Lips wrapped around his finger, teeth biting down with no hint of restraint. Bucking your hips back with all the force you can give, you feel swollen cock hit your cervix again, and again, and again, bruising you from the inside out. As the trendrils circling his member lace around your clit to pinch, pull and twist around the tiny bud your breath quickened, as did the clown’s. His climax was just about to barrel through you, right as the growing ache between your thighs hit a fever pitch. His hands found yours, slipping fingers through each other, squeezing tight enough to break bone. He howled over your shoulder, teeth protruding from his mouth as his first wave hit, tips scraping and embedding themselves in your skin.
Your orgasm hit, and you felt your core milking him of his seed, over and over, swelling your lower belly. The end to this act felt never ending, waves of heightened pleasure repeating until they (and he) soften, bringing you an intense need to sleep. Rolling onto your back, the light in the kitchen blazed brighter than it ever had before, nearly blinding you. Your eyes glaze over and slide shut, the faint sensation of a kiss to your cheek being the last thing you remember.
The alarm in your bedroom goes off, music playing faintly in the background. You groan and stretch, realizing it’s time to get up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and opening them slowly. But wait a second…why are you in the kitchen? Why were you laying here on the floor? Rising slowly to your knees take in the view around you, there’s nothing askew, not even your pajamas. Were you sleep walking? Do you sleep walk?
Scratching your head in confusion, you head to your bedroom to turn off the alarm, realizing why you headed to the kitchen late last night. You wanted a snack, but whether or not you got one remains the question. Looking back down the hallway, it hits you that what you wanted sounds pretty good now. Padding back into the kitchen, you check for it in the fridge and find it gone. Could’ve sworn you had a whole package in there, but now you’ll have to buy more. Closing the door to the fridge, you don’t notice the small slip of paper affixed amongst pictures and magnets. It’s a piece of yellow paper from the notepad near your phone, bearing a small simple drawing of a smiley face, etched in blood. It’s his calling card, his mark. He’ll be back for another snack.
Heading into the bathroom, you drop your pajama shorts and prepare to sit when another realization hits you.
“Where the hell’s my underwear?”
(From somewhere beyond your refrigerator a quiet, whispering cackle is heard, and the rustling of a package of foodstuffs.)
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