Page 5 of Reckless Hearts

I may be completely unhinged for allowing someone to violate me like this, but I’ve had worse things inside my pussy. Like those toxic devil dicks that show up at 3 a.m., an extension of low-frequency douchebags who quoteThe Alchemistand expect women to flock to them because they’re sospiritual.

“That’s my good girl. Deep breaths, baby.”

Weirdly, I trust Wes. Even as the knife presses deeper, I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the scratching of the blade as it penetrates gradually, my walls clenching tighter around it with each inch. He goes slowly, and I count each breath.

“You think I don’t see your darkness in those pretty scars?” he murmurs, easing the blade deeper. “You’re a haunted house, Tatum. So perfectly cursed. I could fuck you senseless with this knife until you’re screaming in pain and pleasure, your insides torn apart as you beg for me to stop. But I won’t stop, baby. I’d fuck you like a savage. Ruthless. Unapologetic. I’d violate you ‘til your insides are dripping down my cock, until your swollen little pussy has us soaked in blood and cum, pleasure and pain and your sweet fucking juices.”

Just when I think he’s about to relent, he pushes the blade in deeper, eliciting a sharp gasp as I brace myself, ready to call my safeword. But then he pulls back, slowly retracting the knife while his fingers spread me open.

Wes stands behind me, the knife raised, its tip glinting in the moonlight. He tilts his mask just enough to expose his mouth and sticks out his long, flat tongue, dragging it from base to tip along the edge of the knife. “Mm. Your fear tastes exquisite.”

He trails the blade along my throat, pressing it gently against my chin to coax it upward. Wes threads his fingers through my hair, gripping my scalp firmly as he tugs the strands, forcing my head back to expose my neck.

I study the contours of his lower face: the dark, rugged stubble on a sharp jawline, and his full, puffy lips glistening with myjuices. This fleeting glimpse is both mesmerising and unsettling. It’s a stark reminder that the person towering over me is real, someone who knows me on a level deeper than anyone I’ve ever known. The realisation is as daunting as it is terrifying.

He flips the blade around, wrapping one hand around the flat edge while the other grips my cheeks, squeezing them until my mouth falls open. With a sudden urgency, he kisses me, but before the moment even settles, it’s over.

He spits into my mouth, delivers a sharp slap to my cheek, and tugs down his mask. Within seconds, it’s all done. I should feel appalled, violated even, but instead, there’s a strange liberation in the taste of smoke and peppermint that lingers on my tongue. My gaze fixates on the black mesh holes where his eyes should be, my fingertips brushing against my bottom lip where his mouth should be.

I had only two rules going into this: the mask stays on, and he must never break character. Despite my demands, a desperate curiosity about his appearance gnaws at me. But my wandering thoughts are shattered when he forces the handle into my mouth.

“Get it nice and wet for me, baby.”

I suck on the intrusion, coating it with my saliva as he pushes it deeper. I swirl my tongue around the handle, and he slides it in further, then withdraws, fucking my mouth slowly and torturously. He presses it deeper into my throat, until spit gathers and I almost choke. There goes my stellar gag reflex.

The next moment, there’s a phone shoved in my face. I really don’t want to say the word that’s about to come out of my mouth, especially knowing he could have easily stabbed me to death—cunt first. But this is where I draw the line.

“Yellow,” I try to say, but my voice is strained and muffled around the knife. I part my fingers in a peace sign and tap them on my arm three times, signaling my safeword.

Wes yanks the knife away, like an intubation tube being forcibly removed from my throat. I suck in a breath as oxygen infiltrates my lungs.

“Yellow,” I say again, my voice hoarse.

I rub my throat to ease the pressure and push myself to swallow. Wes tilts his head to the side. “You’re going to have to elaborate a little on that one, dead girl. I can’t read your mind. Tell me where your head is at.” His voice softens, sending a tingle down my spine. But I can't quite tell if he’s being sincere or if it’s just another part of his game.

“I don’t want to be filmed,” I rasp. “At least, I don’t want to show my face.”

As if on cue, my phone vibrates, pulling me from my thoughts.

“You going to get that, dead girl?” he asks, his voice snapping back into a cruel smirk. “It’s okay, I’ll wait.”

I pull the phone from my stocking and swipe up.

Unknown, again.

I open the message to find a looping video of Wes standing over me, my head tipped back as he pushes the knife handle into my throat. My heart leaps as I realise that someone else, someone I don’t know, is filming this. Wes is right here, but the video shows that there’s another player in this game. The realisation hits hard: I’m not alone with Wes; someone is watching us. The camera's view is zoomed in on the window from the outside. My heart immediately quickens as I snap my gaze toward the window, but there’s nobody there.

Another video pops up, but this time, it’s just me, leaning in front of the window, my forearms resting on the windowsill as my head tips back, eyes closed in pleasure, silent cries escaping my parted mouth.

Unknown: Does it make your pussy wet knowing you’re being watched, dead girl?

Weirdly, it does. But that doesn’t stop the sinking feeling tearing through my gut as I rise from the ottoman, scrambling to face Wes. “Someone’s watching us,” I say, shoving my phone in his masked face. What if the person in this room with me isn’t really Wes?

As I’m bracing myself for him to call off our playtime, he snatches the device from my hands and pockets it. Then he presses the tip of the knife into my chin, tilting it to meet those black holes. “Good little victims don’t get to choose how they die, dead girl. So let them watch.”

All I need is confirmation that this is part of some delicious plan he’s orchestrated. And now I have it. If this other person were a real threat, Wes would undoubtedly reveal his true self.

My gaze follows the tip of the knife as he glides it over my throat, down my neck and chest, until it reaches the edge of my corset.

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