Page 34 of Horror and Chill
I remember the camera behind me; the stream is still running, every second broadcasted to an audience that I’m sure hasn’t looked away. If he murders me, I’ll at least die on live. Someone will call the cops. Someone will know where I was. Hopefully. If I’m lucky. If I haven’t terrified them too much. If I still have at least one fan who gives a shit.
His gloved hand slides over my collarbone. I jerk back, but not far enough. His fingers glide down, over the curve of my breast, until he finds my nipple. He flicks it with his thumb.
I gasp.
He chuckles; a gritty, amused sound that vibrates through me.
Then he pinches. Hard.
“Fuck!” I cry out, the pain sharp and arousing and utterly insane.
He spins me before I can react. My stomach slams into the edge of the table, knocking over a bowl of fake guts and a coil ofchain. He shoves me down, palms flat against my back, pressing me into the gore.
I look up and catch sight of myself in the phone’s camera, bent over, blood-streaked and wild-eyed, completely crazy looking. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife, a real one, not some rubber prop. I freeze. My breath catches as tears blur my vision, and a wave of heat crashes over my body, chased immediately by cold, then heat again, my nerves flickering like a failing circuit.
This is it. But there’s no pain, no blade, just a soft tearing sound, and then my thong hits the ground. He cut it. Both sides. Just like that. He kicks my legs apart with one boot and steps closer behind me. I hear the zipper, and my body seizes.
He lines up without hesitation, not giving me time to think or process or beg. The head of his cock presses at my entrance, thick and demanding.
Then he thrusts.
“Oh God!” I scream, the sudden stretch nearly splitting me in half.
He doesn’t wait or ease in, just grabs my hips and pounds into me like he owns me, relentless and unyielding. The table rattles beneath us with each thrust, my breath coming in ragged gasps as he drives me forward and back, over and over, until I know I’ll bruise from it. I’ll wear the shape of him for days.
I glance up at the phone again.
The comments are chaos.
ChurchofAgatha:CALL THE POLICE.
JasonWasHere:This is too real.
GutterPrince:Is this part of it?
GraveyardDaddy:I’m scared and hard.
DaddyVoid:Don’t stop.
GoreSlut420:She’s a fucking goddess.
SnackPackSlut:I think this is really happening.
“Mmmmmm,” I moan, my voice shaking.
A sharp sting answers me, a slap across my ass that echoes through the barn, and he doesn’t let up. He fucks me harder now, deeper, every inch of him unrelenting. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t slow down. He just keeps going, like this was always the plan.
"I'm gonna come," I choke out.
He drives into me like a hammer, relentless, brutal, perfect.
My toes curl inside my boots. My hands grip the edge of the table. I’m losing control. Losing myself. And then I come, hard and loud, a shudder that rolls through me like a freight train.
He keeps going, giving me no pause, no space to breathe, just relentless motion until I feel him empty inside me, hot, raw, and reckless. There’s no condom.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper. “Do you know how to wrap it up?”
I have an IUD. I’m not stupid. But STDs exist, and now I have to get tested because I let a masked man fuck me live on camera, again.
