Behind the Mas

You grab a drink from the waiter's tray, oblivious to the way his eyes linger on you as you pass by. The sequins on your black dress catch the light, and the slit up the trumpet skirt reveals the porcelain skin of your bare thigh. Your heels click on the tiles, but the sound is swallowed by the music and murmurs around us. Your silver-grey eyes flash behind your feathered mask.

You're angry. And I won't pretend not to know why.

Across the room, he stands with his hand resting on her lower back, laughing at an unheard joke, oblivious to the storm that's about to hit him in the form of a five-foot-nothing woman armed with a secret that could ruin his family. Two nights ago, he was in your bed, whispering promises in your ear while he fucked you--telling you he'd leave her, that you were the one he wanted. And like a fool, you believed him.

Oh, sweet Dahlia. You should have known better. The mistress never gets the happy ending. He'll offer you the world all while using your body until he tires of it. And then he'll replace you with someone younger, someone fresher.

To him, you're just a fleeting pleasure. But to me, you're something far more precious.

I often wonder what it is you get out of this arrangement with him. You think you want him, but I know better. Money doesn't buy happiness, my pet. You've convinced yourself you're satisfied, but I see the truth. I know you better than he ever will. After a year--maybe two, if he's lucky--the charm will wear off. And then what? You're not made for his world--quiet dinners and family outings and adorning his arm at these ridiculous fashion galas. You're not made for the biweekly missionary routine and humdrum oral sex after his blue pill kicks in.

You need more than that, Dahlia.

Your body needs to be licked and sucked and punished and fucked. Not by a man who thinks a few minutes of mediocre sex could bring you to orgasm. No, you need someone who knows your desires, someone who sees your dark side and doesn't flinch. Someone who embraces it.

You need a man who understands that pain isn't the opposite of pleasure--it's merely an extension of it.

You want to be taken, restrained, owned. You crave the kind of freedom that comes with surrender--where you lose yourself completely, your mind going blank, and you can't remember your own name--just your body. You need someone who knows exactly when to push you, when to hold you, and when to make you beg.

You need a man like me.

I watch you now, your hand shaking enough to crack the flute as you set it on the table beside me. That anger--it's new, and I can't help but want to taste it. Own it. You think you're hiding it, but I can see through it. It pulses around you, inviting me closer.

You don't see me, not yet, but I'm there. Just a breath away, waiting for the right moment to step into the shadow you've cast and show you who you truly are.

I lower my head, straightening my mask. They're so convenient, aren't they? Behind them, we're all playing parts. Even me.

How could I miss the opportunity the anonymity presented? To be so close to you without needing to hide. It's invigorating, and I can't help but relish it. There's something intoxicating about watching you--knowing you're unaware of my gaze, unaware of how close I am. I don't need permission. I don't need your consent. In this moment, I can take what I want.

You breeze past, and I reach out a hand, the chiffon of your dress brushing against my outstretched fingers. I curl them into my fist one by one, holding myself back from doing more. Vanilla fragrance lingers in your wake. Delectably sweet and innocent--just as you pretend to be. I run my thumb along the edge of your glass, smearing my fingerprint through your lipstick stain. Ruby red. His favorite.

He doesn't know the real you. And how could he? The Dahlia you've shown him is nothing but a carefully curated lie--one of the many masks you wear, each one more perfect than the last. I've watched you slip between your roles as effortlessly as changing clothes. You're the ideal mistress, never asking for more than he's willing to offer. The quiet daughter who calls every Sunday. The carefree friend, laughing at jokes you don't find funny.

You're the girl everyone admires but never truly knows. The one they can look at without ever really seeing.

But I see you. Not just the girl wearing the chameleon's skin, but the real you--the Dahlia you become when there's no one else to please, no one there to impress. When it's just you, alone with your desires, waiting to be known.

And I know what you need. The dominance. The submission. The pleasure you're too afraid to admit you crave. I'll show you there's no shame in giving into desires.

I sip my scotch, my gaze following you over the rim, watching the subtle sway of your hips, the quiet defiance in every step you take. Your blunt bob quivers with each movement, highlighting the sharpness of your jawline. Yet your lips smooth into a practiced smile as he turns to you, his eyes widening behind his red velvet mask. He wasn't expecting you to make an appearance tonight. He didn't think you would be so daring. Shame on him.

Fear flashes through his eyes when you place your delicate hand into his wife's, kissing her cheek like you belong here. You're perfect, as always. I wonder who you've been introduced as. A med student, perhaps. A friend of his daughters. Maybe even a reporter trying to get an inside scoop on his charity work--this masquerade is being thrown in his honor, after all.

I step from the shadows, weaving through bodies, bright colored fabrics brushing my black-on-black ensemble like I'm a canvas in a room full of chaotic splashes. It's not as extravagant as his suit--not nearly--but to the untrained eye, they might pass as similar. I won't deny that was the point. The way my hair is swept back mirrors his--though where his is peppered with grey, mine remains a dark, untouched chestnut. Though the lighting will do well to hide that.

My gaze is fixed on you as I cross the room, and the moment our eyes meet, I see the briefest flicker in your posture. Your smile shifts almost imperceptibly, and your chest rises a little quicker, betraying your composure. There's something in the way your gaze sharpens, something you try to hide, but it's gone before I can fully read it. I hold your stare, drinking in the way your breath catches, the soft flutter of your lashes. For a heartbeat, I think you might look away, but you don't. Neither do I.

Tonight, I will not hide. You will see me. And you will see yourself. I'll strip away every mask, every role you've been playing, until there's nothing left but you and me and the truth. And once you've seen it all--the dark side of me and the even darker side of yourself--I'll have you.

You blink, and your smile returns--more practiced now--as his wife touches your forearm, excusing herself and extricating from the group. She doesn't miss the way he steps closer to you when she slips away. Neither do I. But the careful touches and soft glances of yesterday are gone. Now he grabs your wrist, his eyes flashing behind his mask, and tugs you into the shadows. I can't hear your words over the music, but I can see the pink in your cheeks, the way your shoulders tighten. He's angry. But I know something he doesn't--you're trying to push him. To get him to break.

Your ruby lips pull back from your teeth, your chin lifting with a defiance that begs for punishment. I feel it--the challenge, the invitation. You want to be corrected, don't you? To be put in your place. To be disciplined.

The question is, Dahlia, do you really think he will give it to you?

If I were in his place, I'd take you over my lap, force your dress up around your hips and spank your pretty little ass until it burned with heat. You'd gasp for air, squirm beneath me, and beg for more.

But that's a thought he'll never have. He has no idea that's exactly the kind of fantasy that makes your cunt drip with anticipation.

He's the wrong man, Dahlia. But you'll learn that soon enough.

His hand is still on your wrist. When he leans in to further chastise, I see it--the way your lips part and your thighs clench, not at his words, but because his grip tightens, fingertips digging into your skin. It's not just the physical pressure. No, it's something deeper. Something darker. It's this single act laced with his dominance that brings out your true colors.

But he can't see your arousal for what it really is.

I know that if he were to lead you upstairs right now, if he were to order you onto your hands and knees, you would take his cock. And you would cum.

But he wouldn't push you to that edge. He doesn't have that power. He can't do what I can.

The music swells, and the room fills with footsteps and swirling skirts as people jostle for places on the dance floor. Before he can stop you, your hand winds through his and tugs him into the center of the room. His stiff posture betrays his discomfort, eyes bouncing off the walls, but he follows--reluctantly. He has no choice. To refuse would raise too many questions.

From my spot along the wall, I watch how he positions himself awkwardly in front of you, trying to maintain some distance. But you're not having it. Your hand rests lightly on his arm, but your nails dig into his sleeve. To the average eye, you're guiding him effortlessly, but I see through it. You're daring him, begging him to act. To put you in your place. But he doesn't rise to the occasion.

He never will.

I smirk, leaning forward enough to catch the wife's gaze across the room. Her eyes are narrowed, fixed on you, but she doesn't move. She won't make a scene--not here. She'll wait for the safety of closed doors before she tears into him.

But she needn't worry. Tonight is the last night you'll see him.

I push off the wall, tired of this charade. My body moves toward the dance floor as you're spun around the room, shifting from partner to partner with an elegant grace. Your eyes sparkle at each man, your white teeth shining below your mask.

They're putty in your hands. Each one struts, chests puffed, their feet tripping over themselves to get back to you when a new woman takes your place. You let them think they matter in those fleeting seconds. But they're nothing. And every man you touch just makes me want you more.

When I reach you, you've returned to him, his grip stiff on your lower back. His eyes are averted, lost in the crowd, searching for his wife amongst the bystanders. Without asking, I take your hand from him, the faint hesitation in your fingers telling me all I need to know.

You feel it, don't you, Dahlia? Just a touch from me, and you can't pretend any longer.

Your eyes widen slightly as you look up at me, your hand slipping into mine. The coldness of your skin against my palm sends a shiver down my spine, but I hold you tighter, my fingers intertwining with yours, locking you in place. My left hand slides to your back, the pressure a glimpse of what's to come. Your eyes dart between mine, and I can see the wheels turning. You're trying to read me, like all those other men, trying to figure out what I want from you, who I need you to become.

Can't you see it? My dark, depraved Dahlia. I want you. All of you. Every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your soul. I'll take it all.

The music flows, but everything beyond us fades into nothing. In my arms, you feel delicate, like I could break you if I so desired. Your dress clings to your body, your breasts brushing my chest as I pull you closer, inhaling your warm vanilla scent. I can't resist the temptation to let my fingers drift down your spine, following your shape beneath the fabric. I pause at the curve of your ass, feeling you tremble beneath my touch. You don't pull away. You don't resist.

Your lips part slightly, and for a moment, I wonder if you'll lean into me, if you'll let go of the mask--your control--even for a second. The tension hangs between us, thick and undeniable. I feel it pulse through the space where our bodies are still connected, like electricity. I know you feel it too--the spark not just in the air but deep inside us both, something that calls to us.

But then the music shifts, and reluctantly, I release you for the partner change. You step back, your fingers lingering for a heartbeat before they slip from mine. I notice the hesitation in your movements, the small catch in your breath as you return to him. You try and mask it, but I see it. The way your gaze flickers back to me, just for a moment, searching.

You feel the pull between us, don't you, Dahlia? The connection you can't deny.

Perhaps you see me too. You don't understand it yet, but you will. The dark side of me that mirrors something deep inside you. There's a flicker in your eyes, something sharp and hungry, and I know you feel it. The power that calls to you, the control I exude. I can see it in the blush of your cheeks when I catch your eye, the way your body leans toward mine as we pass each other.

You know what I can give you. The pain, the pleasure, the surrender. I know just how badly you crave it.

When he spins you out, he pauses, his eyes scanning the room, catching sight of his wife's murderous glare across the floor. Without a second thought, his hand slips from yours, and he walks toward her.

And just like that, you're left behind. The moment his touch leaves you, I take it upon myself to fill that empty space. My hand splays on your stomach, inching up your body, over the curve of your chest, until my fingers close around your throat. It's not tight--not yet--just enough to make your breath catch. I lean in, my chest pressing lightly against your back, my lips skimming your neck. The heat between us is undeniable, and I watch, savoring the way your skin tightens beneath my breath, goosebumps rising on your arms. A soft moan escapes your lips, and your body stills in my arms. Your hips tilt back slightly, almost as if you're begging me to take you right here.

My left arm tightens around your ribs, pulling you closer against me. Your body fits perfectly with mine, and I take my time, letting the moment stretch. My right hand loosens from your throat, sliding down your neck to toy with the edge of your collarbone. Dancers twirl around us, but we're no longer moving, locked together in the center of the floor. I slip my hand into my pocket, the keycard cool against my palm. I lift it and press it gently to the front of your dress, sliding it between fabric and skin to nestle against your breast. Your hand rises, covering mine, your nails biting into my skin. For a heartbeat, you hold me there, unwilling to let go. But when your fingers finally loosen, I pull away. You don't turn around. Not until I've returned to the shadows.

I watch you carefully as you slowly spin, your gaze catching his retreating back as he reaches his wife at the dance floor's edge. Your chest rises with a deeper breath, and something flickers in your face--uncertainty, a crack in the mask you've been wearing all night. You glance around the rest of the room, but you don't see me now. It gives me a rush--knowing I've crept under your skin. You're not ready to let go of me yet.

Your hand rises to your breast, and the keycard catches the light as you hold it between your fingers, your eyes returning to him. Maybe I've succeeded in my little game, making you believe it was he who slipped it to you. I can see the idea toying with your mind, excitement and anticipation making your breath quicken. Part of you must wonder if tonight is the night he'll give you what you truly want, the things you crave in the dark.

You leave the twirling bodies behind, starting toward the staircase and the rooms waiting above. The soft click of your heels echoes on the marble as you ascend. Every step you take, my eyes follow. You glance back once, but I'm invisible from my place beside the bar.

I signal the bartender with two fingers, and he slides a glass toward me without a word. I don't look at it as I pick it up. My gaze stays locked on you, watching every movement, every shift of your body as you reach the top of the steps. You'll be waiting for him to follow you. But deep down, you know I will come for you.

It's me you really want.

My eyes casually shift to the bar's end. Your lover is huddled with his wife, their conversation little more than hisses and spits in hushed tones. She glares at him, her eyes dangerous as she lifts her mask, exposing the anger she's tried so desperately to contain from the public's eye. He follows suit, setting his own mask on the bar with a defeated sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face.

As the mask sits discarded beside his knuckles, my fingers twitch, a brief impulse to take it arising. I don't think twice before I move toward them. Without hesitation, I snag the mask off the counter, curling my fingers around the velvet. He doesn't notice, too lost in the moment with his wife's venomous stare.

I weave through the crowd, a shadow slipping between bodies. The music pulses in the background, and the soft chatter of voices fades as I move toward the stairs.

At the bottom step, I stop. Unseen, unnoticed, I stand alone. I dip my fingers into my pocket, retrieving the stolen mask. My fingers smooth over the velvet as I trace its edges. Slowly, I strip off my own mask, letting it drop to the ground like an afterthought. I slip his over my face, disappearing into his skin.

Now, I've become him.

Now, I can follow you.

I start up the stairs, my body tingling as the faint scent of vanilla invades my senses. It calls to me, drawing me down the hall.

Slipping the second keycard from my pocket, I stop at the door. As soon as I walk through it, everything changes. The game. The chase.

There's no going back now.

The door opens with a soft click, and I slip inside. The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, the soft glow spilling across the satin sheets that glisten like liquid gold. But it's you I focus on, standing by the window with your back to me. A perfect silhouette framed by the city's lights bleeding through the window. I drink in your reflection in the glass, your body still and poised, your face half-obscured beneath your silver mask. And behind you, my figure waits in the shadows, watching, feasting, ready to devour you--a predator sizing up his prey.

You don't turn around. You don't look at me--not even in the window. But I know you feel me there.

"Turn off the light," I command in a smooth and polished voice--the perfect impersonation of him. I almost smirk at how effortlessly it falls into place.

You shift slightly, your eyes on me in the glass. There's a flicker in your gaze, a spark of defiance I can't wait to snuff out.

"Turn off the light," I repeat, slower this time, sharper. Part of me hopes you won't obey, and my palm twitches as I imagine smacking your ass should you choose to ignore my demand. But I know you better than that, and you don't disappoint.

Slowly, you reach for the bedside lamp, your fingers brushing the switch as the room plunges into darkness. The only light left comes from the city below, a scattered constellation of multi-colored lights outside the window.

"Good girl," I murmur, my voice almost a purr. "Now, remove your mask."

Your fingers move to the ties at the back of your head, the ribbons slithering free at your pull. You grip the edges of the mask, lifting it off your face and setting it softly on the bedside table, your fingertips lingering on the feathers.

I step closer, the sound of my shoes muted on the carpet as I close the distance. Your breath catches as I press up behind you, savoring the subtle brush of your body against mine. My hand slides down your waist, tracing the curve of your hip before I pull back just enough to leave a sliver of space between us.