Page 43 of Scary In Love
There’s a clunking noise from somewhere beneath me, then the table begins to move, the top spinning slowly in an anti-clockwise direction.
My eyes fly open, and I twist my head from side to side, quickly losing track of Mason as the figures sway. The chanting gets louder.
Something,someone, grabs at my ankle, and I yelp as I spin out of reach. The table turns faster, and another hand reaches for my stomach, then my hair, then another, and another.
All these hands. Slow at first, then grabbing, pinching, pulling at my body. I’m moving too fast to make sense of it all.
Are there really only two hands?
They push my skirt up, squeeze my thighs, paw at my tits. It’s the opposite of the doctor’s slow torment. Frantic and overwhelming.
When they tear at my tights, I remember Mason asked for this. Fishnets are his thing, and I hope he loves what this looks like.
The music speeds up, and so does the table. My hands scrabble to grip the edge, hoping gravity will keep me here and not send me flying.
When I think I can’t hold on any longer, the table jerks to a rough stop, and I scream in shock. A figure grips my ankles and drags me to the edge. My thighs are pushed wide, and I look up just in time to see him lift his mask and bury his face between them.
The hood of his cloak drapes over us both, and I can only feel the immediate relief of his tongue lapping at my hot, aching flesh.
The chanting gets louder, the frequency pulsing through my veins.
With greedy licks and hungry sucks, he growls against my core, and I feel the vibration of it ripple through me. I reach down to push his hood back, but he pins my wrists by my sides, his elbows keeping my legs spread wide.
He feasts like an animal with a fresh kill, his body gyrating as he gorges himself. I can’t hear him over the music, but I can feel the hot, sticky mess he’s making.
My back arches, and when my head rolls back, my gaze snags on one of the masked faces staring down at me. I look at them all, bucking my hips harder against Mason’s mouth.
I know it’s not real, but I don’t care. I want them to see me, want them to witness him drink from my body, while they drink from my soul.
My pleasure chases the pace of the music, every muscle in my body shaking when his mouth clamps around my clit and he sucks hard. The sound of my orgasm drowns out the chanting, a guttural cry dragged from somewhere deep within.
A white-hot orb floats above me. Spectral. Pulsing. I throb with it, floating higher and higher, until Mason palms my cheek and guides my face towards his. I blink until he comes into focus, crouching by my side.
Did he just suck the fucking life out of me?
His forehead is damp with sweat, his mouth slick with me.
I roll closer, dying to kiss him, but he pulls his mask back down, and disappears from my line of sight.
Suddenly, the music stops, and all the cloaked figures slump to the floor, leaving me surrounded by nothing but piles of fabric.
Where did he go?
I crawl onto my hands and knees on the table and cry out for him. He can’t leave me like this. It wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.
I need to be fucked like my life depends on it.
A bang makes me shriek, and the door I came in flies open, strobe lighting illuminating a brand new character. This one is in dark blue overalls and a hockey mask, and of course he has a bloody chainsaw in his hand.
How the fuck did he do that? And where is he getting all these fucking masks?
“Oh, Jenna,” he cackles loudly. “Time to get up, darling. It’s my turn to play.”
He sounds deranged, even more so when he pulls on a cord that brings the chainsaw screaming to life. It’s far too realistic to be a prop.
I scramble off the table, fighting the trembling in my legs as I stumble into the next room. I have no idea where I’m supposed to be going, but one of the staff doors is open in the corner, and it’s my only chance to escape the man running towards me.
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