Page 43 of Whispers of Obsession

sleepingbeauty.mp4

Trepidation makes my stomach sink as I click to download the file. As soon as it’s loaded, a black screen shows with only the white ‘play’ symbol. I wipe my palms on my jeans and press play, turning up the sound.

I jerk when the black fades and the footage shows my empty bedroom. Who took this? My heart beats double time and I tremble from head to toe.Please don’t be Mr. Spiro. Please don’t be him.

Dread floods me as I watch myself enter my bedroom, wrapped in a towel from my shower. I reach for the lotion I always use and have to look away when I drop the towel to start massaging it in.

Someone was in my room, invading my privacy, andfilmingme. Without my knowledge or consent. This is different from the video I sent Mr. Spiro. I was a willing participant then. Okay, so I didn’t particularlywantto send him the video, but I was desperate and at least I knew what I was doing. This though…this feels like the worst kind of violation.

I watch, sickly fascinated, as I continue my nighttime ritual of getting ready for bed, forgoing writing in my journal because I was inexplicably exhausted.

What I don’t understand is how there can be someone in my room filming me when my mom was actually home last night. From the angle of the recording, with the phone set up across from my bed, I would have noticed someone standing there in my room, recording me, so they must have been hiding somewhere. My closet if I had to guess. Or under the bed. In another room maybe?

That brings back bad memories of my stepfather, so I shove that thought aside quickly. This isn’t him. It’s not his style.

I fast forward through the video that shows me sleeping, going too fast and too far, and having to rewind a little when a flicker of movement on screen catches my eye.

Relief makes my knees buckle, and I fall to the floor of the bathroom, clutching my phone in my hand like a desperate lifeline. It’s him. Not Mr. Spiro. The masked man.

I’ve never been so relieved to see him.

He creeps closer to my bed and stares down at me before sitting on the edge. On screen, I don’t react in any way. In the here and now, my breathing hitches.

He surprises me by reaching for my journal, and I watch as he becomes angry. It’s in the set of his shoulders, the way his hand fists as he reads, the manner in which he violently turns the pages before tearing them out one by one and shredding them.

I frown.What could I have written that would anger him so much?

He stands, frees his cock from his pants and begins to jerk it. His movements are angry, vengeful even, not pleasurable.

Getting to his feet, he leans over me and uses the gloved thumb of his free hand to part my lips. He’s still punishing his dick with his other hand, and realization hits me a moment before he grunts and releases himself all over my face.

Fuck.

It’s not toothpaste on my neck.

I can’t tear my eyes from the screen as he pushes his thumb back between my lips, and I swear I see myself suck. That can’t be real, right? There’s no way…I can’t do…that…in my sleep.

His angry stance seems to melt into one of satisfaction as he rubs his release into my skin.

“That’s it, Cora. Take me. Feed on my essence like a dirty little whore. Get used to my taste, baby, soon you’ll crave it more than life itself.”

Fuck.

Stumbling awkwardly to my feet, I rush over to the sinks and turn the nearest one on full. I wrench my top off andsplash myself with cold water, clawing at my skin in a desperate attempt to remove the dried-on cum. I feel gross, too hot, ashamed…and something else too.

My phone vibrates, but I ignore it, obsessed with getting clean. It goes off again and again, but I don’t stop. The water finally heats and turns scalding, but I still continue to splash it against my skin and use my nails to scrape off every last trace of the masked man.

Tears prickmy eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Why would he do this? Was there a clue in his final, whispered words? What did he say again? He called me a dirty little whore.

Well, I feel like one. And that’s not fair because I had zero say in what he did to me last night. How does that make me a whore?

My phone continues to vibrate across the floor, and I know I can’t ignore it any longer. I shut off the tap, grab a paper towel to pat my now sensitive skin dry, and sigh as I pick it up and see a slew of messages from the masked man.

Unknown number

Did you like that, slut?

Deny it all you like, but there’s no refuting how your body craves and responds to me.

---