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Now, Stalker says edge yourself with the knife handle.
I cursed under my breath, a storm of disgust and arousal swirling inside me.
Stalker says consider this a lesson in trusting strangers, Celeste.
The implied threat in his words chilled me to the core, but my own body betrayed me again, my pussy already dripping wet. My hand shook as I positioned the knife against my aching clit, the metal ice-cold against my pussy lips.
With a shaking hand, I pressed the curved edge against my swollen clit, the sensation jolting through me. A soft moan escaped my lips despite myself.
Stalker says ride it.
I looked into the camera, my wide eyes a reflection of the broken girl I had become, as I began to move. I sank the knife blade into the cushion of my couch and I straddled it as if it were a phantom cock – my stalker’s cock – and rode it mercilessly, impaled by the handle. My breathing came in ragged gasps as I filmed every last second for him – for them? The orgasm shattered through me like broken glass .
"Fuck you," I spat at the camera, even as I moved the knife in a rhythm only desperation could set. It was a mantra, a feeble shield against the darkness encroaching on my soul.
Stalker says now carve NR above your pussy. Delicately.
His initials? A brand. Ownership. The blade's kiss was cold, so fucking cold, but I drew it across my skin with a trembling hand, every stroke a surrender to his will.
"Are you getting off on this, you sick fuck?" I hurled the question into the void, knowing he was out there watching, devouring my downfall with glee.
Stalker says show me.
And I did, angling the camera to capture the carved letters, an eternal reminder of the night my body became a canvas for his sadistic art.
I expected the blood to be hot, but it felt cool against my slick pussy as it trickled down. Fear and arousal were twisted assholes, conspiring to make me wet, to make me want more. I was disgusted with myself, and yet I couldn't help brushing a finger through the slickness, collecting the proof of my degradation.
"Now what?"
Stalker says use your blood to cum for me.
The words were like a switch, flipping the remaining circuit breakers in my brain off. My blood-stained fingers found their way between my legs, dipping into my wetness with abandon. I hated myself for obeying him– for fucking myself with my own bloodied hand. But as I did as he commanded, the orgasm crashed over me like a tsunami, obliterating any last shred of self-respect I thought I'd had left.
I was empty when it was over, hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin, illuminated only by the sick glow of my phone's screen. The knife and the blade discarded beside me like used tissues. A dirty secret stashed away until next time. Tears blurred my vision as I righted myself, adrenaline making me shake uncontrollably.
Now, stalker says collect your blood and cum in a glass.
My stomach lurched at the casual command. I tore a strip of fabric from my shirt and pressed it between my legs to staunch the bleeding, then carefully collected the red trails oozing down my thighs and dripping onto the plush carpet. The sight of my life essence pooling in a crystal tumbler made me retch.
Stalker says deliver it to the porch. Don't spill a drop.
On autopilot, I obeyed, unsteady in my bare feet, the glass shaking in my hand. I could end this now – run to a neighbor's house or fling the door open and scream bloody murder. But if Gavin was involved, he was as good as dead.
I reached out with a shaky hand and set the glass on the porch, blood gathering between my legs like a gruesome reminder of what I'd become. I quickly shut the door and locked it, but part of me knew that would never be enough to keep him out. Not from the places that it really counted, like my mind and my clit.
Stalker says you're mine now.
His message cut deeper than any knife. Mine. The word echoed in my skull, a cruel joke for someone who'd always prided herself on being untouchable.
"Go to hell," I whispered, though the rush of fear and desire left me breathless, addicted to the high of degradation. The line between hating him and needing this sick game blurred, leaving me lost in a labyrinth of my own making, right there in the twisted streets of Chicago.
Stalker says we're not done yet.
No, we weren't. Not by a long shot. And as I lay there, surrounded by the ghosts of my shattered dignity, I knew one thing for sure:
I was fucked.
With trembling fingers, I hit 'send' on the video, the damning footage flying through cyberspace to my anonymous puppet master. A wave of relief washed over me, fleeting and tainted, as I sank back against the cushions of my couch. I had done it—paid my debt in flesh and depravity.
