Page 18 of Behind the Shadows
7
KIP
Growing up, I was surrounded by horror—real, visceral horror—not the kind splashed across a movie screen. It lived in my walls, my veins, my lungs. At thirteen, I was dragged into a world so warped, so vile, it rewrote my sense of reality. My uncle called it a rite of passage. To me, it was a descent—no, a free fall—into madness. And it never let go. It rewired me, taught me to spot the rot in people, the filth they hid behind fake smiles. But Holland’s sins? They should’ve rotted in the ground with her. The woman drifting through this room wasn’t supposed to exist. She was a fever dream, a cursed echo that clawed through my nights.
Nearly groaning at my bad timing, I slid into her closet and cracked the door, but only enough to see her. Just enough to breathe her in. As I scanned her room and waited, something coiled inside me. Whoever this woman really was … she wasn’t a ghost from my past—she was something else entirely. And she was hiding monsters.
Her entrance into the room was like a gust of fresh air, and she carelessly threw her purse onto the bench at the foot of her bed. She gracefully sat down and kicked off her black heels,revealing toned and shapely legs that seemed to go on for miles. That skirt didn’t just hug her curves—it worshipped them.
With swift movements, her nimble fingers unbuttoned her cream silk blouse, revealing a delicate lace camisole underneath. The fabric draped over her like a second skin, accentuating every inch of her. I was entranced by her effortless beauty and confidence.Jesus, she’s beautiful.
A rush of heat surged through me as she undressed, and I greedily soaked in every inch of her. She moved with a sensual grace, her lithe form slowly shedding layers until all that remained was a red thong that I desperately wanted to remove myself. The way the fabric hugged her hips and emphasized her curves made my cock painfully hard against my jeans. As she walked toward her bathroom, the cool air caused her pink nipples to harden and stand erect. My tongue darted over my lower lip.
She flipped on the light, and I could see her more clearly now—her long hair cascading past her shoulders, the smooth skin of her back glistening under the warm glow. Within seconds, I heard the shower turn on and steam began to swirl in the room. I couldn't remain there any longer, yet the soothing sound of water splashing on tile held me captive. Leaving wasn’t an option either. The fact that she was so unaware, so exposed, while I watched from the shadows … it lit a fire inside me.
The latch clicked softly while she opened it, and my instincts screamed at me to leave before she saw me leering. But my cock demanded more. I pushed the door wider, slow and deliberate, her shirts brushing my arm like they welcomed me there. I should’ve stayed hidden. The thought of her catching me—seeing me—was a high I couldn’t resist.
Behind that transparent shower wall, every slick, glistening inch of her was on display. And I knew, without question, I’d found my next obsession.
A fierce hunger ripped through me, and I tore open my jeans, my cock springing free, pulsating with raw need. The grate of my lowering zipper filled the cramped space. She threw her head back, water running down the curve of her neck, streaming over her full tits.
I pictured stepping through the glass, hands spanning her waist, my fingers digging into the soft flesh as terror twisted her beautiful features. In my mind, I pressed her cheek to the tile wall, and her chin trembled. I could almost taste the humid heat of her breath fogging my skin, feel the electric spike of her nails scraping my thigh in protest. My cock twitched as I imagined shoving her to her knees with such force the grout of the tile floor would bite into her skin. She’d try to look back at me, but I’d only clench a fist, twisting her hair tighter.
My other hand slipped lower and stroked the evidence of my need, as I conjured every depraved scenario. I wanted to hear her beg for mercy, wanted to see her lip tremble, to watch tears mingle with the water on her face as I made her mine over and over.
Her jaw would ache with the force of my cock fucking her mouth. I would grasp her by the hinge of her jaw, keeping her open for me. Tongue flattened, drool slicking my shaft and running in strings down her chin to puddle on the shower floor. She would start to cry. I would make sure of it—tiny, silent tears diluted by the spray of the water, and I would watch them pour freely, a perfect blend of pain and devotion.
I would leave marks—red, sprawling handprints, teeth at the hollow of her throat, a bruise blooming across her skin. She would whimper, the sound muffled by the thick air. I would pull her head back, making her bend, making her obey. And even through the cascade of tears and denials, she would welcome every fucking second of it.
There was a depraved pleasure in her humiliation, in the knowledge that she would take exactly what I gave her—no questions, only aching, grateful obedience. I pictured the end, how I’d pull free and watch her collapse on all fours, wrists buckling while she coughed and spat and gasped for the oxygen she so desperately craved. I’d kneel next to her, my palm guiding her chin up, my thumb forcing her eyelids open to meet mine.
“Fuck, you look so good like this,” I whispered, my voice ragged in the echoing tile chamber. In the fantasy, her lips would part for whatever came next—words, spit, my cock in her cunt—and she’d tremble, waiting, wanting, ruined.
I pressed my forehead to the wall and let myself pulse with the sick longing, body strung tight between the fantasy and the ache in my palm.
A sound from the shower pulled my attention back to her in time to see her bend over, her full ass tipped up in the air. A raging fire burned within me, threatening to consume every last ounce of self-control. My muscles tensed as I resisted the urge to burst out of the closet, slam her against the shower wall, and bury my cock inside her. The thought of plunging into her tight, sweet cunt until she was raw and screaming my name consumed me.
As my climax neared, my short, jagged nails clawed into the wall behind me, the cool plaster crumbling slightly beneath my urgent grasp. With a guttural growl, I erupted, thick ropes of cum painting one of her navy silk blouses. The satisfaction of marking her clothes filled me with a twisted pleasure.
I imagined her horror and fear as she discovered the stains, the shock rooting her to the spot as she clutched the soiled fabric. The thought of her gaze widening in disbelief and her lips parting in a silent scream was almost enough to bring me to the brink once again. The room spun around me as I panted, shaking from the intensity of my release and the forbidden thrillof my actions. Every nerve ending was alive and electric, my senses heightened to the point of overload. The world outside the closet faded away, and all that existed were my lust, my desire, and the echo of my ragged breaths.
Once I returned to earth, feeling the weight of reality settle back onto my shoulders, I carefully tucked myself back into my jeans and fastened them. The steady sound of the running water continued to echo softly in the background, a gentle reminder of the moment’s serenity. I stepped out of the dimly lit space, the scent of freshly laundered clothes lingering in the air, and made my way toward the bathroom door. There, I peered at her from the corner, positioning myself just beyond the reach of my reflection in the mirror, observing her in a space where my presence remained unseen.
My attention remained fixed on her, unable to look away, and there was no doubt she was the same woman I had seen in the car. Yet, that fact no longer held as much importance.
Holland had become an intoxicating drug to me, coursing through my veins like a potent poison, consuming every fiber of my being. Her essence was like a dark, addictive elixir, and I was determined to possess her, regardless of the cost. My desire for her had quickly morphed into an obsession, a relentless hunger that would drive me to the ends of the earth to claim her as mine. It was merely a matter of time before I bent her will, forcing her to submit and serve me—serve her monster. Only then would I uncover the truth, even if it meant prying it from her lips with force.
Yet, the mystery remained unsolved. Who was the other girl in the photo? The question lodged itself in my skull like a splinter, impossible to ignore. Her identity held the key to a door I’d struggled to close, a chapter of my past that had haunted me for years. Once I uncovered her name, perhaps I could finally lay it all to rest and find the peace that had eluded me for so long.
I cautiously retreated from the doorway, ensuring that the sound of running water would mask my presence before she could finish her shower. Silently, I slipped into the kitchen, searching around the living room. There on the coffee table was a manila envelope. Smirking, I hurried over and picked it up. I had no idea what was inside, but she did, and that was all that mattered. The contents were a mystery to me, but she knew their importance, and that was my leverage. With a swift motion, I broke the seal and pulled out a few pages just enough to ensure they would catch her attention. I placed them on the counter by the kitchen sink in hopes she realized that someone had moved and opened the envelope.
In the meantime, whatever else I learned about her would decide the timing of my return, but next time I would be ready.
The evening draggedon as I worked with Riley at the bar, my mind consumed by thoughts of Holland. Memories flooded in, causing chaos and confusion as I tried to piece together what was real. Was the woman I saw truly Samantha, or could it be her sister, cousin, or some other relative in the picture with her? The uncertainty gnawed at me, making it hard to focus on anything else.
Riley nudged me in the side with her elbow. “Hey, your customer is calling you over.” Her gaze narrowed at me. “Where’s your head at tonight?”
I shrugged. “Sorry, I’ve got some shit going on.”
