Page 9 of Unmasked

Mallory

Later that afternoon, I sit on my bed, trying to focus on the biology textbook on my lap. I’m failing miserably, unable to concentrate after seeing a masked man lurking at the bottom of the stairs. Worse yet are the strange text messages from unknown, which I read so many times that I committed them to memory.

Is the person texting me the same as the one I saw in the stairwell, or are they different people?

I tap my highlighter against the pages, my leg bouncing beneath my book. I’m restless, and being alone in my apartment creeps me out.

After closing the book, I set it on the floor and grab my phone. I scroll through social media, saving a few book recommendations from influencers and authors.

I pause when the haunting music plays on my phone. A crash of thunder followed by a lightning bolt illuminates a room, displaying the outline of a shirtless guy.

Oh, God. It’s my favorite purge wearing mask man.

The room goes dark again before the light turns on.He stands shirtless in front of the camera. Tattoos cover his arms and torso, and a red purge mask covers his face.

I shiver.Could he be my stalker?

As scary as that thought is, my body hums as I watch him. The haunting music is the perfect sound, adding eeriness to the video.

His masked face stares at the ceiling as he trails a bloody hand over his chest and abs. Then he lowers his head, staring at the camera.

Goddamn. This man is staring into my soul.

Just like the guy beneath the tree and the one in the stairway.

My heart pounds inside my chest, and my breathing accelerates like I’m sprinting.

He’s sitting on a chair, muscular thighs splayed wide. His chest heaves with his heavy breaths as he flips a knife in his hand. He looks down at the blood smeared on his chest before his intense eyes lift to the camera, stripping my soul bare.

He stretches one arm out, making a come-here gesture with two fingers before patting his lap.

Oh my God.

My pussy is soaked, clenching around nothing, aching for this masked stranger.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I watch the video three more times before leaving a comment.“Damn. This video made me feral. Then you beckoned with two fingers and now I’m deceased.”

I’m shocked when he likes the comment and responds. “Feral, huh? I like it. Also, you can’t run if you’re deceased. I like the chase.”

I squeal, unable to believe he responded. I’ve never seen him leave a comment before.

I’m in a daze as I click on his profile pic. He’s shirtless, wearing the purge mask. I drool over his tattoos and muscles, wishing I could lick his abs.

I randomly click on another video. My core tightens when he stalks toward the camera like a panther pursuing its prey. He presses his index finger against the stitching over his mouth in a shushing motion.

A needy squeak leaves my lips.Goddamn. What is he doing to me?

He tilts his phone, revealing his bare torso. My mouth is dry, and all rational thought flees my head as my eyes scan the tattoos on his chest and arms.

Lust barrels through me like a storm, lighting up my nerves. My heart pounds so loud it’s like the steady boom of thunder.

My hand slides down my sweatpants as I watch the video again. And again.

Hitting the back button, I return to his most recent video. When he rubs his bloody hand over his chest, my finger circles my clit. Panting, I slide two fingers inside me, fantasizing he filmed it for me.

When he looks at the camera and motions to come and sit on his lap, I explode. My orgasm is so intense I drop my phone, my body trembling on my mattress.

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