The abandoned warehouse smelled of rust and old motor oil, but tonight it carried something sweeter—her perfume, faint vanilla and nervous sweat.
She walked barefoot across the cracked concrete, completely naked, skin prickling in the damp night air. Moonlight sliced through broken skylights and painted silver streaks across her breasts, her hips, the soft curve of her stomach. Every step made her aware of her own exposure, the way her thighs brushed together, the cool draft that teased between her legs.
His grip on her hand was firm, leather glove against her bare palm.
The mask was bone-white porcelain, sculpted into a grinning skull with deep hollow eyes. No mouth opening. No way to read anything beyond the tilt of his head. The black suit beneath it looked too expensive for this rotting place—tailored wool, crisp white shirt, silk tie the color of dried blood. He hadn’t spoken since he’d found her waiting at the rusted side door forty minutes earlier. He hadn’t needed to.
They stopped in the center of the vast empty floor.
He released her hand only to circle her slowly, shoes clicking like a metronome. She felt his gaze even through the mask—hot, deliberate, cataloguing every inch. When he stepped behind her she shivered, not from cold.
Fingertips in leather traced her spine from neck to tailbone. She arched without meaning to. A low sound escaped her throat.
He pressed closer. She felt the smooth chill of the mask against the back of her neck, then the heat of his breath leaking through the tiny gaps in the porcelain. His free hand slid around her waist, palm flat against her belly, fingers splaying wide. Claiming territory.
She leaned back into him instinctively. The wool of his jacket scratched pleasantly against her bare shoulder blades. Between her thighs she was already slick, embarrassingly so.
He walked two fingers downward, unhurried, until they dipped between her folds. One slow, deliberate stroke. Then another. She gasped, hips jerking forward. He didn’t speed up. He simply held her there, pinned between his chest and his teasing hand, letting her rock against the leather while the skull stared straight ahead into the darkness like it was watching something entirely separate from what his fingers were doing.
When her breathing turned ragged he finally spoke—first words all night, voice low and distorted behind the mask.
“Beg.”
One word. Not a question.
She swallowed. Pride flickered, died fast.
“Please,” she whispered.
Louder. “Please what.”
“Please… touch me. Fuck me. Anything.”
The mask tilted as though considering her. Then the hand between her legs curled two fingers inside her without warning—deep, thick, curling against that spot that made her knees buckle. His other arm banded around her ribs, keeping her upright while he worked her with slow, punishing rhythm.
She came embarrassingly fast, crying out into the empty warehouse, the sound bouncing off girders and broken glass. He didn’t stop. He kept the same cruel tempo until the aftershocks turned sharp and almost painful, until she was whimpering, thighs shaking, begging him to stop and keep going in the same broken sentence.
Only then did he withdraw his fingers.
He turned her to face him. The skull mask gleamed under the fractured moonlight. No expression. Just empty sockets and that permanent rictus grin.
He lifted her chin with a single gloved finger so she had to look directly into the black voids where eyes should be.
“Again,” he said softly. “This time on your knees.”
She sank down without hesitation, concrete biting into her skin, heart hammering, already aching for whatever came next.
The night was still young.
And the man in the skull mask had all the patience in the world.
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