Blood In The Bed A Vigilante Story

The Blood in the Bed:

A Vigilante Story

A vigilante on the run after killing a corrupt and powerful man seeks shelter in your tiny apartment, and together you reach the peaks of pain and pleasure.

It is a bloody night.

Not in the British sense, but in the literal sense. You have your period, so you're tucked in your cozy sofa bed with an electric heating pad draped across your swollen lower belly. But, after two days of cramps and bleeding, your body is turning a corner. Your breasts are still heavy and sore, but the nipples are perking back to life, and their lightest graze against your flannel pajama top sends a little shiver of pleasure through your body.

Maybe it's time

, you think. Your libido has basically been in hibernation for a week, but now even the logistics are titillating: touch yourself right here, right now, in the bed? You're already hot and wet between the legs, so you're halfway there. On the other hand (and you do like to use both), it would be messy.

So the shower, then? The detachable showerhead in the tiny bathroom is a godsend, and you can already imagine the hot, pulsing jets of water. The steam would do your aching body good, too. And no cleanup. Of course, it would mean getting up from your cozy little cocoon...

Your hand seems to make the decision for you, sneaking into the warm blankets and shifting the heating pad to slip inside your flannel pajamas, then your boy shorts...

Buzz buzz.

That's not a vibrator--unfortunately. Just your phone. Your friend Saavi is calling, probably to bug you again to come out to that dive bar near her office. Midtown? No way in frat boy Happy Hour hell.

"I'm not coming," you say immediately when you pick up the phone. A second later, you realize the irony of your word choice.

But I will be in about ten minutes.

"You are so rude! I was calling to reassure you that I'm ALIVE, in case you care. But it is INSANE here - we're all locked in the bar! All of Midtown is locked down!"

"WHAT? What's going on?"

"There's a murderer on the loose!"

"No way!"

"Yah! This guy just rolled up and SHOT someone in the face, outside this big business hotel, right in Midtown."

"Oh my God! Be careful! There's some psychopath running around!"

"Apparently he's kinda hot, though. The police leaked some security footage so everyone can be looking for him, and he's got a killer smile - pun intended."

"Do NOT go looking this guy, Saavi. Stay safe, please!"

"You need to see him, though. Turn on NY1."

Saavi loves NY1, the local news channel that constantly reports apartment fires and subway muggings. You hate watching it, especially before bed--way too stressful. But this is a big story, and you grope through the blankets for the remote.

True to form, NY1 is showing the graphic security footage of the actual murder: a black-and-white scene of a tall man in a business suit leaving a hotel through a revolving door. Another figure appears, in a hooded cargo jacket and mask, and hurries after the suited man. When he turns, the masked figure grabs him by his lapel and pushes a gun against his temple. Before he pulls the trigger, he pulls him close and whispers something in the businessman's ear. Then he shoots. Blood explodes onto both of them, black in the grainy security footage. You jump in your bed.

"The motivation for the shooting is currently unknown," the news anchor says when they cut back to the desk. "But the victim was president of Crudelis Healthcare, a controversial company who has refused over 60% of health insurance claims from American patients this year, leaving them either suffering without necessary medical treatment, or drowning in debt."

Okay

, you think.

Maybe not exactly a psychopath.

You doubt that Saavi, a junior social media manager with a tab at her local pub, is at risk right now--and you're even more confident after the point the news anchor makes next:

"The criminal appears to speak to the victim, which could indicate that they were known to each other, and this was a targeted hit."

Then the news anchor gets excited.

"This just in! We have the FIRST image of the killer's face, unmasked. Earlier today he lowered his mask at a midtown Starbucks..."

"Oh WOW!" You say out loud in your studio, surprising yourself. Saavi was right. He is

handsome.

And not just handsome, with a strong Roman nose and bold dark brows, but...sexy. Cheeky. Charismatic. According to the briefly amused news anchor, he had lowered his mask to flirt with the barista, and when you see the glint in his dark eyes and the teasing flash of that "killer smile," you bet he had gotten a free muffin out of it.

Your body is definitely awake now. Warm blood is pulsing through your body, flushing your skin, and you are hotter and wetter than ever. Plunging your hand straight down inside your boy shorts, you find your clit already swollen and slick. Stroking it with your index fingers sends the first little tremors of pleasure to all your nerve endings.

The voices on the TV are background noise, now--breathless eyewitnesses chattering, something about the killer escaping north into the dark on a bike--because the photo is still full screen, and you notice his mask is tugged down so low that you can see the dark stubble along his sharp jawline. Your hips lift from the bed instinctively to grind your clitoris harder against your fingers, and you hurry your other hand down between your legs. That index finger feels for your slit and, finding it soaked and open, slips right in.

Bang bang bang.

That's not the sound of your headboard against the wall--not yet, anyway. Someone's at the door. You sit up, startled, and pull your hands automatically out of your pajamas. When you look down, you almost freak out at the blood on your fingers--then remember your period. Of course--you were definitely wet, but it wasn't

all

the guy on the TV...

Bang bang bang

- another urgent triple knock. You'd hoped the person would just go away. Usually they do - the random stragglers or drunk Columbia or NYU students who come knocking. That's the downside of a basement apartment. But it's the price you pay for a cozy studio right next to Central Park--well, that and two thousand dollars a month. Your own little nest right in the heart of Manhattan.

Bang bang bang

.

You switch off the TV to pretend no one's home and creep towards the door to peek out.

A shadowy figure is waiting in the darkness under the main brownstone steps--waiting anxiously, practically shaking. It looks like a stranger, and a man, which means two thumbs down in your mind. There's a reason you don't usually watch NY1--you're a scaredy cat. You're definitely not about to open the door to someone you've never seen in your life.

Except...

have

you seen him? Hiding behind the curtain, you peek through the windowpane next to the door. The stranger has the hood of his jacket up against the cold city night--his cargo jacket. And the gleam of a passing headlight illuminates his dark brows and strong nose. He is wearing a mask, but when he pulls it down to speak, you glimpse dark stubble.

"Please." His voice is deep and throaty, but soft. "If someone is there, please help me. I'm in a lot of pain."

His voice cracks in his throat, and you find yourself pressing your face to the cold window through the curtain as your pulse races.

It's him. It's really him.

The stern voice in your head--the uptight librarian that sits on your right shoulder and wags her finger in disapproval--reminds you:

He's a criminal. He's dangerous.

But he's not

that

dangerous, you argue against yourself. He killed a corrupt CEO who killed a lot of other people. He wouldn't kill you.

But he could get you in trouble.

If you talk to him, or open the door to someone on the run from the police, won't you be an accessory to murder or something?

The heat of your flushed face against the frosted windowpane reflects your wildly conflicting feelings. Then you hear it:

A soft, guttural moan.

It's a moan of pain, but it sounds so much like something else that a lightning bolt of desire strikes your core, a sharp cramp of pleasure shooting from your belly down between your legs.

Your trembling fingers reach for the bolt on the door. You slide it back, unhook the chain, and turn the key in the lock. You open the door.

His face is startled, pale in the shadows.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," he says immediately. Clearly the stranger--the killer--has good manners, even when he is shaking with cold and wincing in agony.

"I was trying to catch my train to leave the city, but I had a back spasm. I have a really bad back. I can't even walk now, and I just need someplace to warm to...

Ouch!

"

Hissing between gritted teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head back. The muscles in his throat strain under his dark stubble.

Human compassion floods you, and everything else--the security footage, the police chase, the gun--is forgotten.

"Come in, come in!" you insist, opening the door wider, but he seems frozen on the threshold. Do murderers need some kind of special invitation to enter a stranger's house, like a vampire? But you've just invited him in!

No--he'd just said it.

I can't even walk now.

He is struggling even to take a step. You move towards him. The stranger is only a few inches taller than you but strong, with broad shoulders in that dark cargo jacket. You hesitate, then approach and tuck yourself under one of those strong arms.

His arm is so heavy around you that you have to hold your tongue to keep from commenting. He smells a little bit sweaty and a little bit woodsy - was he running through Central Park?

He is a stranger--and a fugitive--but suddenly it's you who feels strange, seeing your tiny, messy studio through new eyes. There is a CVS-brand ibuprofen bottle and bag of Dove chocolates on your side table -

period cliché, much?

And when he gasps in pain, his muscles tightening against your body, and you say, "You have to lie down!", you quickly realize there's only one place:

Your bed.

It's a fold-out bed, and it's already folded out. So that's it.

"I can't," he says hoarsely, and gestures to his jacket. In the warm lamplight, you can see the dark patches splattered on his dark jacket.

Blood.

"Then take it off," you hear yourself saying, and you're even more surprised to find yourself helping him--holding your breath as you tug down the stained zipper of his jacket, slipping your hand inside his hot sleeve.

"Oh!" You gasp in surprise when you're holding his rolled-up jacket. His gray pullover, too, is blotched with blood. Lifting your eyes from the shirt, you dare to meet his gaze for the first time. His dark, deep-set eyes, with thick dark lashes, look somehow vulnerable and fierce at the same time, like he is both the hunter and the deer in the headlights.

More Bambi than butcher, though

, you decide.

"You should take that off, too."

Together, you lift the soft gray shirt over his head, him holding his breath and trying not to wince, you trying your best to be gentle. Then he lies down on his stomach on your bed.

His skin is smooth and pale, covered in a light sheen of sweat. His shoulders are broad, his arms well-muscled. Young - maybe twenty-five? A few years younger than you--and a strong and healthy guy, except for one shocking feature: a long, jagged white scar running between his shoulder blades all the way down to the belt of his jeans.

Between the scar and the muscles, it's hard to focus on folding the shirt to cover the bloodstain. Instead, you drop his clothes on your furry rug and approach your own bed on cautious tiptoe.

"Um, would a heating pad help?"

He turns to look at you, resting his cheek on his intertwined fingers on the pillow, furrowing those strong dark brows in slight confusion. So you reach carefully over his waist to grab your heating pad - an extra heavy-duty one made to wrap around the body that plugs into the wall and has a remote control.

"I call him Heat Miser." You laugh a little nervously. "You know, like

The Year Without a Santa Claus

?"

He smiles at you for the first time and his whole face changes. His eyes light up, and his thick dark eyelashes make him look young and innocent. You notice for the first time a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. You feel a guitar string of desire plucked and quivering in your lower abdomen.

"That sounds good," he says, and adds quickly, "Thanks."

Balancing delicately on the edge of your own bed, you drape the heating pad across his lower back. The moment the still-hot fabric touches his skin, a groan of pleasure vibrates deep in his throat. A vibration responds deep inside of you, and you remember suddenly what you had been doing when he knocked on your door. Touching yourself, with your fingers deep inside your wet...And not just touching yourself, either. Touching yourself to a picture of

him.

A hot flush of embarrassment colors your whole body, and you are so glad he can't see you.

His face is down, and his body seems to have relaxed, his shoulder blades rising and falling regularly with his relaxed breathing. You notice the damp dark curls around his ears, the neat razor-line on his neck. He must have gotten his haircut recently, which makes it even harder to believe that he shot and killed a man in cold blood on the street tonight.

"How long have you had back problems?" you venture in a soft voice, tiptoeing curiously but cautiously into his personal life.

"I got hurt out in Hawaii. I was out there learning to surf one summer. It was my first time out alone at sunset, and I got so lost in the amazing colors that I didn't even feel the water getting cold around me. This huge wave rushed in, and I managed to ride it, but when I crashed on the shore, I could feel how bad I strained my back. I should've gone for help right away, but I heard this shriek. This girl had gotten carried out by the wave. I dove right back in before I could even think, and I managed to swim out, but by the time I dragged her back to the beach, my back was completely screwed up."

The scar on his back is glaring white, trailing downwards like a road on a map. You're tempted to reach out and trace it lightly with your index finger.

"So then you got surgery?"

He did, but the first surgery went badly. He was in even more pain afterwards. But when he went to a different doctor for a second surgery to fix it, his insurance company refused.

"They said the surgery was 'unnecessary.'"

His tone changes. His muscles tighten.

"I'm sorry," you say softly. Then daring words escape from your mouth. "Would a massage help?"

He turns his head, and his dark eyes meet yours. In a raspy voice, almost a growl, he replies: "

Oh

yeah." Then he adds quickly--that innate politeness: "If you don't mind."

At first you stay perched on the edge of the sofa bed, twisting awkwardly to touch him (

Don't hurt YOUR back now

, you remind yourself). You slide the heating pad off his back, and your palms settle lightly on his smooth skin.

You start with light circles, but his soft breathing and murmured "

Yes

" encourage you to press deeper into his strong body. His muscles come to life, warming and filling with blood under your touch. Then you make a bold move. You change positions, sitting up on your knees and moving one leg carefully over the waist of his jeans until you are basically straddling him, sitting on the backs of his thighs.

It's just a better angle,

you tell the strict librarian on your shoulder.

But the moment he flexes his leg and a hard muscle in his thigh swells, you know it's a lie. The pressure hits the hot, throbbing place between your legs that you so cruelly teased and abandoned without relief. You fall into the rhythm of his soft, rasping moans, rocking back and forth: forward to dig the heels of your palms under his shoulder blades, his skin warming under the friction of your palms, then back to sit down hard on his strong legs.

"This feels so good," he exhales, and before you can think you reply, in the same breathy and too-sensual exhale: "I know."

"What?" he says.

Your hands freeze on his back. He props himself up on his elbows, then turns over as you pull back. He looks slightly confused, but not in so much pain anymore. He stretches his arms easily above his head. You try to look away, but your mind is like a horny Sherlock Holmes, taking in every detail: his large biceps, the dark curls of hair under his arms, the tight abdominal muscles in his flat stomach, the trail of damp hair leading down to...

"I know it feels good," you blurt out, after shaking your head to shake off the distraction. You're babbling to fill the awkward silence.

"I mean, I know

massages

feel good. And the heating pad. I have..."

You pause. Your instinct is to avoid the word "period" in front of guys. But you shouldn't have to! And you probably

don't

have to. I mean, this guy is a political rebel, a woke anarchist. A vigilante for healthcare. He has to be a feminist, right?

"I have really painful periods, so..."

Your babbling turns into a real venting of frustration - how you have to skip classes at least two days a month, how you find yourself doubled over on the bathroom floor sobbing in agony, how your grad student insurance won't cover the tests for endometriosis or prescription painkillers that could give you the relief you need desperately.

There is fire in the stranger's eyes. He sits up, his strong core flexing, his whole body alert and alive, flushed suddenly with energy and determination.

"It isn't right. This whole capitalist healthcare complex. It's sick how much power they have, and

we're

sick because of it. Who are they to tell us what we need or don't need? We know our bodies."

You whisper two soft words, and with those two words, you are officially on his side: "

I know.

"

It fully sinks in, and you understand: this young man in your bed is not violent or cruel. The world is violent and cruel, and he was crying out in pain, and the world was not listening.

But you are: listening--and looking. You hold his gaze for the first time, without fear or shyness, without looking away. His eyes are dark brown, warm and liquid, perhaps glinting with tears, full of intelligence, emotion, and desperation. Your hand reaches out for his body again and rests on his stomach, which was rising and falling with passionate breaths and is now calming down.

His hand--big and warm and slightly rough--settles on yours.

"So what do you do?" he asks gently. "How do you handle the pain?"

Your palm prickles with sweat against his stomach, and you laugh a bit awkwardly. "Well, there's one fail-safe method..."

His eyebrows lift with interest.

"Actually, orgasms help cramps." Blood floods your face, and you rush to justify yourself. "It's, like, oxytocin or something. My gyno even recommended it. I mean, she didn't give me a prescription or anything - although how could the insurance companies refuse that one? But..."

The stranger's mouth quirks up into a small, amused smile. At least you're distracting him from the worst night of his life, even if you're embarrassing yourself. And you're extra embarrassed when he glances over and sees the ibuprofen and chocolate on your side table. It's pretty obvious what time of the month it is. Luckily, he doesn't seem bothered. In fact, his smile changes, and there is a new, mischievous glint in his eyes.