Page 53 of My Girl
“I’d say we have some bloody lubrication here if you need it,” Crave rasps. “But you don’t need any help, do you, baby? You’re wet. Fear and adrenaline and your own fucked-up desire to watch people die makes you feel things, doesn’t it, Rae? You were made for this. Just like I was.”
My body thrusts against his palm, and he laughs.
“No. Not yet, little slut,” he says. He pulls me up by the hair until I’m on my knees again, like a pathetic mortal kneeling before her god. “You need to get cleaned up before you come.”
He pulls out his cock, and those metal rings and bars gleam in the light. He twists the head of his cock, pointing it down toward me. My cheeks flush, knowing what’s coming.
Move,my brain screams.Don’t let him do this.
“Open your mouth,” he demands.
I wait for the screams. For the urge to stop this. I don’t have to do everything Crave says. He’s right: I can call the cops. I can deny him. I can take the footage of him killing this stranger to the police right now.
Instead, I open my mouth.
Piss washes over my tongue like hot tea. The taste is slightly bitter, like a lemon pith steeped in metallic water. My clothes cling to my skin, and my eyes are glued to Crave’s dark, cavernous eye sockets. His tongue flickers over his bottom lip; he’s salivating for me.
My mouth is wet too, full of his urine.
I swallow it down, taking everything he has. Disgust is inside of me, but my molten arousal is stronger.
“Drinking my piss. What a good little toilet whore,” Crave says. His tone is a mix of mockery, desire, and utter revulsion, somehow unified into a declaration of praise. “You want some more?”
My eyes roll into the back of my head at those words. He grips the back of my skull, positioning his tip at my lips, and I let his liquid wash over me. He’s close—so fucking close—using me like this. I’m a toilet—his human toilet—but my mind is so full of him, full of need, full of fucked-up desire that it doesn’t matter that I’m a literal toilet. I want him to use me. I want to be everything and nothing to him, and I want all of him inside of me.
He did this for me. Killed a man for me. He’s pissing on me to prove that he can, and to make me understand how much control he has.
It’sallfor me.
Once the last drop drips on my tongue, arousal returns to his cock, filling it with tension and blood. He kicks my chest just hard enough that I fall back on my wrists. Then he kneels down, pinning me under his body.
I should get away. I should crawl. I should leave. There are so many things Ishoulddo right now. Instead, I scramble out of my clothes until I’m naked, and I wrap my legs around his back, pulling him closer to me, using my limbs like a cocoon, a spider encasing her prey.
He lines his cock up with my entrance. I should tell him to get away from me. It would be the right thing to do.
But I don’t.
“Fuck me, Crave,” I say. “Fuck me. Please, please, just?—”
“I’ll take what I want,” he says in my ear, his voice so low that I have to stop my whining to hear him. “And I’ll take it when I want. And if that means I want to piss in your mouth, if I want to fuck you, if I want to kill you, or if I want to torment and tease you while forcing you to watch a man die, then I will get exactly what I want.” His voice is so calm, so untouched by emotion, that it thrills and terrifies me. It’s like he doesn’t feel anything at all—no remorse for killing this stranger, no guilt for making me watch—all he feels is his cock inside of me. “If there’s a blood cell left in your body, it belongs to me, Rae. And right now, you’re my stupid little toilet whore.”
His dick gores into me, splitting my pussy apart, his metal piercings scraping against me. My vision swirls. I’m covered in piss and blood and my own arousal, and Crave’s sweat is drenching through his clothes. The cement ground scrapes our bodies; neither of us cares.
Crave’s cock is a violent extension of his body, and it makes me feel everything at once. The pain in the back of my head. The pressure of his weight. His breath hot on my neck. The mix of ammonia and metal fragrant in my nose.
“Say it, Rae,” he murmurs. “Say that you’re only alive right now because I’m letting you live.”
“You own me,” I rasp. “My life. My death?—”
At those words, both of us convulse, our bodies twisting together like thorns and vines braiding into each other, tangling up until everything explodes and it’s only us.Just us.Crave and me and our fucked-up existence of life, death, blood, and rebirth.
The orgasms subside. My head throbs. I relax, letting my body melt back onto the hard floor.
Crave pushes himself off of the ground.
This would be the part where a typical hookup would want to cuddle or get a quick meal together. Crave simply stares down at me as if I’m an insect and he’s debating whether to smash me with his boot or to let me crawl into another hiding place.
The half-decapitated body lies a few feet away from us. Crave’s mask clings to his face, his lips loose. His expression emotionless. The damn mask covering everything up.
