Page 52 of My Girl
Is this Crave’s revenge? For seeing me fuck another man?
Why can’t I move?
The bolt cutters clip shut. The harrowing scream slices through the basement like a fire alarm. My fingernails jab into my pussy lips.
The man’s wailing stops.
I feel it then. I’m wet.
What is wrong with me?
“Save him,” Crave taunts.
He throws a knife along the floor. It stops at my feet. Red crust lines the sharp edge of the blade, dried from some past act of violence. I wheeze. My throat is dry, my fingers vibrating with adrenaline.
“Be the hero you say you are,” Crave says. “Save this innocent man and kill me. Oh, little girl,” he murmurs, his voice pulsing with lust. “Make sure you kill me. Because if you don’t, I will come after you, and I will make you regret it.”
I don’t move.
I can’t.
You’re afraid,my brain reasons.That’s why you can’t move. Because Crave will kill you if you do anything like that. You can’t save this man. You can only save yourself.
Those reasons are lies. Crave won’t kill me; I know that. Not now. Not like this. I know this with my entire being, even at the bottom of my stomach.
Crave tosses his head back, his laughter rumbling through the basement. The man’s labored breath increases to a dangerous rhythm. Crave’s dick bulges in his pants, his erection evident. Is he excited because he’s about to kill this man, or because he knows I’m getting off on the murder just like he wants?
“You have your phone,” Crave says. “Call the police.”
The man’s whimpers intensify. My body is light, loosely tethered to the ground, arousal booming in my veins.
This is Crave’s surprise. He’s killing someone so that I can watch.
He’s doing this for me.
“No?” Crave asks.
I realize I’m shaking my head. My fingertips glide over my clit furiously, my body acting on its own desire. I can’t stop myself from playing with myself.
“No police, then. No rescue,” Crave says. “So sorry, DrummerBoy420.” Crave bends down to his victim. “I guess I chose a little slut who likes blood as much as I do.”
“No,” I say, my voice frantic. “No. I’m doing this because?—”
Crave snaps the bolt cutters again, slicing the back of the man’s neck. Tendrils of muscle and nerves spool out, pink and red spaghetti noodles hanging down to the floor, the white fragments of spine exposed, like an open Pez dispenser.
My heart beats in my ears. I should do something. I should help this man. I should?—
“What, little girl?” Crave asks. “Are you too turned on to help him?”
Those words throw me out of my stupor. I rush over, clutching the man’s neck. He’s warm. Hot, even. And his blood is warm too, like a spa. My knees soak with the liquid, and I slip, my ass landing in the pool of blood. It soaks through my underwear and warms my pussy lips.
“Is this what you call saving him?” Crave murmurs.
I grab the man’s head. I try to make him right again. To put him back together, like a broken toy.
But he’ll never be fixed again. It’s too late.
Crave kneels down beside me, shoving his gloved hand down the front of my skirt. He cups my pussy, his gloved fingers sliding along my folds so easily, my whole body aches.
