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Heavy Breathing

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‘His hands were hard, but his words were soft. He promised to be gentle, but I knew what to expect. It’s what I’ve been waiting for since last summer. He’d come for me, and he was going to take me. I was to be cuffed and gagged, stripped of my tight leather skirt and thrown at the mercy of his underlings until I couldn’t…’

 

The phone rings, and you jerk enough to feel panic - like a kid doing something that’d get them a lashing or two. Between your legs, your insides are tight and wet and just the pressure of the wooden chair is making everything ache. You were really on a roll there and now-

 

Your phone vibrates across the desk; ringing again.

 

“Goddamnit,” you curse and pick up the call, rolling your eyes towards the open window as Audrey greets you with her typical ‘hey-hey.’

 

“Hi.” It’s a pale greeting and a little breathless.

 

“Why do you sound weird?”

 

“I don’t sound weird.”

 

“... yeah, you sound like - wait,” here it comes, “are you writing that shit again?”

 

You stare unblinkingly at your computer screen, lick your teeth and minimize the document with a loud mouse click, “Nope - just making my grocery list for the morning… I’m… out of milk and… bagels.”

 

“You’re the worst fucking liar,” she says with amusement and a real case of the frustrations. The later of which, you don’t fully appreciate, “didn’t the therapist say you should stop with the whole… rape fantasy bullshit.”

 

“Hey,” you stop her before she can bring up the incident three weeks ago, “Couple things off the bat - I wasn’t doing whatever you think I was doing,” another lie - an obvious one at that, “and also, if I were it would probably be the healthier thing to do because there’s this thing called ‘repression’ which can lead to a whole host of negative actions so, yeah… if I were writing quote-unquote rape stories, which we are clear that I’m not, it’d be healthy. So suck it.”

 

“Did your therapist mention that over explaining shit tends to be a form of self-defense when you’re clearly guilty? - cause it sounds like you’re babbling right now and I bet you were elbow-deep in something super fucked up.”

 

“Fuck you,” you say in a dull tone; smiling.

 

Audrey laughs.

 

A crackling sound echoes over the phone  - it sounds like she’s opening up a bag of chips or something else snack worthy and delicious before burping softly. “Uhh, ‘scuse me - so we're still on for tonight? Jim from work brought me all the hardware. I dunno the specifics, but he wrote a list down so we should be okay.”

 

“Seriously? Jim is the dude who shan’t be named? - and you think this is gonna get you his D?”

 

“Hey… he’s like, really hot and you should see the bulge in his work khakis…” she sounds in love, and it's even grosser than what she ends with, “He's a total horse cock.”

 

“And they say I’m the one with issues…” you mumble in good humor, watching a van pull into the house next door. The guy who lives there works late, sleeps late and rarely do you see him except for when he pulls into his driveway… or pulls out. A hooded guy with big boots and baggy pants.

 

In your mind you’ve run through scenarios where he crawls in through your window and pins you down on the floor until you’re a sobbing mess, being violated and cummed inside of while screaming for help.

 

On the phone, Audrey continues, “Look, so I’ve got a thing for big dicks. The point is that what I’m doing is all consensual and there’s a mutual give and take, also respect, and there’s none of that with the kinda stuff you’ve been talking about. Fuck, you know I wouldn’t be surprised if-“

 

You unbutton your shirt down to the navel - cool spring air pulling your nipples into tight buds - exposing yourself to the open window as your next door neighbor slides his van door shut and walks obliviously up the front porch. He doesn’t bother looking into the bright open window - doesn’t ever glance inside like you want him too. All he does is slam his front door closed behind him, leaving you bare-chested in your computer chair with a grumble. You want him so bad, and you don’t even know what the fuck he looks like.

 

“Whatever,” you mumble, interrupting the pointless tangent Audrey is on and deflate back into your computer chair, “just get over here and save me from the hardcore rape porn I’m about to watch. You wouldn’t want your best friend masturbating to anything immoral, would you?”

 

“I don’t think those videos are real,” she says, sounding like maybe she’s not as sure as she wants to be about that. If there were actual videos like that… well, you’d have found them by now, but maybe that’s what the deep web was for…

 

Suddenly this stupid idea of Audrey’s seems a little more interesting. That gross, sexual guilt comes up again, but the excitement overwhelms it like always. You’re eager now.

 

“I doubt they’re real,” is your sluggish reply, “even the amateur stuff needs consent contracts and shit. Pretty authentic lookin’ though.”

 

“So you have been watching that crap then. Damn, girl. You need help.”

 

“Well, we’ve already established that haven’t we?”

 

There’s a short pause on the phone while Audrey decides what comeback she has for you, but the smell of barbecue from the frat house down the street hits you through the open window.

 

“Oooh-hey… can you pick up a number-four from Bebe-Q Bills before you get here? I’m literally dying.”

 

“Figuratively,” she corrects, “but yeah, I guess that can be arranged. Fine,” a sigh, “Sure thing Miss Melodramatic. I’ll see you in thirty minutes… gotta box up all this crap first. Do you think I should bring my lawnmower with me?”

 

“What?” You ask in genuine confusion, twirling in your computer chair listlessly.

 

“You know, like for a weapon. In case the Breather comes for us?”

 

“You mean cums on us?”

 

“Hey, I’m serious,” she ushers in as if you’ve just insulted her to the point of tears.

 

You roll your eyes until a nerve pinched in the center of your brain and sigh, “If you were serious you’d bring a gun with you... not a lawnmower, this isn’t the movie Braindead. Besides, I’ve still got that glock Rosa gave me last year and plenty of ammo.”

 

“Alright. Alright. Fair enough… it’s a pretty sweet lawnmower though,” she says with an unmistakable smile.

 

“I’ll never understand you, but I can’t help but love your enthusiasm. Look. I got us covered in the whole self-defense department. Just get your ass over here and be safe about it.”

 

“Yeah… you too.”

 

You nearly hang up, but there’s that familiar breath of worry in her voice that makes you pause; waiting.

 

“Just,” Audrey says in a small, troubled tone, “close your window if you have it open okay?”

 

Even though she’s looking out for you and doesn’t wanna see you on the news or in a casket just yet, you grimace at your open window and perch your bare heels on the sill with no intention of closing it.

 

“... fine,” you say and remind her once again to be safe before hanging up the phone. So much for being a terrible liar...

 

The wind is blowing through the Casper trees, throwing more smells of barbecue laced with the blooming white flowers on the shrubs bordering you and your neighbor's house.

 

There’s a window that faces yours, but you’ve never seen it open - never seen the curtains drawn either. You’ve touched yourself while looking at the dirty pane of glass, willing the drapery to open and for that guys to catch you.

 

Lusting. Coveting. Overcome by a primal, violent urge that forces 'him' through your window and inside you no matter how hard you struggle and beg for 'him' to stop. It’s disgusting, but you want it all the same. The idea of being raped turns you on. It’s fucked up and whatever, and you’ll agree with Audrey that the therapist is necessary. This is wrong, but it doesn’t stop you from rubbing your soaked panties - gaze out the open window - and imagine what your neighbor would do if he saw you like this.

 

Probably nothing.

 

If there were a bunch of rapists in this town you’d have found them by now.

 

Before admitting your fucked up perversion to anyone, you’d wander off into bad neighborhoods, wondering if every alley way would materialize some vicious predator to shove you down behind a dumpster… or somewhere else equally vile, and just fuck the ever-loving shit out of you.

 

Of course… with the threat of rape came the danger of death and your dark seeded fantasies didn’t involve getting murdered.

 

Thinking about your mysterious neighbor and the cock-weapon hiding in his baggy pants gets you off easily - fast and noisy just in case he’s listening. You wrangle two orgasms out of yourself before you feel a little sick about what you’re lusting over and stop with a frown.

 

Fuck, you think, busying yourself with some old tech emails while Audrey takes her time and stays safe on the roads.

 

You blast Cannibal Apocalypse through your headphones, still in your underwear and a faded band shirt, while submitting a few mindless customer tickets to the guys overseas; do the rest yourself because it keeps your mind occupied.

 

By the time Audrey’s headlights scatter yellow over the bushes and freshly cut grass you’ve finished two days worth of work and feel nothing but hunger pains and the leftovers of your double orgasm with none of the gross guilt. It’s hard to remember a time when you could cum without feeling like a lunatic afterward, but these past few weeks with Dr. Holten have helped you distinguish fantasy from reality, making it a tad easier to jill off to such illicit situations.

 

The front door opens because of course you gave her a copy of your house key, and Audrey rounds the corner with a Dixie bag of barbecue and a six pack of that shitty hard lemonade she likes.

 

“Someone was parking on your lawn again,” she says, sitting a bag that releases fumes of goodness on the dining room table.

 

“Yeah, it’s that fuckers daughter from across the street. She’s got her permit now… fuckin’ teenagers right?”

 

“You know we were still in highschool ten years ago.”

 

“Yeah,” you agree and then shove out of your computer chair towards the dining room table and throw yourself up on the surface, “and I never parked on peoples grass though.”

 

You’re wrist deep in the barbecue food bag when Audrey sighs and crosses her arms, “I told you to close the window...”

 

“Did not,” you lie before stuffing some seasoned fries in your mouth, smirking with full cheeks.  

 

“Whatever, live in that fantasy world of yours,” she says while shoving the window down, flipping the lock and closing the drapes, “just put some pants on ‘cause I left all the tech shit in the trunk.”

 

“Who needs pants?” You counter, waving a french fry in the air, “It’s like midnight.”

 

Even though she blushes and begs, you refuse to cover up the ass that hangs out of your underwear. It’s your lawn, your house and there’s no one - nothing but a couple distant car lights down the street. No one gives a fuck at this hour except her. Thankfully all it takes is one trip, some clear floor space and two plates of barbecue before you’re listening to her directions and plugging everything in.

 

Funny how easy shit was when you followed directions.

 

In less than thirty minutes, you’re installing the software and hacking into the frat houses WIFI network.

 

Always use a VPN. That part was underlined, but the three services recommended on the list all cost money and there was no way you were gonna use your debit card for something this shady.

 

“Is it working??” Audrey asks right up against your face.

 

You sneer and shove her back by the forehead, “Patience you size queen. Give it a second to think. Lots of stuff is happening, and my computer is good, but it’s not THAT good.”

 

“But what about the one Jim gave us?”

 

With your pointer finger, you tap number three on the list of instructions. “Processing power or something. I dunno. I just wired them together. I’m good at googling problems not a savant at the tech stuff.”

 

As you munch down on the remaining fries - all cold and slightly stiff - the A.N.N. browser finally launches, thinking and opens onto the Wiki. It’s blank and boring and looks unflatteringly like a 4chan page. Just a list of domains with little brackets of context… and some of the shit is so vile it makes your violent rape fantasies seem saintly in comparison.

 

“Are you sure you wanna do this, Bree? - This is… dark.”

 

“Well, duh. Deep Web is supposed to be dark. Look,” she says while pulling out a folded, ragged-edged piece of paper from her side pocket, “I just need to order these things and then we’re done. He even gave me his login and everything. Click. Buy. Done.”

 

“... all for some dick,” you mumble, and then immediately realize how hypocritical that was because you’d done some idiotic stuff for the kinda strange you were into. Not all that long ago you’d nearly paid for it with a crushed skull too.

 

If it weren't for that shadowed, nameless bystander, you'd be six-feet under by now. Maggot food.

 

“So where are we getting this 'dick' his goodies then?” You ask thoughtlessly and take a swig off the warm hard lemonade with a grimace. “Ugh, this stuff is way too sweet.”

 

“You mean delicious,” Audrey says as she finishes hers off and sets it on the rug.

 

You’ve both spread out on the floor between your computer and the dining table with some couch pillows. The equipment wouldn't reach the table, and the fucker was made of solid redwood, so there was no way you were gonna move it near the wall which was clear across the room.

 

Audrey looks over her list and gets that furrowed look of concentration, “Family Drugstore? See anything like that?”

 

“Unfortunately…”

 

She lists off everything from Indica strain pure-purp weed to Molly and a couple bags of Sativa which you didn’t even realize people smoked anymore. It all ends up costing two-hundred and forty of some currency you’ve never heard of, but it’s easy, and sure enough, it’s a click-click-finish sort of thing.

 

It prepopulates a random address that Audrey takes a screenshot of with her phone. She starts texting it to Mr. Monster Dick immediately.

 

Curiosity gets the better of you, and while Audrey does her thing, you click on some rando sites, cruising through layers of humanity you didn’t previously know existed. You’re halfway into some sort of sick panic reaction by the shit on these sites when your work phone vibrates in your pocket. It’s not three in the morning yet, so call forwarding is still on.

 

Without looking but for a short second to make sure it’s not your Mom, you swipe to answer and shoulder it against your ear, “Diamond Diagnostics. This is tech support how can I-“

 

A ragged, thick panting rustles through the line and because it’s late and you’re on the Deep Web buying drugs, you feel a creep of fear go down your spine.

 

“Who is this?” You ask curtly.

 

Audrey notes the tone of your voice; thumbs pausing on her own phone. She’s watching, and you can feel the tension in her as someone - a man - breathes heavily across the line.

 

And then… suddenly… he’s gone.

 

The call clicks off, and you’re left staring at a site called ‘The Rule of Three,’ wondering if you can start setting Big-Dick Jim’s equipment on fire yet and go back to having one problem in your life. That was too weird to be a coincidence.

 

That was...

 

“... was that-“ Audrey asks, going quiet as you scramble up to your feet, looking at the clutter of wires and brick hardware and your own computer with the optical cable connecting it all.

 

Panic.

 

You’re freaked the fuck out and starting to run through scenarios.

 

With a ‘bloop’ noise that rattles your bones, your computer screen wakes up from sleep mode. A new ticket email spawns in bold in your email client. The little icon in the corner blinking to let you know in case you missed the sound alert.

 

“Dude, what’s going-“ Audrey starts up again, but you bend over and yank the optic cable connecting your computer and the illegal shit she brought over, throwing the female end to the floor.

 

“Hey!”

 

You unplug Jim’s hardware from the wall, tear out the Ethernet port so hard the little copper wires inside break, leaving a frayed tuff of wiring and the plastic bit still in your wall socket.

 

“Okay-ok,” you mumble, disconnecting everything else you can get your hands on, “I just got a call.”

 

“What call?!”

 

“One of THOSE calls and we have to-we…” you scramble to your feet, looking down at the dismantled set up and the black screen and can’t stop from looking at the weird email blinking on your computer screen, “... wait… why the fuck did Jim want you doing this? Why didn’t I even ask that in the first place - he doesn’t want to deal with this shit!”

 

You shout and point to your screen.

 

Audrey looks terrified, still sitting on the floor and clutching her phone in her lap, “You’re scaring me…”

 

“Okay. Grab everything. I need this out of my house.”

 

When she doesn’t move you start doing it yourself. After the first trip to her car, Audrey passes you in the foyer with an armful of gear, and in under six minutes, it’s all in the car ready to go.

 

“Are you not coming with me?” Audrey asks in disbelief, standing in your bedroom minutes later with wide, fearful green eyes.

 

You’re half sitting on your bed, checking your glock to make sure it’s loaded while trying to remember where the safety is on it. The last time you shot it was the first time you ever shot a gun, and that was way too long ago. Between your lungs, your heart feels like it’s expanding with each beat; suffocating you.

 

“Look,” she tries, “maybe it’s just a coincidence ya know. Maybe you’re freaking out for no reason. We did everything the list said so technically no one knows, right?”

 

“We didn’t do the VPN thing…”

 

“Okay, we didn’t do that. Fair enough…” Audrey starts to pace, picking at her cuticles and stops by the dead fireplace.

 

“So, let’s say The Breather really did call you and he’s on his way over and he’s got plans to murder you,” she doesn’t sound like she’s taking any of this very seriously, in fact, it’s starting to sound like she’s worried 'about you' not for you, “and you’re just… what? - you’re gonna sit here in an empty house with a gun and wait?”

 

“He only comes through the front door,” you offer lamely. Wondering if Audrey might be right. Maybe you are overreacting?

 

“That’s an urban myth. The Breather is a fucking serial killer. If he is heading this way - which I doubt he is - it’s not like he’s gonna find your front door locked and skip on home.”

 

“... well, that’s what the gun’s for.”

 

“Sure, great plan!” she exclaims, raising her hands in the air. “Send me home and stay here all alone and get killed.”

 

She frowns and then folds her arms under her chest, finding your open bedroom window with an exacerbated look. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really?!”

 

She points as you screw your lips in a tight frown like a child caught in a fib.

 

Audrey walks across the room and slams your window down, locks it and draws the drapes, leaving an accidental sliver of darkness looking from your bed towards your neighbor's house.

 

“Come to my place tonight. You’re creeping me out with this shit, and I don’t wanna leave you alone. Please?”

 

“Look,” you start and lay the gun back on your bedside table, “you’re right. This is silly. I just… freaked out for a bit there. I dunno. It’s been weird since that thing at the bar. I was foolish then... and I'm acting stupid right now.”

 

“Yeah,” she says, shoulders moving with the word but her eyes drift, and she sighs, “I’m not gonna sit here and say I get it, because I don’t but just try and look at the facts before you go getting spooked okay? Especially with a gun in this house. You need to relax.”

 

“You’re right,” you agree, but deep down you think she's overbearing.

 

“Come to my place. We’ll watch some Pixar movies and sleep on the couch like old times.”

 

“No - I mean, no… seriously, it’s fine. I’m just gonna take a xanax and have a bath or something.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“... yeah,” you force a smile, put the gun back in the side drawer and give Audrey a big ol’ bear hug that lies for you better than words can. She holds you tight, kisses the side of your head and lets you walk her out the front door.

 

Outside, the bushes shuffle in the night breeze. The street light near your driveway scatters with the elm tree leaves that haven’t been trimmed in two years. You search the darkness for a man with a knife as Audrey gets in her car, cranks the engine and waves goodbye before heading home. You stand there on your front porch in your underwear and a loose shirt, palming your elbows… and as the moon stares at you, the paranoia turns into something hot and itchy.

 

You feel your body reacting to the possibility - the idea, and it’s not good… but you can’t help it.

 

Your mind latches onto the idea of someone like The Breather banging down your door and just stabbing you over and over again… with his cock. Your screams would be bliss to him, and that helpless feeling would get you off until you were as good as dead with pleasure. Perfection - a cure for all the months of wondering what it’d be like. Lancing a wound instead of leaving it to fester like her fixation; rotting in her head.

 

It is, after all, just a fantasy but a creep of guilt floods the giddy anticipation. The feeling follows you back inside where you take Audrey’s request to heart and lock your front door.

 

The chair still pulled out from the dining room table wants you to pin it under the door handle, but that’s not gonna happen.

 

In your room, your phone rings.

 

“Screw that,” you mutter, heading into the kitchen, passing the open bar and skidding under the twin arches.

 

There’s no way you’re gonna answer it now, work call or other. It’s most likely Audrey calling from the road to make sure you locked the door, but you’ll check missed calls after making some waffles and ice cream. Something sweet to relax you - take your mind off what the fuck just happened tonight.

 

With a bowl full of chopped up toaster waffle and strawberry ice cream, you pause - spoon freezing the roof of your mouth - as your computer screen glares at you.

 

Against your better judgment, you take a seat at your desk, kick your feet up on the window sill with your toes wedged through thick drapery, cooling on the glass and stare at the unopened message. It’s titled with just two single quotations and nothing else.

 

“Okay, weirdo… let’s see what you’ve got,” you say to yourself before double clicking the email open like it’s a doorway to hell. Abandon all hope ye who enter here, you think with a spoon under your tongue, pooling with spit.

 

You’re not sure what you’d been expecting - gore, a snuff video, threats of murder? - but it sure as shit wasn’t a poem excerpt.

 

‘They do not snatch, they do not tear;

their massive blood moves

as the mood-tides, near, more near

till they touch in flood.’

 

It’s weird, and it’s creepy, but it’s nothing close to the worst thing your mind could conjure. Though, if you were second guessing yourself before thanks to a specific Audrey Fritz… well, you’re sure of it now.

 

The Breather is toying with you.

 

Before heading back to your room with waffle strawberry ice cream, you shove a chair under the front door and take the biggest kitchen knife back with you down the hallway. Better to be safe than sorry, you think, plunking down on your bed with a bounce. This would have been an excellent time to have a dog or… a vicious cat. Tomorrow you’re gonna rethink your allergies and take a trip to the pound.

 

A missed call from Audrey stares up at you from your phone as well as several red numbers; same as the one you’d answered before. You swipe. There are six new voicemails.

 

You ignore all of them, including the one from your best friend, and redial Audrey.

 

“Well, look who’s alive…” she greets after a single ring.

 

“Alive and well. I’m in bed with ice cream and a movie, so I hope you haven’t called the cops yet.”

 

“Perfect! I’m home, just got done talking to Jim - we’re gonna go get some dinner tomorrow night, and then he started talking about his-“

 

“Uh-huh,” you cut her off, scrolling through the comedy section on Netflix, “Look, I’m glad you’re getting some dick and all, but I don’t need the preliminary details, just call me when you’ve sat on it or something.”

 

“Someone’s in a mood… are you still freaked out? I can always come back.”

 

It’s a gracious offer, but you’d much sooner spend the night defending yourself against a serial killer who only comes in through your front door. You’ve always wondered what stabbing someone felt like... also shooting someone for that matter.

 

“Nope. Not scared. Just bitter,” you tell her, cutting the air with the knife; teeth in your lower lip.

 

“I can handle that.”

 

“Among other things…” you accuse with a wry smirk. You both say your good nights, and Audrey reminds you again to keep the window shut. You call her a bitch. Laughter.

 

Hang up.

 

More ice cream.

 

After the sweet goodness is gone though, you’re stuck at home with the tv staring back at you and your phone resting on your naked thigh, wondering what the actual fuck you’re doing by staying here all alone.

 

“Okay,” you say to yourself, “if it’s him… don’t panic. Front door access only. He won’t come through the windows or the back door, or the garage. It’s fine… you are fine.”

 

You’re fine, you repeat; over and over and over again.

 

Nothing, not even the stupidest shit on stream, can take your mind off The Breather, though. Halfway into the newest Pixar movie, you find yourself curled up in bed, holding the knife between your legs - tip denting the bedspread - while searching news articles on your phone.

 

There’s a lot. He gets around it seems...

 

The local serial killer has dozens of confirmed victims dead and buried and he’s speculated to have killed even more. He doesn’t leave a calling card - uses burners and rarely leaves voicemails. Reading that last line about the messages gives you authentic chills. He’s bequeathed five to you so far. You’ve been ignoring them, but now you find yourself panning through your apps to voicemail…

 

Sitting up in bed, knife gripped in a white hand, you listen to the first message.

 

Breathing; ragged, stuttering hitches of throaty rumbles.

 

You swallow and play the next message. It’s the same song and dance as the first.

 

The third one makes you blush - it sounds eerily like a man cumming hard, but quiet. It’s a massive, shrill inhale followed by a static exhale that’s tempered with wet gurgles. The sound of it all gets your blood rushing and your insides gushing.

 

The fourth voicemail is barely a whisper, but after playing it back three times, it sounds like ‘I see you.’

 

Fear, trepidation… a sense of helplessness… it turns you on, and with a twitchy thumb, you press down on his fifth voicemail and hear the disjointed, hoarse timbre of the one and only… The Breather…

 

“You cannot see my little room, all yellowed with the shaded sun; You do not even know I’m here; Nor’ll guess when I am gone.”

 

“Holy shit…” you breathe, pulling your phone away from your ear, staring at the glowing screen with wide, animal-prey eyes until it switches over; ringing.

 

It’s him.

 

The same white numbers on a black background.

 

Don’t answer, your logical mind pleads and begs but you lick your dry lips, lay the knife out on the bed, and answer the call.

 

“... hey,” you whisper, staring heedless into your own head; waiting and wanting.

 

“....haaaaaa’hah’ha’ha’ha’ahhh…”

 

The scratchy breathing gets you wet; makes you bite down a moan and wonder if he’s touching himself to the sound of your own soft, short breathes - the music of an animal in distress. Wolf and rabbit. Blood. Primal lust.

 

This is so fucked up...

 

“I know,” your voice breaks for a second before you grimace and squeeze your thighs together, “... I know who this is.”

 

“... ha-ha-ha. I know who you are,” he says, hard pauses between each word, “I’m coming for you.”

 

And then… click.

 

Silence.

 

He hangs up, and you’re left there on the cusp of something with a pounding heart and throbbing, wanting cunt.

 

About four-thousand fantasies rush through your skull on the climax of a sugar high. You want him to bust your front door down right now. You want him inside your house. You want him inside you… thrusting like he’s taking your life while shoving your face into the floor.

 

You want him to rape you. Degrade you. Soil you. Ruin you.

 

“This is insane,” you say to yourself, dropping the phone between your crossed legs to comb nails over your scalp. The feeling it brings is merely an act of distraction from the tingling between your legs, but it’s not enough. It’d be easy to get yourself off right now. That hot, frantic arousal is back, making you feel slightly neurotic with lust. In under two minutes, you could be cumming; shuddering with bliss.

 

Just thinking about that phone call is making you hyperventilate. The Breather's barking whispers were running between your ears, begging you to give in. You should call the cops or Audrey at the very least... but you don't...

 

It’s a setback, or it feels like one. You’ve already masturbated once today to the desires, but you can’t help it. The need is all encompassing and with a kick of your leg - swiping the knife across the mattress until it clatters to the wood flooring - you fall back, wedging a hand down the front of your underwear again. Just one more time tonight and then no more.

 

The ceiling watches you just like the eyes peering in through the window sliver that Audrey left exposed around blue drapery. Eyes watch and absorbed unbeknownst to you.

 

You spread your thighs wide, find the engorged hood of your clit with two fast fingers and swirl the nerves until the tight-skinned sensation of desire starts to dampen under the quickening pleasure. You squirm and cry, fisting the pillow under your head - bend a knee up and mash your clit until the pressure of an orgasm builds behind your navel.

 

You pant and twist down into your hand, slowing your strokes as the bliss engorges. Hard, slippery motions… slow and precise… makes you cum so hard your thighs tremble. A growly moan floods out your throat as images of being held firmly in place and brutally fucked cross your mind’s eye.

 

Under two minutes, you think as your ears ring and pound. Pound. Pound…

 

… bang… bang…

 

POUND!

 

CRASH!

 

You blink and roll your head to the side, half dumb at first but then feel a hot sweat grow over your skin as the endorphins morph into adrenaline. That's not the sound of your brain sighing in pleasure nor is it Audrey at the door.

 

The rush of blood in your ears blends into the outside world where something - someone - is banging against your front door. It's not in your head. Another slam makes the hanging light in the hallway shake - rotating arching light along the floor and walls. You tug your fingers out of your underwear and raise up on an elbow.

 

'I'm coming for you.'

 

BANG! - glass shatters in your entryway and you know it’s the stained glass window with the flimsy iron rods holding in the array of triangular color stains that are now broken on the entrance carpet.

 

The Breather, you think in crystal clear logic that's tainted by horror.

 

Something thick splinters - your door - and you roll off the sheets; knees hitting the hardwood in a clumsy plunk. Skidding on your knees, bending an ankle in the door jam, you dash out and slam a shoulder against the hallway wall and run past the shadowed kitchen.

 

Blood pumps through your veins like a billion comets in an endless cosmos. You rush into your foyer, thinking somehow you’ll be able to hold your door close - keep ‘him’ back - but pause at the sight before you.

 

It's like something from a sordid nightmare. Glistening eyes bulge from a dark veiled browline. The mask is just barely highlighted in faded blue and white trim. Medical. Sterile... terrifying...

 

The hooded figure steps closer to the broken partition, bathing himself further in the dirty bulb haloing your front porch. It’s him. The Breather. Who else would it be? But the sight of him is familiar.

 

He stares, unblinking, at you through the shattered front door window. A tiny triangle of glass dips forward in the barren frame and drops to the floor. The sound of it dampening in the carpet cuts your inner ears and triggers some sort of odd feeling below your navel.

 

A jolt vibrates up your belly as he chuckles high and soft.

 

His hairless brows furrow downwards, looking utterly belligerent and wild. Bulbous eyes dilate on you, expanding unnaturally wide as though pushing forward over the bloodied hem of the surgical mask; old brown on pale blue. He's nothing but a head in the window, but below that is the stout-shouldered figure you’ve see night after night.

 

“I see you.”

 

You hesitate, staring in a complex mix of fight and flight which leaves you wavering in the middle of your dining room with your computer glowing out the corner of your eye. A dozen new blinking emails taunt you as his face mask wrinkles around a hidden jawline; grinning Those full bulbs - blown out in bloodlust - laugh.

 

He turns the door handle but is met with a locked door. The Breather snarls not unlike an animal and throws a shoulder into the thick barricade, startling you awake from the fantasy - the dream.

 

The sound and scuff of the chair as it drags on the burgundy carpet is the final motivator you needed to get your fucking ass moving. You sprint to the front door just as the chair under the handle skids, breaks in a dozen chunky pieces that clamore to the floor. The whole door rattles against you..

 

He grunts at the new weight holding him back and warm currents flood between your legs. No - bad timing...

 

You twist, ignoring the lust, and flatten your shoulders against the solid wood, fingers denting the frame and tip your skull against the hard surface. Staring upwards, you watch as he peers down through the shattered window; mask puffing with his breathing You swallow a scream as his brows crease and dip in anger.

 

Each barrage sends your bare feet further back against the carpet until your toes bend on the wood flooring. A splinter digs into your foot where the loose board creaks and you jerk, losing your precarious footing as The Breather growls and throws his whole weight into the door.

 

The frame splinters, sending more slivers of stained timber across the floor. Your doorknob rattles loose, and as soon as the serial killer on the other side begins shoving you bodily forward, letting himself inside, you book it.

 

You run and run, tasting the strawberry ice cream come up with stomach acid as you dig your heels into the floor as fast as you can. It was a good try, but you get no further than the kitchen before fingers reach the neckline of your shirt - tugging at loose hair - and yank you backward. A button snap out of it’s loop above your collarbones; sweat drying over the top of your free bouncing breasts.

 

“He-!” you attempt, but the sharp kiss of a knife dents your throat, gardening silence from your vocal chords.

 

A firm, quivering chest meets your back. Filtered breath paints one side of your temple. The distant sound of the frat house down the street cranking up the volume on their speaker set kills any hope for rescue because the house that's not occupied by the night owl in the hood has been vacant for years. For one single second, you sense what’s about to happen - the image of your death runs through like a skipped heartbeat - and you stop struggling.

 

“I have,” a reedy exhale, “been,” two short penetrating giggles, “watching you.”

 

Thoughts stop.

 

Each gory instance vanishes except for one singular, odd recollection. The next door neighbor, you think as soon as the knife juts flat underneath your chin. Something wet and warm tickles in a river down your throat, catching on your neckline. Blood.

 

The night owl. The next door neighbor.

 

His fingers clench on your elbow, hugging your limbs tight to your sides. The soft edge of closely trimmed nails digs inside your skin. With the knife and his grip, you’re useless. Any jerk will slice your jaw open on the steel edge… so you swallow as gently as you can and blink away tears of terror while the fresh and stale memories come forth.

 

It’s him… you don’t know how, but it’s the same build. The hooded figure should have been a dead giveaway. Sometimes - only sometimes - you’ve heard him mumbling to himself from his journey to the van to the house, and it’s the same airy rattle he’s speaking in now. Hard, sure words - not a single syllable wasted on filler bullshit.

 

“Time to play. Hide and seek,” he says against the aching bend of your left ear; hot breath permeating against your skin.

 

Without warning, the knife catches the light off your computer screen, but it doesn’t slash you open. It doesn’t take your life or bleed you dry. It slides away, and that hard muscled arm around your chest loosens, releasing before you're shoved forward to stumble over your own two feet towards the dim hallway.

 

"Run."

 

Glass catches in your heel, but you don’t think, just take the opportunity and fucking run. The pain means nothing when the threat of death is panting down the back of your shirt.

 

The Breather has seen you rolling your clit to your open window like some nymphomaniac - he’s been watching you fuck yourself for years probably. The serial killer the cops have been after for three solid years lives right next door.

 

Behind you, he laughs. High, snarky chuckles that clamor above his running footsteps. Sneaker soles skid on your floor where your bare feet had once been, slipping in thin smears of blood as you race down the hallway towards your bedroom. You can’t remember if Audrey locked it or not - if it’ll open smooth or put up a fight. Who the fuck knows if you can just slip into the outside night and keep running, but as much as you wanna tell yourself you got this - that you can evade him - you can't, and maybe you don't want to either.

 

“Run-run-run,” he goads, sounding air-starved and too close, “as fast as you can.”

 

Out of nowhere, just as you've hit your bedroom, The Breather snarls hot, sticky breath on the back of your naked neck. You inhale but don’t scream when he gets you by the elbow, throwing you off balance and down to the floor where his limbs give out just as yours do.

 

The room tips as you fall. Knees bang on wood, shooting dull pain up your thighs and down your calves. The discomfort only lasts a second - just a few scants moments to throb - before he’s on top of you. Thick chest to your back, using gravity to hold you down before he can get a solid hold on you.

 

As your breasts ache against the firm floor, pressure painting you in colors of fear and… yes… arousal, you feel a strong sense of self-loathing at how quick he caught you again. It’s impossible to ignore now, but you're soaked. You’re trembling hard - no doubt about to die - but oiled inside and out for something else...

 

Maybe the coroner that examines your body will chock up the fluids to you pissing yourself.

 

“I know you,” The Breather half-barks, struggling with your arms as you thrash, not as sure as you should be of whether you want to be free of him or not even now. The thought in of itself is disturbing enough to make you fight him off for real; using all those ill-trained muscles to buck him off but to no avail. He's too heavily built and sturdy. It's not like you've had as much practice fighting off men like him as he has containing his victims.

 

You'd throw a leg up into his balls, but he's nailed a shin over the back of your knees, keeping them pinned and away from his groin. A violent energy tugs at your nerves and somehow you get an elbow in his ribs while he's trying to rake the blade across the floor towards you.

 

The Breather sucks in a breath at the precise jab. He heaves, swallows audibly and digs a bladed hand under your stomach after getting your forearms pinned to the ground by a solid fist. The knife tip catching on your underwear as he shoves it hard between your inner thigh and soaked cunt. The threat is enough to stop you dead on the floor; fingers white in his grip. It’s a final fuck you when you blink and spot your kitchen knife lying a foot away from your outstretched hands; held in place by a surgical-blue hand and wrist.

 

Your pulse races in your fingertips, temples and nipples - it slams like a fast drum tempo between your lungs as his hips shift over your ass where one edge of your underwear has slid between your cheeks; exposing one globe of nakedness.

 

The taste of dust on the floor makes you spit, snarling, "Fucker!" as he 'hee-haws' at you.

 

"It. Is. What. You. Want."

 

Cheeks burning, and gut-clenching, you shudder as his wrist digs under your hip bone, making the knife hook and fold flat against drenched folds of saturated, wrinkled flesh. If it’s intentional or accidental, you don’t know, but it makes you moan regardless.

 

There’s an artery in the inner thigh… something that’ll have you dead in moments if he decides to knick it with the blade.

 

He doesn’t.

 

The Breather just presses you harder over the floor with the sharp threat right there at the softest parts of you and then… as if he’s waited so, so long for this moment, leans in and tells you raggedly, “I know how deep you go; deep, deep, deep. I know how far I will go...”

 

Gooseflesh spreads down your legs and arms as he stuffs his masked face up against your turned cheek; nosing your cheekbone bruisingly and finishes with a groan, “Deep. Deep. Deep.”

 

“So deep,” you think, but realize from the steam of breath across polished wood flooring that you spoke the words.

 

Red stains your cheeks - it heats your face as his knife shifts, pricking the plush outer lip of your cunt before finding the elastic stretch of your wet panties and slowly begins to saw through the material. Body heat hits you between the legs, and with a perverse wail, your eyes roll back as he holds your hips against his own with that fucking knife back in place.

 

He inhales your hair through the surgical mask, and rattles an exhale against your neck, "Stay..."

 

You nod, almost... just enough for his mouth to twist into a smile against the mask and your cheek.

 

His chest is dense and gets ever more crushing as he releases your arms slowly. There's no reason for you to fight. He'll bleed you dry if you struggle.

 

The Breather pants, shifts his hips to the side until fresh air stains your bare bottom. Rubber gloves pull at the skin of your ass cheek, massaging and tugging you open until his hips slot back and sink forward until you feel the hard line of an erection between your cheeks.

 

The blue gloves run tacky against your skin - despite the sweat leaking out your pores - but with a lurch of sensation, they dip down smoothly against your cunt; gliding through slick before two rubber-cloaked fingers stab through unsuspecting muscles. The fluid intrusion makes you hiss - makes you jerk forward. The knife between cunt and thigh stings, releasing its own trickle of fluids that The Breather chuckles at. You shiver, insides clenching, as he swipes up the hot blood with a pointer finger, using it as a fucked up lubricant before stretching you open with a third fat digit.

 

He finger fucks you like most cocks have never fucked you before.

 

It’s rape, you tell your eager and frothing mind. The idea sticks and you start to feel tears burn your eyes while a manic smile stretches your lips. Each thrust of The Breather's fingers means his chest and shoulder dig into you harder, making every inhale a battle. His fingers bring about pleasure, while everything else aches but it’s thrilling. This is everything you’ve ever wanted.

 

Audrey would be so disappointed - so horrified. She'd be disgusted by what's happening and equally, pissed off to know you're getting finger blasted better than whatever that Jim guy is packing.

 

Those three gloved fingers spread, stretching your cunt until you whimper, and then hook up and scratch the roof of your insides with each thrust.

 

"Fff... fuck!" You tremble, ready to cum.

 

Desperately, you claw at the floor and work your hips against his fingers despite the way the blade cuts and his weight gradually takes your breath away.

 

“Deep. Soft. I watch you from the window. I can,” he grunts, breaking character as a hushed, indulgent ‘fuck’ slips out his throat, “smell you on the air. I want you.”

 

“Take me,” you beg him, knowing it’s ruining the act, but not caring anymore because he stuffs his fingers so deep that you wince and sob for real, making it easy to fall back into the fantasy.

 

He’s gonna fuck you - take you - rape you.

 

The Breather is here, and maybe he’s gonna kill you or perhaps he’s just gonna give you everything you’ve wanted because you and your nighttime displays at the window have actually been seen; appreciated and indulged in.

 

“Be quiet,” The Breather urges, sliding slick rubber fingers from your cunt with a wet suckling sound. You groan in a pleading manner, having been so close.

 

He stutters, exhaling, and wipes his gloved hand on the back of your thigh before the delicate noise of a zipper being drug down clicks-clicks-clicks. Every metal tooth un-teething sends you into an eager panicked arousal. You hope it's big. You want it to hurt. You wanna see Audrey next time she shows up and recall quietly about how you got dicked by a 'horse cock' in the way you've wanted for so long now.

 

You’d be fighting harder if you didn’t want this so bad - if this was real.

 

There would be sobbing and begging, and bloody struggles. You wouldn’t be lying still; welcoming cock inside you like this. But you’re not right in the head, as everyone has been so quick to remind you, and so you scratch at the floor, force the tears into a puddle against your cheek and start up the act.

 

“Please-oh god,” it almost sounds real, “don’t do this. Stop… please… stop...”

 

“Shhh,” The Breather ushers you into a quiet, forced type of sniffling as the hot, long length of his bare cock slips forth; branding your naked backside. Something flutters on the underside of it; a swollen, chorded vein.

 

He shifts, grabs his cock and smears the swollen head down the curve of your ass to where your soaked and throbbing. As soon as he hits your slit - before he can penetrate you wholly - his elbow jabs under your arm and those musky, slick fingers crawl around the side of your face, forcing two fingers past your teeth and over your tongue.

 

You gag around his fingers as he thrusts that meaty cock into you, gliding through copious amounts of arousal and straight past your limit until a pain you’ve never felt before nestles beyond your navel and further back. He’s thick, but not enough to make you burn… but he’s long - lengthy enough to bring forth real tears as the knotted ache becomes a troubling sort of pleasure.

 

Rubber catches on the edge of your teeth as you bite down.

 

Your tongue slips and flattens against his gloved-fingers; proving to him how fake your fight is. The tears might be real, but they aren’t in terror anymore, and if they are then it’s a sexualized fear that makes you jerk your knee out, spreading yourself open so he can sink further inside; deeper and deeper and deeper…

 

The Breather groans in broken sighs. His thrusts are short, greedy and near-frictionless. The motions aren’t for you, they’re for him. It’s his pleasure, not yours.

 

Dominating.

 

Stealing what should - could - be yours.

 

You whimper around his fingers, gag again when he reaches past your tongue to the back of your throat and try to mash your lower half into his hips without cutting yourself open. Hot, messy tears pool down your cheeks. The knife dents harder as his bared hips spank the perspiring flesh of your ass.

 

You make throaty grunts around his fingers, tonguing your flavor off the thin rubber and start to suck on them as The Breather chugs air beyond the surgical mask like his thirst is only quenched by the sounds your body makes. He feeds off the gurgles from your throat that his fingers dampen but also shudders at the ones from your cunt that sound so wet and sticky and fucking loud.

 

“I have you,” he goads, pulling in chattering breaths, “Now… scream!”

 

His fingers pull out the edge of your mouth, leaving the corner of your lips split and drool to mix on the floor with your tears. His saliva-coated fingers grab ahold of one ass cheek, the canvas fabric around his thighs bunches up against the edge of your hips and with the knife dangerously close to digging too deep, he sits up and fucks you into the floor.

 

You hold yourself against the wood with sweaty palms, rocking back and forth on your tits and scream. For a second your voice shatters as you pause to gasp down a lungful of fresh air before shrieking against each slam of cock.

 

The Breather snarls.

 

He tips the blade up, and you cry out louder, straining above the knife's edge; hips raised of your own accord. As soon as he has you in position, the blade turns, pointing up under your navel; denting a light layer of fat and smooth skin.

 

One wrong move and he’ll gut you.

 

You blink - half-blind with tears - and watch the slimy, wet floor underneath you while his cock hammers ever deeper, reaching new levels of pain and pleasure.

 

Something is happening under your skin. Every nerve runs hot. You feel your voice break, and that fire burns up from the point of his fast, slick moving thrusts all the way up your spine to the top of your head. The feeling wraps itself around your skull until your shoulders are shaking and you can’t… can’t hold it back.

 

Fluids start to flood and gush around The Breather's solid, hard-hitting cock. He begins to laugh. It’s mocking and pleasing and gratified, and it only makes him fuck you harder and faster. All that mess makes every quick motion a noisy squelch and schlick. Whatever is happening is making you dribble moisture - making you sob with bliss that's unlike the kind you've had before.

 

Your thigh muscles give out, and your belly drops, thinking the knife will fill you with the motion, but The Breather knows…

 

That knife turns on a dime, slashes the air and stabs into the wood just beside where your shoulder meets your neck. Your lower body flops into a puddle of fast cooling fluids, proof of your ripping orgasm. Had you… had you squirted or-

 

“On your knees they say; in the dark he say; in my womb she say…” he quotes like a monotonous monster; a killer for sure and growls more humanly, “ I’ll make you dirty.”

 

His cock continues jutting through swollen, unhappy muscles no matter how desperately you beg for him to stop. It feels like your cunt has shrank two sizes too small and yet he pushes through into an impossible depth endlessly. Brutal. Perfection.

 

It’s too much. You sniffle and weep; sobbing for real.

 

The sensation is overwhelming - stimulation gone sick.

 

Whatever full-bodied orgasm The Breather pulled out of you wasn’t the kind you'd have torn out or yourself, and it’s not one you can keep fucking yourself through towards the next. This kind of climax wasn’t meant to proceed others and it hurts now that he’s fucking you past the climax.

 

“Fuck,” you breath; gasping, “... fuck… fuck-fuck-fuck-stop-stop-“

 

The blade he stabbed above your shoulder keeps you from crawling away, but it doesn't stop you from squirming in his gloved hands - it doesn’t stop the crying.

 

You whimper and plead for him to stop, but he just keeps working through your swelled cunt, pulling back out mercilessly. Over and over.

 

At one point you think the glaring image beyond your blurry vision means your blacking out. That’s a thing, right? Getting fucked to death or near-death? That’s not the case though. All the fucking and countless poundings have pulled you back several inches from the blade meant to keep you from evading him. It's staring at you now.

 

You blink and wince, tipping your chin until it bruises on the floor - bone rocking against his smacking hips - and see the bright reflection of him in the flat of the knife. There’s no stopping the broken, needy whine you make at the distorted image.

 

Near perfectly round eyes stare downward, obviously watching himself as he fucks you into submission.

 

Animal instinct hits him as you stare through the mirrored image in the knife. His veiny cock - so long and piercing - stills. You tremble as it throbs inside, wondering why he's stopped but too choked on the mixed sensation to voice words.

 

A gross mumble is all you can manage.

 

The Breather’s breath rattles in his chest. His rubber-clad fingers creek inside your fleshy ass cheeks and you look back at him through the buffed steel with wild eyes. His blown pupils from earlier are shifted to the blade, focused on your own reflection.

 

He respires the reek of sex most like, pulls at your cheeks and aims those frenzied pupils down at where you’re both connected.

 

“Are we done?” He asks, bitingly but oddly sympathetic. There’s that odd tone again from when he’d broken character before, lost in the feel of you maybe - at least for that moment. You're not sure you appreciate it to be honest. It's sorta taking away from the fantasy but... whatever this is that's happening tonight has been well thought out by him. Perhaps one could even call it a scheme. Or maybe he had other plans, and when he found your IP on his list of potential victims he decided he was done watching...

 

Unsure of where it comes from, or if this is the moment where you realize you’re more fucked up than you’d thought, you whisper, “...please... don't hurt me, I’ll be good… I promise, just don’t hurt me anymore.”

 

The barest hint of a smirk nearly ruins the act, but you bite your tongue as he seethes four distinct laughs and curls a fist around the back of your neck.

 

You sniffle, hitch with something like a moan but could be considered a sob, and let him pin you down - shoulder shoved up against the knife blade - and fucks you harder, faster… deeper than before.

 

There, on your bedroom floor, you take the pain with tears and flaming cheeks as the mess he’s made of you goes cold and sticky and disgusting. The Breather relishes in it; bathing the inside of his mask in hard, strangled groans until you gasp at the initial shot of hot cum.

 

The Breather snarls, jerks his cock out so hard you feel a weird airy feeling where your cunt is left gaping and dripping with those first jets of cum. It makes more tears flow down your cheeks; shame and panic replacing the gratified bliss. It doesn’t help that he peels you cheek open to expose the sloppy muscles he’s made.

 

You watch with bleary eyes as he jerks himself off in the skinny blade reflection, shooting dribbles of warm cum over your ass that runs in rivers down the side of your hip and further into the divot of your lower back. A few droplets slip over puffy folds and down into your own cold fluids where the proof of his efforts lay evident between the two of you.

 

“... thank you,” you mutter before falling into the floor like a corpse. Who knows why you thought to thank him for causing just as much discomfort as he did pleasure, but… you’re oddly content despite yourself.

 

“Do not tease me anymore,” he replies.

 

For some reason, the way he says that, you know he’s not going to let the cops find you with thirty stab wounds and his cum dried between your legs. For a moment, as he rolls you over and shucks his blade from the floor, you think maybe he’ll do it anyway and just dispose of you in a vat or pond, but he surprises you.

 

His hand wraps around your throat and from there he drags you to your feet, forces you to step through the puddle of what you hope isn’t urine, and into your bathroom. It’s slow going and you trip more than once because you can’t take your eyes off him and neither can he take his off you. There’s something unnatural about him. The hairless body - the wide, cathartic eyes with dilated pupils too big for the adequate lighting.

 

You can’t recall the scratch of pubic hair while he was fucking you, either. He doesn’t seem the type to wax but there’s some reason for the hairless rub of his skin.

 

He’s wrong and perfect, and you want to throw yourself at his feet and beg him to break your door down every night - fuck you into the floor without a shred of decency. The words are gone though, and if they weren’t, he’s holding most of your air back down around his coiled fist.

 

He flicks the light switch on as if he’s been inside before.

 

The showerwall hits your back, his fist retreats and smacks the faucet handle like it’s an afterthought. A curtain of freezing cold water takes the rest of your breath away.

 

“Don’t. Move,” he says.

 

Thin cotton dampens into a second skin as your chest heaves under the shocking cold. He hunches for a moment, studying you with those full eyes shadowed under a lowered black hood and drags a purple towel off the rack, leaving the bathroom with sticky sneakers.

 

Under that hoodie is a bald head and silky chest…

 

You shiver and blush at the sound of him padding back into the bedroom to clean up all the slop left behind. The initial blast of shower water makes your skin tighten with the chill, but as the water slowly starts to warm up and so to does your mental functions.

 

This was the best night ever.

 

The Breather has left you in your shower stall to skid down the glossy wall into a pile of knobby knees and quivering shoulders. You finger the scraps of your panties around your hips and smooth down the button up shirt as your nipples pebble under the soaked cotton.

 

Somewhere in your bedroom your phone rings. It’s probably Audrey… but there’s no way you’d have answered even if your midnight ‘rapist’ was already hours gone. You’re not sure what you’d say or how you’d sound. The reality was somehow better than the fantasy and yet so much worse…

 

There is only one thing you’re sure of - you want him to come again.

 

Morally, you’ve sunk low enough to feel a sense of shame, but The Breather knew what you needed; wanted. Like he said, he’s been watching you.

 

He ‘raped’ you and the threat was real enough for it to feel shockingly authentic many times over. You’re at once eternally grateful for tonight and worried about the morning. Will he kill you after he cleans up the mess on the floor? Maybe he’ll slit your throat once he washes all traces of himself away… or will he merely tidy up the evidence of tonight so he can come and wreck havoc again?

 

You’re lost in thought when he returns, throwing the damp towel in the shower with you as casually as one would toss an empty wrapper into a trash bin. The feeling that gives you is muddled and doesn’t have long to ferment before he’s crouching down before you.

 

Somehow, you know he’s smiling behind the surgical mask, but you don’t dare reach up and tug it down. The knife is back in his right hand, being intimately twirled by the handle as if to threaten you.

 

People have died over less, you think, wondering how being stabbed must feel. Maybe the sensation is not so dissimilar from the way his cock had pierced you over and over again.

 

“Can I make a final phone call before you kill me?” It sounds brave, but you’re more known for being reckless so it must be that rather than the former. Either way, your bold question gets you a chin-up acknowledgment from The Breather, and then he chuckles reedily and leans forward into the spray of shower water.

 

You hold your breath, waiting for the blade, but he just leans on the blade-fist and runs a blue gloved hand down your tense stomach to your sodden groin.

 

His knuckles graze your clit, eliciting a longingful moan, but it’s ignored for fingering the rest of his cum out of you. The water washes it away as he brings it out and after awhile there’s nothing left but the squeal of rubber and clean flesh, and a renewed longing in your belly.

 

He breathes, shuddering like someone on the cusp of as asthma attack and because of the water you can see the slight outline of his tongue poking out as he wets his lips.

 

The Breather squeezes your thigh, your knee and goes in for a hard palm press to your left breast. The nipple stiffens further against the rubber, and you moan as he pulls back.

 

The fucking tease…

 

“Keep your secrets safe,” he says, lifting a glossy wet blue finger over the damp surgical mask in the universal signal of silence; grinning underneath, “I’ll. Be. Back.”

 

It seems like an idle threat, but you take it as a promise and go about the rest of the night trying to find any trace of him, but the only thing he’s left is a broken front door and the hint of a glass window. The serial killer even swept up the glass shards off the floor and dumped them in the trash.

 

No cum stains left.

 

You finger yourself in the early hours and find nothing but your own musky fluids and a raw ache…

 

Of course… as soon as a couple weeks pass - leaving you complacent and forgetful - is when your new front door rattles and the phone rings from an unknown caller. You end up getting chased around your house again by the notorious Breather, only to get caught, throw over your bed and fucked within an inch of your life; knife at an artery. His cock shoved so far up your cunt you think he's found a new way inside your throat.

 

It’s better than the fantasy the second time and all the times after that. The rape porn writings have nothing on this...