Page 30 of Can't Stop
“If you’d hold still, it sure would hurt a lot less,” Dalton says.
I slip the lower set of prongs beneath her eyeball, then begin ratcheting the dial on the side of the device, forcing her eyelids fully open.
A bubble of giddy laughter slips out of me. “Good grief, it looks like her eyeball could fall right the fuck out of her skull.”
She screams again, earning more laughter from me as I set to work on her second eye. Moments later, she’s been turned into a fucking stalk-eyed fly. Her peepers are popping like they’ve never popped before, I’m sure. Then she turns her head.
I sigh and step toward the foot of the bed as I remove my shirt. “I’ll give you an option, lady. Either you can watch us fuck, or you can watch as I drag your son’s corpse into the room and shove it into every hole I have, piece by chopped-off piece.”
“You wouldn’t defile him in such a way,” she breathes.
“She absolutely would, and I would help.” Dalton smiles at her. “Eyes on us, Ma Psycho.”
With a grin, I pull the knife from my bag and hand it to Dalton. The father has a moment of clarity when he sees it, and he struggles against his ropes. But he has no need to worry. It’s not meant for him.
I lie back on the bed as Dalton removes my shorts. I’m not wearing panties, so he drags his tongue through my slit one time before stepping away. As my thighs spread and showcase my pleasure, the mother begins to cry.
When I look up, I realize why. Her husband is currently half-dazed, but he’s locked in on my pussy. The growing lump in the crotch of his pants tells me he’s not so against this.
“You like looking?” I coo toward the man. I smack my hand against my cunt and drag my fingers through my wetness. “Yeah, you like it, don’t you?”
“Why are you forcing us to watch this?” Samuel finally asks.
“You’re exempt,” Dalton says.
He drops the knife on the bed, rips off his shirt, and rushes to Samuel. He begins wrapping the shirt around Samuel’s head, obscuring my body from his view. In the heat of the moment, I guess he forgot about his jealousy. It’s kind of hot to see him so flustered, though.
Once Samuel can no longer glimpse my body, Dalton returns to the bed and takes up the knife again. “Turn over, bones. Let me bleed you.”
The words rush straight between my legs and drive me wild. I flip onto my stomach, with my head facing our audience, and raise my ass in the air, hoping he’ll add a new scar to the raised lines on my ass. It’s my favorite because I get to feel the sting for weeks. Every time I sit down, I’ll be reminded of this moment.
As if he read my mind, he presses the blade against my right ass cheek and drags downward, applying enough pressure to break the top layer of skin without driving too deep. The heat is instant and heavenly.
The father groans, and his head tips back as he loses consciousness again. The mother seems to calm a bit, almost taking an interest in our actions as Dalton runs his hand through the blood on my ass. When he brings the bloody mess between my legs, she’s practically intrigued. But it’s not enough. Something about this just isn’t enough.
I look back at Dalton with a pout. “Are you sure we shouldn’t add a third? I mean, more blood is always better, don’t you think? And it is Halloween, technically.”
“I’m watching! Don’t bother my Jebediah while he’s resting,” the mother pleads.
It’s so funny that she thinks I’m talking about her son, but she must have missed the part about the blood. Of which he has none.
No, I’m thinking of bleeding someone else entirely. And with a sigh, Dalton agrees.
Chapter Eighteen
Dalton
We hoist the father onto the bed and tie his arms and legs to the bedposts, rendering him spread eagle. Ma Psycho is having a complete come apart, thrashing against her restraints and throwing her head around until one of the speculums tears away her left eyelid. The skin hangs in flaps by the rolling iris.
The father is much more compliant, though he’s already firmly seated on his train to hell. He’s more dead than alive at this point, but that’s okay. We don’t need him to participate. We just need him to bleed.
Rayna straddles his waist, and I only allow this because he’s still dressed and mostly incoherent. This is the closest I will ever let a living man come to what belongs to me. He gargles on pink foam as Rayna raises his sleep shirt and reveals dark bruising along his abdomen. Large purple marks brand his skin, and his gut has swollen enough to give him the appearance of a potbelly.
“I wonder what we’ll find inside?” Rayna nibbles her bottom lip in a devious grin. “A lacerated liver? Maybe a severed spleen or a ruptured rectum!”
Rayna slides off his lap once his belly is fully exposed. She takes a seat at his left side, and I perch on the edge of the mattress at his right, giving the mother a good view of her husband. The woman sucks in a breath as Rayna raises the blade above the man’s midsection.
But then Rayna stops.
