Page 11 of Sinner

So I nodded, almost as if my mind had followed my body in acquiescing to the monster.

Surrendering to his twisted needs.

“That’s a good girl. Now, open your pretty lips wide.”

I did as he asked, even as I felt my eyes fill with tears.

“Aw. You’re afraid of me, my lamb. You should be. I’m going to give you exactly what you want, a taste of blood and a sense of belonging. Wider, little lamb. I need to feel your jaws clamping down on my dick the moment I impale that sweet mouth of yours.”

As he rubbed the tip of his cock across my lips, I gathered a sweet taste of his pre-cum.

He thrust his cock inside, shoving the tip against the back of my throat as he dug his fingers into my neck, squeezing until it was impossible to breathe. “That’s perfect, sweet Desdemona. Now suck me dry.”

A bold and heartless set of claws raked across my chest. I jerked up with a gasp, slapping both hands around my throat, touching my skin, feeling for any scrapes.

Or blood.

My instinct screamed for me to run, but there was nowhere to go. I was trapped in my room.

There was someone there. I could swear I heard a sharp growl, the raspy sound more like an injured animal determined to seek revenge. This couldn’t be happening.

It was impossible to control the tremors creating a suffocating sense of reality by understanding the dream I’d just experienced had seemed so real.

You’re safe. Just a dream. Nothing more.

But I couldn’t be convinced. Images flooded my mind of the horrors I’d experienced only hours before. My God. What had I stumbled into?

I sucked in air, blinking over and over again until the tears stinging my eyes rolled down both cheeks. Somewhere between memories of the horror from the night before and the ugliness from dreaming about a sick man, the fog disrupting my mind began to clear.

The monster wasn’t standing in front of me. He wasn’t hovering over my bed, eager to force me to suck his thick cock. I folded my arms, rubbing them ferociously. Something had been here. No, someone.

I knew it. I felt his presence. And I gathered a lingering scent of his aftershave. Oh, my God. He knew where I lived. As I jerked the covers up to my shoulders, I fought the anger and terror, the combination making me sick. Think. I had to think.

So many games were competition based, often several players at the same time. Many allowed for communication, the virtual headsets capturing every moan of frustration, every whimper of desire. Who was he? I closed my eyes, reaching out to my memories, trying to narrow down the most avid players.

And those who became the angriest with their loss.

There were too many because I didn’t stick to a single game. I played more than a dozen depending on my mood. They were research, my livelihood. Being an active participant in the gaming world also allowed me a feeling of family, something I needed desperately. I was sick inside. Angry for not fighting the monster. Furious for falling into a twisted web he had woven around him like a suit of armor.

Remember, you’re a good girl.

I laughed and cinched my eyes shut. Was I trying to convince myself? If I was so damn good, why had I had a horrible dream? About him? A monster?

I was disgusted with myself for having a sick wet dream about him. What was wrong with me? What secrets had I divulged in the games? That I was an excellent marksman and enjoyed killing enemy soldiers? That I ran into a burning building without hesitation, or I enjoyed walking across flaming hot coals?

No. It wasn’t about the military or assassin games I enjoyed so much.

It was about the goddamn Obsidian Society, some secretive organization I’d yet to learn anything about. If it truly existed, no one knew what it entailed. Whispers of its existence had occurred more than once on the dark web. Of course every gaming company had various tiers of their customers whether anyone knew it or not. That was typical in the competitive world. From what I’d heard about the secret society, the games were so real that several players had allowed their real life to be infused with the darkness of the competition.

The thought excited me more than I should admit.

However, the men and women of the upper tier within the Blackwell Group were all fucking predators. At least in my opinion. They had a penchant for blood and violence. I’d been caught in the trap of enticement the moment I’d won a preview game, beating not only the odds but bringing the darkness straight into my life. The game had followed me home and I was still entranced by the thought of it.

I’d found myself needing reminders of why I’d wanted to infiltrate the company in the first place.

Hate.

Pure. Utter. Black. Hate.

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