Page 52 of Devious Delusions

“Fuck!” she shouts, and her head falls back.

“If I’m not real, who’s making you come?”

She shakes in my hold, and I look down her body to see the way she’s soaking my hand, the black latex glove shining in the low light, and I fully cut off her air as I ask one final question.

“If I’m not real, why do you want me to be?”

Her mouth opens on a scream, but I tighten my hold, keeping it trapped in her throat, so it only comes out as a hoarse cry. More tears run down her cheeks and over her plush lips as she pushes back against me, dropping her phone.

I speed up and fuck her harder, needing a puddle and for there to be a stain on the floor she fucked her husband on. To literally wash it away. Banding my arm around her waist, I lift her off her feet, so she’s at my mercy and I can abuse her neglected clit. There’s no care or soft touches. I make rapid circles with my thumb while fucking her harder, and my forearm burns from how much I’m working the muscle to get what I need. I pull her down on my fingers as I curl them inside her and the helpful little whore rolls her hips. Even with the restricted position, she finds a way to take control.

That’s not something she’s allowed with me until she confesses, so I keep her weight balanced with my hand between her thighs and cross my other arm over her hips to take the syringe from my pocket. The needle cap is barely heard over the sound of her moans, and she’s lost to her desire as I slowly push the sharp point into her outer thigh.

24

DELILAH

Asharp sting hits my cheek, making me grumble as I’m dragged out of unconsciousness. It happens again and my chin sticks to something wet and smooth as I attempt to lift my head that has suddenly become too heavy for my neck to carry.

The grogginess gives way to panic as my memories jolt me. The freak is real, and he was touching me. He held me in place with his hand between my legs while he forced me to speak to Asher.

My head snaps up and I blink to clear my vision. Everything is light but there’s something compressing my lungs and each breath is a struggle.

I can’t move my arms or legs, and blink a few more times to get my sight to adjust. The kitchen floor is sparkling, so much so that I can see my own reflection before I register the way my calves are secured to the dining chair. Each leg is tied to the chair legs with plastic wrap, the transparent material pulled taut around my muscles, and my skin bunches at either end of my knees. My knees are on the outside frame of the seat, which forces my legs apart. The same has been done to my bicepsagainst the wooden frame and the plastic wrap squeaks when I attempt to move my hands.

The only thing covering my naked body is the same plastic wrapped around my chest. Everything else is exposed. My skin heats and I try to shift in the seat, but it wobbles as though the wooden support has been undone.

Heavy booted footsteps move behind me, and I freeze in place. They’re close, too close, and I didn’t even notice them in the fog. Each step is slow and the plastic wrap crinkles with my harsh breathing. A black, latex-gloved hand reaches over my shoulder and taps my cheek twice. “You nearly missed breakfast.”

Whatever mental issue I have is magnified by a hundred in him. This is too real to be a hallucination or something my mind has conjured. Each sense is activated as he walks away and the oven door rattles. Sugar, butter, and citrus hit my sinuses. The comforting smells trick me into being able to breathe easier.

The new dining table hasn’t been delivered and the space is too open, leaving me on display, and I watch the birds take flight from the trees at the back of the property. It’s all so open, and I want to be them. I want to be free and to fly.

Instead, I’m treated like leftovers no one wanted and wrapped in plastic.

Wood scrapes against the tile in time with his booted steps until he’s finished dragging a chair opposite me. There’s a new mask, it still covers his eyes and mouth, but the creepy clown mask has a wide smile with blood-red lips smudged towards the fake eyes painted on it. He hasn’t changed out of his stalker uniform of black cargo pants, and the black hoodie does nothing to diminish his frame. He’s tall, a few inches taller than Asher, so he must be six foot four or five.

The freak sits back in the seat, and I pray for the floor to give way and the glass to spontaneously shatter so he falls out of the house.

It doesn’t, unfortunately, and he rests a tray of pastries on his thighs, steam rising from the croissants and lemon puffs. I always loved them when I was younger. My nanny would make them every Saturday and let me sneak one after she warmed them in the oven.

Ignoring the freak, I stare out at the trees. He can’t know anything about me. It’s just a coincidence that he’s picked something that I have a connection with. He grabs the front of my chair and drags me forward, the wooden seat sliding as though it’s separate from the rest of the chair, and he has the fucking audacity to act like I’m inconveniencing him.

“Open up, koukla mou.” He lifts a lemon puff off the tray.

My neck isn’t attached to anything, so I turn my head to the side and bite down on my own teeth. The smooth latex glides across my skin as he wraps his fingers around my jaw, the digits digging in. He forcefully tugs until I’m looking at him.

I can feel the heat of my glare as the freak sits there and drops the pastry to the tray. Little crumbs flake off and attach themselves to his pants, which he doesn’t brush away, and the chair screeches as he leans forward until my nose nearly touches the mask.

“I’m better than him. I try to feed you, but you ignore me. He made you skip a meal, and you fucking crawled like his personal whore?”

“Wife,” I correct as the plastic rubs against my skin, burning with each squeak. I try to free myself and argue. “Are you watching us, you sick fuck?”

He shakes his head and pushes my face back. His fingers add another burn against my jaw, and he looks me up and down as he playfully says, “I watch you.” Sitting back in his seat, he liftsthe pastry again and brings it to my lips. “Keep better company and I wouldn’t have to.”

I laugh. I don’t mean to, but this shit has gone a million miles past insane and he’s fucking nuts. “What? You’re the better company with your creepy habits?”

He looks at me head-on and despite being unable to see his eyes, my laugh dies in my throat. His shoulders tense and his voice is even deeper as he says, “If you think yourhusbandis innocent or truthful, you really are mental.”

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