Symbiote Mask Stories

For nearly three hours, Lucy sat on the floor of her small, dingy bathroom, naked as the day she was born. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her shins, pulling her knees into her breasts, while her feet sat flat and shivering on the cold, clammy tile. The tub’s slick fiberglass dug into her back, and behind her, a thunderous cascade of water sputtered continuously from the shower head, thickening the air with moisture. A moisture which fed the clusters of mold which had been allowed to grow unabated on the shower curtain and walls. That was fine, though. All of it was fine. In fact, she wanted it. Every morsel. Sights. Sounds. Smells. Pain. Whatever she could scrounge to distract herself from the thing on the floor across from her. She tried not to look at it. The mask hewn from polished driftwood. It took every ounce of her willpower to fix her gaze on literally anything else. A specific tile, the calcium-caked pipe under the sink. Still, the hunger always won. Her sight would drif...

The Mask gripped the young woman’s hips tightly, tilting his from head side to side as he devoured her like a starving dog. She was close. He could hear it in her moans and see it in the beads of sweat drizzling down her clenched stomach, but it wasn’t until her thighs clamped down on his head that he knew it was time to deliver the coup de grace. Wrapping his lips around her pussy he dove his tongue into her, extending it to unnatural lengths so he could taste the full extent of her, before drawing it out slowly, gliding it across her clit. She bucked hard. Her screams, lodged in her throat, came out only as ugly, guttural gasps. But he didn’t stop. Not until he’d wrung every last ounce of pleasure out of her. Pushing her legs apart he rose to one knee and furiously fingered her, knowing from experience and supernatural intuition exactly where her g-spot was, and that once she was over the edge it was remarkably easy to keep her going. The Mask stroked himself at the sight of her qui...

Amy couldn’t sleep. For almost two hours she’d laid listless on top of her unwashed sheets staring at the ceiling. In that time all she’d managed to do was count how many veiny cracks were now in the plaster. Running count was 57. Her arm had long since fallen asleep, having been wedged under her head to prop it up after she’d decided her pillow was too soft. She hadn’t washed up and didn’t plan to. Instead she’d thrown on a loose grey t-shirt and sweatpants as soon as she got home, letting her blonde hair remain in its matted, pixie cut shambles – complete with grease. ‘Oh well’ she thought ‘don’t gotta impress folks when you live alone, right.’ She could barely move, in large part thanks to her recently concluded waiting shift at Mr. Moogies Family Restaurant – her second twelver that week. Maddie had called out sick, so when Mr. Stone demanded she stay she agreed without much fuss. Not that it bought his good graces. Not even an hour later he went right back to...