Warning: This story contains a level of CNC/DubCon content that is the focus of the scene. These are not values I hold, and this is purely a work of fiction. If you are experiencing any struggles, I have included a list of global helplines. https://www.helpguide.org/find-help. TW: Masks, knife-play, dubious consent, mentions of blood

I deemed myself unshakeable. I always had. My mother had always been dismissive growing up, but unrestricted access to the internet and her under-bed horror collection had become a thing of comfort in a twisted and macabre way. Was it weird to say the blood splatters and screams of fear had become my companions? Probably. Would I ever seek the aid of a psychiatrist? Ha. Absolutely not.

In addition to this, I was the first person to judge the acts of the buffoons on television. ‘Run! Fucking Run!’ I’d yell, tossing popcorn at the screen in frustration. If that was me, I would do better, I would survive, I wouldn’t allow myself to get caught.

Despite all of this, I never enjoyed Halloween events, and my closest friend, Darla, would call me a bore. “Fia, live a little, it’s fun,” she’d encourage in her high-pitched begging tone. In response, I would scoff, roll my eyes and turn back to my laptop. However, on this occasion, she left no room for retort when the two Scare Night tickets were slammed earth-shatteringly onto my desk and flounced away with that little smirk I despised.

So here we were, stuck in the queue for the Corn Maze. It was getting late, and the event was drawing to a close. We had gone to a restaurant before, and it was my retorts and whining that had caused us to be late. If Darla had not been inebriated, I would have suffered her wrath; however, the merlot had softened the blow. One of the scare actors approached, a clown creature dripping corn-starch blood, hissing in our faces before moving to the next victim.

“Is it weird I find them kind of hot?” Darla said, practically twirling her hair and giggling school-crush style at the clown. I had to bite my lip from laughing at her in a fond manner. Although I barely had a leg to stand on as I too, found them ‘kind of hot’, my ex and I used to dress up in the bedroom, masks and such. It was a thrill, a fantasy. “I think it’s the mask, the not knowing, the danger,” I clarified with a curt nod, to which Darla responded by slapping my arm gently. “I always forget you did that psychology course,” she slurred, which made me scoff. “Darla, I did one two-week course, and all I learned was that my brain is in my skull, a waste of money.”

“Still, better qualified than me.”

“Strangely, I don’t think that’s too difficult,” my eyebrows raised as I said this, tongue licking my lips, eyes alight in mischief.

“You damned bitch,” Darla retorted quickly before looking around. “I really need the toilet, all that merlot has just gone right through me,” she whined, looking around.

“Classy,” I commented, noting her bouncing from foot to foot. “No, seriously,” urgency in her voice. “If I go and find a toilet, will you be okay?” genuine concern in her tone. My brows furrowed, I would much rather do the maze with her – but it was going to close soon –