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It’s been two days shy of a month since The Breather last banged on your door. Almost thirty days since you’ve gotten fucked into whatever object or surface he deemed sturdy enough to throw you down on - nearly a month since you’ve been able to cum. Your fingers don’t do it like his can. The fantasies can’t ghost the real thing, and it’s driving you fucking mad with lust more vulgar and untamed since before that hairless serial killer decided to fuck you brain dead and boneless.

There have been several times since the first time where either the police have been called by a ‘good samaritan’ or Audrey’s shown up because apparently not answering your phone for an hour is enough to warrant a house check. ‘Apparently,’ she’s also your mom now… so that’s new...

The threat of being interrupted might have made the sex more nasty and frenzied, and ultimately hotter, but the actuality was that being interrupted meant he’d abandon you with a gaping pussy that hadn’t been cummed in yet and that sucked. Too often your ‘rape’ games with The Breather have fallen victim to said disturbances. Do-gooder neighbors phoning in noise complaints or your concerned, slightly annoying best friend - AKA: mom - dropping by to make sure you don’t have forty fresh stab wounds. Needless to say, the tension is starting to build.

It’s fine… you’re fine.

Really. It’s no big deal.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to know that people give a shit if some woman is being ‘stalked’ and ‘raped’ in her own home every other weekend. For people to hear the kind of stuff you’ve been screaming while getting dicked down by a wanted murderer, and them to react appropriately, is refreshing… but unwanted in this case. Maybe next time you masturbate before the open window, you’ll gag yourself with your panties, just hoping he’ll see and notice your intention. If he wants you quiet, you’ll find a way.

It shouldn’t be surprising that it’s come to this. Eventually, people were going to notice. Even the worst scum can grow a conscious, or maybe they just didn’t appreciate the fact that you made the most noise in the early twilight hours and that was definitely obnoxious; sexually deviant to most.

Really, it could be either. Morality or self-concern. But the reasons are pointless because the constant calls and surprise visits mean your purveyor of orgasms and guilty pleasure hasn’t shown his masked face in too fucking long.

Given the circumstances, it’s no surprise that after the cops showed up last time - while you were getting force fed cock with a knife tip poised along the side of your stuffed throat - that he hasn’t dropped by in awhile. A-fucking-while… too long…

God, you’re horny.

“I swear, it’s like they stop adding movies so you’ll rent the DVDs,” Audrey mutters bedside you, totally apathetic to your contorted face of displeasure, “Who even rents DVDs anymore?”

You shrug, grumble and kick your bare feet up on the footrest; ankles crossed and hands stuffed in an oversized pullover hoodie that you put on because, yes, it reminds you of ‘him’ and you’re thirsty as fuck.

Next to you on the sofa, Audrey is flicking through the family section on Netflix, debating what new animated movie she wants to watch. It’s kinda your thing. Once a week you both order Chinese food, create a new wacky mixed drink and/or cocktail and watch PG-rated flicks until you’re both passed out on top of each other; drooling.

It’s fun.

It’s always been the highlight of your week before The Breather broke down your front door, but right now you’re jittery and would rather be out doing something - anything. All this pent-up lust is starting to feel like someone blew crack smoke in your face.

Half an hour ago, you heard said big-dicked serial killer pull into his driveway. Just the way his van door slammed closed, and the sound of those heavy boots stomping on his porch steps… fuck… his soft mumbles and the sudden bang of his front door. The floodgates have been pouring ever since. Like, you can literally feel the blood circulating through capillaries, fueling all those bundled nerves in your cunt, and it’s ridiculous.

All you want is for him to chase you around the house with that knife slashing just shy of murder and then kick you down to the floor, step on your spine as he hacks your clothes off until you’re naked and bleeding. Then he’ll just crush your face into the floor while waxing poetics and fuck you until you're crying and begging him to stop…

… but not really. You never want him to stop, even if sometimes you think he might just go ahead with it and kill you halfway through. The ‘not knowing for sure’ makes the fake rape feel more real; helps get you lost in the fantasy even though he’s whispered a few times in your ear that he won’t murder you, but those are just words. His knife speaks better for him, and it’s told you time and again that one wrong move could mean your organs perforated by his thick blade.

You rub your lips together, lick them until they tingle and swallow excess saliva pooling under your tongue. If only Audrey had that stupid boy toy still wrapped around her finger, she’d be off getting fucked, and you could be taking care of this particular issue.

Masturbating in the bathroom with the hem of your shirt stuffed between your teeth and the faucet on high isn’t gonna work because you just can’t cum on your own anymore and… you’re not into girls, but if you can’t burn off some of this tension, you might end up grabbing your best friend's boob and not even meaning it as a joke.

Sexual frustrations and alcohol don’t mix well, and the last thing you want is to make things awkward.

“What about that one with the talking baby, it looked pretty cool,” she mentions.

The idea of sitting through an hour and a half of some talkin’ baby movie literally sends you into a sexualized panic. You drag your heels off the coffee table and stand up with no plan but the blind realization that you need some fresh air before you can get drunk with Audrey. Down on the sofa, your friend looks at you like you’re crazy, which isn’t a new expression on her at this point.

“Dude… what are you doing?” She asks, already glaring as if she knows what you’re about to do. Too astute for her own fucking good most times and you can’t lie to her, or you keep telling yourself.

“I’m craving some powdered donuts like a pregnant lady right now,” you lie; fingers twitching in your hoodie pouch.

Audrey looks from you to her smartwatch with a growing frown, “It’s nearly eleven-thirty. You can’t walk down to the ACM at this hour. You’ll get mugged or… something.”

That ‘something’ she mentions is the elephant in the room - The Breather to be precise.

You had to fabricate an intricately carved lie about what caused your busted front door because no one - no matter the cost - wanted to come out and fix it faster than Audrey could show up with coffee and donuts. On the surface, the gesture was sweet, but it was all a cover to make sure you were still alive after the previous night surfing the deep web. So, the lie is that someone showed up - maybe The Breather, perhaps not because you swore you didn’t get a good look at them - and when you brandished the gun the guy got spooked and ran. Simple to remember.

Police were called - of course, they weren’t, but Audrey didn’t need to know that - and as far as she knew, all was fine.

Audrey still thinks The Breather has his eye on you and, to her, the idea of going out after dark is about as stupid as the shit you pulled a couple months out the back of that club with no underwear and no sense. That had been you at your most insane, walking around looking for trouble with a dangerous obsession in the wrong fucking place. Still sounds like you, actually...

“First of all that ‘something’ is not gonna happen,” you tell her bluntly.

She gets that look on her face like she’s about to have a mini-stroke but you lay your hand out in a placating gesture and shush her softly, “Look, I’ll bring the gun if that helps, but I am getting those powdered clouds of awesome, and you can’t stop me. I’ll be fine.” It’s starting to get hard to say that word with a straight face.

You’re friend chews on her lip, trying to find proper words but you’re already pulling your socks on with a blank expression that brokers no rebuttal.

“I could go with you…” Audrey says eventually, but the sentiment is hollow. She doesn’t wanna go, and you don’t blame her. It’s a bit silly, and it’s not like you live in a bad neighborhood but this suburb is only a quarter mile outside the city, and the city isn’t exactly known for being the pinnacle of propriety after dark.

“Seriously,” you smile, making sure to add a happy crinkle under your eyes this time, “I’ll be fine. It takes me ten minutes to get there, and I’ll jog my ass back. Give me twenty minutes, and we can get sloshed and watched that baby movie. With donuts!”

Audrey looks even less comfortable with your unscheduled trip now that you're yanking your sneakers on; looping the laces tight and grinning. Already your pulse rate is jumping up just thinking about blowing off some steam. There are a fair few fantasies about The Breather following you down the road, tossing you in his van and having his way with you, too. But that’s wishful thinking at best.

You stand, smile and ruffle Audrey’s pixie cut until she’s red in the face with withheld frustration.

In your room, you pull on a skirt over your boyshorts because yes, you walk around your house in your underwear even with Audrey around. For a second you hesitate by your bedside, standing in the same spot where The Breather had first fucked you - ‘raped’ you. Stomach clenching at the memory, you look out into the empty hallway, blush and remove your sheer boyshorts. The skirt flutters around your thighs as you sway, drawing AC-cooled air up between your legs where you’re already slightly damp. The soft, smooth apex of your cunt tickles with free blood flow.

If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough, you think; blushing. You spent a minute shifting your weight from heel to heel, rubbing your inner thighs and cunt together until it feels like your heart had made itself a nest in your lower abdomen. Moans lay dormant behind your teeth, and just as you start feeling winded by the pleasure, you stop.

“... well, fuck me, huh?” you whisper under your breath; eyeballing your closed window and pulled in drapes.

True to your word, you grab the gun, feed it a few bullets and flip the safety on before stuffing it in the hoodie pocket like a real badass.

Audrey’s standing in the foyer when you finally pad into the open living room with a weeping cunt and about five-thousand seedy thoughts running through your skull. She sees the quiet pleasure on your face, but before she can start arguing, you pull the gun from your pullover and twirl it around your middle finger by the trigger guard.

You give her a comforting, honest looking smile and reassure her, “Gun’s loaded. I’ve got my phone, and if I get sidetracked I’ll give you a call, okay?”

“This is so stupid,” she mutters, “why do you do this to me? We were having a perfectly safe and fun evening, and now you’re deliberately making this evening suck balls.”

“This is bigger than you, Audrey,” you tell her, pocketing the gun and grabbing her shoulders with all the serious candor of a drama school actress before continuing in a low voice, “Bigger than us. This is… about… donuts.”

Her eyes roll into the back of her skull until all you can see are whites scattered with thin capillaries. More casually and less shitty, you mention, “Plus! I’ll grab you a bag of onion chips and a six-pack of hard lemonades.”

“I mean, we’ve already got everything we need to make Screaming Orgasms, but whatever… fine,” she concedes with a closed off sigh, “but if you’re not back in twenty minutes I’m calling, and if you don’t answer, I’m gonna call the cops.”

“Sure,” you smile.

“Seriously, I’ll call them. Don’t think I won’t,” Audrey says. She repeats herself again, more loudly while you grab your wallet off the floating shelf by the keys and unlock your new front door.

“You know it! Be back in a jif, baby-cakes,” you say halfway out the door. For good measure, you twist at the waist and blow her a kiss, but as soon as the door is shut and locked behind you, you’re assailed with all manner of senses.

The wind blows through the leaves and grass, threatening to expose your bare cunt under the light skirt. Stale diesel fumes from The Breather’s hulking van hit you after the sudden reek of jasmine blossoms trails off. Feeling flushed, despite the crisp air, you blow out a heavy sigh and peer over at the derelict looking house. Your serial killer fuck-buddy is doing God knows what in there - could be asleep or taking a shit or something - but you wanna get his attention even if it’s fruitless.

This is dumb. Audrey’s words echo in your head, but you’re gonna do it anyway because you’re a slave to your body at this point and while there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, it does mean you're sans underwear right now. With fluid friction between your inner thighs, you walk yourself to the weed-pocketed sidewalk and pause in front of your neighbors decayed front yard. There’s no light coming through the dark windows, but your eyes run around the edges and creases of the paint-chipped two-story bungalow with lust and apprehension. There’s a loose chain fence that separates your two yards, and the curled up edges of linked steel rattle against the post as the wind blows.

It always looks half-abandoned but as you study the second-floor siding - broken by ugly patches of loose shingles - you notice a thin line of light coming through the middle upstairs window. Slightly startled, you sway in the breeze; standing there on the curb. In the driveway - still warm - the white van rattles in your ears. Beyond the dirty window pane, drawn curtains flutter with movement. The sight makes your throat swell up, wondering if he’d been peering down at you while your eyes had been surveying his ugly house and front yard.

You think he’s watching you - hope he’s got cameras hidden somewhere and The Breather staring at you through them, or maybe he has other ways of looking besides the windows.

Because you’ve lost all concern for your wellbeing and have a slight/ significant addiction to his cock and that knife and the things he makes you feel, you look to the left, then the right, and back up at the window. With one hand, you lift up the front of your skirt where there’s nothing but bare wet flesh waiting for him, and smile.

One, two... three. You count to five, lick your lips and lower your skirt. Both of your cheeks burn with a welcome sense of shame and excitement. Thin window light wiggles in response, and you smirk, turn on a heel and head down the sidewalk towards the AC-Mart. A weird sense of victory follows after you. Whether or not The Breather decides to stalk you tonight or not, it feels like you’ve reached some pinnacle of understanding. An alpha move, maybe.

The walk up the gentle sloping sidewalk is quiet. No one seems to follow you despite stopping every minute to listen and make sure. Every time you hope to hear The Breather’s heavy panting. There’s nothing but the wind, your heartbeat, and the distant sounds of traffic every time. So you continue on, feeling a little more foolish with each stop.

Moisture creeps down your inner thighs as you kick little bits of asphalt off the sidewalk and back onto the old road with cigarette butts and tire fallout. Every step forward makes you more desperate; heart racing for what you hope is your stalker in the shadows. The walk is making your inner thighs massage the slippery folds of your cunt; pulling and warming and so good it might as well be a form of masturbation.

Inside your hoodie pocket, you stroke your wallet and tap a fingernail on the short gun barrel. You check your phone for the first time since leaving as the intersection appears over the hill and blink through cloudy arousal at the numbers on the lockscreen. It’s been six minutes.

You must have had a fire poker up your ass to have gotten here so quickly. Well… maybe not a fire poker, but the threat of a masked serial murderer and fake rapist. The ‘up your ass’ part is just wishful thinking at this point. You’ve never been into anal - only done it once and never again - but the idea of The Breather pinning you down and wedging that long, veiny cock through tight, dry sphincter muscle is more than getting you flustered. It’d hurt and burn, and you’d cry, and he’d keep pushing forward until you both were raw...

Fuck. Now you’re thinking about it in great detail, and the sickening image makes your insides clench, squeeze and leak forth. You’re sweating now, even with the cool Autumn breeze.

A sedan that’s purple in the moonlight but red under the stop light speeds through the intersection, racing over the eroded crosswalk. You tremble on the walk button, feeling light-headed as another car takes a sharp right from where you’d come from, down towards the highway…

Exhaust fumes tickle your nose, but you rub it away with your hoodie sleeve, holding down a sneeze as fabric softener replaces petrol. It’s heavy which means you need to lay off on the lavender softener next time, but it’s better than dizzying gas, and whatever smell is coming up from the sewer grates.

You shift back and forth on your feet, working your soft, slick cunt as the crosswalk sign glares red. No walking. Usually, you’d just jog across, but Eighth Avenue, which runs parallel to your street, turns only a couple hundred feet down and assholes like to drive out of the darkness and run red lights at this hour. You’ve got too many future fuck sessions with The Breather to go and get hit by a sedan… also, Audrey would miss you, and she’ll bitch and moan about you being a pain in her ass, but deep down that woman loves you like a sister.

Just as the green man starts blinking ‘WALK,’ the bushes by the vacant house on your corner rustle with commotion. You pause, one heel sneaker heel poised on the curb and look back at the dark, messy yard. Your heart says it’s The Breather, and he’s come for you, but logic says it’s a scrawny raccoon. You linger a little while longer, check the road to the left and the right and jog across towards the adjacent commercial district.

The convenience store - the local ACM - is one of the only sources of light aside from the anti-theft lights in a couple closed shopping units. The traffic lights cast red across the first hundred feet in front of you. Vehicle lights pass by again, exposing old signage and dirty brick walls. The closed pharmacy, nail salon and laundrette across the road become dark and dismal, and the office building at your shoulder might as well be vacant because even the street light hovering over the sidewalk is dead.

A cluster of fairy lights that bridge two buildings over a small dilapidated park ahead and to your far right provides enough light exposure that you can see the thick lines in the sidewalk across the road.

It’s eerily quiet despite the cars driving through the intersection behind you.

You can see the ACM glowing like a beacon at the end of Clover Lane before it becomes Ninth Avenue; neon signs broadcasting cheap beer and cigarettes. Fluorescent light strobes through all the pinned up advertising, lost and found posters and ripped ‘help wanted’ flyers covering the glass storefront.

Out of the silence behind you, steel skates across rock stone.

All the fine hairs on your body stand on end. Goosebumps pull your skin taut and with a snagging muscle in your neck, you twist around and sway on weak ankles as heavy breathing hits your ears. Loose hair tickles your cheek as you blink away the retreating shadow and the glimmer of what is most certainly a knife in the darkness.

The Breather, you think.

Desire leaks down your thighs, trickling around the slope of a smooth, sweaty kneecap at the realization. Fuck… it’s about time.

“W-who’s there?” You ask in a voice as terror-filled as you are thrilled; trembling with the thought of being chased out here in the open. Hunted like a wild animal in a concrete forest.

Sterile cotton-dampened laughter replies and out from a side alley you see the broad-shouldered silhouette of a man the same height and tilted posture of the serial killer you’ve been craving for so damn long now. The glow from the ACM behind you catches in one of his eyes; shining like a dying star.

He blinks, and you hold your breath.

For a lucid, quiet moment your brain runs like a brick on old RAM, running through escape avenues, comparing routes with the time it usually takes him to catch you. Six seconds is the norm… but if you run down the road towards the ACM and take a left on Ninth Avenue, there’s a chance you’ll make it to the old library. Past their parking lot is a little outdoor pavilion with picnic benches. Perfect for getting brutally fucked over.

It sounds like a great plan, but that’s all it is, and your ideas don’t work if they don’t correspond with his.

The Breather chuckles - a hyenas laugh - and nearly propels himself from around the alley corner towards you.

You stumble back, fumble over the curb and into the street but your ankle only bounces with pain for a millisecond before your inhaling a scream and running across the road - opposite direction of the Library. He’s got a place in mind, and part of the thrill is in the not knowing, so you run as his boots smack the asphalt behind you.

Wind rips between your fast working legs, making the skirt flutter around your bare ass. It’s shameful only at the thought of anyone else seeing you naked from the waist down. Knowing he’s sprinting after you - knowing his eyes will linger there as the exposed flesh bounces - makes your cunt pulse with running friction.

Like all the times before, the adrenaline kicks in like sweet poison.

Your thighs burn as you gasp down oxygen and book it towards the little fairy light-lit park. In your sex-crazed haste, the sidewalk curb eats the tip of your sneaker, and down you go into the rough grass. Pain spikes up your kneecaps, making you yelp.

You’re halfway through processing the pain and embarrassment over tripping seconds into the chase when The Breather skids to a halt against the sidewalk. Road chalk splatters your naked calves. He fists the hood of your pullover, taking loose hair between his knuckles, and drags you across the tiny park with no effort shown but the ragged, torn way he breathes.

A sob slips between your teeth as you reach for his rubber-clad wrist, trying to lessen the pull on your hair. He doesn’t budge. His dense arm is like a steel beam; unmovable.

You kick the grass, upending dry root beds and moan in pain when your tailbone smacks the edge of the siding separating a little jungle gym and the grassy knoll. The Breather ignores your clawing fingernails when they finally scratch the snappy rubber cuff free from his hoodie sleeve; cutting smooth flesh until greasy blood clogs under your nails.

“... shit, shit,” you pant and moan, raking nails through hairless flesh as he drags you through the wood-chip playground to the side alley.

He takes his time opening the chain fence, unmoved even as blood fills his rubber glove. As the gate rattled, you twist to your sore knees; hair follicles pulling free.

You get a leg bent between the two of you - a heel in the back of his knee - and kick until he grunts and buckles forward. The Breather huffs and puffs and calls you an ‘eager little mouse’ before descending upon you with the flight of a hawk.

His knife skims across your chest, pulling fluff up from your hoodie until the blade catches under your jaw. Your back hits the patch of concrete that begins the alleyway path, and his lower body straddles your askew skirt and hairless mound.

Blood wells under the knife before the sting of pain sets in. It makes your eyes burn with tears. You freeze with your fists balled up around your throat and pant with baited breath as his mask crinkles and those near-lidless looking eyes narrow. Slowly, your fingers unfold at the threat of getting your throat slit right here… in the crappy little park with no underwear on…

Most times, you still aren’t confident whether he has it in him to kill you or not.

“Okay,” you say through thin lips, barely moving your jaw, “... I’ll be good… just… don’t hurt me, please...”

Those obnoxious fairy lights hanging like wet spider webs make his eyes flash like prismatic animal orbs as he turns his head. The hood over his head casts deep shadows as he observes you; turning his head to and fro as you stare upwards with a tight chest and fast racing heart.

It’s haunting - the way he studies you - and hot as hell.

Beyond the medical mask, you watch as the material expands and pulls tight against hidden features. There’s a man underneath the soft blue… beyond the serial killer, is a human like any other. Well, maybe not any other, but flesh and blood all the same.

From the back of his throat, he growls, “Don’t scream. Don’t speak… don’t make a sound…”

In response, a half-moan leaks from your throat, but he jerks the knife up harder, cutting deep enough that you hitch with a sob and hold the next shuddering sound back. It’s hard to stay silent when he wedges a knee between your legs, close enough that you can feel his body heat beyond the black canvas baking beside your naked cunt.

A tear leaks down the side of your face - a real one - as he breathes through his mouth in deep, sucking inhales. You don’t realize he’s been leaning down, closer and closer as if he’s going to kiss you until a car engine backfired and he retreats.

Bald tires skid on the spin down Clover Lane. They’ll be able to see the both of you laying in the back of the park like this; tangled and bloody.

“... dammit,” he mutters in near casual annoyance.

The knife slips away like a whisper.

Before you know it you're on your feet with one bare ass cheek turned to the road. The skirt is stuck under your hoodie slack, but you’re still paralyzed and can’t manage to tug it down for the life of you.

Exposure. Exhibitionism… fuck… It’s different when you're in your own home, fucking yourself in front of the window. Being naked and outside and following The Breather as he tugs you by the back of the neck through the chain fence and out of sight from the driving headlights it more than enough to make you blush until your chest feels scratchy and warm.

His rubber gloved hand grabs your bare ass. A hard pinky finger runs between twin cheeks as smoothly as if he’d squirted a bottle of lube inside your cunt before thicker fingers yank your skirt back in place. The car passes by just as your skirt flutters around your upper thighs, and if anyone inside had looked your way, they’d have seen a couple in hoodies cutting through the alley and nothing more. It’s eerie and arousing and…

“Come,” The Breather says with gravel in his esophagus; rubber fingers snagging in your hair, “said my soul… such verses for my body let us write.”

Your stomach twangs with lust at his carnal poetry.

As he shoves you through a claustrophobic space between broken pallets and a dumpster of decaying plant debris, you nearly laugh. How long as he been stewing on that line? He always has something new… something that sounds so fucking nasty when it’s said in this context and in that voice of his. Violent, filthy dialogue for the worst kind of role play.

Halfway down the alley, you feel the adrenaline start to drain. It’s still exciting, but the chase is stale, and that’s not gonna work.

You dart your eyes around the darkness, see a loose brick and pass by it with a frown. A board with hanging nails catches your eye, but you don’t want to do anything more than beginning the chase again. The gun in your hoodie pocket is out of the question obviously.

As his blue fingers dent your throat, your cunt dribbles thickly, making you swallow a soft sound around his grip. Let him fuck you now… please. You can’t stand another moment without it. He can do it however he wants, even if it’s not the rape play - even if it’s soft.

Sometimes, a few times, The Breather has dropped the game and forgotten to fuck you until it hurts - almost giving it to you sweetly. It still feels beyond delicious. But as soon as you spot a weak looking window that’s got some inside reinforcement that looks like a leaning piece of sheet metal, you act.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, halting quick enough he steps ahead of you by one boot step; surprised. You throw all your weight into him, sending his shoulder halfway through the window and into a shower of glass. Wild, furious eyes stare at you in shock as glass shards fall around his shoulder and black hood. He snarls, ten-thousand times as monstrous as you had and loses himself to the anger just like you wanted.

You know what to do by now.

It’s instinctual when you duck down before his knife can slash against the shoulder of your own hoodie. The gun shifts hard inside your pocket as you fall back outside the range of another quick slash. Your shoulders bump the brick wall, and with genuine fear, you gasp and slide along the rough stone before The Breather stabs his knife into your head, chipping the blade tip between crumbling mortar instead. It’s a game, you tell yourself… but sometimes you’re not so sure.

Violence. Animal logic. Prey. Predator… teeth dragging innards out on a frosty morning; steam billowing.

Sexual perversions mix with fear and adrenaline as your mind see in scattered images of varying vulgarity.

Your body turns to flee while The Breather shakes off slivers of glass like a mutt would rain water. He huffs a reedy chuckle and raises the knife for another round of slashing and stabbing.

“Please, just leave me alone!“ You shout under your breath, loving the act but fearing the attention it might bring.

A sick thrill fills your stomach when he kicks off a pile of stacked brickwork, closing in on you and snatches up the back sag of your pullover. He jerks you back so hard that the gun slips out your pocket, clattering heavily to the ground.

The Breather twists you around in his hands.

You skim his hard chest for a moment before he throws you into the side of the dumpster so hard that you falter in a slight daze; broken logic rattling in your skull. The skin on your palms grates up against a patch of peeling rust-paint as you brace yourself, but the pain is nothing compared to what he can tickle you with. Nothing can rival the sweet horror his cock and knife can bring you.

You watch, heart in your throat, as he takes a step forward with his knife turned out to the side; fairy lights painting the smooth surface. It’s a warning... but to be honest? - You’re a little too disoriented to run again. Not too out of it to take notice of the blue rubber fingers that start pulling the front of his hoodie up over the button on his pants, though. Blood fills your cheeks. Pressure holds the sides of your head in as you stare; shivering for him and for yourself.

When the zipper slides down, you start up a soft round of pleading. You’d nearly forgotten to play along, which has been happening more and more. The rape play you and The Breather have intermixes with something exceedingly intimate with each fuck, and sometimes you forget what’s fake and what’s real. It’s an addiction either way.

“No, no-no-no-please… no…” you continue, but it’s all fake.

It’s hard not to suspire with awe and lust once his hard cock wags free from the frayed canvas crotch of black. The weighty rod of pale, cerise-stained flesh has haunted your dreams ever since that first night.

It’s perfect... it’s long, wrapped with winding veins and a fat cap of spongy nerves. His cock leans a bit to the left, but the big overhang makes your mouth water. Of the few times he’s face fucked you - gagged you to near vomiting - you’ve never missed a drop of cum.

Even his thick, smooth semen tasted violent.

Subconsciously, you lick your lips at the sight and wonder if he’ll just cum in your mouth should you fall to your knees… or if he’ll take you by the hair before he’s finished and fuck you into a sobbing heap before blowing his load. It doesn’t seem worth the risk. You’ve wanted this for so long now, and he needs to bruise the farthest reaches of you.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you plead with him, making your lower lip tremble. Forceful tears burn in your eyes as he laughs thinly in response.

The Breather pitches the knife into the air while squeezing the base of his cock in a blue-rubber fist and snatches the blade handle in a movement so slick, you fall back into the dumpster; woozy with need.

Like a blur, he lunges for you.

The short distance disappears, bringing his body into yours along with the sharp smell of clean sweat and ethylene-leftovers. The Breather pins you against the dumpster with that razor-sharp knife cutting a twin line of red under your chin. He knicks the scab of blood from before, and as you swallow, a pervert ‘yes’ runs out your throat.

The Breather’s hips shift. His fingers crick into a fist around your skirt and push it up to expose you to the heat of his hard groin.

Hot cock nudges around your sleek mound until he grunts - grabs your naked hip under the hiked skirt - and lifts you against rusty metal until the sticky cockhead glides through your delicate folds, bouncing back and up against the bottom curve of your ass. The noise he makes when you bring forth the waterworks and start sobbing is pornographic; deranged. The stammering moan is enough to make your eyelashes flutter in perverse enjoyment even while tears run down your cheeks.

It doesn’t get mentioned how you wiggle just so - just enough that all he has to do is tip your hips back into the dumpster, bend his knees and surge up.

Thick, veiny cock pierces through your juicy, swollen muscles and finally… you feel perfect. Completed. Full and whole.

A knife-garbled wheeze comes out your mouth as the flared head rams your cervix. Pain jabs up the invisible nerve that joins your groin to your stomach, and with a haunting cry, you jerk up and away from him because yes… it’s uncomfortable. This is where the fantasy blends with reality. It’s not hard to fake it when he’s this deep... when it hurts so good...

His cock is too long, but he pulls you down on it until your mound meets the bare stretch of muscle above all that cock; sucking oxygen behind the mask.

“... n-no!” you hiccup and kick your ankles up around the back of his thighs, trying to hike yourself up off all that cock as he feeds the last inch of dick into you.

“Yes,” he rumbles gleefully, “take me deep, deep, deep. I want to break you. I’m. So. Deep.”

You can’t breathe.

It hurts. It’s hot like a glowing brand nestled deep inside.

You’re mindless.

The Breather's hand secures you against his hips which are pushed out, pinning you to the dumpster while the knife keeps you from struggling no more than an inch in either direction. It wouldn’t matter because you can barely move for the pain that twitches with every staggered breath you try to make.

The pain resonates with each micro-motion, but your insides clench and suckle with earnest desire. The duality is that he terrifies you and hurts you and it’s all you’ve ever wanted from a man… all you’ve ever needed. As the pain recedes and his nose bumps against your cheek - the mask going damp against your tears - you smile and sob with happiness.

It’s been so fucking long since you’ve felt so decadently pure.

The Breather laughs with snark and promise. He releases your hip and lets your weight drag you that little bit further on his cock until your bare ass is singing against eroded metal and your cervix throbs anew. Teeth - barricaded by medical cotton - press to your jaw but just before he can bite you for the first time, your phone rings.

You clutch his shoulders, frozen in a blind panic as the soft little notes filter through the pocket of your hoodie; echoing between your joined bodies.

Audrey. FUCK, you mind lurches.

The Breather pauses; teeth hovering for a second. He pulls back and glares. His bare brow muscles bunch downward until thick stress veins stand out on his forehead. For a second, it feels like your heart stops under that look. Usually, he takes you from behind - usually your face is being squashed into something hard or soft but either way, you never get to see him face to face as much as you are tonight and it’s hair-raising.

His cock jumps inside you, sending another pulse of pain up that framework of nerve endings you have no name for. Your phone keeps ringing. Images of Audrey chewing her thumbnail back at your place, pacing faster every second you don't pick up your phone, vividly enters your mind.

“Shit… it’s Audrey,” you curse and tremble around him; against him, “... she’s gonna call the fucking cops if-” you moan as he shifts with frustration, jostling your sore cervix, ”-if I don’t answer…”

The Breather’s eyes crinkle with dangerous mirth. The knife dig in deeper as he urges you to, “Answer it.”

“... I can’t,“ you try and then gasp, exhaling a silent scream as he snaps his hips back and thrust upwards; stabbing you into a quiet hell. Fluids leak around his cock as your body quivers unhappily. A brief sense of unbridled rage, mixed with fear and panic makes your nails curl into his shoulders.

You both glare at one another, but his knife rubs under your jaw, tipping your head back so he can watch your throat work on a nervous swallow before repeating himself, “Answer it. Now!”

Steel cuts into your skin as you remove your palm from his tense shoulder, reach down and inside the pouch until your nails hit the edge of your phone. You lift the phone and cut your eyes down to the bright picture of you and Audrey at a party years ago. This is not a good idea, you think, and bite your lip as his hips press into you deeper, eliciting a clogged whine. His upper body pulls back enough so you can bring the phone to your ear - enough that he can watch you try to answer a call as he makes short, depthless motions inside you.

You whimper and moan loud enough that it rivals the continuing ringtone.

“Shhh…” The Breather whispers, nodding to the phone as his hips churn slowly. He needs you to answer the phone… just like you need him to ruin you night after night.

Grip shaking, you answer the call at the last second and puff out a heavy breath, “H-h-hey, gurl… what’s up?”

‘Dude, you’re so fucking lucky you pick up. I was this close to calling the cops! Where the fuck are you? It’s been over twenty-’

“S-slow,” you swallow and wince as his cockhead starts rubbing pleasure into the pain, causing dull echoes of bliss to ripple through your belly with each short thrust, “... down. It’s… I’ve got-”

‘Where are you?!’ She sounds scared and worried, ‘Why do you sound like that? - what’s going on?!’

The Breather leans in as the phone shakes besides your face - the hard plastic edge denting your chin - and percolates hot breath against the knife at your throat. The stifling air tickles the shallow cuts he’s carved, and as you start to panic around the pleasure he fucks into your with short, deep motions, you cut Audrey off as she spirals into a tangent.

“Audrey,” you say her name to get her to shut the fuck up as The Breather devours your struggle to talk through the precise jabs of his cock, “I’ve got a Code Ten… uhh, ten plus…”

You’ve never used the code before, it’s always been an Audrey thing when she’s either about to get dicked or getting dicked down. The later is still awkward as hell, but she’ll understand even if the sound of her sudden silence is mortifying. You hope she’ll take this as seriously as you need her too. The idea of cops showing up to ruin this hard fuck in an alleyway is not pleasant.

‘Oh… seriously?”

You nod and sigh a very apparent sounding ‘yes’ before sucking in a moan; fingers clenching around your phone and The Breather’s tense right shoulder respectively. His head tilts to the side; wide, white-rimmed eyes studying your every move from the shadowed cavern of his hood. He’s listening...

‘Damn. Nice size… you fucking freak. Fine. Call me back.’

Audrey hangs up just like that. It’d been so simple you almost don’t believe it.

The Breather hears the call click because he’s been listening to every word - every hitch of breath, mangled syllable, and static-crackled question. Your friend is loud, and the alley is silent, and the only other noises are the wet sounds between your joined hips and your wedded breathing.

“Haaaa’ha’haaa...” he stutters as your cunt muscles clench and drag all along his ten-inch plus cock; sliding nearly all the way out of your tight warmth until you actually turn your body down to keep him inside, rueing the idea of being empty after all this time.

“Good girl.”

You sigh brokenly, eyes rolling back in your head and gulp while the knife sinks past the first and second layer of skin. Your fingers twitch, and your phone drops to the ground. Hard plastic on concretes echoes in the alleyway, but you can’t be bothered to care. Instead of worrying about a broken phone, you hold your breath, grab his shoulders hard and brace yourself for what's to come.

Even though you’re prepared for it, it takes you by surprise when he thrusts upwards; steadfast enough to make your body lurch against the rough metal.

You sob when he thrusts again with the same vigor and beg him to stop, but he just ‘hushes’ you again while pummeling the wet cavern between your moist thighs. The Breather fucks your small cunt like he’s stabbing his knife into someones soft belly. The tip of his cock hammers against that part of you that makes you think he’s gonna start tearing you apart, but you let a sloppy ‘yes’ slip from your lips and take each piston of dick like it’s jumpstarting your heart.

The Breather shoves your head back against the metal siding with a jerk of the blade, descends and bites the side of your neck. He bears into you so hard the wheels on the dumpster squeal against concrete ground. Rotten plant debris shakes inside, perfuming the air with rot that mingles with the sharp smell of musky sex. Blood hits your nostrils a second later as his tongue slashes your skin through the damp mask.

He bites you again - harder. You cling to him and cry.

“... stop,” you beg, but it’s gasped with the same passion as if you were asking him for more, and the next curse is no better.

The Breather mouths your throat, smearing your half-coagulated blood between sterile cotton and sweaty skin. Thoughts of having your nipples tortured with those same covered teeth - dull, hard bites - sends you reeling. You want his face between your legs, nudging a firm tongue to your clit… with the mask or without…


Without the mask? The idea is jarring, and as you’re fucked mercilessly into the side of the dumpster, hidden in this abyssal alleyway, you realize he can do anything to you. You’ve never seen his face… he’s never left evidence behind. He could gut you right now and not worry about the crime unit finding a single hair.

You’re powerless… utterly at his mercy and that’s what makes you cum.

The Breather snarls out gluttonous groans against your neck as you clench and seize, pounding you harder as your body contracts. Pleasure breaks out like a wildfire, reaching around your temples; shooting up and down your spine.

“Say it,” he demands, knowing your cumming - feeling it, “Tell me…”

You can’t speak.

The orgasm has gutted your vocal chords, and all you manage is a wet gasp as tears slip down the old salty trails. A weak, trembling smile stretches your lips as The Breather presses the knife in hard then jerks it away just as quickly, leaving you gasping; head lulling on your shoulder.

His cock barely stutters, penetrating wet, swollen muscles ceaselessly while hefting you around the waist with the limb holding the knife. The blade catches for a second in your hoodie before slicing a cut open, letting cold air in around your sweaty lower back. He hikes you up with a sturdy arm around your waist, and rubber fingers dug into the fat of your ass.

Around his hips, your thighs shake; sneakers dangling.

Ragdoll-effect takes over, and you slump weak and well fucked against him; sucking spit back into your mouth.

The Breather slides the hand clutching your ass under your thigh - rubber squeaking through sweat - and slings your knee over his forearm. The angle of his thrusts changes, bruising a spot that sends white lightning through your veins. His gloved hand seizes your ass again, tugging you close and just like that, the whole tone changes.

He fucks you faster, deeper and harder while the knife hooks precariously around the verge of your hip. The razor-edge scratches cotton into fretted strands until the pounding of your body displaces the pullover hem and the knife starts digging slices into your pelvis. With his clothed-nose buried under your ear, he inhales your sweat through the mask and exhales raggedly; loving the scent of fear and sex.

“Say it,” he begs. “I’m listening… say it.”

He wants those words you’d let slip the last time - those three sappy words you’d gasped mindlessly as he’d been ramming you into the mattress with the knifepoint denting your cheek.

It happened in the spur of the moment. You didn’t mean the words, though you did in a twisted sort of way. Is that part of the reason he’s been keeping his distance? Could he have been chewing on those words all month not knowing what to do with them… reading too far into them, maybe. It’s a jarring thought, but your brain has little fuel for a question that complex.

“Now,” he growls; vibrating your ear.

His cock pistons back and forth through copious amounts of thin lubrication and thicker fluids; gliding effortlessly now that you’ve cum, but still you can’t speak.

You moan and squeal and clutch him around the back of the neck, swallowing down louder sounds of acidic pleasure, and realize he’s gonna leave you with a cunt full of cum this time. There’s no shower for him to throw you in - no water to help him finger all that rich semen back out and down the drain. You’ll have evidence left; proof of his existence.

“I-“ you gasp, digging a heel into the back of his knee as he starts spanking a knot inside your cunt with every thrust, “I... ah’fuck-fuck!”

The Breather pants against your throat, dropping the act again to moan brokenly when you don’t say what he wants. His dynamic pace shifts to something slow and firm; skin still clapping thickly. The knife bounces on your hip again and cuts, but you can’t feel it. Only know it’s drawn blood by the wet warmth that flows.

Already the promise of a second orgasm is melting away and his sluggish, belligerently loving pace, is making you sick. You shove him back by the shoulder, churn your hips down into his thrusts to push him away, but The Breather holds firm - too strong for you to fight him off. It’s always been like that. The rape play is only as playful as he lets it be and in the end, he can do whatever he wants.

He bites your throat through the mask and calls you his ‘black widow,’ hips snapping loudly.

Tendons pop under his teeth, and a bolt of pain stabs up through your temple while that cock cleaves through gushing muscles. You can feel the excess fluids dripping off the bottom curve of your ass. The wet press of his crotch seam bumping with moist cotton makes you cheeks throb with heat. So much moisture...

“I’m waiting,” he snarls; hot and damp and bites you again until you shout. Your cunt clenches with the rough treatment, filling the meter with that second orgasm you were worried wasn’t gonna happen. The more desperate he becomes, the harder he fucks - the less control he has over you.

For a moment you wonder what it’d be like to have him strapped down.

Submissive - being roughly fucked until he cries, even though he pretends he doesn’t want it. You’d give it to him anyway because deep down you know… you know he needs it as bad as you do. The image of that mask growing dark at the cuff with his tears and of those full eyeballs shining, get you going almost as much as the rape stuff does.

The Breather squeezes your hip and ass - knife scratching in reaction with each thrust - and holds you tight before he rears back suddenly. The bulbous head of his cock just barely hangs inside you before rubber fingers bruise your flesh, and he folds into you again; mauling you with cock until the motions and backlashing pleasure hit you in the throat. Out of your mouth, as he fucks you into a hot, sweaty mess, those three words he’s been waiting for fall out your mouth.

“I love you.” It’s a quick gasp - a squeal.

The Breather chokes on a groan; near whimpering.

You say it again and nearly asphyxiate on the words as your orgasm bursts upwards from your abused cunt. None of it sounds all that intimate, but The Breather loves it just the same and the sound he makes as your confessions sink in makes you repeat it again… and over and over until he's snarling the same gangrenous words against your chin and lips. His wide frightening eyes bore into your pinched gaze - mask separating your mouths - as hot, sticky jets of cum sting inside you.

He’s torn something.

You hiss and clutch your legs and arms around him and shiver as the stinging pain brings fresh tears to your eyes. The cum burns, but it burns good and unable to help yourself, you part your lips and kiss firm lips behind medical cotton. The Breather grins underneath as you lick the damp patches of your spit and his like it’s a popsicle in summer; tongue stroking and cheeks hollowing as if trying to suck his filtered breath into your lungs.

After a moment, the steady twitch of his ejaculating cock starts to soften, leaving you gradually empty until he pulls free from your cunt. Webs of cum break between your skins, sliding down the bottom of your ass. A thick glob falls down your inner thigh, and you wince and nip at his masked mouth; lost in a delirium of sensation.

If he hasn’t drawn blood from the rough fucking, then you’ll be surprised.

You’re cunt hurts. That dull, weak throbbing is satisfying… yes, but the ache gradually grows stronger with every heartbeat.

“... that was-“ you begin, about to break those fragile rules again to up his male ego, when The Breather releases you like a box of sturdy goods. Your grip is proven too weak to hold yourself up, and so you fall like a corpse to the ground.

You slide down the dumpster and land in a puddle of dirty cum and your own cold fluids along with whatever combination of grime and chemical fodder is on the alley walkway. It’s so shocking you don’t even have words until The Breather is folding his flaccid cock back into his pants and sliding the red-stained knife into the side pocket of the zip-up hoodie.

“What are you-“ again he cuts you off with a blue fist in your hair, yanking you up until your hunched and wobbling on your feet like some newborn calf.

He releases your hair, pinning you by the shoulder against the body-warmed dumpster and pulls at your skirt; adjusting your clothes with rubber gloves. He smooths your hair out in the same fashion. A few strands get caught in the rubber folds between his fingers, but the pain means nothing as you stare at the serial killer while he tidies up the mess he’s made.

You blink with dried tears as he eyes you from top to bottom, even turning you around enough to wipe away most of the grit stuck to your sticky ass cheeks.

“I’m walking you home.”

“You can’t be fucking serious?” You almost laugh, but his browline dips into an angry furrow; wrinkled enough that you swallow the chuckle back down.

“I’m coming for you again. Tomorrow night… and the next,” he explains passionately - wet gravel words soaking your brain - and adds, “Wash. It. All. Out.”

“... but-”

The Breather reaches a dirty glove between your thighs and caresses your gummy folds, swirling your cum-soaked clit in a way he’s never done before. It makes you shudder, rekindling your lust.

He nudges the edge of your nose with his masked one and continues, “Clean me away, or I’ll sink inside your bowels. Tear you open; bleeding, broken and used. Where I begin, and you end, only I will know.”

Wordlessly, you nod against him; eyes wide with porcelain rapture. He tugs you along, and though your insides scream and the cum makes your legs glide together, you keep up with his pace until his blue-gloved hand fists the chain link gate at the end of the alley.

He checks out the empty park, listens for traffic and when there’s nothing but silence, he pushes the gate open on unlubricated hinges; metal squealing into the night.

The walk home takes forever. He’s slow and cautious. The patience of a killer that’s never been caught.

Your stomach growls. Now that you’ve been ripped clean of your sexual desires, for now, you realize how hungry you are; parched and starving.

Semen slides grossly down to your ankles where the fluid wets your socks against your ankle. All the while, The Breather has his arm wrapped around your lower back, clutching your hip close with your wrist in his other hand; eyes never pausing in their survey of the area. When a car stops at the intersection behind the both of you, he hugs you closer, hiding the blue rubber glove on your hip inside your pullover pouch where your broke phone and wallet sags.

On the walk home, you realize that The Breather's exciting even when you’re not being chased and ‘raped’ by him.

In front of his run-down house, he pauses, pulling you into the darkness beside his van and the front porch. The cold metal is heaven on your bruised and sweaty back. Whatever ivy is growing off the other side of his house is heady with aroma and breezing towards you with the gentle wind. You blink in the shadows, barely making out the glassy sheen of his eyes before he fingers the mask band behind an ear and exposes himself to well-placed darkness.

The street light is backlighting him. All he is in that moment is darkness.

The face you've been thinking about off and on is covered in shadow, made even more profound by the moonless night and his hanging hood.

His breath smells like wet metal and blood. It’s hot on your face, but you tip your head back and open your mouth when he leans in anyway. His chin is smooth on your own - not a trace of stubble. The kiss is hesitant and soft; nearly dry.

Just one peck on your parted lips and nothing more. You expected something vulgar. Teeth and blood and a hot, endlessly tasting tongue. Another tease, you think, as your serial killer pushes you back into the van when you try for another careful lip lock.

“I better hear the pipes shaking...” he says as a farewell, turning you by the shoulder and sending you down his walkway to the sidewalk with a firm shove between your shoulder blades.

You hesitate, peering back at him but the mask is back around his ear, hiding the firm mouth he’d kissed you with.

The Breather’s eyes follow you around the van. Phantom heat strokes you where he watches, hovering around the back of your head until you hike up your porch steps.

Audrey throws the door open before you can let yourself in, looking annoyingly judgemental at the dried blood on your throat and shine on the inside of your legs. For some reason, her reaction is nonplussed.

“This was worth ten inches, huh?”

You smile, relieved and unquestioning, and shrug one shoulder that feels like it needs a bag of ice. Audrey shakes her head as if she just found you doing something sheepish and not suicidal, and pulls you by the arm into your own home where she’s already got the coffee table littered with Chinese takeout boxes, a bottle of ibuprofen and two bottles of water.

Who could ask for a better mom-friend?

“It’s probably closer to ten and a half, to be honest.”

“I hate you,” she grumbles, pressing you down on the sofa with the gentle care only someone with a hankering for big dicks can understand.

"I assume you didn't get me my hard lemonade from the ACM then? You know... you could have said you got a booty call or something. I hath no room to judge," Audrey says as she heads into your kitchen where you keep the medical cabinet stocked full ever since The Breather has made you his regular victim.

"Eh," you shrug and wince, "spontaneity is hot as fuck, dude... and he likes it as rough as I do."

"Apparently," she mumbles while rifling through medicine bottles and first aid supplies.

After ten minutes, you’re comfy, laying back with an ice pack between your messy legs while Audrey dabs alcohol swabs under the shallow knife wounds on your throat. She doesn’t question - doesn’t demand anything while you lull on your sofa with your ankles kicked up on the coffee table. You stuff your face full of orange chicken and down a Screaming Orgasm before your phone rings.

Audrey pokes the cleaned cuts under your chin with ointment and peers over your shoulder at your fucked up phone. The screen is shattered like a crack-addicted spiders web, but the UNKNOWN number is bright enough to see.

You swallow, swipe to answer and pull your broken phone to your ear where it cuts shallow grooves into your thumb. That haggard, asthmatic breathing belongs to the owner of the cum still stuffed inside you.

‘I can see you. I know you’re in there. Wash me off, or I’ll come do it for you.’

Wordlessly, Audrey gets up with a grumble and makes a beeline for your bedroom. You really ought to turn the volume down on your phone if people can hear both sides of the conversation this fucking easily...

The Breather calls you a ‘good girl’ as soon as Audrey turns the shower on, which begs to question if he’s got cameras rigged inside your house… or if he’s just that tuned in to the noises coming from the place next to his. For tonight, it doesn’t matter.

He’ll come for you if he wants. A shower or no shower, but a hot spray does sound like heaven right now.

“... I love you,” you tell him through the phone, hanging up on him before you can hear the scattered sound of his breathy pleasure.

A shower, some booze, food, and a fat pain pill will create the perfect end to a perfect night. Perhaps, the wait was worth it.