The Man In The Mask

Tom and Margaret spotted the whole circus from next door—sirens, yelling, a stretcher flying past. They’re still whispering about it when Tanya rings their bell, mascara running, ready to spill the night’s plot twist: her place was hit, her hubby’s now propped up in a hospital bed. Quick as a wish, they offer her the guest room until he’s back on his feet. A couple quiet evenings later, Tom pads into the kitchen and freezes—Tanya’s already there, thumb skating along the edge of a black ski mask. Sleep won’t stick to her eyelids; her brain’s stuck replaying a fantasy she can’t scrub out. She tells him the truth in one shaky breath: the burglar who bloodied her husband didn’t scare her—he turned her on. The heat spreads every time she pictures those gloved hands, that masked face. Only one plan seems desperate enough: sate the craving and flush it out for good. She slides the mask across the table and asks Tom to wear it, fuck her hard, right here while Margaret sleeps upstairs. He gulps, curses, but her fingers are tugging at his belt before he can say no. Mask on, conscience shoved down, he grips her hips and gives the fantasy legs—her moans swallowed against his gloved palm, her legs kicked wide around his hips. The whole filthy bargain sealed before dawn creeps through the blinds.