They always say don’t joke about the thing under the bed.
Like if you talk about it too much, it’ll crawl out.
But I’ve never been the kind of girl who listens.
Especially not with my legs spread and my fingers soaked, whispering, "If you're real, come out and f**k me already."
It started as a joke. The kind of thing I’d say after too much wine and not enough d**k. Some dumb fantasy about a monster under the bed—big, rough, inhuman. Something that didn’t care about manners or consent or dinner dates.
Something that would just take.
And tonight, for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.
The air is heavy.
Like the room’s holding its breath.
I’m sprawled across my sheets, naked, aching. I’ve been touching myself for what feels like hours—grinding slow and hard against
