ethyn @bitchcipher - Tumblr Blog

Jul 28

Safety Off (Brian Thomas/Hoodie x F!Reader)

CW: Sexual content, car sex, gunplay (non-lethal), object penetration, mask kink, squirting, degradation, dubious consent, power imbalance, psychological domination, themes of obsession and control.

Summary: Stranded in the middle of nowhere, you make the mistake of getting in his car. What follows is a slow, brutal unraveling - all cold steel, control, and no escape once the safety’s off.

Wordcount: 8k

Part 2: HERE Part 3: HERE Part 4: HERE Part 5: HERE

The road had been empty for hours.

You hadn’t realized how far the distance stretched until your GPS stopped updating, until the familiar highway signs gave way to narrow two-lane roads and the kind of gas stations that looked abandoned even when the lights were on. You’d taken a detour to avoid traffic, one of those scenic routes that probably looked charming on a map.

But now, it was past 11PM. The sky was black, the trees crowding in too close. Your phone flickered between one bar and no signal at all. You were somewhere between your aunt’s place in a rural area and your apartment back in the city, and you were tired.

Tired, and dressed for an entirely different night.

The floral sundress had felt like a good idea this morning. Light. Breezy. Pretty. It was one of your favorites - delicate straps, hem brushing high on your thighs, soft against your skin. You’d curled your hair. Worn a little lipstick. You looked… polished. Like you were going somewhere that mattered.

Now, under the harsh glow of your dashboard lights, it felt all wrong. Too soft, too nice for the middle of nowhere. You looked like someone who shouldn’t be here. Like someone who had made a very dangerous mistake.

And then the car made a sound it shouldn’t have made.

It coughed. Stuttered. Died.

You cursed, trying to restart it. Nothing. Not even a click. The headlights dimmed, and the engine gave one final useless sound before the world went quiet.

You sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. Listening to the nothing. Outside, the forest pressed in. Tall pines, dense and unmoving.

You reached for your phone, but of course, no signal. You were going to scream.

Instead, you got out of the car, just to feel something different. Gravel crunched under your sandals. The hem of your dress caught in the light breeze that didn’t make it into the trees. You folded your arms around yourself and tried not to imagine the worst.

You could wait.

Maybe someone would drive by.

Maybe–

Headlights.

You spun toward them, heart slamming into your ribs.

An old truck came crawling up the road behind you, rumbling low and loud. It slowed. Pulled in behind your car and stopped. Its headlights bathed you in harsh yellow light, blinding for a second.

You didn’t move. Just stood there, blinking.

The truck door creaked open.

He stepped out.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hood up, casting his face in shadow. Boots worn with dirt and age. He looked like someone who belonged out here.

Not you.

His eyes caught on you - on the dress, the heels, the way you looked too clean for this place. His gaze lingered a second too long, unreadable, before drifting to your car.

“You stranded?” he asked.

His voice was low. Not soft, not warm, but calm. Controlled. Like he spoke only when he had to.

You hesitated. Your hands were still folded across your chest, more to stop the shiver than for modesty.

“Yeah,” you said. “It just stopped. Won’t start. And I have no signal.”

He nodded once, walking closer, slow and deliberate.

“You from around here?”

You shook your head. “Driving back from visiting family. I took a shortcut.”

One eyebrow raised beneath the shadow of his hood. “Doesn’t look like the kind of road someone like you usually takes.”

You swallowed. “Thanks for the judgment.”

“Not judgment,” he said. “Just an observation.”

He stopped near the hood of your car, glancing at it like it was a puzzle he already understood. “Mind if I take a look?”

You hesitated again. This was the part in every horror movie where the girl made the wrong choice.

But something about him - he didn’t seem fake. He didn’t fidget or smile too easily. His eyes were sharp, steady, like he saw everything.

“…Fine,” you said.

He opened the hood and leaned over, flashlight in hand - where had that even come from? His movements were confident, practiced. Not flashy. Just… capable.

You stood back, arms still folded, watching his back move under the fabric of that dark hoodie. The night buzzed with insects. A coyote howled far off.

After a few minutes, he closed the hood with a thud and turned to you.

“Battery’s dead. Alternator might be shot, too.”

You stared. “So I’m just… stuck?”

He tilted his head, like he was weighing something.

“I can give you a ride,” he said. “There’s a little diner with a phone about ten miles up. Or you can stay here and wait for the next person who happens to come by.”

Your eyes flicked back toward the empty road.

“Right,” you muttered dryly. “Because there’s so much traffic.”

He didn’t move, didn’t push. The silence stretched long between you.

Then you said it - half nervous, half joking, because what else could you do?

“…Just don’t kill me or anything.”

His mouth twitched. And for the first time, something that might’ve been amusement sparked in his eyes.

“No promises,” he said.

The truck door creaked open again.

And you got in.

The truck smelled like pine and cold metal, with an undercurrent of something older - dust and oil, maybe. The kind of smell that told you this vehicle had lived through more than one story it wouldn’t bother telling.

The leather of the passenger seat was cracked and cool against the backs of your thighs as you climbed in. You tugged the hem of your dress down instinctively, but it didn’t do much. The sundress, so cute and airy this morning, now felt too short and too bright in this grimy, rusting truck cab.

He slid in on the driver’s side and shut the door with a low thunk.

The engine rumbled to life like an old animal waking up. Headlights lit the road ahead in yellow streaks. He didn’t say anything as he pulled forward, just one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. His knuckles were scraped, like he’d been in a fight, or worked with his hands too much to care.

The silence grew heavy.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how bare your legs were, how the fabric of your dress bunched high when you sat. And worse - what you weren’t wearing. No bra. You’d thought your outfit looked better without one. Cleaner. Simpler. No visible straps. No lines. Just the soft cling of fabric and bare skin underneath. But now? Now you were cursing yourself for it.

Because every bump in the road made your chest shift - the thin fabric sliding over your nipples, already sensitive and obvious beneath the dress, hardened from the air, from the cold.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance at you - just once. Down your thighs, the sweep of skin, the line of your collarbone in that low neckline. No shame, no leer, just… looking.

Assessing.

You crossed your legs slowly, arms folded again.

“Nice dress,” he said eventually, voice dry, like it wasn’t really a compliment, just another observation.

“Didn’t think I’d be hitching a ride in the dark woods when I put it on,” you muttered.

He didn’t laugh, but something flickered across his face. The smallest curve of his mouth.

“No one ever does.”

You glanced at him then, studying his profile under the dim dashboard lights. His face was sharp, with high cheekbones and a stubble-shadowed jaw. His hood had slipped off, revealing dark blonde hair. He looked…serious, stern. Probably in his late twenties, though something about him felt older. Like he’d seen things.

You realized you didn’t know his name. Or what he was doing out here. Or who he was.

The truck kept moving.

No signs. No other cars. Just woods. Endless, thick, watching woods.

“So,” you said finally, trying to keep your voice casual, “what were you doing out here, anyway? Kinda weird time to be driving this road.”

He didn’t answer right away.

The tires hummed against the blacktop. The trees outside kept swallowing the headlights whole, mile after mile of darkness that didn’t look any different from the last. You had the creeping realization that you wouldn’t have been able to retrace your steps even if you tried.

“I asked you something,” you said again, softer this time. Measured.

His thumb tapped the steering wheel once. Then again. Like it was a metronome only he could hear.

“I was just… looking around,” he said finally.

That wasn’t an answer. Not really.

“Looking around?”

He nodded, still not meeting your eyes.

“Sometimes I drive these roads when I can’t sleep. Feels quieter out here. Cleaner. No lights, no people. Just…” He paused, lips twitching slightly. “Noise in my own head.”

You stared at him.

And maybe it should’ve sounded poetic. But it didn’t. It sounded like someone keeping distance between his words and the truth. Like someone who’d learned how to lie without really lying at all.

“So you just… wander out here at night?” you asked.

“Sometimes.”

“On roads where no one ever comes through.”

He looked at you then. Finally. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“Seems like someone came through tonight,” he said.

Your throat felt a little tight.

You turned back toward the window.

Still no lights. No signs. Just woods that looked like they hadn’t changed since the last century. The truck’s engine was the only sound. No music. No static. Just that low growl that felt more like breathing than machinery.

“How far’s the diner again?” you asked, and you hated how your voice didn’t sound casual anymore.

He didn’t answer this time.

The road curved. He followed it with practiced ease.

You glanced at him, forcing a smile. “You do remember where it is, right?”

He shrugged. “I remember everything.”

That wasn’t comforting.

You shifted in your seat again, your bare thighs sticking slightly to the leather, the hem of your dress riding high no matter how many times you adjusted it. You felt his eyes flick toward you again - brief, quiet, and unbothered.

There was no hunger in the look.

No urgency.

But there was interest.

That was worse somehow.

“What do you do?” you asked suddenly. “Like… when you’re not driving strangers around in the woods.”

Another pause.

“Whatever I want.”

You turned your head slowly. “Okay, that’s not cryptic at all.”

This time, he smirked.

“I don’t really belong to anything. No job. No routine. No alarm clock. I go where I go. I see what I see.”

You stared at him. “That sounds like a nice way of saying you live off the grid.”

“I do.”

“Isn’t that a little…” You hesitated, choosing your word carefully. “Lonely?”

He didn’t respond at first.

And then, flatly: “Sometimes.”

The road seemed to narrow with every mile.

The trees pressed closer, their shadows crowding against the glass. Still no signs. No turnoffs. Just more of the same.

You kept stealing glances at him, trying to make sense of him. Of the way he moved so still, so sure. Of the way his words always skirted the line between harmless and something else.

And then, like a switch flipped inside him…

He spoke.

"You ever think about how you look right now?"

You blinked. "What?"

He didn’t glance at you. Just kept his eyes on the road, voice low. Steady.

"Out here. Alone. In that tiny dress, all dolled up like bait. Makeup, perfume. A pretty girl stranded in the dark. Looks less like bad luck and more like a trap from some cheap, fucked-up story."

Your stomach dropped.

"Excuse me?" you said, voice rising with a sharp edge, unsure if you’d misheard, or if he’d finally dropped the mask.

He tilted his head slightly, like you were the one acting out of turn.

"I'm just saying," he murmured. "You must know how you look. Can't be that naive. All that skin, those legs. That dress clinging to you like it’s scared too."

He did glance at you then.

And this time, there was nothing unreadable in his eyes. It was clear. Focused. Like a hand placed deliberately on your pulse.

Your breath hitched. The air in the car suddenly felt too thin.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

Something shifted in his expression, just a flicker.

“You get in my truck,” he said, voice still soft, almost conversational, “with no phone signal, no name, no plan… and you tell me not to kill you. Like it’s a joke.”

He chuckled. Low. Hollow.

You stared straight ahead. Your fingers curled into fists in your lap.

You turned toward him, finally, heart in your throat. “You’re being an asshole.”

He smiled at that. No apology in it, no warmth.

“You didn’t ask what I wanted when I stopped,” he said. “You just assumed I’d help. Why do you think that is?”

Your voice was shaking now. “Because you offered.”

He shrugged. “People offer all kinds of things. Doesn’t mean they’re free.”

The truck slowed. Not because there was anything ahead, there wasn’t. Just more dark. But he was pulling off anyway. Onto a patch of gravel barely wider than the truck. Pines on either side. No lights.

You reached for the door handle, heart hammering in your chest. It didn’t budge. The lock was engaged, solid and unmoving beneath your fingers. Your eyes darted to the button near the window. Also locked. Before you could speak, his voice cut through the dark.

“Don’t,” he said flatly, without even looking at you. Like he’d expected this exact moment. Like he’d locked the doors before he ever pulled over. You drew your hand back slowly, pulse screaming.

His hand slid off the gearshift, fingers drumming once against his thigh. Then still.

"You thought the worst part of this night was gonna be a dead battery," he said. "But sweetheart, that was the easy part."

Your throat tightened so much it hurt.

And yet - some part of you still couldn’t look away from him.

Because there was something else under the surface.

Perhaps control. Like this was a story he’d been telling himself for a long time, and now you were in it whether you liked it or not.

The silence sat heavy between you.

And then, quieter than before:

“You scared yet?”

You could lie. Pretend to be brave. But somehow you knew that would only make things worse. So you whispered:

“…Yes.”

You understood now.

The diner wasn’t real. The help was never free. And the man beside you was not a kind stranger.

He’d found exactly what he was looking for.

The truck idled low, the rumble beneath you steady and indifferent, like it didn’t care where this ended.

You sat frozen, one hand still near the door handle, your other curled in your lap, white-knuckled. He hadn’t moved. Not much. Just turned slightly toward you, elbow resting against the door, one boot heel planted firm on the floorboard.

You were scared. He could see it.

He liked seeing it.

His hand moved again - not fast, not rough. But with a kind of finality.

It landed on your thigh. Bare skin. Heat. Pressure. His palm rested, like it belonged there. Like your body was just another part of this long, quiet road he’d already mapped in his head.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His thumb slid once, slow, across the top of your thigh. A stroke of ownership, not affection.

Then… higher.

You flinched.

His hand paused, but didn’t leave.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know what this dress would do,” he said quietly. “You wore it for attention. You just thought you’d get to choose whose.”

He pushed the hem up. Just enough to see. Enough to expose the soft lace of your underwear - delicate, pale, almost sweet.

His breath caught. A crooked smirk ghosted across his face.

“Pretty,” he murmured. “Not practical. Not for this road.”

His fingers didn’t move further. But he didn’t let go.

Instead, with his other hand, he reached under his hoodie - slow, fluid - and pulled something from beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You saw it before you understood what it was.

Black. Matte.

A handgun.

He held it with one hand, easy, like it weighed nothing. Let it settle in his lap, barrel angled toward you in an almost casual way. His fingers tapped along the slide once.

Your breath caught in your throat. What. The. Fuck.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept his eyes on the windshield. As if the trees beyond held more danger than he ever could.

Then he spoke - quiet, but firm.

“No one’s coming down this road tonight,” he said. “No one but you. And now, me.”

He turned toward you, finally.

His gaze dropped again. Slowly. Taking you in. The bare skin. The fabric of your dress hiked up. The lace that should never have been seen by someone like him. Not like this.

And then, softly, “You should start thinking about what it’s going to cost you to walk away alive.”

His gaze stayed low, fixed on your panties that were poking out from your dress, the pale lace looking too soft in a beat up truck like this. The gun sat balanced in his lap, dark and silent. But it felt louder than anything he'd said.

You tried not to breathe too hard. Tried not to let him see how your chest rose and fell faster now - tight, trapped between adrenaline and something else. Something you didn’t want to name.

He lifted the gun with one hand. Ran his thumb along the slide like it was muscle memory. Familiar. Intimate. Then, with a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, he glanced at you again. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, voice low. Curious.

You shook your head, just barely.

He hummed once. Low in his throat. “Shame.”

The muzzle shifted slightly, angled between you now, close enough that the metal caught the low dash light, gleaming like something alive. And you heard it - that soft, unmistakable click. Not loud. Not rushed. Just enough to tell you the safety wasn’t on anymore.

“You know,” he said, voice soft, almost conversational, “it’s not gonna suck itself.”

The words landed like a hand around your throat. Your head turned sharply toward him, a flush rising beneath your skin before your mind could catch up. You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

His smile was predatory.

“You heard me,” he said, eyes still locked on yours. His voice stayed low, almost amused. “Don’t go shy now. You’ve been sitting there, looking like a little slut, letting me touch you…”

And then, casual as anything, he brought the barrel up.

To your mouth.

The cold press of steel at your lips didn’t waver.

He held the gun with steady hands, eyes never leaving yours.

“Open up,” he said quietly.

You obeyed without a word. Lips parting, slow and hesitant, just enough to let the cold steel brush between them. The barrel slid inside - cool, foreign, unforgiving - resting just at the edge of your teeth. It didn’t push further. Not yet.

His gaze flicked up, and that was all it took.

His eyes sharpened. No dramatic shift, no flash of expression - just that subtle tightening, that focus, like a spotlight trained directly on your soul. It hit harder than the steel ever could.

“There,” he murmured, “That wasn’t so difficult.”

You couldn't breathe. Not with him so close. Not with that look on his face, so calm, so steady, like none of this was wrong. Like this was just how things were supposed to go.

His other hand hadn’t moved from your thigh, casual and possessive against your bare skin. Now, his fingers shifted. Slow. A thumb dragging upward, tracing where skin met fabric, where your sundress had already hiked up too far.

He pushed the hem higher.

The lace of your panties was fully exposed now, barely visible in the flickering dash light, thin, delicate, and damp with the kind of truth you couldn’t hide. He looked down at the sight of it.

And smiled. That same small, unreadable thing.

He leaned in, and the gun followed - pulled from your mouth in a slow drag, a soft click of teeth against metal. Then it began its descent, tracing the line of your jaw, sliding down the column of your throat, dragging lower with agonizing purpose.

The barrel slid between your breasts, letting the cold bite through the fabric of your dress. He moved it lower, across your ribs, your stomach, slow enough to feel the twitch of every muscle beneath it. The metal stopped just at the waistband of your panties, hovering there, threatening.

“Look at you,” he said softly, voice dipped in a dangerous, lazy drawl. “So obedient. You like being this close to something that could ruin you, huh?”

He slid the barrel beneath the lace - slow, pushing the fabric aside without care. You lifted your ass, just a little, and pushed your drenched panties down to your knees, giving him better access to your pussy. He didn’t even react, just looked at your now exposed entrance with vague amusement, like your eagerness to remove your underwear was funny to him. You felt like an idiot.

“Keep your hands on the seat,” he muttered. “And don’t move unless I tell you. Let’s see how good you can be while I play with you.”

You didn’t move.

Not because of the command - though that would’ve been enough - but because you couldn’t. The cold barrel resting between your thighs had stolen the breath right from your lungs. Your hands gripped the leather seat like it could keep you tethered, like it could anchor you while he toyed with the most vulnerable parts of you. His free hand gripped your leg firmly, signaling for you to spread your thighs, which you did at once.

He glanced up at you slowly, noting the tremble in your legs.

He liked that.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, dragging the gun slowly through your folds. The metal pressed against slick heat, gathering every bit of you like proof. “Look at you. Fucking soaked.”

The barrel tilted - just a little - lining up with your entrance. His hand didn’t rush. He watched your face, waiting for that flicker of hesitation, of fear, of hunger.

When he saw it, he pushed.

The cold slide of steel entering you was jarring. Foreign. Invasive. Intimate.

You gasped - hips twitching upward, instinctive - and he gripped your thigh tighter, holding you down.

“Don’t move,” he said again, firmer this time. “You’ll take it. Just like that.”

The barrel pressed in deeper - slow, deliberate - spreading you open inch by inch, your body twitching around it. Your breathing turned shallow, ragged. The feeling was too much - too cold, too hard, too wrong - and yet your body betrayed you with every second he stayed inside.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear now. His voice was low, intimate.

“You ever been fucked with something that could kill you?”

The metal stilled deep inside you. He wasn’t thrusting. He wasn’t even moving. Just letting you feel it - the weight of it, the impossibility, the way your body clenched so tightly around the steel like it didn’t want to let go.

“If I pull the trigger,” he whispered, “you won’t even know what hit you. You’ll just paint my whole truck red.”

Your eyes widened at that. By now, you’d figured out he had a habit of saying the most deranged things with the same ease most people used to talk about the weather. It was infuriating. And terrifying.

Then he shifted it - slow, calculated - dragging the barrel partway out before pushing it back in. Your thighs twitched. A moan escaped, uninvited. You tried to hold it back.

He chuckled darkly.

“There it is.”

His free hand slid to your throat, not tight, not choking - just there. Warm skin against your neck, gun buried inside you, his voice curling around you like smoke.

“Keep making those sounds for me. And maybe, if you beg nice enough...”

He paused, lips brushing against your jaw now. “...I’ll fuck you with something that can come.”

Your mind reeled, torn between revulsion and desperate arousal. You didn't want this, did you? To be at the mercy of this psycho, this sadistic man?

And yet your body betrayed your, clenching greedily around the barrel, silently begging for more. For him to use you however he wanted. His to break and defile.

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. "Please," you whimpered, hating how needy you sounded but too far gone to care. "Please do it…fuck me." Your entire face felt like it was on fire. He growled low in his throat, the sound shooting straight to your core.

The metal slipped from you with a wet sound that made your stomach twist - equal parts shame and hunger - and he held it up to your lips immediately.

“Lick it clean.”

His tone was flat, effortless, like he was asking you to pass the lighter or shut the door.

You hesitated only for a second.

His eyes narrowed.

That was enough.

You leaned forward and took the barrel into your mouth again - not as a threat this time, but as submission. As surrender. You tasted yourself on the steel, the coldness clashing with the heat in your face, your thighs, your throat.

He smirked, slow, crooked. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips as you pulled back, saliva smeared on metal and skin.

“Good little whore,” he muttered. “Now move. Backseat.”

Your heart pounded as you shifted, awkward and desperate, climbing between the seats in the cramped space, breath catching, limbs scrambling for traction against hot leather. Your panties slipped down in the process, tangled around one ankle before you kicked them off entirely, leaving them somewhere between the gear shift and your pride.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

Then the unmistakable slam - loud, sharp, final. He entered the backseat like a storm shutting the world out behind him.

And then he was beside you in the backseat, shrugging off his hoodie without much effort, the fabric peeling away from sweat-slicked skin where the heat between you had soaked through. His movements were casual, practiced - unbothered, like he had all night to wreck you.

He tossed the hoodie somewhere behind him without a glance.

Now he was down to jeans and a tight black tee, the fabric clinging to the lines of his torso - stretched across broad shoulders, hugging the sharp cut of his biceps, the faint outline of his chest and abs visible with every shift of muscle. He looked carved from tension, the kind that never fully relaxed.

You glanced at him just in time to see him reach down and pick something off the car floor.

A mask.

Black, cracked slightly near the jaw, the red frown slashed across the mouth, worn and weathered like it had seen worse nights than this.

He slipped it on without a word.

It wasn’t about hiding his identity. You understood that. It was about becoming something worse.

He tilted his head slowly.

“Lose the dress.”

He was sitting coolly beside you - legs spread wide, his shirt riding up just enough to show the hard lines of his stomach, the hint of a scar dragging along one hipbone. The gun was still in his hand, resting lazily against his thigh - but the barrel hadn’t shifted. It was still pointed at you.

Your fingers moved to the straps of your dress.

His head tilted a little further, watching.

Every inch of fabric you pulled down felt like a confession.

It slipped off your shoulders. Pooled at your waist. Then slid over your hips and onto the floor in one slow motion, leaving you bare - completely - under his gaze. The cool air hit your skin and made you shiver.

His silence was heavy. But he was already speaking with the way he looked at you - like he was counting bruises he hadn’t made yet. And somehow, under that mask, he didn’t even seem to be impressed. Not from the way he leaned back. Not from the way his fingers tapped against the gun like he was waiting for something better. Like you’d undressed in front of him, and he was still expecting more.

Then, finally, he shifted.

The gun lifted with the same slow confidence as before. It traced your body now, dragging from your collarbone down between your tits, the cold barrel making your skin tighten under its path and making your nipples harden. He moved it lower, across your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Every place he touched with that weapon felt branded.

His voice came through the mask - muffled, thick, and edged with something darker now.

“You’re just dying for me to ruin you, huh?”

You didn’t answer his question.

You didn’t need to.

Your body said it all.

The way your thighs shifted beneath you. The way your chest rose and fell too fast. The way your eyes locked on the gun.

And he knew.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just sat there, legs spread, mask staring at you, gun resting idly in one hand while the other dragged over the top of his thigh.

Then, finally - finally - he started to undress.

Slow. Intentional. Unbothered.

He peeled the tight black tee up inch by inch, revealing muscle, a couple of old scars, and the faint line of his happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. You caught yourself staring and he noticed - of course he did.

“Keep looking,” he said flatly through the mask. “That’s what sluts do, right? Stare. Drool. Wait their turn to be used.”

The shirt hit the floor beside your dress.

He leaned forward now, hand gripping the top of your knee, fingers curling hard into your skin. The gun followed his movement, dragging up your chest again - deliberate, steady.

The mask never moved. Never blinked. Just smiled that red, cruel frown.

“You ever been fucked by someone who’s not even pretending to care what you look like?”

A pause. “Just that you stay wet and obedient?”

His hand slid between your legs - no warning - and you gasped, hips twitching, thighs pressing together until the gun tapped your jaw again in a silent reprimand.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “Open up those legs.”

You obeyed silently, spreading your legs. He unbuttoned his jeans with one hand, the other still stroking you - slow, heavy, fingers circling with just enough pressure to make you arch. And he watched every reaction, mask fixed on you, head tilted slightly as if fascinated by the mess you were making.

When he pulled himself free, jeans and boxers shoved down far enough, he was already painfully hard, the tip flushed and glistening, veins prominent, the kind of cock that made your stomach twist with anticipation and fear. He didn’t stroke it. Didn’t tease it. Just let you see.

“Get on your knees.”

You slid down without hesitation - the seat squeaking beneath your weight as you knelt between his thighs. The gun rested across your back now, light and constant, a silent promise.

He leaned forward, one hand still holding it steady while the other gripped the back of your neck.

“Look up.”

You did. Mask staring straight back at you, red frown frozen in place.

“Now take it. No hands. You don’t get to pretend you’re anything but what you are.”

He fed himself into your mouth slow - taking his time like he was pushing into something made to fit him, inch by inch until your throat fluttered and your breath hitched.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Pretty little fuckdoll. Can’t even talk anymore.”

He didn’t thrust. Not yet. He let you adjust, tongue working around him, jaw burning as you tried to take more. His cock was heavy on your tongue, the weight of him and the stare of the mask making you sweat.

Then he moved.

Just his hips - shallow, slow. Enough to make you gag softly, tears building in the corners of your eyes.

He groaned low behind the mask.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you tried to breathe through your nose, fighting the urge to choke. He was big, bigger than you were used to, and it felt like he was stretching your jaw to its limit. You could taste the salty musk of his skin, feel the weight of him on your tongue.

You gagged every time he pushed in, spit and precome bubbling out around his thick length. You whimpered, hands clenching into fists at your sides, but he just kept going at his slow, easy pace.

"Take it," he growled, that mask staring down at your pathetic face.

Your throat tightened as he rocked into your mouth with slow, cruel precision. One hand tangled in your hair, the other still holding the gun - resting on your back like a constant weight, a reminder, a threat.

Tears blurred your vision, and still, you stayed on your knees, taking him like you were made for it.

And then, without warning, he pulled you off.

You gasped, spit trailing from your lips to his cock, chest heaving, throat raw.

He looked down at you through the mask, head tilted.

“On my lap,” he said flatly.

You blinked, trying to steady your breath.

His voice came again, firmer this time.

“Now.”

You climbed up, straddling him, your thighs bracketing his hips, the sticky leather squeaking beneath you. His hands were on you the second you settled - one gripping your hip, the other still holding the gun.

It rested at your side now, angled just below your ribs.

He didn’t say anything as he lined himself up, the tip sliding through your slick folds, catching right at your entrance.

Then he looked up at you.

The mask. That frozen, painted frown. Unblinking. Inescapable.

“Sink down,” he said quietly. “Let me watch what kind of mess you make.”

You did, slowly, taking him inch by inch, your body burning as it stretched around him. He filled you completely, painfully deep, and your breath hitched as you settled fully onto his lap.

His head leaned back against the seat, thighs spreading wider beneath you, like he wanted to feel every part of you on him.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick behind the plastic. “Stuffed full of dick and still shaking. You like this, don’t you?”

He tilted the gun slightly, tapping it once against your side, then up, between your tits. Not hard. Just there. Constant.

“Go ahead. Ride me.”

A pause. “Earn it.”

You started to move - slow, desperate, grinding down onto him, your hands braced on his shoulders, all heat and hard muscle beneath your palms. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve, your body clenching, the pressure overwhelming already.

He didn’t help. He just watched. Sat there, still, mask smiling its dead little smile while you fucked yourself on him like a good little thing made to be filled.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Look at you. Wet, needy, shaking. You don’t even know what it feels like to be empty anymore, do you?”

The gun rested against your throat now.

“Keep going. Make yourself come on my cock. And don’t you dare look away.”

You were riding him like your life depended on it - hips grinding down in desperate, aching circles, thighs trembling around his, tits bouncing, slick sounds filling the car with every wet drag of your body against his cock.

He stayed perfectly still beneath you - a seat, a wall, a goddamn throne - letting you do the work while he watched.

Watched you fall apart.

Watched you turn into exactly what he wanted.

The mask didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared.

That frozen red frown dripping with meaning. Judgment. Ownership.

His cock buried deep. His eyes locked on you. His hand?

Still holding the gun.

You barely noticed the shift until the barrel was at your mouth again - resting against your lips, hot now from his grip.

He tilted his head slightly, voice muffled but clear beneath the plastic.

“Open.”

And you did.

He slid it in slow - no urgency, no tension - just a cruel, calm filling, like plugging up a leak. Like sealing something that belonged to him.

The barrel rested heavy on your tongue, the taste of steel and spit and sweat thick in your throat. Your eyes fluttered shut, but he tapped the gun against the inside of your cheek.

“Uh-uh,” he said softly. “Keep your eyes open. Look at me while I ruin you.”

You did.

Both holes stuffed.

He bucked up into you then - hard, fast, deep - the sudden shock of it making you jolt, your moan muffled around the barrel. His large hand gripped your hip now, taking back control, using your body like it was built to be used.

Every thrust dragged obscene sounds from your soaked pussy. Every thrust of his hips pressed you further down, filled you fuller than you thought was possible.

The gun never left your mouth.

He watched you gag, drool slipping past your lips, tongue pressed to metal, and he groaned behind the mask.

“Fuck, look at you,” he hissed. “So fucking full.”

You were shaking now - overstimulated, your walls fluttering around his cock, the weight of the gun pushing you closer to the edge.

And he could feel it.

“You’re gonna come like this, aren’t you?”

The mask tilted, barely moving. “Gagging. Stuffed. No room left to think.”

He slammed into you harder, once. Twice.

“Come on my dick,” he snarled. “While I’ve got your mouth filled and your brain gone. Do it.”

You came hard.

Everything clenched. Your body locked tight around him, your thighs twitching, stomach tensing, a strangled cry lost around the gun still resting against your tongue. The wave hit you like a jolt of electricity - your eyes wide, vision blurred, pleasure searing through you so intense it nearly hurt. You squirted on him, the release sudden and violent - hot, messy, soaking your thighs and his lap in a rush that wouldn’t stop. It splashed between your bodies, dripping down onto the seat beneath you, undeniable and obscene.

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t even slow.

He growled low behind the mask, eyes dark through the slits as he felt you come undone around his cock. The gush of wetness splashing against his lap barely made him flinch. He looked down once, then back up at you. Like he expected nothing less.

And then, without a word, he moved.

He pulled out suddenly - your body flinching at the loss - and flipped you fast, hands rough on your hips and waist as he forced you flat onto your back. Your head hit the seat, chest heaving, your legs still spread and weak beneath you.

Before you could blink, he was inside you again.

Deep and brutal. Unrelenting.

You gasped - the sensitivity unbearable, your body already overwhelmed, but he didn’t care. He just kept going, fucking you through the aftermath, the aftershocks, the overstimulation turning into something dizzying and raw.

The gun rested across your chest now - not pressing down, just laying there. A weight. A reminder. And that mask - that awful, grinning red frown - hovered just above you, his hips crashing into yours with savage rhythm, every thrust slamming your body higher up the seat.

“You’re not done,” he growled, voice thick and low. “You’re never fucking done until I say so.”

You sobbed - not from pain, not really - but from how much it was. How full you were. How completely owned you felt under him. There was no part of you untouched, unfilled, unclaimed.

His hand came to your throat now - not choking, just holding - pinning you there like he was grounding you while your body twisted and trembled beneath him.

“So fucking wet,” he snarled. “Still dripping even after I’ve emptied you.”

A pause. The sound of skin on skin, brutal and relentless.

“You don’t even know what your limits are anymore, do you?”

Your answer came in another moan - broken and raw.

He leaned closer, the mask nearly touching your face, the edges scraping lightly against your cheek.

“You’re gonna come again,” he muttered, fucking you deeper now, harder, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. “And this time you’re gonna thank me for it.”

You were crying.

From the pressure, the ache, the heat, the overwhelming stretch of him driving into you over and over again. From the soreness that hadn’t stopped from the first time. From the sick, feral pleasure of being used beyond what you thought you could handle.

And still - he didn’t stop.

His rhythm was brutal now - hips slamming into yours, wet heat building again in your core, too fast, too much, too soon. The orgasm hit like a punishment - a violent second wave, your back arching, vision blurring, a sob breaking loose from your throat as your body betrayed you one more time.

You didn’t even get to breathe.

Because just as your orgasm shattered through you, he moved again - shifting just enough to press the gun to your temple.

His hips thrusted harder, chasing his own release now, the mask hiding everything but the sound of his breath - rough, ragged, filthy.

“Say it,” he growled, cock deep inside you. “Fucking say it.”

You gasped, shaking, barely able to speak.

“Say thank you.”

You blinked, dazed. His cock twitched inside you - close.

The gun nudged against your skull, and his voice dropped lower.

“Be a good little whore and thank me for ruining you, or I will shoot.”

You whimpered, still twitching from your orgasm, chest heaving, and choked the words out between sobs.

“T-thank you.”

His pace faltered - once, twice - and then he buried himself to the hilt, a shudder ripping through him as he came inside you.

He didn’t moan. Didn’t groan. Just let out a long, guttural breath behind the mask as he emptied himself, cock pulsing inside your soaked, overstimulated cunt, his free hand still gripping your throat, the gun still resting against your temple.

You laid there - spent, fucked raw, full of him in every way possible.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, just breathing, watching you from behind the red-frown mask like he was admiring his work.

“Good girl,” he muttered. “Now don’t move. Let it stay in. Let it drip later.”

The gun finally slid away.

But the weight of it - like everything else he’d done to you - lingered.

The car was still.

The air, thick with sex, sweat, and heat, felt heavier than ever in the silence. Your legs wouldn’t stop trembling. Your breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. You were spread across the backseat - bare, raw, dripping - too used to move.

He straightened beside you, still. Breathing quiet. The gun was gone now, tossed next to him on the seat.

He adjusted his jeans, pulled the zipper up. Removed his mask carefully, almost ceremoniously, glancing down at it for a moment before putting it down on the car floor, right by his feet.

He never said a word.

But he stayed.

He stayed beside you for a minute. Maybe five. Watching. Breathing. Letting it settle.

Then - without a sound - he grabbed his shirt off the floor, pulled it over his head, and slipped into the front seat. The driver’s door slammed shut. The engine kicked to life.

You stayed there in the backseat, arms wrapped around yourself, dress crumpled somewhere near your foot, your body still aching in every place he’d touched - and filled.

He didn’t look back.

Just started driving.

You watched his profile through the gap in the seats - face bare, jaw tight, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lazily on the door like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t been a wreck in his lap just twenty minutes ago. Like the gun had never touched your throat. Like you weren’t still dripping his cum.

And then - unbelievably - there it was.

The diner.

Small. Flickering neon sign. One car out front. Still open.

You stared.

You’d thought it was a lie. Something he’d said to lure you into his truck. But no - it existed. It was real. Just like everything else tonight.

The car rolled to a stop.

He didn’t turn around. Just rested one arm on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, knuckles tight.

“You can go,” he said flatly. Voice quiet.

You slowly picked up your dress from the floor and pulled it on, the thin fabric sticking to your skin, damp and clinging in all the places he’d touched.

It didn’t hide anything. It didn’t make you feel whole again.

You felt the stretch in your thighs with every movement, the ache between your legs with every step. Every inch of you hummed with what he’d left behind.

You opened the door with shaky fingers, half expecting him to stop you, to grab your wrist, to say something.

To drag you back in and tell you he wasn’t finished with you yet.

But he didn’t move.

He just sat there. Silent. Staring out the windshield, face unreadable now without the mask.

You stepped out of the car, the door closing with a soft click behind you.

The engine growled low and the car rolled forward. No goodbye. No warning.

Just brake lights fading into the dark.

Gone.

You didn’t move until the red glow disappeared completely, swallowed by the road and the trees. Then, slowly, you turned toward the diner - still lit up, still open, still waiting, like it hadn’t even noticed what you’d been through.

You walked across the parking lot in a daze - wind biting your bare legs, skin flushed, heartbeat still out of rhythm.

The door jingled as you stepped inside. Warm lights. Faint hum of an old radio. Smell of grease and coffee. It felt unreal. Like you’d stepped off a battlefield and into someone else’s dream.

The waitress looked up. Blinked once. Didn’t say anything.

You didn’t blame her.

Your dress clung to your body - twisted, damp, wrinkled. Your hair was a mess, makeup smudged under your eyes. You felt your thighs stick together when you walked and didn’t have the strength to care. And fuck, that’s when you realized you weren’t wearing any panties. They were still in his car. Still tangled somewhere in his truck, forgotten.

You slid into a booth near the window, fingers gripping the edge of the table like it might ground you. The vinyl was cold against your skin. Your heartbeat was still in your throat.

You should’ve been thinking about your car - stranded, dead on the side of the road. About your phone with no signal.

But you weren’t.

You were thinking about him.

How he looked with the mask on - and with the mask off.

How he smelled, how he tasted, how it felt to have the weight of the gun on your body while he used you like you were his and always had been.

You swallowed hard.

The heat between your legs hadn’t faded.

You stared out the window into the dark, empty road.

And all you could think was:

Am I going to see him again?