Unmasked: Desire from the Abyss

My name was Rachel Pierce, and tonight all I wanted was to prove I wasn't always the good girl.

The Abyss was chaos. Heavy metal screaming through speakers, strobe lights slicing through smoke, the smell of bodies and beer and something herbal thick enough to choke on.

I glanced down. The lace corset dug into my ribs, pushing everything up and out. Every jostle from the crowd made me aware of how much skin I was showing.

The thong was basically two strings. My ass was out. The half-mask covered just enough of my face to make me feel anonymous.

My roommate Juliana swore everyone dressed like this. She also swore she'd meet me here.

She didn't.

So now I was alone in a sea of masked strangers who kept looking.

The crowd thickened. Bodies pressed from all sides until I couldn't tell where mine ended and theirs began. I ended up wedged near the edge of the pit, trapped.

Masks everywhere. Faces I couldn't read. Arms in the air, heads whipping back and forth.

No one cared about me.

That helped. A little.

Then someone bumped me from behind.

I didn't think much of it. You can't avoid contact in a place like this.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Something hard pressed into me. His hip, maybe. Or his elbow.

I shifted my weight, tried to make room, then turned my head halfway and said over the noise, "Sorry—didn't mean to back into you."

He didn't move back.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. "Don't worry about it," he said. His voice was rough, deliberate. "I really don't mind."

The pressure doubled the moment he finished speaking.

I froze.

That wasn't an elbow.

It was warm. Firm. And it was moving.

Oh god.

My stomach dropped.

This wasn't what I meant when I said I wanted to be bad.

The man behind me was tall, broad, solid. He leaned in, caging me between his body and the wall of people ahead.

I tried to push forward. Nowhere to go. Left, right—more bodies, more noise, more flashing light cutting everything into fragments.

No one was watching. Everyone was too far gone, lost in the beat.

I was trapped.

His hand found my waist. Big. Heavy. Hot through the thin fabric.

This had never happened to me before.

His palm slid down slowly, deliberately, until it was directly on bare skin.

Rough, calloused, and burning.

I clenched without thinking—

Bad idea.

He pushed closer. I could feel the shape of him now. The heat. The way it moved.

Something twisted low in my stomach.

I should've been horrified.

I wasn't.

Worse—I leaned back. Just a fraction.

He felt it.

His hand stilled. His breathing changed.

He thought I was giving him permission.

His fingers traced lower, hooked the string of the thong, and pulled it taut.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No warning.

The fabric dug in. He twisted it once, then pulled harder, forcing it deeper between my legs.

I jerked, but there was nowhere to go.

He didn't stop. His grip tightened on the string, using it like a leash, dragging it slowly, deliberately, following the line until he found the place that made my legs shake.

He pressed, and I bit down hard on my lip.

When he did it again, adding pressure in a slight circle, I almost made a sound.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

The music pounded. He matched the rhythm, each movement dragging that thin string deeper, grinding it into me.

It hurt.

But under the pain was something else—heat spreading, legs going weak, breath coming too fast.

Then he stopped.

I felt him pull his hand back.

His lips pressed against my ear. A wet sound—slow, deliberate.

He was tasting what he'd coaxed from me.

My face went hot.

"You're wet," he said into my ear, amused. "Didn't take long."

Shame crashed over me.

I was dripping for a stranger in the middle of a crowd, and he was savoring it like I'd given him a gift.

Tears stung my eyes.

The lights flashed. Every burst illuminated faces around us, none of them looking, none of them seeing what was happening.

The fear of being caught made everything sharper.

My breathing was ragged now. My legs wouldn't hold me much longer.

He felt it.

His hand returned. This time, no hesitation. He pressed so hard that the string buried itself completely. The friction was unbearable.

A sound escaped me—soft, helpless.

The music swallowed it whole, but he heard.

I felt him laugh against my back.

I was breaking apart between humiliation and sensation.

I twisted my head over my shoulder, nearly collapsing against him, trying to see his face through the mask and the dark.

"Please," my voice cracking. "Stop. I can't—not anymore—"