the feminine urge to be abused in a Ghostface style. to be alone in your house with the lights too dim, the windows too open, and a silence that feels rehearsed. the phone rings — of course it does — his voice is the kind that crawls under your skin: low, amused, like he already knows how the night ends. he says your name like a secret. he asks if you're scared. and you lie. then, the knock, gentle, like mockery. you answer like an idiot in a horror film, heart fluttering like prey that already knows it’s been caught. he’s there in black, in that mask that shouldn’t be as beautiful as it is, and before your mind can catch up, his gloved hand snaps around your throat. not gentle. not rough. just certain. he backs you inside, guiding you like it’s always been his house, not yours. you stumble, breath already catching. the door clicks shut behind you and you know it’s over.
he handles you like a thing, like an object he already owns. a doll. it’s not a fight, not really. he’s not rushed, there’s no need to be. he forces you to your knees and binds your wrists, first one, then the other, the rope rough and final, like a game. it bites into your skin as he loops it again, tighter, pulling until your arms tremble. then your ankles, tied roughly together, leaving you defenseless and pathetic. he yanks your sweats down to your ankles as well. you struggle, not to escape, but to feel the resistance. and you do. oh fuck, you do.
he leans in, his breath brushing your ear. “be still.” and then the knife, it’s pulled from somewhere hidden, glinting under dim light, and when it touches your thigh it’s cold, unforgiving. he doesn’t stab, no, that’s too crude. he drags it, slow and precise. the blood doesn’t bead; its a steady, slow flow, trailing down your legs in wide, dark streaks. smearing as you squirm, sticky between your thighs and the rope. it stains everything. by the fourth, you’ve stopped counting. by the eighth, you're shaking and unsure if it's from the pain or the pleasure or the fact that you can’t tell the difference anymore. it clings to his gloves, slick and shining, and he smears it across your body like he owns it. it stings. it burns. it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.
he shifts then, a hand back at your throat, thumb pressed to the pulse there. he watches your eyes intently as he squeezes, not fast, not enough to bruise. just enough to make the edges of the world blur and vanish. you panic, just a little. your legs twitch. your lungs scream. and just when your body starts to give up, just when the dark closes in, he lets go. air rushes back like a gift, and you gasp, sobbing. whether it was mercy or control, you’ll never know. and then he bites you. hard. jaw to shoulder, teeth sinking in like he wants to break skin, like he wants you marked.
and what scares you most isn’t the pain. it’s that when he pulls away, leaving you panting, bloodied, and bound — some twisted part of you arches into it, aches for more.
