Page 9 of Slay All The Way

I give her a small nod and turn to leave, gripping the package tight in my hand. But before I can make my way back through the market, a voice cuts through the holiday hum like a blade.

“Hey, freak!”

The word hangs in the air, slicing through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I stop in my tracks, the grin beneath my mask widening. Slowly, I turn, scanning the crowd until I spot him—a guy leaning against a nearby stall, smirking in my direction.

He’s a big fucking guy. Broad-shouldered, thick neck, the kind of build that makes you think he spends more time in front of a mirror than anywhere else. His cheeks are red from the cold, his breath fogging the air in front of him as he takes a swig from a flask. The smug look on his face tells me everything I need to know about him.

This fucker thinks he’s untouchable.

“What’s with the mask, clown?” he taunts, laughing to himself. “Trying to scare the kids? I think you got the wrong fucking holiday, bro.”

I tilt my head, watching him closely, feeling the familiar rush of excitement building in my chest. Ha, this poor fuck has no idea what’s coming.

“Are you deaf or something? Fucking idiot. I said nice mask,” he says again, louder this time, trying to draw more attention.

The market around us fades away, the people, the sounds, everything. All I can hear is his voice, grating, obnoxious, begging to be silenced. My hands twitch at my sides, itching to feel the warmth of his blood between my fingers.

I take a step toward him, slowly, deliberately.

“Hey, man, it’s Christmas,” he says, his smirk faltering just a bit as I close the distance. “Don’t take it so personal.”

“Oh, I don’t,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “But you should be more careful about who you mock on Christmas. It’s a time for joy and giving, after all.”

His expression flickers with confusion, but it’s too late. I’m already there.

Before he can react, I grab his wrist and twist, yanking him into a narrow alley beside the stalls. He grunts in pain, his flask clattering to the ground as he tries to pull away.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” he shouts, panic rising in his voice. “It was just a joke, man! What the hell?!”

I don’t say a word as I shove him against the brick wall, the cold brick biting into his back. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, panic starting to bloom in his eyes. The alley is dark, the sounds of the market are muffled in the distance.Perfect.

He’s squirming now, trying to push me off, but I’ve already got my hands around his throat, squeezing, pressing until his struggles become frantic, desperate. His eyes bulge, his face turning a deep shade of red as he claws at my mask.

“Let... go!” he chokes out, spitting, gasping for air.

I lean in close, my breath hot against his face, my grin widening. “You know what I love about Christmas?” I whisper, my fingers digging into his flesh. “It’s the creativity. All the pretty little decorations, the lights... the glitter. It’s all so fucking marvelous!”

His chest heaves, and I release his throat just long enough for him to suck in a desperate gulp of air, but before he can scream,I pull out the ornament hook I snatched earlier from one of the vendor stalls. It’s sharp, meant to hang delicate glass bulbs, but now it’s going to hang something far more interesting.

Through the eye holes in my mask, I can see the realization dawning in his eyes, and it makes me laugh—a cruel, mocking sound that echoes in the dark around us. “We’re going to play a little game,” I say, pressing the metal hook against his cheek, relishing the way his body tenses beneath it.

“Please—”

“Shhh,” I coo, my voice dripping with false sweetness. “You’ll get your chance to beg. But first, I want to see how well you can please me. After all, it is the season of giving.”

Before he can process what I’m saying, I plunge the hook deep into his cheek, the sharp metal tearing through flesh and muscle with a sickening crunch. His scream is muffled by the blood pouring from his mouth, bubbling up in a frothy crimson mess, but I’m not finished. Shit, I’m just getting started.

“Look at you, crying like a little bitch,” I taunt, leaning back to admire my work. “Don’t you know, Santa only comes if you’re a good boy.” I shove him to his knees, watching as he stumbles, panic etched across his face. “Now, show Santa Johnny how good you can be.”

“Please, don’t—” His voice is a strangled whimper, but I cut him off with a sharp kick to his side. He gasps, the wind knocked out of him, and I smirk down at him.

“Beg for it,” I command, and the way his eyes dart back to mine, fear dancing in them, only fuels my desire. “Tell me how good you’re going to be so I can give you my special gift,” I add as I pull my cock from my pants. It’s already rock hard as I run my chilled hand up and down it’s length, gripping it firmly.

He hesitates, but desperation takes over, and he drops his gaze, his cheeks flushed. “I’ll be good, Santa. I promise. I’ll do better, just don’t kill me...”

“Not good enough.” I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back until he’s forced to look up at me. “I want to hear you beg for Santa’s gift. Tell me how bad you fucking want it.”

“Please, I want it! I’ll do whatever you want!” His voice shakes, and I can see the tears pooling in his eyes. It’s beautiful—so fucking beautiful.

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