Page 160 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I gasp as my legs fall open, a helpless offering.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “That’s my sweet little slut.”

His fingers move with purpose—slow at first, then faster, curling and stroking in just the right way.

His mouth is relentless, tasting me like salvation, flicking and sucking until I’m writhing beneath him.

When a third finger slides in, my body tightens around him, a strangled moan ripping from my throat.

And then I’m gone—shattering again, harder this time, clamping down as pleasure pulses through me in wave after wave, leaving me trembling and undone.

I sob through the gag.

Not from pain, but overload. From how much he’s giving. From how much I want it.

He groans, sucking his fingers clean, dragging them into his mouth like he’s savoring every drop. I feel it vibrate in his chest.

“Hold on tight,” he murmurs.

The bar shifts.

One moment I’m on my back, the next I’m rotated with mechanical ease—kneeling, face to the mattress, arms still bound, ankles wide, hips high.

A whimper tears loose on instinct at the vulnerability.

I’m on display—sacred and depraved.

His breath brushes my back. I hear fabric shift as he moves behind me.

My heart stutters.

No.

He said he wouldn’t. Not unless I asked.

I haven’t and I won’t.

But my body doesn’t care. It tenses—not in protest, but aching anticipation.

His hand returns.

The sob I let out melts into a moan when his fingers find me—soft, steady strokes grounding me like a promise.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You have no idea how badly I want you.”

I have more range of motion and my hips work my center around his hand, grinding hard.

“Fuck yes,” He growls. “Rub this wet pussy on me and come.”

His fingers don’t stop—not as my thighs shake, not as I cry out.

The orgasm is brutal—raw, hot, endless.

I sob into the mattress, shuddering as I come apart around his hand.

His grip stay on me.

Warm palms glide over my hips, up my spine, down my bottom.

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