Page 12 of Grave Love
My body responds. Arousal weeps between my legs, forcing those needs out into the open. Goosebumps spread, chills whipping across the sand of my skin like the wind before a hurricane. I internally plead that he doesn’t notice, but it’s a game I’m playing with myself.
He knows I’m awake. He knows I’m alive. He knows that I’m not just a dead body.
And we’re both playing along.
He kneads my areola between his fingers. My skin flushes, my nipple pebbling. I clench my jaw and will my body tostop.
But it refuses.
“I didn’t know ‘dead girls’ still responded to physical stimulation,” he says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. My stomach sinks to the bottom of the pit.
He’s toying with me. Playing with our predicament. Using me. Pinning me down to where I have no choice.
And I like it.
“What an interesting discovery,” he says. “I really must investigate what else a corpse is capable of.”
My body heats, small beads of sweat gathering on my upper lip. I should be scared. Any sane person would run. They’d probably have a panic attack. At the very least, a normal person would feel guilty about being caught by a coworker. Scared about the repercussions. The coworker turning them into their boss or the police. The thought of dealing with that drama doesn’t thrill me, but the idea of being with him—Blaze using me untilhecomes—makes those thoughts evaporate.
A normal person wouldn’t get caught stealing a corpse’s clothes and masturbating at all. And a normal person definitely wouldn’t fuck a woman who’s pretending to be dead.
We’re both still here.
He pulls down the top of the dress, yanking my nipple from the small bra, his mouth wrapping around my areola. Each slurp of his tongue is greedy, sucking the life out of me. My head rolls to the side, and I scrunch my eyes closed, telling myself it’s the natural movement of a corpse. If he touchedanydead body like this, it would move from the impact.
It doesn’t matter though. He knows, and I know, and my body yearns for more, so badly that I want to scream.
Abandoning his cock, both of his hands grip my breasts as he pulls them both out of the bra, smashing them together, his mouth switching between my nipples, suckling them like they’re candy. Like he’s ravenous. Guzzling and wet. Moisture pooling on my chest. It’s disgusting. Sloppy. And my whole body is on fire. My legs spread. My toes tilt out. My body willing him to enter me. My tongue is dry, and all I want is to stop thinking about how I need more. More of this degradation. More ofhim.
He stops, standing up quickly. The shift of fabric fills the room. My skin hardens everywhere. Is he zipping up? Finished with me? I can’t see anything under the bag. Please, oh please, don’t tell me he’s zipping up. Not until he comes. I want him to fuck me. I want—
“You can’t do a damn thing about it, can you, little corpse?” he says.
Little corpse.
He’s taunting me. Daring me to tell him to stop.
And I should. I really should. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this, or at least a lie I can tell so thathe’sat fault and I’m free of blame.
My pussy won’t let me say a word. I stay still, panting and waiting for him.
He laughs softly, a mix of condescension and amusement in his tone, like music meant for someone special. Not me. My body churns, my chest tangled with knots.
“You’re nothing but a lifeless cunt for me to use,” he growls.
He mounts the conveyor belt, then shoves my thighs wider, my legs crashing to either side of the belt. His mouth knocks against the canvas bag, breathing through the fabric, his heat broiling my cheeks. The rope slides along my neck, and with one quick movement, he pulls my damp underwear to the side, then his cock parts my pussy lips, his dick sliding into me, thick and hard. There’s no resistance; I’m wet, but ithurts.Tears burn in my eyes. I haven’t had sex in years—but he moans, moans like a madman, like he’s possessed by my grip—and that pain melts away, giving me the chance to experience how hard he is inside of me.
I bite my tongue, holding back my response.
I shouldn’t like this. It’s wrong. It’s—
“I love it when they’re fresh,” he grunts. His cock hammers inside of me, heat building in every pore. His masculine sweat circles me like a vulture. Needing more from me. “There’s nothing better than a dead cunt. Freshly killed.Fuck—” He shouts, breaking the rhythm of his thrusts. “The only thing that would make it better is ifIhad been the one to kill you. Don’t you agree, little corpse? I could’ve killed you right when you hit that peak. That’s the best way to die, isn’t it? The climax to end all lives. You would’ve loved that; I can tell.”
He resumes his brutal thrusting, and I try so hard to stay still. My body strains against the friction, each nerve ending desperate for more. I want it all so bad. Every depraved second. Every horrible thing he could do to me. Heat swells, the muscles between my legs constricting, blood flowing until everything is sensitive. I thrust my hips toward him, willing him to impale me. To gore me until my intestines are spilled all over the floor, until I’m truly dead. It’s insane; he’s pretending like I’m dead, like he wishes he would’vekilledme, and it’s so messed up that I can’t stop myself from enjoying it. From experiencing every deranged ounce of his pleasure. Of his cock. Of finally being useful for something. Because I’ve dreamed of this since I can remember. Foryears.It’s theonlyway I can come.
He must knowexactlyhow much power he has over me.
Why do I like this?
