"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."
