"Fuck me."
"What? Say that again." The masked intruder trains the gun in his palm on me, moving it from where it was aimed minutes ago between my best friend, Jo's eyes, to the middle of mine. His words are slightly muffled by the silver-and-black mask covering his identity. An intricate filigree design that mimics a medieval Centurion's helm. A strange contrast to the man beneath it holding a gun on my two best friends and me, while robbing our home late at night.
Just fifteen minutes ago, I was warm and snuggled up in bed--happy, safe, and dreaming of a big, sexy man fucking me passionately. He hovered over me as I lay on my stomach, typing away at a new dirty story on my laptop. Each powerful thrust felt like a literal jolt of inspiration. His hips delivered jiggling slaps of motivation against my ass, urging me to keep writing. His filthy whispers, pressed into the nape of my neck with warm, soft lips, feeding me wicked ideas that pushed the story deeper and darker with every word.
Just as my dream man was about to fill my dripping pussy with his thick, perfect cock--fucking me sweetly into a blissful 'Happily Ever After'--I woke up to cold reality: a gun in my face. The shift was so brutal, it didn't even feel real--like the dream just shape-shifted into something darker. The sudden denial of orgasm, so sharp that it left my body humming with unfinished need. And maybe that's why, instead of fear, I feel a strange rush as the masked intruder's eyes linger on my barely-there mesh panties. It's not shudders of terror that ripple through me... it's tingles. Hot. Electric. Wrong.
They came in while we slept. Easier to take control if their victims are too sleepy to fight well, I presume. All three of them were clad head to toe in black, with sleek gear hugging their bodies, guns glinting in the dim light of our lamps, and unyielding determination sparkling in their eyes with a threat of darkness.
However, their attire is more for their comfort than for concealment, surely. Because despite the masks, their tattoos are bold and unmistakable, betraying their identities when we inevitably describe them to cops later on. I doubt they considered that. Still, I try to identify as many of the tattoos as possible, keeping my face blank and my thoughts hidden. No need to reveal anything, just yet.
I've started calling them Chazz, Rex, and Pip in my head because humor is the only armor I've got left in my life, and I'm in my forties, so of course the movie Airheads is what I think of. These guys sorta fit those characters pretty closely. Pip is the one I'm telling to fuck me. He's massive, tattooed, unapologetically rough around the edges. A smart mouth and sharp wit. He's tall, dark, broad-shouldered, with a thick, muscular frame that's softened just enough to show he hasn't hit the gym in a while, but he still carries the kind of strength that sticks around.
Rex is the one leaning against the window frame once I enter the living room with Pip's gun in my back guiding me- His true name is Noel, I learn right away, as Chazz the leader slipped without thinking, at one point.
"Jo? You and Court OK?" I ask my roommates who are already bound and seated on our couch. All three of us are in various states of pajamas; Court in a full yet see-through nightgown, Jo in a tank and G-string, and me in mesh panties with a short kimono I hold shut to keep covered. Worry fills me, worry over how they might be scared.
"Yea, we're Ok, you?" Jo sounds on guard but otherwise calm.
"Other than a really great dream being ruined, I'm Ok too." I reassure.
"Alright, you and Noel watch them, I'll get what we came here for," Chazz the leader says to his partners-in-crime, then turns to the three of us on the couch and says, "Behave and we will be out of here quick, no one gets hurt, got it?" He demands and we nod.
"Noel, keep an eye out the window too, holler if you see trouble." Chazz adds before turning down the short hall towards the kitchen at the back of our home, where the door to our basement is heard being opened, and steps down the stairs echo fainter as he descends.
Pip checks our bindings while Rex-Noel gazes again out the window, obeying Chazz's orders like loyal dogs. All three of them are masked; Rex-Noel wears one that's elven-style and covers his full face, all gleaming metal and sharp elegance. It reminds me of Legolas, if Legolas had spent time in a sex dungeon instead of a forest. Ornate, graceful, but strong and commanding as well. He's nearly as broad as Pip too, just a little shorter and toner, sculpted with all hard edges. And he carries himself with a quiet kind of control. His voice, gentle. Hands, careful. Almost... kind. That's what has me nervous about him.
I've been around long enough to know better. The quiet ones? The soft-spoken, seemingly sweet types? They're often the ones who'll twist you up the worst, especially when the lights are low and the mask stays on.
Then there's Chazz; the leader making his way into our basement. He's the kind of terrifyingly hot that makes your knees forget how to hold you up. Tallest of the three, he commands the room with a raw, simmering authority that leaves no question about who's in charge. Rage seems to roll off him like heat, and I'm pretty sure spanking is his idea of foreplay. He's built like a lumberjack you'd sell your soul to; thick arms, broad chest dusted with hair that peeks out of his tight V-neck tee, and a brooding energy that screams Angel during his dark years on Buffy.
His mask is a devil's face, red and cruel, reminiscent of Tim Curry's Darkness in Legend. Perfect fit for a man like him. It transforms him into a mythic figure demanding satanic worship. It works too, because I feel a deep, primal urge to kneel, offer myself, and beg for every wicked inch of him. The mask covers the top half of his face, exposing lips that are full, sculpted, and sinfully perfect. They curl into savage, knowing smiles as he whispers threats disguised as promises before his departure to the downstairs. "Be a good girl, while I'm away" he growls, "or I'll make you wish you were one."
Normally, I'd be pissed off about our situation, but I'd act smart, reserved and submissive, obeying their every word out of fear, in the hope of survival... normally.
However, all three of these men, as I take notice of each one, are triggering something inside me that I work hard to keep hidden. My desire for dark scenarios such as this; full of wild, carnal pleasure and pain. Of my dark, kinky taboo needs and personality, that clash with the happy, soft girl image everyone else sees.
Part of me isn't even feeling the fear I should be or that I pretend to be feeling; instead, I'm incredibly turned on. The fear I do feel is of myself and this raving I seem to have with these men. If one of them dared to touch my panties, they'd find out just how much I truly want to fuck them all, smiling brightly, covered in their cum.
That's why, when Jo gets snarky and tries to challenge them--ready to fight her way out--Pip, my rough 'alarm clock,' reacts by stepping in close to her, threatening to distract her in a way that clearly means physical, violent and maybe sexual. A warning wrapped in his dominance. And the choice before me becomes easy. She's what she proudly calls Anti-Cock--a fierce, unapologetic lesbian with zero tolerance for this kind of shit. She'll fight back, hard. Not just out of instinct, but because she means it. And that kind of resistance should only be a last-ditch effort otherwise it can antagonize situations to a deathly level.
So, I speak up. Not because I'm fearless, but because I know my body can take what hers shouldn't have to. I can play this game and survive it. Jo can't. And I won't let her be broken just because I was too scared to volunteer.
"I'm a nympho, I'll enjoy it even, you don't want someone who detests cock doing the pleasing on one. Fuck me all you want, and in exchange leave my roommates alone. We won't fight or make any trouble for you." There's a small tremor in my voice, from fear. Regardless of how much hunger rides me about all of this, I'm still scared. These are my best friends, after all, we've been through so much life together, I care about them. So, my conviction is solid about keeping them safe and doing what needs to be done. I've made my mind up and I won't hate myself for it, or the part of me that wants it.
Chazz isn't in the room when I make my offer. He's down in the basement, where we've been hearing loud, rhythmic banging--like a hammer cracking into stone. Whatever he's doing down there, it sounds brutal, purposeful. Still, I can't help but wonder... if he had been here, listening, would he have let Pip touch me? Or would he have stepped in, claiming me for himself just to assert his dominance, to remind everyone who's really in charge? He strikes me as the type who doesn't share power--or pussy--without a reason. Maybe he'd have dragged me over his knee, made good on his earlier threat, and taught me the meaning of the word welt instead. Part of me is relieved he wasn't here to hear it. But another part? That dark, hungry part... is eager to see how he'll react when he comes back and finds out exactly what he missed.
"Fuck me." I repeat.
Pip's eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch like he's sizing up a meal he's about to devour. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip before he bites it softly, a low grunt of approval rumbling from his chest. One hand flexes, then drops to adjust his cock through his pants--thick, impatient, already straining. He's imagining it. Every filthy thing he wants to do to me. I can see it, feel it, and my breath hitches in anticipation.
