Work Text:
Wind gusted and swept rain and snow against all sides of your home, an early December omen for the rest of that Winter. You settled deeply into your reclining chair, a burgundy velvet piece of furniture passed down from your grandparents, sighing deep and slow and appreciating your mug of cocoa doing its job to warm your hands. You sipped at it slowly, making a small, appreciative noise under your breath. You let your eyes slip closed, enjoying the white noise of the weather and the warmth of the beverage on the cold, lonely night.
You’d only just recently moved into your home, putting most of your savings into it and moving across the country for a new start. You had nothing but the house and your remaining savings, cutting your losses with everyone from your past and hoping to begin anew, hoping to find safety and security.
The phone rang, loud and shrill, on the side table where it rested next to the lamp, pulling you out of your relaxation, the thought dissipating. You sighed deeply, irritation setting in before you could even lift the phone from the receiver. You cleared your throat, composing your mood once more as you lifted the phone to your ear, cutting a shrill ring off.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Static on the other end of the line.
“Hello…?”
You listened closely, the static moving and rumbling around a small, quiet noise. Someone was breathing on the other end. The hair on the back of your neck rose.
“Hell-”
You should have hung up instead of entertaining the breathing for even a second. It turned from breathing to panting to moaning fast. You pulled the phone from your ear a little shaky compared to before.
“Don’t you hang up that fucking phone,” you froze, looking around fearfully, eyes wide as you pressed the phone back to your ear, “or poor thing will get gutted and used, gutted and used,” the man on the other end squealed like a pig.
“Would you like that? Want to be used and used and used, dirty little whore, spear you on my cock- Why would you leave me alone? Dirty Billy, poor Billy, all alone,” the man rambled on, your hand shaking as you held the phone to your ear. You shook your head and your eyes welled.
“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy says I’m bad; a bad, bad boy! I’m gonna hurt the pretty girl, tie her up, hurt her good,” he snorted an oink and moaned, sighing. You could hear the slide of skin against skin, a distant slapping. You shook your head, wanting more than anything to hang up and call the police, but you knew they wouldn’t do much. You’d bought the house, albeit beautiful, in a poorly populated area that had been haunted by a dark past and knew that even if the cops got to you in time, nothing would be done about a mere phone call.
“Please-” You tried, holding the phone with both hands, looking around the room, and checking each window. You knew nobody could be watching you, not really, as their phone had to be connected to something to be harassing you.
“Please, please, please, p-p-please, she says, please,” he groaned, “gonna enjoy your pussy like that cocoa, warm, hot, fill you up,” his breathing picked up a little, making your chest and gut tight and anxious, “Cover my cock in blood, taste that sweet cherry, mine, all mine.”
You stared at the cocoa on the table and stood up, breathing shakily and some form of bravery overcoming you, “You pathetic fucking creep! You monster! I’d never touch you, you disgusting pervert! Do not contact me again or I’ll call the fucking cops, got it?”
“Sleep with one eye open, pretty, pretty, pretty - let me fuck it - Billy’s got some mistletoe for you.”
You slammed the phone down on the receiver as he moaned and screamed and snarled. You stared at it, panting softly and smoothing your hands over yourself in a failed attempt to calm yourself down, calm your pounding heart. You stood there for far too long, shaking and thinking racing, fearful thoughts.
Before you went to bed, you traversed your entire home, locking each window and door and double-checking each one. You dumped your cocoa in the sink and retired for the night, unable to sleep peacefully with the thought of eyes in the dark, watching.
~
A week came and went, a week of sleepless, anxious nights. Another week passed. Two weeks after the phone call and you were finally able to get a full night’s sleep again - two weeks of silence, of absolute peace and quiet from… him. You finally felt safe again, nightmares of the moaning man and the rumors in town no longer haunting you as harshly.
You hummed to yourself, washing dishes after dinner and ending a long day at work with your final chores before you could relax and get ready for bed. Christmas was nearly a week away, a holiday you were ambivalent about until this year, melancholy that you had nobody to share the holiday with. You knew that you made the choices you made for the best, for your safety and mental health, even, but you couldn’t help but rue the decisions just a little, a malicious reminder of your recent secret admirer and the fear he struck in you residing at the back of your mind.
With the reminder of the man came the memory of his threats and promises, a hot shame tipping your ears and swirling in your gut at the threats he made, at his knowledge of your… innocence.
You buried the hot shame and pulled the plug in the sink, allowing it to drain as you pulled your shirt sleeves down to cover your forearms once more. You sighed and went to the fridge, retrieving a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the cabinet. You poured yourself a few fingers and leaned against the counter, sighing again, deeply this time, weary after a long day and ready to get off your feet.
The whiskey was warm and smooth, sloshing around in your gut and doing its job as you shot back the entirety of the glass.
“Mhm,” you hummed to yourself, pouring another glass and shooting it back as well. The whiskey felt nice. It felt nice to not worry as much about, well, your worries. Bills, your job, the moaning man on the phone. You poured a third glass and took it with you to the living room, relaxing into your recliner and huffing to yourself as you settled in.
A warm, pleasant fog washed over you gently as you sipped the amber liquid.
As you allowed yourself to sink into the recliner, the warmth slow and lovely, you dozed, soon slipping in and out of consciousness. You slept like that, half aware of your surroundings, for a short while as nearly silent footsteps floated around your head, the sound of creaking floorboards pulling you awake in a panic, looking around suspiciously.
The sound ceased before you were able to even open your eyes and register that you were waking, but you were sure that they’d been there. You looked around, they’d been so close by that your heart was racing, positive that someone had been in your home.
You’d been imagining things.
You sat back in the chair once more and sighed to yourself, weary and ready to call it a day. If you were hallucinating, that meant that your mind was playing tricks on you due to recent paranoia and the long shift you’d pulled. You picked up your glass of whiskey, shot it back, and trudged upstairs, ready to sleep in.
You stripped for your shower, a stray thought to pull your curtains closed so nobody - a specific nobody - could see you. You still felt a chill run down your spine, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end like you had eyes on you. You shivered, covering your breasts with your arms, crossing them over your chest, and eyeing the bathroom door longingly. With a disparaged noise under your breath, you put pajamas on, too uneasy to risk staying unclothed for any longer.
You crawled into bed, turning off the light on your side table and being swallowed by darkness, a welcome comfort to hide you from imaginary eyes peering at you from unseen vantage points. You pulled the covers up and over your head, sighing deeply in exhaustion and exasperation with yourself and your paranoia.
You slept fitfully, not remembering fear-fueled dreams and visions of a faceless man in the night watching over you.
~
The night before Christmas, you worked late, not getting home until well after nightfall. You were bare bones tired and there was a container of homemade eggnog in the fridge with your name written all over it, ready to be spiked and enjoyed.
You trudged up to your house through the snow, careful not to slip on the black ice under the snow on the sidewalk. You fumbled with your keys in shivering hands and managed to slot the key into the lock and turn it. The house was dark and cold. Not yet a home. You turned on the lights in the living room as you disrobed your jacket and toboggan, pulling your gloves off one by one and putting each item away, sighing as you untied your boots.
You were a hundred times more comfortable once you’d shed your outer layer and started stripping down to your tank top and jeans, unbuttoning the jeans but leaving them on.
“What a uselessly long day,” you complained to yourself, draping your work shirt over the back of your reclining chair as you passed it on the way to your kitchen. You pulled your favorite rum from the cabinet, making your way to the fridge and pulling out your container of homemade eggnog. You’d eaten dinner hours ago on your “lunch” break and you were hungry now only for a deep, warm relaxation in the privacy of what would one day hopefully be your home. A place you could feel safe and happy in.
You were getting there, you thought. Things at work were looking up and you were gaining the respect of your peers, as much as you could where you worked as a woman in the late ’70s, anyway. You were sure to get a promotion, and soon after, a raise soon. And more free time. More days off. More time to relax. More time to be watched, unbeknownst to you.
Eyes were always on you, nowadays. The hair on the back of your neck had grown so accustomed to it that it no longer rose when those eyes in the darkness peered out at you after hours of absence.
You grabbed a large whiskey glass from the cabinet and poured a mixture of rum and eggnog into the glass, mixing it with your finger and sucking the same finger into your mouth a moment, licking it clean. You pulled the finger out of your mouth with a pop and a chill ran down your spine.
You shook the feeling off and poured a good amount of rum into the eggnog container, deciding what the rest of your night was going to look like right there. You closed the container and shook it, mixing a creamy, boozy beverage for you to lavish.
Grabbing the container and your glass, you went back into the living room and untied all of the curtains, letting them fall closed and putting the eggnog on the coffee table and putting a record on.
You placed ‘Loaded,’ Velvet Underground’s fourth album onto your record player and took a large gulp of the eggnog in your glass, moaning softly at the sweetness, the strength of the alcohol. You coughed into your closed fist. The rum was already doing its work. You took another modest sip, savoring the flavor this time as the tune of “Who Loves The Sun” filled the room.
The rum and your exhaustion worked your bones into relaxation, letting you give in to the music and sway to the tune. You danced with yourself, holding your glass close to your chest and humming along as you moved to the beat half-assed. The song wasn’t one of your favorites, but it was getting to you nonetheless. You closed your eyes and brought your glass to your lips, taking a long sip before putting it down on the coffee table, empty. You filled it again and continued your dance, your self-courtship, you considered.
You slipped your eyes closed, right hand tracing circles and drumming little off-beat taps with the tips of your fingers against your stomach. You looked around the room, barely suspicious due to the rum doing its quick work with you as you pushed your hand down the front of your unbuttoned jeans. You gulped your drink down and regretted it almost immediately, but put the glass down and let yourself fall back on the couch, dizzy and wanting. The second track began as you pushed your jeans down your hips and soon kicked them off, your once taut tank top riding up your stomach.
What a sight.
A chill ran down your spine and your skin turned to gooseflesh, making you moan and shiver it off, eyes slipping closed as your hand slid into your panties. You circled your clit, avoiding your wet entrance like you always did. You moaned, gasping softly as you touched yourself.
Your legs fell open, accepting the touch from yourself with ease and familiarity. You moaned as you picked up the pace, the song and the rum and the chill of hidden eyes working against you as an orgasm rose quickly, too quickly. You were shaking soon enough, rubbing circles and caresses into your clit.
“Fuck. F-Fuck-” you huffed to yourself, keening softly to yourself and arching away from the couch in pleasure as you came. You rode it out, only for a second before the stimulation was a little too much.
You pulled your fingers from your panties and sighed, relaxing back onto the couch with a sated grin. The clock above the fireplace read as 11:39 p.m. and you were exhausted, bone tired.
You hummed, pleased with yourself and too tired to even make your way upstairs. You kicked your pants off the couch and pulled the blanket draped over the back of the piece of furniture over yourself, yawning and shifting and situating yourself into the most comfortable position on the couch, using a fairly comfortable throw pillow under your head. You closed your eyes and sleep took you immediately.
~
The man could hardly contain himself. He was shaking, breathing heavily. He’d been standing over your sleeping form for ten minutes, unmoving. He had to bide his time. Be patient. Patient Billy. Dirty Billy.
He wanted to snort. Snarl. Take a closer look. Fuck, he wanted to lick your hand clean, lick your panties clean, lick your pretty piggy cunt clean. You slept in it, fuck, you slept in it.
He looked at the clock. 11:50. It was time. It was fucking time. You were going to be his soon. He could howl, he was so ecstatic. Howl at the moon like an animal after tearing into you.
Billy crossed the room silently, grabbing the ropes of curtain cords you’d laid aside earlier. It was like you’d known he was coming for you. You stretched out where you lay, one arm above your head and making his job half as hard as it would have been had you not. He tutted silently and shook his head.
Dirty thing, pretty thing, all laid out just for him. After his show. His show. All Billy’s. He knew you felt him watching.
He was going to hurt you.
Billy tied your wrists together snugly and used the rest of the “rope” to secure you to the legs of the heavy, antique couch. He chewed his lip and raked his eyes over your sleeping form once more before he kneeled on the couch at your feet, pulling the blanket up and delving underneath. He made his way to your hips, your legs spreading for him like you knew him, wanted him. He almost growled.
He could smell your orgasm on your panties from there, still a few inches away. His mouth watered. He hooked his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down slowly and gently, careful to not wake you. Not yet. He was shaking again.
He pulled the underwear down far enough that he could slip his head between them and your cunt, your legs lax and spread nicely for him. You snored above him, quietly. It was sweet, he thought. Billy gave no preamble, working his tongue over your clit after lathing his tongue over your cunt and gathering as much of your previous orgasm as he could, devouring you. He no longer cared for his plans to wake you with a renewed climax, instead wrapping his hands and arms around your waist and digging his fingers into your skin, gripping you and pulling you closer as he worked his tongue in harsh circles around your clit.
You woke slowly at first, for only a few seconds, until pleasure and pressure and fingernails in your waist all hit you like a dump truck. You gasped sharply before your eyes were even open. You tried to move, only to find that you couldn’t, confusion and fear filling you alongside the building orgasm in your gut.
Billy slurped and moaned and groaned and worked his tongue over and into you, clumsy and slobbery and greedy. You were shaking, sobbing to yourself, lost for words. You couldn’t even see your assailant, hidden under the blanket you’d be sure to burn later. He swirled his tongue around your clit and sucked, moaning and laughing as you squirmed but did not fight him.
You came with a shout and a sob. He did not stop his ministrations, instead lapping up your come and continuing until your thighs were shaking and you were crying, squeezing your legs around his head in overstimulation. He laughed, suffocating slightly and relishing it.
“Please- Please stop- Please get away from me,” you cried, voice watery and a little fucked out. When he pulled away from you, your legs fell open absentmindedly and he had half a mind to drag you up to the attic right then and there for the sight you audaciously were.
He lifted the blanket from over his head and you squeezed your eyes closed, shaking your head.
“I didn’t see your face; I won’t call the police! Just leave, please!” You begged. A laugh came from above you, a small oink following. You stopped begging, frozen with fear.
“Y-You?”
“M-M-Me.” Billy mocked you, giggling and wheezing. You shook your head, opening your mouth and inhaling sharply, ready to scream for help. Before the noise could leave your body, an open hand smacked you across the face, shocking you and forcing your eyes open if only to well up. The man above you snarled and hushed you, whining at you.
“You gotta be a good girl for Billy or he’ll punish the pretty little piggy,” he promised, grabbing you by the jaw and watching your tear-filled eyes squeeze closed before he could make you look at him. You whined, jaw quivering in his grip, “Open them. Now.”
His voice was calm and collected, totally unlike the phone call several weeks ago, the call that had haunted you for weeks. It was warm, almost sultry under the threatening overtone. You gulped and opened your eyes, a man coming into focus slowly. He’d turned off the lights in the living room, but not the kitchen. There was a halo around Billy, an aura from the warm kitchen lighting outlining the man and his intentions for you. His eyes were dark, a menacing want making them darker. He was grinning, showing teeth like a predator who wanted to ease his prey. He descended upon you, breathing heavily and framing your body with his, half-straddling you. He slotted one knee into your crotch, grunting and humping forward a few times. You gasped and moaned, squirming away and shivering. He grabbed your hips, stilling you and resting his forehead against your shoulder.
“I’m going to hurt you.”
You froze entirely, whimpering. You shook your head and gripped the rope binding your wrists.
“Please don’t. Please? What do you want?” You asked, hoping his answer would be anything but what you had already guessed.
He tutted and looked up at you, nuzzling your chest and collarbones with that same predatory grin, “I want to hurt you, make you bleed. Make you bleed and come on my fat, juicy, dirty, filty- bad Billy, bad, bad Billy.”
You stared at him, eyes widening as he spoke. You started shaking, letting your head fall back as you closed your eyes, unable to look at him at that second. You didn’t know how he knew you were a virgin. You didn’t know that he’d read every entry of your diary several times over and had cried for you, laughed for you, and came for you dozens of times. You didn’t know that Billy wanted you and only you.
“I know you want it, know you felt me watching, felt my eyes on you and worked those fingers faster, yes you did, piggy cunt wants something to swallow,” Billy rambled, kneading your breasts less-than-gently. You sucked a hiss inward, breasts sensitive from two orgasms and never having been touched by anybody other than yourself and a doctor. Thumbs rubbed over your nipples gently, flicking and massaging as the man watched them get hard through the thin tank top.
“No. N-No, I don’t want it,” you argued, weakly kicking him away, eyes welling up as you failed to find solid ground against him to get him away. You weren’t being entirely honest, but the panic of giving up something so precious so easily to someone attacking and threatening you made you sick to your stomach. Your arms ached above your head and he was grinding his knee into your cunt again.
“Yeah? Then, what’s this?” He asked, looking down at your hips where you were absentmindedly grinding down against him, “Oh, you want it, piggy, your sweet little cunt wants me.”
“N-No-” You tried, not stopping the movement, slowing down a little and moaning under your breath. You slipped your eyes closed as his knee gave pleasurable pressure to your clit, sensitive and wanting. You could feel a wet spot forming on his jeans, soaking you up.
Billy unzipped his jeans and pushed them down, pulling out his cock and jerking it, watching you open your eyes to fearfully examine him. You stared at him, scared to see his cock, scared of what it could do to you. Scared of how good it could make you feel.
You finally looked down, following his hand as it stroked his shaft, thumbing over the tip. He was just above average length, girthy, and veiny. You watched him blurt come and drip onto your stomach. You gasped and glanced at the droplets on your skin, your tank top having ridden up several inches.
You spread your legs for him, turning your head away from him and the shame of silently giving in.
“Ohh, sweet piggy. Sweet girl for dirty Billy. Filthy girl, filthy Billy,” he snarled, giving you no time to change your mind. He pushed the head of his cock into you, lining himself up perfectly and shoving into you, the wetness from your previous orgasms providing the lubrication he needed to violate you.
You gasped and nearly screamed as he pushed in farther, sobbing into the back of the couch as he broke your hymen and buried himself deep inside you.
“Jesus Christ, keep crying, every sob makes your cunt tighter, dumb little piggy crying on my cock, crying so pretty for filthy Billy,” he rambled, growling into the crook of your neck. You shivered as he bottomed out, squeezing your legs around his waist. You gasped harshly as he ground into you, beginning to thrust into you harshly, forcing your head to knock into the arm of the couch.
You sobbed and wrung your hands around the rope binding them, letting your legs fall open, accepting the harsh use of your hole and the snap of his hips.
Billy dug his nails into your sides, gripping and holding you down.
“Take it, take it, take Billy’s dirty fucking cock, you fuck-pig whore,” he spits, a hand snaking down between the two of you, finding your clit like he knew you, familiar with your body. You gasped sharply, tears streaming down your face from the intensity.
You moaned. You moaned for him, for his actions, for the fear of him, for his words. You didn’t know what to do but moan and accept the pain and pleasure he was wringing out of you. Your legs quaked and he used his free hand to push your tank top up, capturing a nipple in his mouth roughly.
“Jesus-“
“Dirty piggy loves filthy Billy’s cock, take it, taking me so well for a proper little virgin,” he cooed, voice strained. You nodded, delirious.
“Love it, love your cock, Billy, please-“ you whined, so close to your orgasm that your curled toes were forcing your feet to verge on cramping up.
He swirled his thumb around your clit expertly, with little to no ease on you. He was rough and needy in every way he touched you, wanting to devour you whole, absorb you into his being.
You came loudly, screaming and clamping your legs around him like a steel trap. He groaned, unable to thrust as harshly as he had been but close nonetheless at the squeeze and squelch of your pussy.
“Gonna fill your piggy cunt, fill you with my love,” he promised, threatened.
Your eyes shot open, panic flooding you alongside a sharp, hot shot of pleasure up your spine at the thought. You spread your legs and did your best to wedge a foot between you and Billy, pushing him back and off of you just as his hips stuttered and he began to come.
You felt empty immediately. Hollow. Wanting. Billy missed the squeeze of your cunt, but his orgasm racked through him and he came between your legs with a broken groan, come soaking into the soft cushion beneath you.
He gasped, thumbing through the puddle momentarily as the two of you panted, breathing heavily as you came down in your shared afterglow. His expression turned dark. The anger in his eyes was something you’d never seen.
You shook your head, fearing for your life with your eyes welling up with fat, salty tears. They poured over as your head shook and you begged.
“Please, I- I don’t want to die, Billy, please don’t kill-“ you pleaded as he rose from the couch, rounding you and undoing your ropes, freeing you and grabbing you by the hair, dragging you to your feet. He shoved you to your knees in front of the couch, cutting off your begs.
“Here you go, piggy.”
You stared at the couch cushion, at the stain and puddle there. You shook your head, confused and hoping he didn’t mean-
“Clean it up. Now, pretty piggy, or I’ll fucking gut you,” he cooed, oinking and giggling as he crouched behind you, forcing your head forward gently, his grip still in your hair. You whimpered, cunt throbbing from use and want, barely from the fear of his threat.
You shivered and grimaced, sticking your tongue out and lapping up the puddle cautiously. You had never tasted something like it, salty with a sweet aftertaste, thankfully not acrid like you’d heard it could be with a terrible diet.
You moaned softly, feeling your cunt throb as you lapped up the white liquid, licking the couch softly until you began to enjoy it more, licking every drop you could get up for the man and listening to the slick slide of his cock in his hand as he watched you.
He jerked your head back, baring your neck for him.
“Billy thinks he’s going to keep you.”