The Sweet Taste of Fear

The way Thomas looks at me during group therapy—equal parts terror and fascination—tells me everything I need to know about him. His addiction isn't really about the images on his computer screen. It's about control. About power. About the thrill of watching without being seen.

Little does he know, I've been watching him too.

"You're staring again," I whisper as we file out of the church basement after another group session.

Father Roth had barely looked at me the entire hour, his focus deliberately anywhere but in my direction after our encounter in the woods.

Thomas startles, his pale face flushing. "I wasn't—I mean—"

"Relax." I say, grazing his arm lightly. "I don't mind. Actually, I was hoping to talk to you. Privately."

His Adam's apple bobs as he struggles to swallow.

"About what?" he asks.

"About what you're really afraid of." I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing his ear. "Meet me tonight. The old boathouse by the lake. Midnight."

He steps back, eyes wide. "What for? I can't—"

"You can," I say, already turning away. "And you will."

I feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, knowing with cold certainty that he'll show up. They always do.

 ***

The boathouse creaks with each gust of wind off the lake. Having lit a few candles, I watch their glow cast everything in amber and gold. It's almost romantic, in a decrepit sort of way.

What a way to hypnotize someone!

My phone buzzes. It's 11:58 PM. The sound of hesitant footsteps on the dock outside fills me with adrenaline.

"Hello?" Thomas calls in a low, uncertain tone.

Right on time.

"In here," I call, arranging myself on the worn couch I'd dragged in earlier. An old thing abandoned in someone's yard with a "free" sign, but it serves my purpose.

The door swings open, and there he stands, silhouetted against the night, his lanky frame tense with apprehension.

"You came," I say, smiling slowly.

He steps inside, blinking as his eyes adjust to the candlelight. "What's this about, Hel? Why'd ya want to meet in such a spooky place?"

Patting the space beside me, I proceed to invite him nearer, "Come sit. I want to show you something."

Reluctantly, he crosses the room and perches on the edge of the couch, maintaining as much distance between us as possible.

Smart boy. Not that it will help.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you, Thomas?" I run a finger along the back of the couch, watching his eyes track the movement. "I see someone who's hungry. Someone who's been starving himself for years. Denying himself of his true desires."

"I'm getting better," he mumbles. "Father Roth says my progress—"

"Father Roth, doesn't understand what you need. Not like I do."

His face contorts with confusion, and the fear within creeps closer and closer to the surface.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a small wooden box.

"What's that?" he asks, curiosity overcoming his caution.

"A gift," I say, "specially bought just for you."

I open the box. Inside, nestled on black velvet, lies a small crystal pendant on a silver chain. It catches the candlelight, refracting it into fragments that dance across his face.

"I don't understand," he says, but his eyes are fixed on the pendant, already falling into its rhythm.

"You don't need to understand," I whisper. "You just need to watch."

I lift the pendant, letting it swing gently between us. His eyes follow its movement, back and forth, back and forth. So predictable. So easy.

"Tell me what you're afraid of, Thomas."

His breathing changes, becoming slower, deeper. "I'm afraid of... myself. Of what I might do. Of what I want."

"And what do you want?"

His eyes never leave the swinging crystal. "To stop feeling ashamed. To stop being afraid."

I smile. Oh, Thomas. If only you knew what real fear was.

"I can help you with that," I say, inching closer. "I can take it all away. The shame. The fear. All you have to do is let me in."

"Let you in?" he echoes.

"To your mind." I lean forward, the pendant still swinging between us. "To your soul. Just for a little while."

In his eyes, I see confusion warring with desire—not for me, but for release. For an end to the constant struggle with himself. It's what they all want, in the end. To surrender. To stop fighting what they are.

"What... what'd happen?"

"You'll feel everything you've been afraid to feel," I tell him. "And then you'll be free."

It's not entirely a lie. He will be free—just not in the way he imagines.

I begin to whisper words in a language that hasn't been widely spoken for centuries, and my latest sacrifice has made his way in front of me. Kneeling.

He's entranced by my curves and glides his hands over my thigh hungrily.

"Open ya legs," he orders.

"As you wish."

Slowly opening my legs, I run my long nails across my thighs , drawing nearer to my p###y.

"I wanta see," he continues. His breathing increases rapidly.

"Well, of course," I say.

Slipping my thing to the side, I shift closer to his face. His eyes still glued to my glistening slit as I gently stimulate myself with the tip of my middle finger.

"Fhuuuck," he says, grabbing his c#ck and starting to stroke it in front of me.

Gotcha.

Enticing him even more, I begin moaning softly as I slip two fingers in and out of my dripping wet p###y and watch as he's overcome with arousal. 

"Do you want to feel my essence on you?" I ask.

Unable to speak, he simply nods slowly. Guiding him up and closer, I grasp his throbbing c##k and massage my cl#t with it. The moistness sends him into a drunken frenzy as he grabs my thigh, demanding to be inside me.

"I thought watching was enough for you," I say, rising to my feet.

"Not nymore!" he screams, kissing me on my neck while still stroking his c#ck; now violently.

"Baby steps, my dear," I say, placing his hand on my p###y.

His appetite becomes animalistic as he jerks himself wildly. Drenched in sweat and with a heartbeat of 220 bpm, he collapses at my feet.

Biting my lip, I lean over him and draw in every ounce of energy he possesses. The air grows thick, charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. The candle flames stretch tall, then bend toward us as if caught in an impossible wind.

His eyes widen, a flicker of genuine fear breaking through the hypnotic trance.

"What're ya doing?"

Too late for second thoughts.

The symbols on the wooden box begin to glow with a light of their own, casting sickly green reflections on the walls. Images appear within the pendant's crystal, and the rush I feel coursing through my veins feels like heaven on earth.

"Don't be afraid," I say, my voice changing, deepening, echoing slightly as if multiple versions of me are speaking at once. "This is what you came for."

His fear is palpable now—a living thing that fills the space between us. Sweet. Intoxicating. I can almost taste it on my tongue, feel it seeping into my skin like warm rain.

"I gotta go," he says, attempting to stand but finding his limbs unresponsive. "Please, I wanta go home."

"Look at me, Thomas."

Unable to resist, he does. Staring dead into my eyes, his terror peaks like a delicious wave that crashes over me. Inhaling deeply, I draw it in, letting it fill the hollow spaces inside me.

"Hel."

His life force flickers, dims, and feeds the endless hunger that drives me.

Fine, I won't take it all.

Just enough to satisfy, to strengthen. Just enough to ensure he remembers—but not enough that he'll be believed if he tells anyone what happened here tonight.

Thomas slumps against the couch, pale and shaking. Alive, but changed.

"What're ya?" he whispers.

I tuck the pendant back into its box, the symbols no longer glowing. "I'm just like you, Thomas. Someone looking for what they need."

I stand, gathering my things. "You should go home now. Get some rest. You'll need it."

Incapable of moving, he just stares at me with haunted eyes. "Will I—am I—"

"You'll be fine," I say, though we both know it's a lie. "Eventually."

I leave him in the boathouse, trembling and hollow-eyed.