Page 49 of Stream & Scream
I unbuckle without hesitation, yanking my pants low enough to free myself. My fist wraps around my cock, tight, punishing. The first stroke is slow, brutal, veins straining, precum slicking down the metal. My breath is loud inside the helmet, hot and ragged.
Not fast. Not yet. I want to savor it. Draw it out. Torture myself with her all over again. Every pull of my hand isher. Her wrists zip-tied raw, her back grinding into stone, her thighs quivering as I shoved one higher and drove into her until she came undone.
Oh, clickbait. Your pretty cunt swallowed me whole.
My thumb drags over the head of my cock, smearing precum across the studs. I groan at the memory of the way she gasped when those bars drove inside her. The way she tried to hold back, teeth gritted, until her pussy betrayed her.
My fist works faster, precum slicking my grip. The feed flickers in slow motion—her tattoos blurred beneath the water, wrists still purple with the marks I left. A brand.Mybrand.
And the comments—fuck, the comments—they push me over the edge. “The Hunter’s slut.” “Replay that scream.” “Clickbait ruined.”
It wasn’t enough. Not for them. Not for me. They fucking worshipped the way I claimed her. And it wasn’t enough. They want more.
I snarl and pick up the pace, pumping faster, my hips jerking into my own grip like I’m ramming into her again, over and over. My cock pulses, every stud dragging cruelly against my palm. My stomach coils, vision fading at the edges. I hold myself there, right at the brink, edging, groaning low and throaty until I can’t hold it anymore.
I grunt, feral, as my release rips out of me, hot, thick, filthy, spurting across the ground in messy streaks. My fist keeps pumping through it, milking every last drop.
Mine. Mine. Fucking mine.
She can clean herself all she wants.
I’ll never come off.
My cock softens in my grip, release soaking into the dirt at my boots. I shove myself back into my pants.
That’s when the comm hisses to life.
I don’t answer. Not yet. I’ll let them wait and squirm in their sterile little box, safe behind their screens while I’m out here drowning in her.
The screen on my belt flashes red. Emergency override. No avoiding it now.
“That wasn’t what we asked for,” Milo’s voice cuts in, sharp and smug, like he’s got a leash on me. “You had her. You were supposed to finish it.”
“I did,” I mutter, yanking my gear back into place. My cock’s still aching, the echo of her moans burning in my ears. “And don’t act like the feed didn’t blow up. I saw the comments. They fucking loved it.”
Rory pipes up, nasal and frantic, the sponsors’ little lapdog. “Yeah, but no check without a body, man. The investors aren’tpaying for you to bust a nut and act out your own sick fantasies?—”
“Shut the fuck up, Rory,” I cut him off. “The hunt is half the fun. Besides, weren’t you guys just in my ear talking about how I was killing too quickly? How you needed me to make them last, to give you content? Well, that's exactly what I’m doing. You idiots want views, you want climbing numbers? Then stay out of my fucking ear and let me work. I’ll kill when I’m ready to kill. Not when your investors, or you fucking idiots think it should happen.”
There’s silence on the other end. I can picture Milo grinding his teeth behind in the surveillance truck, his tie strangling him, his hands shaking on the console.
Then Janice, one of the director's assistants, cuts in, raspy with bitterness. “You’re unstable.”
The woods settle back into quiet. I drop against a tree, tear open an MRE, and chew without tasting when it’s ready. My visor hums.
Ping.
A new signature flashes red across my HUD. I slide a hand into my vest, pull the tablet free, and tap the cracked screen awake. Static clears, the drone network flickers online, lenses circling above.
I thumb through feeds. Empty shelters. A snoring idiot curled under a tarp. Then—movement. North quadrant.
Zoom.
#14—Gwen Lancaster.
Her name scrolls beneath the frame. Thirty. Chestnut ponytail bobbing neat while she mugs for the camera. Green eyes bright, rehearsed. Five-ten. Sponsor sneakers barely scuffed. Tracksuit spotless like she’s walking a runway, not a kill zone.
Plastic. A sponsor’s wet dream. Not a survivor.
