#the boy

It had been such a long time since Brahms had seen anyone enter his home, after Greta he didn't really want anyone to be there. Yet when he saw you standing in the doorway, your soft figure glancing around the house confused, he was immediately enamored.

It was impossible for him to take his eyes off of you as you walked through the halls, occasionally calling out to see if anyone was occupying the house. He noticed the way your body shivered from your rain soaked clothes. Wishing that he could make you shiver with pleasure, but no, he needed to wait. The last thing Brahms wanted to do was scare you away.

The first night you stayed in the house, Brahms made sure his presence wasn't known. He watched you toss and turn in your sleep through the walls, the underwear you had on perfectly accentuating your round ass. The sight had him all worked up, he wanted nothing more than to take you in your sleep. But he didn't mind waiting, it just made him more excited for the moment to arrive.

The next few days you noticed strange things happening throughout the house. Doors being left open, loud footsteps creaking down the halls, and soon a porcelain doll appearing in random areas of the house. You really should have been scared for your life, a doll moving around the house as if it were alive? That's something no normal person wouldn't be afraid of.

It didn't bother you though, you found it quite endearing. Taking care of it as if it were your own child, and carrying it around with you while you did mundane things like chores. He had even caught you holding the doll on your hip, while preparing yourself some breakfast. Brahms could feel his heart growing soft for you, unlike something else, which was growing harder by the minute. While you were in your room, lounging around in sweats and a tank top, you heard what sounded like a child's voice.

'Mommy, please come help me.'

You froze in your spot. 'There's no way in hell a child could be in here right?' Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, it sounded like they were coming for you. Your brain goes into fight or flight mode, and there's only one thing you can think of doing. You jump off the bed and run out of the room, practically flying down the hallway. The steps only get closer and louder. You can hear your heart beating loudly in your ears as you run down the steps.

'Please the door is so close.' It's so close you can almost reach it, but before you do a strong pair of arms wraps themselves around your waist. You scream out for help, hoping anyone will hear and come save you. Then it hits you, you're in the countryside...no one will be able to help. Brahms' large hand wraps itself around your throat, silencing your desperate pleas for help.

"Mommy, you can't leave me like that. I need you so badly, I promise you I'll be a good boy."

The child's voice you heard earlier, it had come from a grown man. Specifically a grown man that was rutting his hardened cock up against your plump ass and choking you out. His tone had an innocence to it—but what he was doing to you was nothing of the sort.

His hands were all over your body, not allowing himself to miss a single inch. Once he got his fill he turned you around and lifted you up into his arms like it was nothing, his strength sent a chill down your spine. He had the ability to pick you up like nothing, the thought of what other things he could do to you scared you.

You try to escape from his hold, squirming and wriggling around in his arms. He doesn't budge though and instead he throws you onto the bed, staring at your body. Your chest heaving up and down from the previous attempt at escaping. He wastes no time in tearing your clothes off of your body, leaving you naked and vulnerable under him.

Brahms pulls his cock from out of his trousers, the tip a bright red and his balls dragging from being so full. His mushroom head slides against your clit, gathering your slick and lubing himself up. A small moan escapes you due to the friction. His hands grab your thick thighs and push them towards your shoulders, putting your pussy on full display for him.

"Brahms...please. You can't do this."

He ignores your cries and lines himself up at your entrance. His head prodding at your hole and slipping in. "Ahhh Brahms!—" It takes a moment for you to adjust to his size, your hole clenches around him and it takes everything for Brahms not to start pounding into you mercilessly.

His grip is rough and bruising, you're sure it'll leave marks later. The tighter he grabs and pinches at your thighs the wetter you get. You lay there, allowing him to have his way. There's no way you'll lie and say it doesn't feel good, you're practically dripping all over his cock.  The way his dick hits your cervix just right makes your vision blurry and star filled.

It only takes a few more thrusts before you're sent over the edge of your own orgasm. Babbling about how good his cock feels and how he's 'such a good boy'. The simple words of encouragement make Brahms fuck into your gushy pussy harder. His pace becomes animalistic, and knowing that he already made you cum, he begins chasing his own high.

The porcelain mask slipping up just enough for him to plant small but wet kisses on your neck. His balls slap against your ass, making you whine from slight pain. "Brahms baby, cum inside of mommy. I'm begging you, I need it."

With your words, his cum spurts deep inside of you, filling your pussy to the brim. His face nuzzles deeper into the crook of your neck.

"Mommy's so good, feels so good. Please don't ever leave me Y/N, I need you with me forever."

The high pitched voice he had before disappeared, now replaced with his real voice, gruff and deep. You tangle your hands through his curly dark brown locks, smiling to yourself at the man on top of you.

It was late one evening when you finally found him in the living room, crouched behind an old armchair. He might have fled if not for how gently you approached. You knelt down, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes.

“You must be Brahms.”

He didn’t speak.

Even behind the mask, you could feel the intensity of his longing for contact, for acknowledgment, for someone to look at him and not run away in horror.

So you didn’t run. You didn’t even back away.

You settled into a routine with surprising ease. Brahms was silent as always, but his presence began to make itself known through little gestures. The steady pattern of footsteps behind you as you moved about the estate, the slight tug on your sleeve when it was time for dinner, or a gentle tap on your shoulder in the afternoons when the house felt too big and empty.

In response, you offered him wordless kindness. Meals at the table, always setting two plates so he’d know there was a seat for him. A folded blanket left on the sofa, just big enough for the two of you to share when the nights got cold. A record player with music turned down low, so he could sit near you without feeling overwhelmed.

At first, he was shy about receiving affection. You’d see his shoulders tense whenever your hand hovered over his arm, but he never pulled away. Slowly, day by day, Brahms let himself draw closer to you. Where he once watched you from afar, now he’d sit at the edge of the same couch.

One evening, you found yourself in the library. The moonlight streamed in through stained glass windows, painting the shelves in a kaleidoscope of color. You sat on the old, worn rug, a book splayed in your lap. You were reading quietly to him when Brahms leaned close, closer than he ever had.

Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. At last, carefully, you rested a hand on his knee. For an agonizing moment, you thought he might leap up and bolt into the hidden corridors. But instead, Brahms let out a sound, something between a sigh and a relief-filled moan.

Slowly, painfully shy, he laid his head against your shoulder, letting you cradle him gently. Brahms felt fragile, like an abandoned creature starved for love. You ran your fingers through the strands of his hair that peeked out from beneath the mask’s edges. If you had any doubts that your affection was what he so badly needed, they all drifted away in that moment.

Affection became your shared language.

The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours, fingers brushing yours, was worth more than a thousand words. When he was anxious, you felt it in the trembling press of his body against yours. When he was happy, you saw it in the more confident way he moved, as though it no longer pained him to be seen.

Eventually, one crisp morning, you convinced him to come outside with you. He hovered in the doorway, torn between the fear of the open world and the longing to stay by your side. But you simply offered your hand, palm upturned, and waited with all the patience you could muster.

He took it.

Once outside, Brahms let out a breath he’d been holding for years, it seemed. The sun’s warmth touched him through the fabric of his clothes, through the slight gap between the edge of his mask and his skin. You guided him to the garden, letting him feel the dew on his fingertips.

He never let go of your hand.