
For you? Always. What filthy things are on your mind, little dove?
My breath hitches on a soft sob at the visceral relief of his online presence.
We’ve been exchanging fantasies for two months now. My steamy pen pal found kinship in my dark erotica that I posted on the Eroticlit online forum, and he DMed me one day to tell me how much he admires my writing. What started as compliments slowly turned to questions about my disturbing, secret urges, and then the dirty messages started.
My fingers finally steady as calm settles over me. I’m safe with my anonymous admirer. In this secret space, I can purge my inner darkness in a way I’ve never known before. I’ve always had my painting as an outlet, but I’ve never been able to share my shameful fantasies with another person.
In the wake of the horrific attack, I’m craving safety, even though our clandestine connection is fucked up. There’s a perverse security in expressing my secret self with this stranger who shares my deepest, darkest fantasies.
Three dots appear. I’ve allowed too many seconds to pass before replying. His admonishment lights up my screen.
GentAnon
Don’t keep me waiting, little dove. You know the consequences of denying me.
My pulse quickens, and my core heats. I sink into our game, hiding from the horrors of my real life by losing myself in the thrill of our anonymous correspondence.
CagedBird
Fuck your consequences.
GentAnon
Such a dirty mouth for a sweet girl. I’ll tame that tongue of yours with my cock down your pretty throat.
My clit pulses, and a familiar thrill dances up my spine—sharp sparks that prickle their way over my scalp, as though he’s pulling my hair while he forces his cock into my unwilling mouth.
CagedBird
I’ll scream. Someone will hear.
GentAnon
We both know you won’t. No one will save you from me. The threat of my knife is enough to keep you quiet. Besides, you’ll be too busy swallowing my cum to scream.