3. Tati

CHAPTER 3

TATI

A few drinks or more later, the music pumps, and Katie and I sway to the hypnotrance beats that dominate Halloween music. We left tipsy a few shots ago and are finally loose enough to enjoy ourselves.

That feeling of being watched has shifted from something insidious to a delicious tension, and my inhibitions have flown right out the window. I used to like being the center of attention when I worked at the club, but I was drunk a lot of the time then too. Alcohol makes me forget that I should feel self-conscious about my imperfect body or the horrible things I've done. I'm almost free.

That poem seems silly rather than sinister with the giggles, lights, and alcohol altering my frame of mind. If this person wants their dick sucked so bad, why don't they just ask? Nothing is that serious. Dante is dead, I'm going to hell, who gives a shit?

"Shots!" Katie announces.

Men have been watching me all night, and a few have asked me to dance, but none I felt were worth leaving Katie on her own. She's turned down all her offers too, and I'm surprised we're about neck and neck for interested parties. When the music dips, I thank her for the corset, and we laugh.

One guy has spent the last couple of songs watching us. He wears a half mask with the exposed side painted like a skull. Katie and I look good together, but even after all the men who've approached me tonight, I assume most of his attention is on her. She's immaculately thin and beautiful, and I'm just less in every way. That doesn't mean I'm not into him or not hoping to attract his interest.

Between the rocking of my hips, I stare at him. I grind my ass on Katie, and she giggles as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. He and I eventually make eye contact, and his eyes shift between black and bourbon in the changing overhead lights. When he smiles, I think the alcohol must really be affecting me, because I believe I'm seducing him.

I don't truly think I've interested him until he pushes off the wall and heads toward us. His gaze flickers between Katie and me, as it has all night. The skull gives his angular face added intensity and appeal. I'm wet just looking at him.

He reaches us as one song ends and another begins, shocking me again as he offers me his hand and ignores Katie entirely. I'm not as brightly blonde as her, my blue eyes are more silver and dull, and I'm chubby. It's obvious that I'm less than her in every way.

I jerk my hand away as my brain registers the cold and disturbing texture of his hand, then I put it back immediately. It must be a glove. I look down, the ruined mess of skin has to be a costume. He pulls me in closer, forcing me to stop staring at his hand, and presses his lips to my ear.

"Dance with me." His voice is deep, and his tone lacks a question.

I nod, not bothering to verbally confirm or deny what clearly wasn't a question. Katie quickly finds a new dance partner, giving me a half-drunk wave as she spins a few bodies away.

He pulls me into him as the music changes, and the sheer size of him overwhelms me. My greedy fingers trace his broad shoulders, and he shivers at my touch. Leaning into him, I take a deep breath. He smells delicious, like a hint of cologne and the wilderness, fresh and cool.

He's the only person I've even considered dancing with tonight, so I'm suddenly sure I have excellent taste. His mask is downright hot, and the part that's exposed is almost too handsome, but maybe that's the skull makeup getting the better of my libido.

We move to the music without a pause in our physical chemistry or a missed beat. He dances against me, lightly grinding, and slowly but surely making me crazy. I haven't seen his face, but god, I want to know what it feels like to get fucked by all that hip movement, and he knows it. Why else would he hold me in place like that? I'm seriously considering dragging him into the bathroom for a quickie, which is very unlike me.

It's been two years since I had sex, and if I'm honest, I never enjoyed it before. That's part of why turning to prostitution didn't seem like the worst fate ever when money at the club wasn't cutting it. I wouldn't be ruining something I already loved. I'm not sure if it's about how I was raised—seeing sex as a transaction and way to pay the bills—or the people I did it with.

I've long wondered how different sex with Dante might have been, but for once, I'm not obsessing over him, I'm imaging giving Mr. Masked Stranger a turn to do better than the boys who let me down.

The music changes, then he spins me and presses my back to his front, leaving no space between us. The hard planes of his body strain against my back. I'm already enjoying the possessive way he holds me when one hand slips around my throat.

He squeezes lightly, a flash of fear heating my blood, then shifting to excitement when he doesn't hurt me. I can breathe okay, but the blood pulses to my brain a little slower as the people around us tune in to the show.

He tips my jaw up farther, displaying me to the crowd and exposing my neck to more of his grip. My tits are about to fall out of the top of my corset as my eyes roll back in ecstasy. I should be embarrassed, but I'm drunk and his hand flexing around my throat taps into so many of my hidden kinks. My head grows even fuzzier with the alcohol, adrenaline, and lack of oxygen, and I'm dripping wet.

People dance all around us, paying attention to us but also each other. A frenetic energy passes through the crowd, like we're closer to the spirit realm than this one. Maybe there is some mysticism in the air as Halloween draws closer, a shrinking of the bridge between worlds. Or maybe I'm about to pass out.

I do, falling against his chest before coming back to myself high as a kite. Lights pop in my vision, and the sounds return on a roaring wave and an explosion of pleasure. I should care that this stranger choked me unconscious, but all I care about is how profoundly good I feel as my body moves to the music and I merge with the scenery.

The bodies pack tighter, and people stare as his hand stays firm, and he doesn't let me turn back around. His free hand finds the hem of my skirt and lifts it until he's touching my panties. The snap of realization makes me struggle. I'm not so high off the loss of oxygen, and not quite as drunk as I was a few minutes ago.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing? Stop!" I shout, but no one hears me. People stand all around us, inches from me, but they don't notice my distress, my screams. My voice is thin from the choking, the lights are moving too fast to be able tell the tears on my cheeks are real. They could be Halloween glitter for all anyone knows.

He pushes my panties aside and dips a gloved hand into my cunt. The easy entry and utter lack of resistance deepens my humiliation. He parts my legs, putting me on display for anyone who wants to look, and strokes my clit long and slow with a thickly textured finger.

"Stop," I scream again, but a moan distorts the sound.

One of the men dancing next to us misinterprets the situation and strokes my exposed clit. The man holding me against my will stomps on his foot, stopping his touch.

"Shit, what the fuck, man?" he shouts before limping away.

I cry in earnest, confused how I got myself into this situation. Humiliated and turned on when he switches from stroking my swollen clit to sliding a finger deep inside me. He chokes me again as he finds my G-spot. My vision blurs at the edges until I pass out again. Moments later, I wake with my cunt twitching on his fingers.

Cold lips press to my ear and a deep voice rumbles, "A liar, a cheat, a whore. No wonder you're soaking wet for a man who despises you."

"What?" I ask, but he doesn't answer, and his fingers don't lighten their pressure.

I'm too drunk to make sense of this, and I'm silent for a full ten seconds as his words sink in. It can't be. He's dead.

"Dante," I squeak, the feeling of being violated yielding in intensity to the overwhelming terror of my life suddenly ending.

"You remember me. I wasn't sure I'd made enough of an impression."

He doesn't sound like I remember. How can it be him if he doesn't even sound the same?

"It can't be you." I never woke up this morning.

My delusion fades fast as he stretches me with his thick fingers.

"Why not? Because you killed me? Turns out you're not very good at that either."

I can't speak. What happened to his vocal cords inside that truck to make him sound more monster than man? Is he a ghost, after all?

"You didn't miss me, Little Backstabber?"

"Would you believe me if I said I did?"

I try to turn, to get a good look at his face, to prove to myself it's really him, but he doesn't let me move an inch, just squeezes tighter and fingers me rougher.

"Oh, no, you don't get to see what you've done. You're just going to come on what's left of my hand in front of all these people. You did all this to avoid stripping, becoming a whore, well, that's exactly what you are."

His finger pumps in and out of me as he forces my body to keep swaying. He's partially succeeded, I do and don't feel like a whore. I never actually sold my pussy, just came close.

"Dante, please." My voice comes out thin. I'm unsure if he can hear or not as he quickly works another finger into me. Humiliation burns my cheeks and pussy, terror turns my blood to acid, and I cry as he forces that third thick digit inside. I'm too tight to take it without some extreme effort, but he's willing to break me apart from the inside out. It's almost worse that I still find a hint of pleasure.

"Please, what, Little Backstabber? Ruin your cunt before I cut you to pieces? I plan on it."

That third finger nearly splits me in half, and I scream much louder as he shoves in all three down to his palm, covering most of my pussy with his giant hand. I realize now he's not wearing gloves, and my juices are slipping down the scars I caused. That's what he meant… I would come on the hand I ruined.

I'm going to be sick. No—I'm going to fucking come if he keeps stroking my G-spot like that.

"Why make me come if you're going to kill me?"

At first, I don't think he hears, but he gets close to my ear again to answer.

"Why convince me to date you just to get me into that truck? I'm going to ruin you worse than you did me, Little Backstabber."

The people around us have caught on to what's happening, and much to my horror, they seem to be enjoying the show. Dante's hand glistening with my approaching orgasm sure makes it look like I'm enjoying this.

"Tell me you're sorry, Little Backstabber," he says as he turns his fingers slightly, stretching me to breaking and giving my G-spot the most absurd massage.

"I'm sorry," I say, gasping, and truer words have never been spoken.

"Fuck," he grunts, and the animalistic lack of control to his voice makes me twitch around his fingers. "You lie so pretty. You're going to beg for your life pretty too."

And I come around his fingers like the whore I am, splashing all over his scarred palm.

A liar, a cheat, a whore, wet for the man who despises me.

"Beg for your life."

"Please, Dante."

I'm still shaking from my orgasm when he rips his fingers unceremoniously out of me and leaves me standing on unsure legs. I'd call him cruel if I wasn't the monster in this scenario. As I turn to him, he's gone, only the witnesses to my shame tittering about the orgasm they watched me have. I'm humiliated, but not as much as I fear what he might do next.

While I'm scrambling for my dignity, a young-looking guy approaches me.

"He wanted me to give this to you!" he shouts as he hands me a piece of paper while being careful not to touch me. I peel it open and read the words beneath the color-shifting lights.

Little Backstabber,

I'll be waiting where you least expect me.

You'll scream and beg, but I won't help you.

You'll pay for everything you've done before you leave this world in pieces.

The paper shakes like a leaf as I read, but that last line offers a strange sort of comfort. Maybe Dante doesn't realize how deeply I regret what I did to him, how very much I wish I could atone.