Page 47 of Horror and Chill
“This should be easy after piercing your cunt, Little Horror. I can’t wait to play with that pretty,” I tell her.
I claim that one with my mouth too, letting the metal rest against my tongue before pulling away.
Two perfect little marks. Two claims. The skin of her chest is flushed and hot under my hands. I clean them again, slow, knowing the sting will ride her all the way home.
“You wear them for me now,” I tell her.
She doesn’t argue. Just meets my eyes like she’s burning every second into memory.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone. She watches me as if she’s waiting for the next sharp thing.
The screen lights my mask in blue. A video waits in the center. No title, no timestamp. I hit play without saying a word.
The image shakes at first, the way all phone footage does when the person behind the camera doesn’t care about being careful. A woman sits tied to a chair, arms behind her back, ankles bound. The lighting is dim, just enough to show the streaks of mascara under her eyes.
A man in a mask steps into view. My mask.
He crouches, tilts her chin up, and calls her by a name I know she’ll recognize. “VelvetNoose.”
Agatha’s chest rises. Falls faster.
I tilt the phone toward her, close enough that the screen glare hits her face. “Watch,” I tell her. “If you dare.”
She doesn’t look away.
The woman on screen jerks in the chair as the man circles her. His hand trails over her throat, then clamps hard. She chokes, sputtering. Her knees try to pull tight together as he leans close, whispering something the mic can’t catch. Then he moves behind her, and the screaming starts.
Agatha’s breathing is louder now. Her eyes locked on the screen.
I slide my hand between her thighs, pressing against the heat through her leggings. She’s wet…soaked. The more the woman on screen begs, the slicker my fingers get.
The man on the screen doesn’t waste time. He pulls a length of cable from somewhere off camera, and steps into view beside the chair. The loop slips around the woman’s throat, his arm braced high as he twists until her eyes bulge. From the side, the camera catches everything—the panic in her face, the veinsstraining in her neck, the way her heels slam against the chair legs, rattling them on the floor.
He leans close to her ear, his mask angled toward the lens so Agatha can’t miss it, hissing words that make the woman flinch even harder. Then, without releasing his grip, he lets the cable loosen just enough for her to suck in a desperate gasp before driving his fist into her stomach.
She folds forward as far as the restraints allow, gagging, spittle running down her chin. The camera catches every shudder. He takes a blade from his pocket, deliberately slow, like he wants her to see it. The tip drags up the inside of her arm, scoring a thin red line before he twists the cable again.
I set the phone on the counter, angled perfectly. The blue-white glow cuts through the dim light in here, throwing her own reflection faintly across the glass. “Keep watching,” I tell her.
She does.
The woman on the screen screams, ragged, only breaking when the masked man rakes the blade across her thigh. Blood blooms dark over the fabric of her skirt. She’s shaking so hard the chair rattles against the floor. The sound is ugly.
I kneel between Agatha’s legs, grab my knife from where I set it, and slide the blade up the inside of her thigh. The tip catches the waistband, and with one quick flick of the wrist, the fabric parts to show me my prize. Another cut on the opposite leg, close enough for her to feel the sting of the steel against her skin, and the leggings fall in jagged panels. Her eyes stay on the phone, on the cable tightening again, on the woman’s muffled sobs through the gag now knotted in her mouth.
The heat from her rolls into my hands. She’s soaked. The smell of it hits my tongue before I even taste her.
I hook my fingers under the edge of my mask and lift it just enough for my mouth to be free, the rest of my face still hidden in shadow. The weight of it pressing into my brow.
I lean in, mouth sealing over her clit, pulling hard as the video shows the masked man yank the chair back by the cable, forcing the woman to choke on air that won’t come. Above me, our Little Horror jerks in the cuffs, a muffled whine straining against the tape as I play with her still-healing piercing. Her strangled sounds layer over the woman’s panicked gasps on screen until the victim falls silent, leaving only the scrape of the chair legs and Agatha’s breathless noise filling the room.
Agatha’s body jerks above me. Her wrists strain high in the restraints, her legs buck in the leather cuffs. I keep my mouth on her, my tongue working in time with every sound from the phone.
The room doesn’t go quiet. My mouth doesn’t stop. Her legs strain against the cuffs, heels knocking against the door as my tongue works over her clit. Every muffled moan, every sharp breath dragged through her nose, fuels the heat curling low in my gut. She’s fighting to keep her head up, eyes darting between the phone on the counter and me, and I want her looking at both. I press two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and feel her pulse tighten around me.
The woman on the screen goes still and Agatha shudders hard, her body trying to close in on me while the cuffs keep her spread open. My free hand digs into her thigh, holding her there as I suck harder, dragging her toward the edge whether she wants it or not.
She comes with a low, raw muffled sound, her breath catching and breaking hard through her nose while the man on the video waves. Her thighs tremble around my head, her whole body jerking like she’s trying to get away but can’t decide if it’s from fear or pleasure.
