Page 52 of Horror and Chill
She speeds up, bouncing harder now, until the noise of her skin hitting the toy is loud enough to punch through the music. Her breath gets ragged. She drags a hand up her stomach to her breasts, squeezing one hard, rolling the barbell between her fingers like she’s remembering exactly who put it there.
She slows, shivering as she lifts herself off. A thin strand of slick stretches from her to the toy before it breaks. My cock throbs at the sight.
When she comes, it’s with a sound that isn’t neat or performative. Her head tips back, her body jerks once, twice,thighs quivering as she grinds herself down on the thickest part of the toy. The sharp flex of her abdomen, the flush creeping up her chest … I’m about to come in my pants.
Then she flips her hair back and crawls forward on her hands and knees, reaching behind to drag the tentacle up from the floor. She grips it tight, guiding the tip along her cheek before pressing it between her lips. My hands tighten into fists, nails digging into my palms as she takes it deep enough to gag. Her eyes flutter shut, and for a second, I picture my hand in her hair, holding her there.
Saliva runs down the silicone and drips onto the floor. She pulls back just enough to breathe, then swallows it again, slower this time, her gaze locked on the camera.
She winks, still holding our ring on her thumb, and the feed cuts to black.
CreepCreepCreep:Noooo!!!
ViceViper:I wasn’t done.
ThighHighPriestess:Bring her back.
SaintofSins:I need a cigarette.
For a second, no one moves.
“Fuck!” Corwin finally snaps, grabbing the Nintendo controller off the dresser and hurling it hard enough that the plastic explodes against the wall before clattering to the floor in pieces. His temper is a wildfire when it’s lit; fast, hot, and burning in all directions.
“You’re buying me a new controller, asshole,” Garron growls, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the blank screen.
“I need my ring back,” Corwin snaps.
I shrug, but it’s calculated, lazy on the surface. Inside, my pulse is up, not from fear, but anticipation. “Then we go and get it. Give her what she wants. We go together and we talk.”
“Talk?” Corwin’s brow lifts, but it’s not skepticism in his voice. It’s hunger. “Show her who’s behind the mask?”
Garron cuts in, always the pragmatist, though his tone’s tight. “What if she goes to the cops afterward? She knows we’ve killed two people.”
That thought should cool me off. It doesn’t. I can already see her in my mind, cornered, defiant, not looking away even with the weight of all three of us on her. I smirk. “We take her back with us and make her a deal she can’t refuse.”
It’s not a guess. I know it in my bones. My dark little soul knows she won’t need much convincing. She’s already halfway ours. She just hasn’t said it out loud yet.
19
Agatha
They’re not takingthe bait.
Days have gone by since I streamed with their ring on my thumb, taunting them, daring them, and still nothing. No knock at the door. No shadow slipping past the window. No masked figure in the corner of my eye. Just silence, thick and punishing.
It makes me restless. Every hour without them crawls under my skin. The longer I wait, the more it eats at me, scraping little pieces off until I feel hollow. What if I overplayed my hand? What if showing what I took drove them away instead of pulling them closer? No. That isn’t right. Men like them, whoever they are, don’t back down. They don’t run.
So why haven’t they come?
I’m back in my classroom. The waiting has wound me so tight I can barely stand still. The kids chatter as they take their seats; the scrape of little chairs on linoleum grating my nerves. I force my voice steady, running through letters and sounds, praising the ones who remember, gently redirecting the ones who don’t. On the outside, I look calm. On the inside, I’m not even here.
I can’t stop thinking about them.
The feel of their masks against my skin. The press of their bodies when they crowd in close. I don’t know what they look like. I don’t know what they taste like. That should terrify me, but instead it carves a need into me that burns hotter every day. I want that rush again, the spike of my pulse when they step out of the shadows. The way the air gets heavier, like it knows something’s about to happen. Nothing else has ever made me feel that alive in such a reckless way.
Mason tugs on my sleeve, holding up a worksheet. I blink down at him, swallow the flush creeping up my throat, and kneel to help him. My voice comes out warm and steady, no sign of the storm in my chest. They don’t need to know that their teacher is unraveling.
“What’s up, Mason?” I ask, taking the paper from his hand. “You stuck on this one?”
