Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I watch myself come so hard I scream into the padding.
Black out.
Wake up.
He's holding me. Whispering something I can't hear.
I nuzzle into his chest.
Stop it. Stop doing that.
Next video… he's using a wand vibrator on me while I'm strapped to a chair. My thighs are shaking so hard the whole chair rattles.
I'm begging him to stop.
But my hips are tilting up. Chasing the sensation.
He makes me come three times in a row without moving the vibrator away.
I black out.
Fast forward. I'm on top again. This time facing away from him. Reverse cowgirl. His hands are on my hips but I'm doing all the work. Riding him like my life depends on it. My hand between my legs. Rubbing my clit.
I come.
He comes.
I collapse forward onto his legs, panting.
Blackout.
The video jumps ahead.
Spanking bench again. But this time he's using a paddle. The heavy kind. Leather.
My ass is already red from before.
He brings it down.
I count the strikes in the video.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
I'm crying by the end. But when he stops and runs his fingers through my dripping pussy, I push back against his hand.
Begging for more.
He fucks me right there. Still bent over the bench. Hands gripping my bruised ass.
I scream when I come.
Another blackout.
I've lost count of how many times I came. How many times I blacked out. How many times he was there, holding me, or petting me, or kissing me when I came back.
The second-to-last file.
My hand hovers over the trackpad.
I don't want to see this.
But I click it anyway.
The timestamp says December 25th, 6:47 AM.
Back on the couch.
The mask is still on and I'm fucking him slow in his lap. Like… slow slow. Like not fucking, but lovemaking.
He's pulling my hair, my neck stretches back, his other hand goes to my throat—ah ha!
There!
He choked me!
But… he doesn't choke me. I put my hand on his, asking him to choke me. He refuses. Instead he plays with my clit until I black out again.
He comes too, groaning and grinding against me. Then he leans back, absently playing with my hair, breathing hard…
My eyes fly open. Panic. Running. Outside. Snow. Syringe.
Then—he carries me inside. Not rough. Gentle.
He lays me on a couch. Wraps a blanket around me.
The camera angle changes. Different room. My apartment.
He's here. In my apartment. Carrying my unconscious body through the door and in to the bathroom. He undresses me.
I watch him peel off the clothes I was wearing—which aren't even mine. I went to his house naked. So these are his clothes.
I crawl out of the fort, walk into the bathroom, and sure enough—the clothes are on the floor. Black sweats and a black t-shirt with a Harvard logo on it, all faded and cracked.
This is real.
This really happened.
I go back into the fort and find the masked man lowering me into my own bathtub. I'm not unconscious, but clearly out of it as he washes my hair.
His hands work shampoo through the strands. Rinses it clean. Conditioner next. He's gentle. So fucking gentle.
He washes my face with a cloth. My neck. My shoulders.
When he lifts me out and dries me off, he's still careful. Holding me up as I wobble in place. Patting the towel against my skin with a gentle firmness.
Then he carries me back to the bed and lays me down. My bed, my clean bed inside my clean apartment.
He had it cleaned while I was at his house. He had it decorated with a tree and all the ornaments I lusted over for months. He put out a plate of cookies and milk. Had a child's glamping tent delivered so I could have a nice fort to live in while I write.
Who the fuck is this masked man?
He disappears off-screen.
When he comes back, he's holding clean clothes. My leggings. My sweatshirt.
Dressing me.
Pulling the leggings up my legs. Sliding the sweatshirt over my head. Positioning my arms through the sleeves.
He tucks me in. Pulls the blanket up to my chin. Smooths my hair back from my forehead. Then he leans down. Kisses the top of my head. His lips linger there for a moment. He says something. I can't hear it. The audio is muted or too quiet or—
I rewind. Turn the volume all the way up. Still can't hear it.
He straightens. Walks to the kitchen. The camera follows him. He picks up the cookie from the plate. Takes a bite. Sets it back down.
Then he leaves.
The footage ends.
I'm staring at the black screen.
My face is wet.
I don't know when I started crying again.
The last file is not sex. I knew that since I just watched the masked man tuck me in. But I wasn't expecting it to be him. Still wearing the mask, but looking very happy underneath it. He's smiling I can tell.
The timestamp says December 25th, 9:23 AM. So just a few hours ago.