pumped out a comm for @alienrat-art ❤ ahead is some filth. super dubcon, violent threats, mindfuck, forced orgasms, degradation, knifeplay, fearplay, body horror, among other things.
“I smell a little mouse.”
Whirling on your heels, fingers caged over your mouth as if a scream couldn’t slip between them, you find... nothing. The midway is empty and abandoned. Just a few yards up ahead, there’s a row of tents. Tarps flap in the wind, ragged, like they haven’t been used in years. They’ve come loose from their shredded bindings and the insides look barren as ever, the muted gleam of old bleacher seats winking in the shadows.
Calliope music filters through the wind. It’s the only sound now outside of the rustling of the tents. In the distance, a carousel and a ferris wheel look skeletal against the sky, all clotted clouds darkened with rain. It’s hard to remember how you got here. It’s hard to pinpoint where the music is coming from – it’s everywhere and nowhere in particular, barely there, as if shining through from another place. It doesn’t belong. There are no lights, only the bruised glow from the stormclouds. Only the disembodied music.
“Hello?” It’s so hard to remember how you got here. Footsteps sprint behind you, but there’s nothing there when you turn. The music is gone. As the hairs on the back of your neck rise stiffly up, wind blows through the branches of trees that don’t exist. Dread fills your belly with the frenzied beating of millions of wings, desperate for you to scream, to vomit, to do anything to relieve the heavy swell of fear. “Is anybody out here? I’m – I need help. I just... lost my way.”
There’s a loud, mechanical SNAP. Inside those tattered canvas flaps, there’s a light on. The source is out of sight, somewhere inside. Like a moth, you wander helplessly toward it, even a hint of possible help being enough to draw you away from the strange feeling outside. Like being watched. Stalked. You can barely make it the way to the entrance of the tent without peering over your shoulder, just in case. The sound of wind in the trees is gone.
Finally, a scream rips loose from the cage of your ribs, the overfilled meat of your lungs, and the man beside the opening of the tent rasps with laughter. He looks so utterly delighted he could clap, the weird shine in his eyes looking almost golden in the light. He steps a little closer and looks a little less intimidating in the light. Tall and gangling, he has wild hair and a wilder grin. The slacks and threadbare shirt he has on are grimy, held up by suspenders and high on his trim waist. There’s dirt on his face and what looks like makeup, garish red at the corner of his mouth.
The voice is the same as the one outside.
“I didn’t... see you out there, but –”
“Yes, looking for help. Shouldn’t be out here all alone.” He smirks, licks his lips. “Name’s Bob. Bob Gray. Somethin’ I can do for you, child?”
The floor is covered in hay and sawdust. Chips of it crunch and skitter with each step, and as you ease inside of the relative safety of it, you also take care not to turn your back completely on your new acquaintance. It turns into a sort of slow, predatory dance, in which he turns with you, and it’s almost elegant enough to feel meaningful, somehow. Each slow step backwards forces you toward the center of the space, where there’s a circular podium not unlike a ringmaster’s. It’s worn, but golden threads sparkle underneath the dust and grime. Bands of purple and yellow ribbon are edged with teal. The colors are vibrant and old all at once, like a relic from another time, and it drags the dread up from your belly into your throat as your leg brushes it.
“I’m with friends, I just took a wrong turn and lost them.” The lie comes unbidden but not unwelcome. “They’re probably out looking for me, they’re probably scared.”
His eyebrows lift and he scoffs, frowning, threads of saliva dripping down off his generous bottom lip, down his chin. His next step has you stumbling back, forgetting your surroundings once more until you land hard on your ass, seated on the podium. The patterned fabric under your fingers looks like ribbon and silk, but under your scrambling hands, it feels wrong. It’s soft in some awfully familiar way, but touching it is so unbearable that you recoil. Your own hands flutter uselessly around your chest and the (thing) man in front of you is close enough that the toes of your shoes touch. His frown has softened and lifted into a hint of a smile, and his teeth look a little different. A little sharper, and more, MUCH MORE, tiny sharkteeth flanking the charmingly rabbitlike teeth in the front.
“Friends. Friends?” He leans low as if to share a secret, teeth gleaming in his grin. “I did not see anyone with you while I was watching. Are you lying to me, little thing?”
“No, I... I mean...” No more words come, and your tongue stops dead behind your teeth, cradled safely behind them as he looms over you. It’s impossible to escape his gaze. The world around you turns, but it seems to only turn for him. Even the air moves, it seems, toward him, as tragic and inevitable as gravity. And in that pull is a heat. It’s palpable, the closer he gets. Sweat pricks at your hairline and rolls down your temple, and his pupils blow out, out, until they threaten to eat into the glowing golden ring that contains them. They roll back, back, until it’s all veins threading over spoilt-milk whites. You lean back with your hands braced on the edges of the podium and he’s in your face.
The feeling of his fingers on your wrist is searing, tight as a vice. His eyes roll back from the sides and there’s a film of gore over them. He blinks and blood streaks down over his cheeks, over his lips so they stain teeth that look longer, sharper, and threads of his viscous tears slip over his chin to splatter on your face. He reaches up to stroke your face, tracing the curve of bone just under your eye. Instead of a finger, there’s the threat of a knife tucked there. It wanders the contour of your cheek, skims over your lips until it slides between them. A blade lay flat on your tongue as he laughs.
“M’not fond of liars,” he giggles. “Hey. Listen. Look at me.”
There’s nowhere else to look. It’s hard to blink, much less look away, and even harder to reconcile the glow in the basin of your hips. It’s just like his eyes It’s just like his fingers, like his body, his breath on your face. The taste of his blood is bright. Coppery. He smells like campfire and dirt, like the crackling ozone before a storm and like sweat. It’s that – the smell of him, of something, that private spicy bodily scent of another warm being – that’s what really makes you squirm on the podium. It’s almost as if breathing it in drags it low, lower, carving a path straight to the pulse strengthening between your thighs.
“There, that’s a good girl. What are we going to do with you? All alone and lost in the circus. What brought you to me, mouse?”
The knife leaves your tongue and finds a new home underneath the shelf of your jaw. With each flutter of your pulse, the knife presses a little deeper, a little more threatening, as if seeking out the rhythmic heat underneath. He stoops low with his eyes focused on your mouth and it’s like a crude caricature of affection, the tilt of his head as he comes close enough to brush lips, close enough that you’re forced to taste his breath. It’s like ashes. It’s like cottonwood trees burning in the autumn sun, like dead things in the woods. It seems familiar in some horrible way that’s difficult to put together, some buried sense of alarm calling back through the timeless line of generations in your blood, in the shared lineage of humankind. The sense of WRONG, WRONG, WRONG crawls under your flesh. His gaze flickers up then, and up close, so close, your vision blurs his two eyes into one bleeding, gaping black maw. There’s something else in there. A laugh bubbles up his throat and under his breath. Sweat drips down your forehead until it burns your eyes, sliding down your temples and cheeks. Those horrible endless pupils roll back up into his skull and he drags his tongue up the side of your face. There’s a click somewhere in his chest, insectile, and your heart skips a beat. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.
“T a s t e g o o d, w h o r e l i n g.”
There isn’t time to parse through the electrifying force with which your cunt clenches in on nothing, nothing at all but aching emptiness. There isn’t a spare second to agonize over what it means, what he is, what he’s doing, what you want him to do.
There’s only a sliver, the eye of a needle through which you manage to slip through, and as he relaxes away from you, you roll off the (FLESH) silk-covered podium and into the dust and hay on the floor. You make it out of his grip. You make it to your knees, and that’s the closest you get to clutching at an escape.
He plants his boot squarely between your shoulder blades and forces you against the floor. Dust billows out when your breath leaves your lungs and comes back as you struggle to inhale, coughing, choking, making some pathetic sound that he seems to enjoy. There’s that clicking sound again. It’s no longer confined to his chest; it’s everywhere, buzzing, chittering, wrapping around you the same way he wraps his long fingers up under your throat to force you to look at him. It’s hard. It hurts, it’s impossible to bend the way he’s trying to make you. Mental images flicker behind your eyes – your spine snapping under the pressure, the knife, blood spurting hot into the dirt while he laughs. There are other images, too. His teeth on your shoulder. Drooling lips between your thighs. Fingers and inhuman cocks and, again, the knife, pressing, testing, opening.
“P-Please, don’t... don’t –”
“Kill you?” He grinds his boot into your back, and the weight is so intense that the fear of bones breaking becomes like a feral thing in your nerves, screaming, mindlessly afraid. He’s panting above you. A moan comes barely restrained from the man holding you captive, and in your peripheral vision, you watch him reach down to palm himself through his pants. “Eat you? Fuck you? Mm? Which? Shall we try them all, little thing?”
Heat. Heat between you, boiling between your thighs, building down your spine, in your ear and washing over your face as he struggles to control his own breaths. How he isn’t splintering your vertebrae under his steel toe is a mystery. At any moment you expect the shards of ruined bone to cave in on the precious meat inside, pushing into your lungs, into your heart, your stomach, ribs cracking underneath and coming through your belly. In that reverie, you can see him grinding his hips down, solid line of flesh trapped under the slacks. Rutting against your spasming body, fingers hooked in your mouth. The gasping breaths you can manage to wheeze into your body are heavy with the weight of that fucking heat, rippling and unfurling in your guts, and above you, he folds into himself to smell you. He snuffs at your hair, at the back of your neck, and there’s the unmistakable warmth of his drool dripping through the strands.
“S’always the quiet ones, mouseling. Always the ones that squirm the most – they want it most. Aren’t I right? Squeak, little mouse!”
He laughs true from his belly, pulling his boot away to stand up beside you. The urge to rise up on your hands and knees shines through the debilitating fear and the knowledge that you’re not going to get away. There was never a chance of that. He plants the same boot firmly against your ass and kicks, sending you sprawling over the ground once more.
“I’m not a fucking mouse.”
Something howls in the distance. It’s hard to tell how close it is; it seems to reverberate against itself, almost like a chorus of them. Howling and strange, alien yipping, chatters that border on laughter or (buzzing) something like it. There’s nothing to see beyond the tent flaps but barren land and abandoned stands, filthy tents like this one. In the shadows, it almost looks like there are people. The glint of eyes, a shifting in the dark. Things. Things, not people.
Your meek little protest hangs in the air between you. You turn to watch him, wanting to jump up again and knowing better. He’s got the knife down on the ground, next to his foot. He toes it closer to you, taunting, grinning as he unbuckles his belt. Outside, the howling continues. It seems to degrade with each ticking second, less like the noise of a creature and more... incoherent. A wave of gooseflesh prickles your skin all over and he shudders. His belt comes free from their loops and he folds it in half with a sharp crack.
“Hear them?” He cups an ear as though performing for an audience, leaning dramatically into the sound as it whirls around the tent like it’s a living thing. “The can-toi. Hungry things. Easy to control, should I need them for anything. Will I need them, tiny thing?”
“Polite! Polite, pretty little mouth,” he says, bringing the belt down to your cheek. He strokes you with it, tapping your cheekbone so close to your eye that you can see it, can see him bringing it down hard enough to burst the tender orb inside until it’s leaking down your cheek, but he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes fluttering. “Lift your head or I’ll take it.”
There isn’t a choice. Cunt on fire, belly upset by the fluttering of millions of wayward butterflies, you obey, and he gingerly wraps the leather around your throat. The loose ends threads through the buckle and there it is, snug against your flesh. He gives you a few tugs, pleased by your submission, and he looks different out of the corner of your eye. His flesh shifts. It sits differently on his face somehow, like it’s crawling itself across his skull, and his eyes are all but lighting up the tent. It’s searing just to look at them. They pierce in an almost tangible way as he stares into your eyes, and there’s a pressure behind your eyeballs, in your brain, like headache, but painless. Shuffling. He’s inside of you, somehow.
“Oh, but you do like it, don’t you? Like it when I’m inside.”
When your neck can’t possibly crane back any further, he sinks his fingers into your ribs and lifts you from the floor and there you are, splayed underneath him on your back. He’s got the belt back in his hands before you can even catch your breath and then there isn’t any to take back – he tightens it while his flesh crawls across his body. His teeth swim in bleeding gums, little razors stuck in the meat. It’s hard to describe the way his face seems two different ways at once, a man and also a shifting mass of flesh, or something vaguely resembling it. The images clash with each other and grow foggy at the edges the longer you can’t breath.
He takes the belt in his teeth, in that great, gaping maw to make his hands a little more useful. Pants and underwear slide easily over your hips and thighs, and the whisper of the fabric rushing down your legs reaches over the roar of blood in your ears – it seems that this is where all your blood is.
He uses his thighs to part your legs and there’s a deep, piercing thrill, manic and hot and eating its way from your belly up into your constricted throat, and he finally relents. Belt loosened, you spring back from the edge of unconsciousness in a fit of gagging coughs, nose runny and eyes leaking. He pays it no mind. His attention has shifted. His face no longer squirms around on the expanse of his bulbous skull, but there are still sloppy strings of red, red drool pattering down on your inner thighs. There’s still that burnt autumn scent of his breath. Bodies hidden in the woods, soaked up by the towering canopies of trees through their shared root systems. Sharing with each other the secrets and nature of death, of finality and infinity. The chaotic nature of your thoughts feel like it’s leading you toward some precipice, something about the nature of him. Of It.
“You’re not real.” Your voice slurs, the back of your tongue heavy and sore at the entrance to your esophagus. He shudders and his lip curls up in a snarl. There are seams in his face, at the corners of his mouth, splitting his eyebrows apart, and suddenly they’re all blooming and the meat underneath is butterflied open in gashes. The words come in varying levels of tremble, automatic, a mantra: You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real you’re not real you’re not real. He moans, growls from deep inside his chest.
He shoves one long finger into your cunt and, upon second thought, uses another. And another. He hooks them, thrusting and twisting them until he’s worked them to his knuckles.
“Doesn’t it feel real?” he titters. “Hm? Didn’t need to work so hard, little mouse. So wet already. So hot, tight... could eat you up.”
He’s nowhere near wrong – the fight enters your spine again, flushing through with pure, bright adrenaline, but this time it’s rerouted through the exploding synapses in your brain, and all the blood that was throbbing around your skull goes straight to where he’s fucking you open with his mean fingers, big fingers, and it’s hard to fight the rhythmic spasm building up around them.
“D-Don’t eat me.” God, you’re so pathetic. So utterly hopeless choking back your own moans, as if you could camouflage the effect he has on you, on your entire being. It’s like sliding into a black hole, being stretched until you’re just a vibrating, heated ribbon of atoms and exist only as a timeless beam of pressure. The other side of this shimmers uncertainly in the distance. The threat of death hangs over you, the threat of being swallowed whole. Whatever he is, there’s certainty about only one thing: that he could. That he truly, desperately wants to. “Please don’t.”
“Ohh, you ask so nicely! Mmmm, hmmm... should I, shan’t I, should I, shan’t I.” He lowers his head between your parted thighs and drags his cartoonishly long tongue up your slit, wriggling the disgusting thing to replace his fingers inside of you. It writhes and GROWS, stretches, explores the tight, smoldering confines as his eyes roll back. His voice comes disembodied from somewhere behind all those teeth, rows and rows of them studded all the way back. “But you TASTE so GOOD, MOUSE. LITTLE SNACK. DELICACY OF THE MID-WORLD.”
His fat, serpentine tongue bunches up into you, stuffing itself, folding and crumpling in its efforts to fill you to bursting. Just outside, it curves up to grind its fat underbelly up against your clit. It slips and slides, vibrates, even. Every little movement sends you into a spiral of shame and need. It’s hard not to push down against it, to wiggle your hips to help accommodate. It’s hard not to collapse your thighs around his head, so... you stop fighting. He makes that alien sound again, the clicking, the chittering, and it vibrates up into the core of you to join the tip of his tongue against your cervix, and suddenly the world seems to close in on you. Everything implodes in slow motion. Your muscles contract and tighten and coil and then... they loosen. The wave of pleasure is annihilating. The loudest scream you can muster comes from this, the irreversible course of submission you’ve chosen, and the monster-thing above you seems to come apart and stitch itself back together in a montage of bone and glitch and sinew, of veins, of parts you couldn’t name if you tried. The vision of him is layered like pencil on onionskin, that maybe his form would make more sense if all the layers were put together against the light. Lights. Three lights, bouncing somewhere behind those teeth, just... right there... so close and WARM so HOT
Sounds pour out of your mouth that border on actual words. It’s a font of jumbled syllables that only reach coherence here and there, like the ebb and flow of its tongue. Stop. Don’t. Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstopgodohmyGODdon’tSTOP. He only laughs. That awful tongue retracts and you’re almost sorry for it, almost sorry to see it roll back behind the split cavern of his face, settling shakily into a recognizably human form. He can’t quite make it happen. What was once a man’s face is now just a clown’s, the cracked expanse of his forehead peeling like paint. There’s red lining his lips and cheeks and ringing his eyes, ringing his pupils, slicing up over his eyebrows. It’s hard to tell what’s blood and what isn’t. He grins at you like you’re sharing a secret, licking his teeth, his giggling low and unhinged. It vibrates in the desperately hollow flesh between your thighs.
“Gunna explore you aallll over. Aren’t we so alike, aren’t we, isn’t so funny? How we love to do things we aren’t supposed to. Go inside places that aren’t meant for us, isn’t that right?” He grabs your face, digs his mean fingers into the meat of your cheeks so that you’re biting into them. “Doesn’t it make you want to laugh and laugh and fucking laugh?”
He rips at his outfit. The sound of the tiny, tarnished bells ring from within the folds of his ruffled collar, stark in their beauty, so much prettier than when they land in the dust with his discarded rags.
“Wanna hear you beg for it.” He takes a heaving breath and the knife is reproduced, held against your throat with the slightest hint of a shake. He’s completely in control and has you keening up so soon after orgasm, all but asking nicely for your life and, hell, maybe a little more of whatever he’s doing. There’s a delirium dancing behind your impulses that’s as comfortable as bathwater. He presses up against your bare body with another writhing, impossibly hot appendage, slicked and slimed over and nudging impatiently up. Trying to glance down at it only rewards you with the click of his tongue – TSK TSK, TINY THING! – and the knife pressed so firmly against your flesh that for a moment it seems like you might not have the chance to find out what it’s like. “No peeking.”
“Wait, pl-please, can you... can I... please...”
He slits the knife across and ruts his hips forward, once, twice, crushing into the soft flesh of your thighs with the bones of his hips. Blood rushes out from the burning wound there and it’s so warm, cascading down in weak trickles, and your hands flutter up to press your fingers into the wound and they push into opened flesh, but nothing that’s going to kill you. Not yet. The way he fucks you apart, the blood jumps up in tiny droplets that decorate his face. His tongue, once covered in your cum, now attacks the new opening he’s given you. He laps at the blood and grunts, groans, skims his sharkteeth against it so that tears spring into your eyes.
“Ohh, you gunna cum? Gunna cum again for ol’ Mister Gray?” He scoops you up into his long arms and lifts and drops you, no longer content with the limitations of hammering you into the floor. It takes your breath away, puts spots in your vision as the world swims and your ears ring. “HM? GUNNA CUM FOR ME, YOU FILTHY FUCKING ANIMAL? Do you like this, do you like being afraid of the meeaaaan old clown? Sure feels like you do. Better ask, better BEG ME or I’ll rrrrrip open your belly and sssssllllurrp you clean, nothing but rags of flesh around my cock!”
It ripples and throbs. The thing inside of you pulses, fills up every last inch inside you so that it hurts, and so it only aches worse when you squeeze down on it. He makes a sound like a purr, some feral noise vibrating from his chest to yours. Fingers squeezing into the cheap tatters of his outfit, nails dug into its non-flesh deep enough to lacerate it, you search the insane depths of his bleeding eyes for permission and he shakes his head firmly, once, NO.
“PLEASE.” It’s the loudest you’ve screamed yet. There have been countless chances to scream, to shriek and yell and run and cry and shout, and the only time you’ve been so shrill is now, begging this Thing to let you cum. As if you have a choice at all. “PLEASE! CAN I, PLEASE, DON’T KILL ME JUST LET ME CUM PLEASE.”
“Oh, it sings, does it? Sings such a pretty... little... sound.” He punctuates each word with a vicious jerk of the hips, forcing more of those withheld screams from your throat. They rip straight out of your body like he’s got fingers tangled into the deep, secret pink of your lungs, plucking them from their depths and into the air with his manic giggles and grunts and growls. “Do it. Cum again for me, whoreling, soft thing. Do it or I’ll swallow you whole.”
It’s already begun, engulfing you in a wash of raw, red sensation, throat to toes. Being so absolutely full has you feeling every last aching inch, every flutter of a twitch. Each pump drives an endless loop of feedback: need, hurt, throb, need, hurt, throb, a song of its very own.
You thank him. You thank him over and over again as he handles you like a ragdoll, all fuck-limp and drooling, sniveling, whining as the climax wanes into overstimulation. He laps at your throat and fastens rows of his teeth over the gash, secure as a lamprey, and he sucks. Your body betrays you with the unbearable spasm of need, more, and you decide that maybe dying like this wouldn’t be so bad. To be intoxicated and licked clean, picked clean. Used to your full potential and stripped of choice. His cock expands and it’s like stars, just as bright and sizzling.
“Feels s-so... feels good...mmh – it hurts, it hurts.” Words are so hard. The only thing that makes sense anymore is to cum and match his thrusts in some meaningful way, in some way that both makes it ache less and makes it ache more.
When he pops theatrically away, lips dotted with your blood, there’s an unbearably human impulse to lean in and kiss him. They have to feel soft. What would it be like to taste your own blood on his mouth, your own cum? What might it be like to feel the tips of those razorteeth prick your lip?
His harsh rhythm stammers and slows into roll, hips undulating underneath you as he holds you up and scrutinizes your face. His eyes drift apart, cocked at either side, and the corners of that mouth twitch into a little grin. It widens and he focuses once more on you.
“Does it want something? Mmm?”
He shifts the both of you so quickly it steals your breath away. The way he continues to roll his hips feels like a tease, like he’s trying to drive you absolutely insane, strokes deep and even. He looms over you and tilts his head, so close you can practically taste him. His eyes are lidded and sleepy, but there’s a new light behind there somewhere. Lips parted, you wait, barely breathing, shaking underneath him.
“You want a kiss? You just want a little kiss, little kiss for a little mouse?” He laughs right in your face. He comes close enough to barely brush lips and, just as you lean up to steal it from him, the knife is back under the curve of your jaw. His hips pick up speed and the blade becomes uncomfortable, cutting into you just above your windpipe. Each swallow is a chore, a reminder that you could die any second. He starts making that sound again – the weird clicking growl rumbling up his chest, vibrating the empty air between your lips and his. “Are you sad, little girl? So sad. So, so sad the big bad clown won’t give you a kiss! Oh, I’ll give you something, pet. But you’d better give me something first. If you cum before I do, I’ll let you live! But if you don’t...”
His face comes apart inches from yours. His alienflesh stretches and snaps, shreds itself open to accommodate his snakelike jaw, yawning open so that his endless teeth are on display and chittering around his massive mouth, studded all the way down his throat. The lights bob back there, ducking in and out of view. Shy. Enticing. They warm you in some new way that’s like gossamer, like fine strands of white-hot pleasure wrapping themselves around you from the inside. It’s like it’s seeping into your veins. You’re sure if he slit your throat open right now, it would spurt blood as bright and pale as milk.
There are suddenly too many hands – hands holding yours down by the wrists, squeezing into your thighs and clawing at your ribs, hands on your breasts, fingers clutching your hair. There’s nowhere to go but between his endless limbs and his knife. Nowhere to escape the pinching and squeezing, like he can’t decide whether to rip you into shreds or settle for causing you pain. The howling has started up again outside, and it circles the tent like some unseen stalker, whipping the tarps, like others – the can-toi, is that what he called them? – are waiting their turn, They yip and chortle and cackle like hyenas.
He forces it from you as your fear comes back, awash in his light, in the sounds he makes and the sounds of the Things outside. You think of them scurrying in with their shifting, slobbering faces, things too confusing to look upon in the light, and yet they rush in anyway. You picture them coming to help Bob Gray, screeching for their turn, pushing and pulling and fucking and hurting you, filling any conceivable space in your body with alien cocks and cum, snapping their jaws at your face, and under these horrifying mental images, you feel yourself coming apart again.
“Disgusting, greedy little thing. Wanting all of the can-toi, all of me.” His voice comes from that beautiful, flickering hollow into his body, into more than his body. It’s like he’s blossomed into a portal in his own right. The lights make it feel nicer, make it hotter, fill you with ideas and thoughts, patterns and shapes that defy logic and human comprehension. Your stomach lurches in protest, but your cunt clamps down on his big, writhing, mean cock and he shudders. His face tries to come together again, voice wavering. “Should get more of my kind – we could f e a s t upon you. No tricks. Just a scared, stupid little fucktoy desperate for the seed of Us, and when we’re done, we’ll c o n s u m e y o u.”
He mock-soothes you as you cum, bucking against him without any regard for the weapon still tucked snugly into the flesh of your throat. Good girl. Good little thing. Keep going, ohh, look at you, cumming again, all for me. Scream louder, scream LOUDER. Between blinks, his face shifts together, comes apart, takes other shapes. It settles on Bob Gray’s face, still drooling blood, wild-eyed with his hair damp with sweat. He throws the knife and takes your hips in his hands – two hands, now, like none of the others had ever existed. He holds you firmly by the hips so that there’s no room between you as he throbs into you, reaching his own climax, hanging his head so that his shoulders arch like a wild cat’s.
The rolling twitches and pulses in the wake of your last orgasm milk him through, grip him like there’s no option to leave. He rips himself free and chuckles at the way you yelp, the way you instinctively reach down to cup at yourself and curl your legs up. He rises gracefully from the floor, your blood on his face, hands and shirt, and fixes his slacks. He watches you with little interest as you pull yourself together. It takes several tries to make your wobbly legs work the way nature intended, folding sorely in on themselves with all the finesse of a newborn fawn, and sobering from whatever spell you’ve been under makes you terrified all over again.
Finally, it’s the two of you – Bob, standing taller than ever with a handsome, self-satisfied smirk on his pink lips, and you, shaking on the floor with your fists clenched.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Kill you.” He considers it for a moment, like he’s tasting a delicate bite, rolling it around his tongue. He winks. “I don’t think I’ll be doing any killing, today, little mouse. Not hungry anymore. Not yet.”
His eyes are bright, clear as the sky. That soft blue watches you in knowing silence, as if to say, don’t you know me by now?
You get up slowly and chance a look around. The tent is still, the air outside stirring lazily in the autumn evening. It’s barely dark and completely deserted. No howling, no creatures. No (low men) men. Backing toward an opened flap – had it been secured open like that before? – does nothing to attract Bob Gray. He watches with his hands in his pockets, smirk softened with boredom. He nods as you come within stepping distance of the outside of the tent. Outside, awaiting you. Pain creeps in from the encounter and there’s a lick of fear that you won’t outrun him. He laughs and bows a bit as he takes an exaggerated step away from you.
“Give you a head start, sweetling. Run, run. Go on. If you want me again – if you’re lonely in the cold, dark night, wanting, wet, well... you know how to find me. And don’t forget, mouseling... I’ll know where to find you.”
snowghoul
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
