Page 10 of Framed Obsession

I add another finger, now dipping two inside her. I curl them upward, finding her sweet spot. She moans in approval as I move steadily in rhythm, like waves in an endless ocean. Her gasps are getting sweeter and sweeter, sending sugar-coated jolts straight to my cock. I press deeper into her, and she grinds into me, not letting up as she rides my fingers in harmony. I bite my lip, my vocal cords gifting her a moan in return.

This girl is made for me.

“Are you going to come for me? Are you going to be a good girl and come on my fingers?” I ask, yearning in anticipation. Her walls clench around me, grasping onto them. She begins to close her eyes as she lets out an unapologetic moan.

“Open your fucking eyes and look at me,” I growl. And she does. She has no room for negotiation—only for obeying. Watching her orgasm consume her has my mouth falling open, feeling the lethal emotion beside her. I want to rip this fucking mask off and kiss those perfect parting lips.

“Such a dirty girl, coming on a stranger's fingers like a needy whore. Taste yourself,” I growl as I remove my fingers from her pussy, careful not to drop any remnants of her submission. She looks at me like I’m a sick, sadistic monster. I smirk, pressing my fingers against her lips, waiting for her to open. If she won't do it willingly, forcing her won’t be a problem.

I press harder. She winces, giving in and opening her mouth. My fingers dive deep into her warm mouth, making her gag. She closes around my fingers, giving a gentle suction. My imagination runs wild at what my cock would feel like in replacement.

Next time, Axel.

My fingers come out, making a popping sound in the quiet garage. Her tears had dried a while ago. Once I started pleasuring her, those tears disappeared pretty damn quickly. I expect them to return once I leave her to her own thoughts.

I want her to think about tonight. I want her to hate herself, thinking how she let a stranger finger-fuck her in her apartment parking garage. I want her to feel embarrassed that she fucking loved every second of it. I want her to wallow in it. And I want her to want it again.

“Until next time, Little Flower,” I say in promise. Her eyes widen, searching mine as recognition washes over. I push off of her, leaving her alone as I disappear into the night.

Chapter 9

The Flower

High - Wheathan, Dua Lipa

What the actual fuck, Dahlia. You could have been murdered. Someone or something is definitely watching over you—honestly, it’s a miracle you're still alive. Scratch out my last tombstone quote of dying from being a lightweight.

Instead, write—died from being a typical blonde in a horror movie. Apparently, horror movies haven't taught me a thing. What I find most strange is that he didn’t pleasure himself, only me. Creeps who take advantage of women are usually driven by their own gratification for power and control. Just because he got you off doesn’t make him any less of a creep, Dahlia.

My back hits the mattress with a low thump as I collapse onto the bed. I’ve been in my room alone with my anxiety surrounding the events that just transpired, followed by a wave of self-pity, of course. I haven't even changed out of my clothes, and the poor groceries on the kitchen counter got neglected too. I just needed a moment to wallow first.

Wallow and rethink every life choice I’ve ever made that led me here. I wish I could chalk it up to bad luck, like some unknown, invisible force is punishing me for something awful that I have no recollection of doing.

Regardless of the fact, he called me “Little Flower.” The same nickname that I have been unnecessarily blessed with in the notes that are being left for me to find. It has to be the same person. There is no way it couldn't be; it’s all too coincidental.

He made good on his promise, though—in the last note he left me: he warned me touching would be involved. The way I thought it was a bluff, too. Why is he doing this? It’s like some sort of sick, sadistic, stalker-ish game to him.

I contacted the police when it first happened and showed them the note and the picture. They said they couldn't do anything about it because no physical harm had been done. So, they just want to wait until I get murdered in order to take it seriously? Oh, how I love being a woman.

The situation has obviously escalated to being physical, and I have no fucking proof. The worst part about it is that harm wasn’t done. Other than my psyche. To be honest, I don't think I’ve ever come so hard in my life. It felt dangerous. Forbidden... exciting?

No, Dahlia. It was wrong. So wrong.

A chilling feeling takes ‌hold of me at the thought of wondering who is under the mask. Those eyes of his seemed so fucking familiar. He didn't take them off ‌me once. You should be lucky you are alive, Dahlia. I palm my forehead, eliciting a slap in the quiet bedroom. I’m such an idiot.

“Next time,” he had said. There won’t be a next time. Not if I can help it. Especially now that I know my tormentor isn’t a fucking ghost, I could at least fight a physical being.

Nausea washes over me. I can’t fight a six-foot-something guy, let's be honest. I can’t believe it’s a real fucking person doing this to me. Stalking me. Watching me. Maybe I’m in some sort of twilight zone.

But why me? I can’t think of anyone who would do something like this. All of my exes and I have separated on good terms, and I don’t have a single enemy that comes to mind. Is it my ghost from Christmas future? The more I think about it, the unluckier I feel. Eight billion people in the world and this happens to me. Me!

“What did I do to deserve this?” I ask at the ceiling, hoping God would say something. Instead, I’m met with a silence that lets my thoughts pull me into a never-ending abyss of questions and what-ifs. This is probably some sort of karma that's finally making its way back to me. They don’t lie when they say karma is a bitch.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry if I did something to deserve this!” I continue talking into the openness. “I’ll return Zoe’s dresses to her that I took. Is that it? Are you punishing me because I’m a thief? I was only borrowing them!” My arms wave above me.

I feel so alone in this. The authorities won't help me, Z doesn’t know how to help, and I can’t tell my father. He’d definitely make me move back in with him after I just convinced him that if Z and I moved in together, we could protect each other.

I laugh ironically. Protect? More like comfort one another after something fucked up happens. And I don’t want to burden Z with this situation when she’s in the honeymoon phase with this potential serial murderer guy, but I don’t even know how to help myself. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be in the position I’m in right now.