Page 34 of Shadowed With Fear

An over exaggerated smooch blared through the speaker.

“Love you too D. Sweet dreams.”

The line clicked and the music resumed. Homework could wait, I guess. Not like I was getting much done anyhow. Not while being watched like prey. Finding myself as a mouse and not a cat in this constant chase. A small part of me hoped I would be caught in his claws. Would I regret it? Probably. Who knows? He may just want to kill me. Slowly? Tortured? Or would it be frenzied? Like how all those true crime podcasts talk about passion murders. Maybe he likes the game just as much as the kill. I wonder if I cause the same feelings in him as he does in me. This back-and-forth turmoil of morality and fantasies.

Feeling his stare stirs something inside me that I’ve been missing. It falls along the fine line between excitement and anxiety. Pleasure and pain. I like him watching. I want him to watch. A constant protector hidden beneath the mask of a predator. Despite the statistics, I know he won’t hurt me. He had many opportunities to do so, given the amount of time Brahm is away from home. Nights just like this, where I’m alone in this foreboding house, perched by the window in full light, knowing that someone is just on the other side of the glass. But he never makes a move. If anything, he stands sentry. A guardian of my person and home.

A year ago, he came for me. Unprompted. A knight cloaked in shadows. Weeks ago, he came to me again. No harm would come to me under his watch. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips.

I sit at my desk and begin the process of putting away all my school stuff. Throwing scrap paper into the trash can by my balcony door, movement catches my eye. Just beyond the tree line, a shape out of place. Tall, lithe. Stepping into the moonlight, he’s there. His mask glowing, as the rest of his body blends into the night. I can’t see his eyes, but I know mine connects with his. The heat beneath my skin flares to blazing heights. I had wondered if he would show himself tonight. It had been days since I saw him last, not just felt him. It’s not cold, it’s the complete opposite.

My face is flushed, a fiery pink tinting my cheeks, down to the tops of my breasts. My breathing grows labored. A heaviness in the air. A shiver runs through me, my nipples growing taut, obvious behind the tank top I’m wearing.

God, please tell me he can’t see that.

I cross my arms, trying to hide my body’s reaction, but if anything, it just pushes my tits together, making them look like they’ll spill over my arms. He tilts his head, angling his mask up and to the side. Yeah, it’s obvious he saw that. He looks…amused.

Jesus. Look away, Dahlia. Look away.

But I can’t. He’s…intimidating. I would say menacing if his presence wasn’t so comforting. He could be anyone, though.

That’s what makes it so fucking hot.

My face is definitely bright fucking red now.

He moves to the tree in the side yard. Back to the trunk, he leans, arms crossed in front of his chest, rings glinting, his mask a luminescent manifestation of my darkest fantasies.

Each week he grows closer to the house. The first night I saw his silhouette he stood beneath the streetlight at the top of the alley. Just a figure, a statue, in the night. Now, he’s fifty yards outside my window.

I wonder if he’ll ever speak to me. The notes have stayed simple. A couple words, maybe a picture, the morning after his visits, but nothing more. Would his voice be deep, or melodic? Smooth or rough? His notes are always so sweet and almost heartfelt. I couldn’t imagine that his voice wouldn’t match the passion I can feel in his spindled writing.

Looking at him, excitement, heat, and desire filtering through my system in waves, I know I have to find out. He isn’t the only one with an obsession it seems. He also isn’t the only one that can write pretty words of want. I smirk at him, unfolding my arms. In the reflection of the window, I see the pink of my complexion emits a warm glow on my face. My eyes shine. My nipples are hard. Goosebumps raised on my arms. I look turned on. I am turned on. Arousal floods my blood stream. My panties are wet. An ache settles my core.

I stand from my desk, hook my thumbs in the waist of my pants, and turn my back to him. With a slow push, the pants are over the roll of my stomach, the swell of my hips, and the curve of my ass. I bend at the waist as they fall over the thick pillowed flesh of my thighs, the dent of my knees, and pool at my ankles. My ass is completely on display. My excitement climbs higher, the ache between my legs grows stronger. I know my panties are soaked. I could guarantee there’s a wet patch right at the gusset covering my opening. A tease. A taste.

If he won’t speak to me willingly, I bet he can be persuaded. Weakened.

Staying hinged at my hips, I grab a pen from the cup and a notepad. As I write, trying to focus on keeping a steady hand, my loopy writing filling the note, my hips sway. Legs parted for a better stance, in a slow methodical roll, left to right, my ass rocks, taunts, in the air, right in front of the window, right in front of him. There is definitely a wet spot on my panties. No question about it anymore.

This is what it must feel like to free fall. It’s liberating. Empowering. I feel seen. Not just a body men want to use and then ignore or degrade. Not just being a “nice ass and great tits if it weren’t for the stomach rolls and double chin”. I look over my shoulder and see him still standing at the tree. His arms are no longer crossed, but I can see his ringed fingers curled into fists at his side. His head is tilted straight up, mask raised to the heavens, almost like in prayer. A man in worship.

Fuck, yes. I am your God.

I straighten from my desk, rip the note from the pad, and slowly close the gap between me and the balcony door. Each step rolls my tank top higher on my waist. The lace of my underwear kissing the space just below my belly button. This isn’t close to a walk. It’s a prowl—all sensuous movement, soft flesh, jiggling thighs, swayed hips, bouncing tits. A prowl of a predator, not prey. I want to be the mouse trapped beneath his claws, but he won’t pounce. Until then, I suppose I can play the sheep in wolf’s clothing. Prey disguised as the predator.

Once I’m standing right behind the glass, I step closer, pressing my overheated skin against the glass. He never looks away. With a deep inhale, and nervous swallow, I lick the glass, sticking the note on the wet surface. When the note stays, I smile wide.

A last glance his way, I can almost make out a slight shake of his body. His hands are still tight fists at his sides, back ramrod straight, gaze unwavering. I step away from the glass, my hand on the light. My smile shifts into a smirk, and my room falls into an eerie darkness.

In the light of early morning, I want to say I’m embarrassed by what I did, but I can’t do it.

Liz was right.

It was possibly the single most exhilarating experience of my life, and it is only just the beginning of what I hope to be a whirlwind of encounters. Arms raised high; I stretch the fatigue from my limbs. My tank top is lopsided, and my panties are so far up my ass I can taste the fabric, but I’ve never slept so well. All tension has ebbed from my body.

I climb out of bed and grab the pants lying on the floor. I blush and smile. There was so much power in accepting and controlling my sexuality. I left the cards on the table. It was his move now. I just hope it won’t take him long to make his decision. Looking out the window, my note was gone.

At least he read it.