your... pussy... uhh... describe it.

oohohoho. soo real. tim waking up paralyzed in bed haunted by the thing wearing a cheap plastic parody of his face.

hands that smell like dirt, like cigarettes, skin that burns inhumanly warm as it approaches, as the masked man stalks closer until his placid expression blocks out everything else in the room and tim is left with no uncertainty that the eyes in the shadowy holes of the mask are his. tries to cry out and chokes on a whimper. he's never thought about what his own body looks like from this angle. what it can do, the strength and the weight of him. the masked man pins him to the mattress and forces his fingers between his teeth, touch that scalds, and the inhuman stare does not shift but tilts slightly, as if the thing is amused. he wipes spit-sticky fingers on tim's cheek, pulls his shirt up to paw at him, groping and squeezing until there can be no doubt that tim is hard. until the masked man hooks his fingers in tim's waistband and pays no mind to his aborted thrashing, the squeaking of air trying to escape his throat. no, tim thinks desperately, and the voice in his head, identical, says yes.

never has a lover touched him like this. the thing in the mask is unrelenting, confident in its ability and focused as it toys with tim's cock, its broad fingers brutalizing his clit, no one ever wants to go this hard but the thing with tim's hands knows he wants nothing more than to finally be broken apart. tim's dreaming, isn't he? it isn't real. he can want it. it isn't real. he wants it. the masked man holds him down and stares with eyes that do not blink as tim chokes on his spit and cums all over himself.