Three months have passed since realizing the man on the news - ‘the devil with his pitchfork' as the media likes to call him - lives next door. Not only does he like perforating his victims’ organs, he also enjoys indulging you in your many depraved fantasies.
Since the first time he showed up like some fucked up rape-master, you've come to notice… well, sorta a routine. It's not exact at all because his activities and their timing fluctuate depending on whether you decided to rub your tits against the bare window or choose to eat a ham sandwich over a turkey and swiss. In other words it’s a bit chaotic, but it's enough of a pattern to be noticeable to the keen eye.
These past ninety days and more have been a hurricane of sex, violence with the undercurrent of something emotionally messy, but he follows certain protocols, if you will...
Also,The Breather is a bit of a romantic. Once or twice you've gotten the impression that any women he's had in his life before you showed up with your super depraved kinks have either been murder victims, passing interests or merely lacking the ‘charm' that you do. It's clear he knew what he was doing or maybe your reaction to him was evidence of how badly you were into the rape fantasy. Either way, the sociopath has fucked before, but what the both of you do isn't just sex. There's nothing sane about any of it.
He's a fucking serial killer… and at this point, you may as well be complicit in his crimes because a selfless, upstanding citizen would have turned him in months ago.
You won't, though. You can't. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a man. Period.
The Breather has everything you need… everything you've always wanted and always will and enjoys indulging you. He knows you’re his and he probably actually, truly loves you for it. His most recent rule is that you're not allowed to cum without telling him you feel the same - that you love him…
He'll make your hips sing against the wood floor with that cock piercing but never moving against your cervix until you sob those three little words he wants from you… and only then will he batter your cunt until your nails are pinched in the wooden panels. Only when you’ve lied or told the truth or whatever it is you feel in that moment, will everything go blissfully dark.
Just recalling it is getting you wet again. Plus, as far as men and their needs go, he's pretty chill.
Once he's done with you, he leaves, usually after cleaning up the evidence of his visit. Sometimes he'll heft you off the floor - boneless in your well-fucked state - and throw you on the bed. One time, The Breather even threw a bag of frozen vegetables at you before leaving…
You'd screamed louder at the freezing smack on your outer hip than when he fucked you too deeply. Wheezy laughter dragged after him that night, only cackling louder when you'd tried and failed to throw the peas back at him.
Behind that mask - despite the profoundly violent persona - was a man with a dark sense of humor. The sociopath took enjoyment in the hell he wrought and you figure, if you’re gonna do something… you might as well enjoy it.
Lately, you’ve been studying him, wondering what it is about having complete and utter control of your body that gets him off. The rape play has been good… been great - astoundingly delicious and all that jazz - but ever since you managed to get him by surprise, you want more of those moments. You want him on his back again with his wrists fighting in your fists - want him beneath you again but next time you want him unable to buck you off… and you wanna fuck him just like that.
For the past several weeks you've been fighting him tooth and nail just to see where his weak points are. The Breather’s been loving it and when he finally gets you secured in his grip, he fucks you harder than you thought he was capable of. It’s like he gets drunk on your real strength and so devoid of empathy when you eventually tire beneath him. He becomes something beautiful when he stops caring about your well-being and just… lets go.
A part of you wants to turn the tables on him.
Sure, you could die happy and gratified if he got too carried away and killed you… maybe choke you to death or rip your insides out without meaning to, or meaning to… but truth be told, you liked living. There’s no point pushing your luck and yet you have been, and are, and are going to continue to…
You want him beneath you, helpless and sobbing. It's an itch that lingers like bug eggs growing beneath your skin, multiplying and wiggling just before hatching - it's a craving like powdered donuts on a Friday night when all you have are chocolate glazed in neat plastic wrapping. You could ignore the desire, but you don't.
So, you've been watching him. There's a little red leather journal Audrey gave you for a birthday one year. Inside, you’ve been keeping track of The Breathers goings and comings... and cummings.
Twenty pages in and you've found a pattern which is the reason you've already popped two caffeine pills an hour after he tidied up his most recent mess: you. Everything below the waist is still pleasantly numb from his enthusiastic abuse and generous stamina, making you cum so hard it almost hurt this time.
It’s always better when it hurts a little.
Chewing on the eraser end of a pencil, you lean your elbows on the bedroom window - bare-breasted and enjoy the breeze from the outside world. Listening to the trees sway and leaves rattle, you wait.
Two out of three times The Breather will leave after getting his rocks off, clean off at home and leave. Usually, he's gone an hour… sometimes two. As of now, he's been gone sixty-five minutes, and so you sit on a vanity chair and watch his driveway through the drooping arms of a Casper tree. The scent of jasmine mingles with the taint of musty sex still permeating your bedroom. With a hard inhale, you moan in remembrance.
Tonight was the first time he's touched your clit purposefully.
His middle and pointer finger had been spread around your outer lips, pinching you in a death grip while he fucked you haphazardly against the wall; tits aching and sweating against an Awakened Scorn poster that was now ripped and hanging sadly against said wall. The Breather had been driving you into a dull, throbbing orgasm with the knife teething your esophagus, but the real kicker had been when his fingers slipped up through too many fluids, scratching your clit with squeaky rubber. The sound you'd made when lightning hit had been like a cat being stepped on.
The Breather loved it.
He'd done it again - the same brutal slice across your clit with both fingers - and then, before you knew what was happening, the knife was clattering to the floor, and your hair was coiled around his gloved fingers while his cock pummeled your cunt and his digits mashed fast, furious pressure around your clit. You said those three little words willingly with each smack and rubbing jolt until you came, and cried; going rag doll against the wall.
He'd let you fall, chuckling darkly before yanking you around by the hair when your knees smacked the floor and shoved his cockhead in your mouth, stroking himself off until the hot dregs of briny, globular goodness splattered across your tongue.
Yeah, tonight was good, but you had better prospects.
You sit at your window now, remembering, and exhale a shuddering sigh. Tonight had been really decadent. It's a bit gross, but you haven't brushed your teeth yet and can still taste him if you lick around your molars; sour and salty and filthy…
Once or twice you've imagined licking his cum off the floor before he could clean it up. Maybe he'd be shocked by that… or perhaps he'd just love you even more.
"So much for having some fucking dignity," you mumble, nibbling on the eraser before resting your temple against the window frame, already feeling the mixture of caffeine and fuck-fog turning your brain to overactive mush. Maybe tonight is the wrong time to implement project Red Baron - the name you gave this hairbrained idea.
If you're going to sneak up on him, it would be smarter to-
The rattling of his van engine precludes the yellow beam of headlights across the yard and through the leaves.
You steel yourself against your window, peeping enough to see his van pull into the driveway, backfire and stall out until the engine dies. The figure that slides out is calculated and decked in black as always. Through the branches and dark cloak of vegetation, he looks even more menacing.
You check the clock on the wall above your bed and jot down twelve-twenty AM in your notebook. Cum, eraser rubber and your own adrenaline flavors your tongue as The Breather slides the side door open on the van, grabs a black duffel bag and a transparent plastic bottle of unknown liquid. Knowing him, it could be anything from drinking water to rubbing alcohol to chloroform.
Before he can see you leaning out your window, even beyond the low branches, you slip back inside where the room smells of the two of you and drop your notebook on the bed. You pull off your socks and underwear, and hop in a shower.
No soap… no shampoo.
He'll smell the artificial coconut and shea butter the moment you break into his house. Better to smell like nothing. Still, you reek of sweat and cum and stay under the hot spray, scrubbing your skin and hair until it almost feels squeaky clean.
In thirty minutes he'll be settled and then it's just a matter of pretending to take out the trash, slipping through his cameras blind spot, and getting inside. Of the hours you've spent observing his place off and on, all casual and nothing suspicious, you've gotten a good grasp on what he's got surveyed and yes… if you step outside towards his home, The Breather will see you, but you take out the trash every other night, and he won't bother with that. Even if you drop a soda can, bend down to pick it up and don't come back up.
Hopefully, he won't be watching.
Judging by the sound of the pipes that rattle next door when you finally step outside, he's probably in a shower or something similar. If the water runs for ten minutes during his usual bathing ritual, then that's about it… but he does it every night. If there's one thing you've come to know about his peculiar habits, it's that he's a germaphobe, or at the very least obsessed with cleanliness. One time, he'd even glared at an old pizza box on your coffee table after fucking and choking you half dead on the sofa. That had been funny since his pants were damp with semen and arousal and you'd probably bled on his hoodie too. The cut on your thigh from that evening is still healing.
Outside, with your trash bag, in plain view of his cameras, you relish the breeze that soaks through the thin leggings and snug long sleeve; all a dark navy blue to better hide in the darkness. It's probably unnecessary but the hunt seemed especially fun, and you can kinda understand a part of why he does this. Not that you'd ever kill anyone, of course. Hunting someone down, even like you’re doing now, is exhilarating.
While the pipes from his house expand and contract with rushing water, you dispose of the trash bag, lean down to pick up nothing from the side patio and duck inside the blind spot in his cameras until your back bounces against his ratty two-story bungalow. The blacked out windows border your flattened form.
Chipped paint digs into your arms and back. A few lead flecks catch in your clothes, but that's all a passing concern at best.
Down in the unkempt hedges, between his AC unit and the power junction box, is the backpack you hid a few days ago while he'd been gone on some… outing; killing, most likely. You're awful for ignoring the murders he commits, but he's worse, so you try to push away the guilt as you double check the contents of the canvas pack.
Everything is still inside. Not a single thing misplaced or touched. To yourself, in the darkness between the hedges and his rattling AC, you grin with pure mischief. Either he’s gonna kill you tonight or you are gonna slay him - sexually speaking, of course.
Crouched down in the blind spot, you tap the little bottle of Lorazepam you’d ordered a month back off a medical surplus deep web store, pop the saftey seal and suck four milliliters inside the disposable syringe. Squirt, cap, and pocket: you’ve got your weapon. You sling the pack over a shoulder and hug the side of his house until your at the back door. There's a window you try and jimmy open, but the moon catches sight of nail heads peeking up from the frames. Of course, The Breather would nail his fucking windows closed.
Oddly enough, you find that the back door is open…
Hesitation chills your confidence, wondering for a moment if this has been too easy for a reason. Too easy means this could be a setup - a ploy, but you shrug it off and slip inside your serial killer's house where it smells like old rubbing alcohol and bleach.
The kitchen is spartan. A single jar of peanut butter and dull knife sits on the tiny island counter beside a naked plate. There’s not a single crumb or speck of mold in sight. A part of you wants to open his fridge and see if that too is barren, but this isn't a casual, snooping visit.
Further inside the house, the sound of beating water tickles in your ears. He's still showering, which is just good luck on your part.
From the empty dining nook, passing a trench-darkened hallway, you spot a leather sofa. A neatly angled rug with webbed Moroccan patterns sits just beneath the sofa legs and… nothing else. No picture frames, no paintings or decor cluttering the walls like you’d find in a normal person's house. There’s nothing here to give you much indication on the kind of man he is beyond the fucking and the killing. It’s not what you expected, but then again… what had you expected really?
The nothingness surrounding you says enough, maybe. A ‘what you see, is what you get’ sort of thing. It’s a bit disappointing. You’d hope to find something relatable perhaps, some other things beyond the shared sexual proclivities to link the two of you together, but nothing shows itself.
Across from the living room, through a view-thru shelf laden with an array of pens and crumpled parchment, is his setup. Four monitors, all laid out in a curve across two pushed together black desks, look back at you with dead faces; darkness. A computer chair sits half-cocked with what looks like a fresh pair of black pants slung over the headrest. You take a step further inside, smell something like stale musk that reminds you of his sweat when he’s corded around you, pumping his hips and cock inside. The aroma makes you envision him masturbating here, maybe making calls to his victims while getting off on the thrill… or maybe…
… pair of panties catch your eye, stuffed halfway under the keyboard...
To your left, the shower squeals. The water stops raining down and you twist, heart racing. Fucker had stolen your underwear.
Like a prey animal, you survey the open floor plan with quick dialed-in glances, step feather light on your bare feet and further, down the yawning black hallway. The air grows humid and medicinal the further down the corridor you tiptoe through darkness. Against the wall, beside the bathroom door, you take a quiet, heavy breath and listen to the goings on inside. It sounds like he's padding across tile floor on bare, wet feet. You picture his hairless, pale body - toned and cut - and gulp quietly.
Something clatters to the floor inside. A male grunt resonates against moisture-coated walls, making your belly flutter.
This is it, you think, staring at the wall across from you like it's a tiger with five thousand teeth and wait. A million different outcomes course between firing synapses in your heightened state of awareness and growing adrenaline.
Inside the bathroom, The Breather wheezes. Plastic rips. Something twangs like a nylon strap, and your heart sinks, knowing it's a fresh mask he’s donning. Some terrible part of you were going to use this as an underhanded method to see his face, but perhaps it's better this way. He'll be more apt to kill you for real if you can pull him out of a police line-up, and while you're addicted to him and the danger and the epic fucking, you remind yourself that living is preferable.
Lost in thought of what he looks like - a strong jaw no doubt, and maybe an aquiline nose with firm, flush lips - you're briefly startled when the door opens. Billows of steam flood outwards, catching the limited light from a bare bulb lamp out in the living room.
The shadow-laced cream of naked, hot-water-pinkened skin makes your fist curl around the syringe, and just as he takes that first step into the hallway, you raise the needle and stab downward.
Wide, pupil-heavy browns dart to you, and for a split second your eyes lock; stalemate.
Of course, it wasn't going to so easy as jabbing a needle in his neck and watching him sink into a stupor. He’s been expecting you, and of course, he giggles menacingly once he snatches your wrists in his fists. Naked fingers coil around you for the first time… and your lashes flutter involuntarily. The delicate bones in your wrist crick, rub, and with a jerk, The Breather spins you around so hard, it feels like he's dislocated your wrists. You're halfway to a scream when a soap-scented palm grabs your lower face, cupping down the noise with bruising force. The teeth his fingers touch through your cheek throb dangerously, but no pawing at his arm or knuckles with your freed hand dislodges them.
His fist cinches tighter - nearly crushing bones - and with a muffled whimper, you drop the syringe to the floor. It taps the wood but doesn't shatter… the only thing that shatters is your resolve as his masked-nose nudges damp hair off the side of your neck.
"I've been expecting you, little rabbit,” His voice is throaty; rasped with misty congestion and something feral.
You tremble in his hold, realizing, quite suddenly, what you've actually gotten yourself into.
What have you done? - your mind barks.
It makes sense now why he snapped the mask on in the privacy of his own home before stepping out into an ‘empty' hallway. The unlocked back door was the first tell and you’d ignored it… even the butter knife he’d left on the island counter seemed suspicious. He knew you’d come… he’s seen your browser history most like, combed through all the shit you’ve been reading about fuck only knows what and the drugs you purchased. How could you have thought otherwise??
Above the web of his hand - between thumb and pointer finger - you puff out a breath through your nostrils. Fear is only one of your aphrodisiacs, but this time… it only brings a sick terror. You're certain he's going to kill you this time. The Breather is done with your games.
He’s going to drag you to the kitchen and spill your guts at best. At worst, he’s going to haul you - kicking and screaming - down to some murder hole in his basement and torture you for days, weeks… or years. Keep you locked up like a pet in a cage with a collar and feed you your own vomit or something equally awful. Either way, all your brain can fathom is that there's no logical way out of this except pain, humiliation, and death… probably in that order...
… unless… you inhale a moan and freeze in his grip - unless The Breather is his own worst enemy and starts caressing your chest and stomach like he’s doing now, letting your hands tug fruitlessly at his limbs while he gropes you in all the right places. He’s made as big of a mistake as you had. Underestimating the woman he's been fucking bloody for the past several months, is a risky endeavor.
He pinches a nipple through your long sleeve, snorts inside the surgical mask, and dips down to grab and mold your cunt before scratching trimmed nails back up through your clothes. You almost laugh as he growls against your temple, palming your left breast hard enough it sends a painful bolt down your stomach. His thumb and knuckle punch and yank at a hard nipple. That little slice of pleasure almost causes you to sink into him, but only almost.
"As expected; she comes following the scent of blood like a leech. Sweet soft prey. Let me sink my teeth inside." The Breather says affectionately and starts hurriedly lifting the hem of your shirt out of your leggings, digging bare fingers down between navy-blue elastic and smooth skin to a cunt that's sopping wet and hungry. His fingers around your face jab into molars; cupping back your muffled whimpers and moans.
He's going to play… and leave both your hands free. Maybe these past three months have weakened him. He’s thinking with his dick - a dick that’s risen hard against your ass already.
Under his palm, your lips quirk, nearly smiling before twisting your hips as he fondles your cunt like a starved animal. You release a shaken moan that's long and weak, just what he expects.
The Breather pants, cutting three silky, long fingers through your folds and nestles them around your clit, rubbing you until it hurts - until you almost sink into him for real. Being split open again sounds tempting… too tempting not to entertain the idea while writhing playfully against his bare cock, and rocking yourself against his fingers.
To him, you're the woman next door that likes it when he plays dirty - raped with the understanding it'll end if you want it too - and not for one second does he think you're capable of overpowering him, nor manipulating him. You're not strong enough to get the upper hand for long, but he's become lazy if he thinks he's safe. No one is ever safe, you think as he strokes your nerve endings just right, skating clipped nails along the cleft of your outer lips hurriedly with a sound so much like a snarling dog, it's barbaric.
Under another fast, hard churn of his fingers - clit popping beneath thin skin - you buckle for real but not without ulterior motive and lick his palm. You slurp and suck the medical taste of some hypoallergenic soap off his hand and feel the raised erection under the plush of your ass start to pulse.
The heavy rod that rises against you is the perfect distraction.
One more sucking lick to his palm and he rips his hand away from your crotch - electric band snapping under your navel. He knees the back of your legs until they bend.
You go down easy as he pushes you to your knees.
The Breather doesn't have his knife, but a hard fist around your throat coupled with brutal fingers in your hair work just as good. Sometimes, he squeezes your neck hard enough that you can hear the arteries bend against tendon and bone and know he could snap your vertebrae easily enough.
"Little red riding hood devoured the wolf’s appetite," he says beneath the mask and steers your mouth under the protruding pale rod of blood-laden cock, "Thirsty. Haunting… hunger. Eat your fill."
Unshed tears fill your lashes. It's an involuntary reaction at this point, but you stick a tongue out and let him rotate your head around, forcing your firm, wet tongue over his cockhead until its juicy and dribbling salty slick over your taste buds.
A few sucks and he'll be done for.
The Breather maneuvers your head, watching you above the cuff of blue medical cotton; eyes shining as you open your mouth until your jaw clicks, moaning revoltingly. He chuckles thinly, rocks his hips, docks the cap of his cock over your lower lip and forces the length straight down your throat. Thickness wedges past your uvula and leaves your gag reflex painted in a streak of pre-cum. The depth makes you retch - tears spilling down your cheeks - but you didn't eat dinner and haven't drunk anything in hours, so nothing comes up except saliva and your dignity… if you even had any left or gave a shit about it in the first place.
With a hard suck and bulging throat, you claw at his hips and deepthroat him until tears slip down your cheeks.
Against all biological instinct, you work your throat around the blockage of cock and gag again as he pulls back, taking thick strings of spit with him. The flavor is nearly sweet, but the texture of thin saliva and thicker ropes from your throat makes you gag a third time. Above you, he grunts loud enough to reach the houses across the street and forces his cock back between your lips and teeth.
The Breather thouroughly fucks your throat.
Bare, hairless pelvic muscle bumps and bashes your nose. The tissue inside your throat screams in revolt, but you take it, loving it… almost ignoring the syringe still on the floor by his naked foot.
A palm on his ass - nails digging as if to pull him away, only to urge his hips back and forth against your face - means The Breather is too distracted by watching his cock disappear down your throat to notice where your other hand ventures. His black, bulging eyes are focused on your streaming tears, air-starved coloring and stretched lips. He doesn't even twitch at the sound of the plastic syringe scraping across his floor or the drop and glide of your shoulder.
You give him a salty suck, lavishing his cock so he barely even feels the jab of the needle in his upper ass… but he notices the sting of the tranquilizer and pauses mid-thrust.
There's silence but for his asthmatic breathing and The Breather’s quiet realization that he's gotten a bit too... cocky. His reedy exhale is a delicious sound, like someone inhaling at the first plunge of the knife. You smirk around his cock and give half of that long, clean dick a noisy slurp.
The Breather shudders.
His fist clenches around your throat, and in your hair but he doesn't snap your neck. He never would, of course not… he loves you, however fucked up that is and he’ll forgive you for this even if he wants to vivisect you.
As the drugs take effect, you lap and suck and stroke him off with both hands, teasing your nails up all those bulging veins. There’s nothing he can do now, but you’re still pleasantly surprised he doesn’t use the time he has to manhandle you into submission.
It's a slow process.
Your idea had been to stick him with the drug, plunge it down and chase him around the house until he was weak and malleable, but he's already wavering and after a minute, his knee bounces. Eventually, the rest of him stumbles and slumps against the wall.
All that naked, smooth skin straining to keep his weight up, but gradually failing.
His cock dislodges from your lips with a comical ‘pop' as his back starts sliding down the wall. You follow him down and nip at his sac - hairless and warm and soap-smelling - and suck on the wrinkled skin. This is the first time you've been able to take your time. You’ve never really explored him like you’ve wanted. No time to savor him when he’s stalking you, capturing you and fucking you, and while you have no regrets, The Breather's culled behavior is more than arousing. A slight airy noise leaks out his mask - so soft it makes you think of an animal's final breath.
With a plunk, his ass hits the floor. Dead. Fucking. Weight.
You spread his thighs right there in the middle of the hallway with steam billowing from the open bathroom door. Soap scents the air while you kiss up his smooth, sleek chest.
The Breather snarls and says something: words wrapped around his tongue like a bow. His curses are sucked down by your lips wrapped back around his cock. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven motions under your palms as you lavish him with tongue, teeth, and lips until the blushing cockhead is beating with blood.
On the edge, you leave him to pulse; bubbling pre-cum.
"Don't worry, my friend. You're gonna enjoy this so much, you won't wanna gut me when I'm done…"
His eyes flutter for a second before those hairless brows bunch, creating a deep fissure of anger between his eyes. You shush him softly, kiss him through the mask and yip in pain as he snaps your lower lip in cloth-lined teeth. He chuckles darkly, but it's better than a shit load of slurs.
Despite everything, his words have always been rather gentlemanly.
Lip throbbing, you pat his moist shoulder and smile, "I'll leave your mask alone. I promise."
It isn’t until you’re dragging him down the hall, that you realize how ill prepared you’d actually been.
He's heavier than he looks. Solid muscle even if it's trim and lean and narrow in the hips. You should have known after all the times he's used his mass to pin you down while venturing both hands around and within your body freely. He's dead weight for all of about ten minutes, and in that time you've found two empty rooms, a broom closet and a locked basement latch near the back of a neat utility room; a floor to ceiling shelf stockpiled with cleaners and bleach stares back at you.
The fact that there's no bed on the bottom floor means that he sleeps - if he ever does - upstairs. It's not even a two bend stairwell that looks down at you. He’s got one of those spiral staircases made of wood and steel, bolted to the floor like it's meant to withstand a fucking tornado.
"Fuck, there's no mother fucking way…" you curse, looking from his dazed state on the floor - naked and hard and grasping for a knife that isn’t there - to the winding steps once more. Worrying your sore lip, you cut your eyes along the thick metal shaft going down the middle of the concentric wooden panels to the ground level.
No bed. But that pole will do just fine.
He starts coming around as you’re zip-tying his wrists around the steel pole. That long, vein-riddled cock is half flaccid thanks to the tranquilizers, but all it takes is a few strokes to bring his eyes back open and his cock standing tall.
"Well, look who's up? How ya feeling, sunshine?"
"Release me," is all he says; glaring.
You’ve already shimmied out of your dark blue leggings, revealing the wet, naked and shaven flesh between your legs. His eyes flicker to the stain of arousal between your inner thighs, but that hot look twists back to your face with ire. He's fuming, but he's also gone quiet. You'd have thought he'd fight more considering he's tied up and naked aside from the mask… but The Breather is always full of surprises.
"Is that a real request or one of those ‘oh, no… please don't fuck me!' but secretly you wanna get ridden like a bronco sorta things?"
His silence says enough and even though he tells you to release him again - whispering death threats - you straddle his hips and rub your soaked cunt along the hard cock that reaches far enough over his stomach to dent his navel. He goes red as if he’s ashamed… flustered, and for some reason, you blush in turn at his reaction.
Perhaps… you’d guessed right. Maybe The Breather will enjoy this more than you could have hoped.
Slightly off-kilter, you lean back across his smooth thighs and tug at the canvas bag until you're stretching a lovely, tiny rubber ring between thumb and forefinger.
The Breather stares, glaring and holds his breath while you secure the ring under his cock and balls; forcing the blood to lodge in his dick until the weight of it is lifted almost ninety degrees from his body. There's no doubt he's aroused, just like that first time he'd found you so wet and squelchy around his latex-fingers.
He can threaten all he wants… with a cock that stiff, he wants it just like you've always wanted it.
With a broad smile, and two palms braced on his pale, firm chest, you catch the tip of his cock with your cunt and angle down… down… inch by thick, pulsating inch until you're wincing and gasping and sitting on his lap; cock jammed to the hilt.
Two months ago, you'd have been crying right now… but his wild, brutal fucking and disregard for your poor cervix means taking all ten-plus inches of him is doable… if not uncomfortable. The lines between pain and pleasure are so muddy at this point that at times you can’t even tell the difference.
“I… should have wrote a poem for this moment,” you whisper, only half-joking.
The Breather yanks at the zip ties, straining around the steel pole so hard his hands turn purple with cut off circulation, but you don't stop. It's… it's different from the pleasure he beats into you with cock and fingers. The high you take from his maddening grunts and ragged, breaths - fucking inside his narrow hips - is no less addictive than his knife on your skin.
The way his throat undulates as he swallows is intoxicating; addictive. You rock your hips over his lap - over all those inches of veiny cock - and draw blood with your nails stuck in his taut belly. Every now and then he bucks upwards, almost involuntary as if primal instinct begs him to search for a release he can't win. Pain knots in your stomach with every unpredictable jut but releases in a wave of pleasure each time. The sharp, yet dull, twinge of discomfort always forces your mind to wander… of what it'd be like if he stabbed you… slid his knife through your belly… intimate and brutal...
Not more than five minutes in, and the thought of him fucking you from behind - throat caught in a rubber fist - and a knife stuck in your navel makes you finish. A broken whimper bleeds between your teeth as he hisses, reacting to the tight strangle of cunt muscles slurping around his cock. All the abuse he's battered you with - inside and out - have made pain just as delicious as pleasure.
When he jackhammers up into you rebelliously, looking furious, you just grin and break into a peel of moaning giggles.
He says something about your ‘monstrous flesh' and starts breathing heavily, sucking down shaken lungful through the mask. Your insides strangle him… but he keeps pumping upwards into you. Try as he might, he can't cum, and that's half the fun.
"... fuck, yeah," you cringe, half-laugh and moan; hands braced flat over his twitchy stomach, "fuck - haaa… keep going..."
Selfish pleasure makes you blanch for a moment, hiccup and laugh anew. He keeps battering up into you - keeps fucking your wet, sloppy cunt until another orgasm makes all those muscles feel sodden and swollen and too tight, yet too loose at the same time.
You pale - eyes widening at the unpleasant, terribly unnatural feeling - and lift up off him, feeling like your insides are about to fall out as his cock slaps wetly over his belly. The large, long organ smears across the sticky blood from your nail grooves, twitches and strains back at half-mast.
With tears falling down your cheeks and his breathing a filtering gust, you whimper and cup your swollen cunt, holding back the feeling of your pelvic floor dropping… it's… awful… and wonderful… and… fuck… for a second his brows lift with something like gross concern before they arrow downwards again.
The Breather sees your fear.
He thinks he's held out through the worst of your ‘rape,' but the feeling in your gut slowly retreats back to its normal flutter. You won't admit defeat that easily, even if your cervix had nearly done something very, very bad. This time, you think, while positioning his cock back against your folds, you won't let him batter you half-dead.
This time… you hook your shins over his thighs, tuck your feet under his knees and push down on his stomach until he's trapped against the floor; held down.
"Release me. Rabbit. Prey… I'll eat you; sup on your flesh. Tear your offal," he whispers darkly, still sounding like he's gurgling razor blades despite the soft threat.
Blood runs down his wrists where he's been toying and testing the zip ties. Not for a second do you think he'll free himself - not for a single moment do you assume he might know how to get out of them.
"Watch your mouth, Breather," you snip back with a smile and giggle at the snarl you get in return.
His cock slips inside easily, still as hard as it's ever been. You give him another tender bounce, testing how far your cunt can handle before that feeling - like poking an open wound - comes back.
Four inches… maybe three remain untouched. There's no taking more than six or so inches of cock right now, but his huge eyes roll back in his head the same as if you'd fit him all inside. Perhaps the thought that you can't swallow all of him adds to the pleasure… or maybe he's at his limit, or close.
Most of your nerve endings are in the first inch or so of your channel anyway, and despite the cluster deep within being ignored for your own physical safety… it feels good. The tight, up and down motions manifest light, shivers of pleasure. You hiss, take him an inch deeper, and pick at the dotted blood around his pale stomach; opening the clots back up. Warm, sticky red wedges under your nails.
The Breather billows a groan, looking broken.
"I see now why you haven't killed me yet," you say, quiet and husky, "Fuck… god, this is… exhilarating. Is this how it is for you?"
There are pricks of wrathful tears in his eyes as you bite your tongue and sit dangerously down on his distended cock. All ten inches or more nestle back inside, but you’ve got his lower body pinned hard to the floor… and even though his hips jerk, they barely press his dick any deeper.
There, poised over him, you catch your breath, "l can fuck you until you’re nothing but raw nerves… and tears and you couldn't do - couldn't do anything about it…"
"I… can… kill you," he says with promise, threat, and desire. It's earnest, but he doesn't sound sober. Delirious more like.
Just the way his eyes flutter, tears slipping off the edges freely where no lashes can catch them, tugs at your heartstrings. The dichotomy of your desire and near-matronly urge to smooth away his pain is frustrating, so you fuck down over his cock until it hurts and tear open the shallow cuts on his pelvis until your painting palm smears of blood across his chest and stomach.
You swallow down a sniffle - pain thrumming your cervix where his cock head bashes - grasping his stomach and tossing your hips across his lap again.
Too thick. Too deep.
The cock ring is working wonders so far, and it works through another orgasm that's more painful than good… then another that softer… and more that start twisting your mind and soul and body into a lackluster entity.
Beneath you, wrists bloody, still twisting around zip ties, The Breather grunts like someone is practicing back alley surgery on his innards; panting and snapping his teeth so hard his jaw clicks.
Watching him crumble - beads of sweat running down your forehead - you rock and roll and bear down despite the pain and overstimulation. Rough breaths scratch your esophagus, and with a whine, you clench your insides until his eyes pop open and the real, thick tears start flowing.
When that first sob leaks around the mask cusp, he twists as if to hide from your focused gaze but thinks twice and stares hatefully at you instead. It's ballsy, because you've gotten used to his abusive touch, and at this point, you're nearly numb.
If he wants to play, you'll play.
Beneath the sweat-stained mask, his lips pull tight in a grimace. That line of anger between his brows is white with tension. A vein stands out on his forehead, and more sweat and tears dribble down his face.
He's a beautiful, shiny mess.
The Breather deserves this for all the hard work he's put into you thus far, but his hips keep trying to fuck upwards and there’s nothing worth prolapsing over. You know just how to entirely break him without killing yourself in the process.
As he bucks upwards, you lean forward with a lazy stretch until his cock flops out. It smacks loudly over his stomach.
The Breather inhales through excess saliva and backwashing phlegm; moans and gurgles.
"Die," he slurs.
Two seconds is all it takes to slip down his legs and suck his drenched cock down your throat, skimming teeth around the tender knot below his cockhead until his lower body trembles and a weak, pathetic whimper gushes from his nostrils. The mask puffs and sinks in around his face, exposing hidden features as he pants.
You smirk around his cock, sucking the flavor of the two of you off the sides and roughly thumb the purple, swollen slit that's so distended, each little leak of pre-cum nearly squirts out. It’s easy to think you've got him beat - that he's been broken just like he's broken you. But the downfall of most people is their hubris and you’re no different. You should have just been thankful for what you had and not been greedy, because one moment your lavishing his blood-bursting cock with teeth, nails and hearty suckles and the next, your hair follicles are coming loose.
A half-scream travels through the air, but it closes off as he wrangles you around with fast crawling fingers, working his grip around your throat; wringing it in both palms.
A glug of sound squeezes out your throat as The Breather's arms strain, methodically lowering you down to his floor; choking the ever loving shit out of you.
He broke the zip ties...
Hot air balloons your sinuses - swelling the spaces between skull and brain. Somewhere in the film breaching between your lobes, you feel a warm knife cut. Tears stream down your face, blurring his manic eyes stretched open in wrath. A life that's filled with moments of mediocrity pass before your eyes as he strangles you with strength enough to kill and for a moment… just before you slip into starlight and darkness… you accept that this is how it's meant to end.
Of course, you always figured it would. This had been a losing game to begin with, but… what a fucking ride, you think. It's possible your lips quirk up in a smile before you die, although that could have been the delirium taking hold.
In the ether there's nothing.
Death was like sleeping and waking. It's a seamless transition, you think with a weak throat and stained tear tracks stretching your cheeks. You wince and flutter lashes beneath sharp lights as the gates open up.
Standing at your feet is a cut silhouette; black against a white aura. Devil at heaven’s gates. Fucking poetic.
The black figure reaches out, pinches the bare skin of your inner ankle and twists. Nerve pain shoots up your leg, around your hip and jerks you by the spine. The world boots back up and like a dead hunk of 90s tech, you lurch with a sluggish moan.
The Breather heaves dry laughter.
Those stage lights behind him that had been so comforting are now throwing bright beams against a blade the size of his cock. He twirls it at his hip and waves it around like a dog happily wagging its tail.
It's hard to see much aside from the sharp differentiation between light and dark - the choking has made tears gum your lashes - but it's obvious he's put on those black pants again… and the gloves… leaving his chest bare with dark streaks of blood, marking him like Viking warpaint.
The sharpened edge of his knife twirls, cutting through hazy light and creeping shadows the closer he steps towards the foot of the bed you’re denting. You move away in reflex, only to feel tension in your elbows and shoulders as your wrists remain locked to the bed frame.
You blink and tip your head back as the knife tip starts dragging deliciously across your bare belly. A cold-hot shiver attacks your limbs.
The bed frame appears upside down as your eyes adjust - blinking away gunk and old sobbing. The bed is military looking; a heavy metal frame with zero fanfare. Built for durability and nothing more. Another jerk of your wrists and you nearly laugh at the rattle of tight steel manacles. To think, you always figured him as a zip tie sorta guy.
"Oxenfree," you croak as his face finally bleeds away from the darkness that’s cast back from the stage lights. They’re so bright it feels like sunrays.
This has been fun, but you're too sore to get fucked/raped by him again. Tonight has been a buffet of orgasms and tear-shedding but you’re done. Any more and you'll have to crawl your ass to an urgent care center.
He ignores the safe word… and cuts your hip instead.
He fucking cut you...
It’s a deep enough slice to make you scream. The hot pain feels like someone blowing dank breath on exposed bone. You glimpse the separation of skin and a deeper, pink layer before blood starts to pour to the bed below.
The Breather giggles nasally and walks beside you while dragging the knife up in a winding line. Blood drops well upwards in an arch from your hip, across your navel to between your bare tits. The whole time, you tremble like the last leaf in autumn.
He rolls his head to the side; eyes full of power and pleasure and violent lust.
"... ah'oxenfr-free…" you say once more as his copper-reeking knife traces the soft jut of your nose. It doubles in your vision as you cross your eyes, staring at the swaying blade.
"No," he barks softly.
The sharp, razor edge travels back down, denting a heaving breast. The Breather grazes your nipple with leveled swipes like the rowing of an oar in still water. No blood dribbles, but the sharpness stokes fear and arousal… but mostly fear, in your belly.
He lifts a knee and dents the side of the bed.
Your body shifts, bringing to attention all the scratches and cuts and inner aches.
You're not dead yet, you remind yourself as he quivers with barely withheld desire beneath medical grade cotton. Those eyes widen along your naked body, surveying the vulnerable flesh and bleeding crimson. If you're still alive, then that means he's made a point to keep you so.
All the reports you've read about his killings never mentioned victims bearing marks of torture.
He's a stabber. He likes to kill. The Breather isn’t infamous for playing with his prey so you don't have a basis for what's about to happen. Suddenly, as he jabs the knife tip under your chin - forcing your head back into the bare mattress - you realize that what you feel now is the same unknowing terror you'd felt that first time.
That first night where he'd broken down your door, played his game of cat and mouse only to sprout off poetry and fuck you senseless without a single thought to your well-being - that had been the best sex… because more than once, you thought you were gonna die. Done. Blackness - nothingness before cumming…
… the unknown was the best part.
"Stop," you beg for real but know you won't ever want him to stop. If he stops, you'll simply end up begging him for anything; everything.
The Breather's eyes grin mischievously.
He knows you well enough and even if he doesn't… he won't let you go until he's done. With a jerk of the blade, he nicks the thin skin under your throat. Hot blood runs down the strained length of fluttering flesh - a single river of wet heat.
"... please," again.
"Please," The Breather mocks before he swings a leg over your weeping hip; straddling you. His weight makes the bed creak and your open flesh run alight with sensation. You arche, tense against the restraints holding your wrists and ankles out on all four corners of the bed, and sob quietly.
His thin laughter sucks all the air out of the room. The sound of his glee forces anxiety and adrenaline down your throat where it lodges between your esophagus and trachea.
You can't breathe.
Oxygen becomes unattainable.
You suffocate on your own fear as he slices little grooves across your tits and collar bones, groaning as blood flows. Inside a dark tunnel of panic, The Breather pulls a black satin thing from his back pocket and then… actual darkness blankets the world. He snaps a night mask over your eyes, giggles like a maniac and continues nicking skin all the way down your ribs, belly and lower abdomen.
You cry and sob weakly.
No begging hinders him.
With the darkness comes heightened sensation. The pain meshes with something viscous and needy, and you hate it. You hate him. The Breather is a monster, and if he lets you go tonight, you'll fucking kill him, but then a sloppy wet touch pulls at your nipple, and the pain marries pleasure.
"Oh," you gulp and moan.
His bare lips pull at the tip of your breast. It's shockingly perfect in the darkness he's forced on you. Even the drag of his tongue over shallow, stinging cuts make you wet and hungry. The Breather has unmasked himself… he’s… licking you…
Against your bloody, saliva soaked nipple, The Breather growls, "Of nectar, so sweet. Taste me. Tear me," he pauses, and hungrily sucks on your nipple until it's brutal enough to rival the knife leaning into your side, "... I'll lick your soul from your pores."
"More," you beg, bending your knees as best you can, arching your spine as he slashes his tongue across the tender bud and gives it a sharp bite before noisily slurping abused flesh inside his mouth. You can feel all his teeth as they dig into your breast. His throat gulps and his lips seal, following back until your nipple is distended and swollen and throbbing between his teeth.
Abruptly, amidst the bliss and troubling bloody welts, he pulls back.
"... please, don't… eat me."
"Succulent. Such sweet meat… and sweeter meats still," he says throatily, sounding so fucking insane you nearly dislocate your joints trying to get away.
"Devoured by acid passion."
An unexpected touch strokes your cunt. His rubbery fingers comb through puffy folds and tugs at your inner lips before shoving two fingers inside. The pain is breathtaking, just those two latex digits spearing through bruised muscle is enough to make you start crying beneath the eye mask. It hadn't hurt this bad before… and a terrible, haunting thought enters your mind as he fingers you - the idea that he'd brutally fucked you until he came while you were unconscious...
The word ‘no' is there on your tongue, but it drifts away like that lone fall-time leaf as he kisses down your stomach, pulling wells of blood from weeping cuts as he goes. Against the deep gash on your hips, his bare breath wafts. He's shuddering, sniffing and opens his throat to gush a staggered groan over peeled open flesh before swiping a spit-soaked tongue through the bloody trench.
You buck, sob aloud and begin sweating.
It's a revolting, addictive feeling but it doesn't last. He's done with your wounds for now… now he's stroking your thighs, fingers cupping inner softness.
The Breather spreads your cunt apart.
Humid breath sticks to your folds - a moment to realize what's to come - before his tongue starts searching through fine wrinkles of flesh. You must taste like his pre-cum or cum depending on what he did to you while comatose… there's sweat there too and blood, judging by the line of sticky wet that glues your outer lip to soft inner thigh. How much blood did he leach from you? - You've no idea… but it's enough to make your head a cloudy haze of fucked up bliss.
He flicks a firm tongue across your clit, having only discovered earlier tonight how to weaponized it - how sensitive it can be when he rubs gloved fingers across it; pinching and tugging.
Right now, his tongue is rolling it around, stroking it purposefully. For a moment you don’t feel anything. It's been a long night and the abuse your poor, over-eager cunt has taken was more than too much, plus the cuts and open gashes and strangled throat are screaming compared to the whisper of his tongue… but he pulls back, spits on your flesh and slurps the fluids back up.
That sound… the sleek friction… the whatever else it could have been, sets you off. Suddenly, his tongue is all you can feel. His lips lock and suck, and you gasp.
The Breather shifts, bracing between your ankles and shoves his face into your groin, smearing his uncovered mouth in your pussy and begins his feast. Brutal, wet, ravishing sucks and licks send you back down the rabbit hole. A drag of teeth makes you tense, and one long lick from the crack of your ass to your smooth mound has you begging.
You strain, rocking your hips down into his open mouth. The darkness embraces you in a comforting warmth as he licks your clit until you cum. The line between so good and so very bad is a quick jump; immediate. You're moaning in pleasure one moment, then whimpering in his grip the next, trying desperately to pull away.
The sensations are too much. It hurts…
… but he doesn't stop.
The Breather inhales through his nostrils, eating your soul out, and exhales hot, cloying second-hand air in the same motion.
The hyper-pleasure ebbs after too long struggling and sobbing for him to ‘stop, please… please, just stop!' but the orgasm that comes a minute after the last is weak and useless. The peak is barely a blip and leaves you wanting more.
Luckily for you, The Breather's appetite is endless.
It's pointless keeping track of the episodes where you're humping his face and cumming - it's silly trying to count the minutes or the hours because nothing is tangible under the eye mask or his mouth. You can't decode the passage of time except for the level of coagulated blood that dries only to crack open when you eventually writhe in his hands; mouth parted as he devours you over and over again.
It all ends only when he's had his fill, making full, satiated wheezes to the background chorus of a zipper being pulled down.
He ignores your panicked mantra, picks you up under the ass, slides his knees below the back of your thighs and shuts you up with one putrid thrust.
Agony - frothing, beautiful anguish seizes your pelvic floor. The muscles in your legs strain as he fucks you, wasting no time… giving you no quarter.
Nothing has ever hurt more. The profound, traumatizing jolt that runs from your cervix to your throat is enough to scare you. It feels like each thrust could be the last your body withstands… as though he'll thrust right through you at any moment.
Two minutes of pure pain pass and when he realizes it's not getting better, he slows to a stop.
"One to ten," he demands; sounding serious… maybe worried.
You shake your head and cry beneath black satin, trembling against your restraints. Everything hurts. The pleasure is but a memory, and that memory is weighted under more pain. His cock twitches and you grimace, but when he starts to pull away you throw your head back and forth and whisper something… terrible…
"... I love you."
Who knows what he looks like, you don't care to be quite honest. The pain is a conditioned response to him, just like pleasure is and the two are too well blended to only be one or the other. There's no pain without pleasure. No pleasure without pain.
"Cum… for me," you beg and swallow, hitching with a silent scream when he fists your ass and pounds into you.
Grunting sounds leak above. Something wet and warm slides over your breast and into the hollow of your throat. He's drooling while fucking you to pieces and when you think you can't take anymore, his hips shift - hands yanking yours upwards - and starts bashing that nerve cluster deep within until you’re sobbing; cumming in a mess of droplets and tight sucking muscles.
Above you, he shudders.
His lips bump your chin, forcing your mouth open in a gasp while the pleasure overpowers the pain. His breath reeks of blood and pussy, but you don't care.
The Breather cums with a snarl - nose stuffed in your cheek - and bucks once, twice and kisses you on the third thrust where the last jettison of cum gums your cervix.
He wheezes through his nose and licks your teeth. You gag as his tongue reaches down the back of your throat before raking the roof of your mouth, eating saliva and smacking your twitching lips until you kiss him back with a weak need.
A slight sting enters your neck… a gentle prick. Warm venom slips effortlessly through your bloodstream.
"Night. Night, little rabbit. Sweet dreams."
Your lashes flutter. Your heartbeat slows to a gentle thud.
As The Breather kisses you, the drugs you'd used on him begin to take hold. It takes several minutes - several long moments of mild groping and kisses that near-soothe the pain - to calm you down. His cock carefully slips from your damaged flesh. In a haze, you think he leans down to kiss you there too, stopping to savor the taste of your mingled flavor but it's all liquid through your fingers.
His body heat retreats. Thanks to the liquid Lorazepam, you fade in and out. The moment between being alone in a dark, cold room and being faced with his naked, blood-stained chest as the eye mask is ripped off, is like a soft dream. His features are hidden again… but you don’t think you’d have made out his face right now had he not put the mask back on.
It hurts… whatever he’s doing.
The wound on your hip pinches but when it tugs with thread and needle something has numbed it down. He’s stitching you back together… pinching various cuts - cleaning them carefully - before apply something like super glue to hold the cleaved edges secure.
Every so often, you feel his gloved hands caress your flesh. Between the aftercare and twinges of tended pain, a wan heat replaces the fading pleasure. What the pain clouded, his attentions now smooth away. It’s… lovely.
You are aware of the world and all it's beautiful chaos, along with the way he whispers throaty poetry as he cleans up his mess, then the next moment you’re blinking awake on your own bed.
Beside you, on the tucked in comforter is your cell phone. It rings, and you wince as it drives needles through your brain. One more time it rings before you grab it with a weak fury and lean it against your ear.
It's not surprising that he's already calling you. It’s the sight of your naked body that shocks you. He's stitched the deep gash on your hip and super glued the rest together. There are stains on your skin as if he upended a bottle of betadine on you and something feels thick - like a cooling paste - inside your swollen cunt.
There is, however… no blood… not that you can see.
"No," you reply; unsure.
‘Check deeper. I don’t want you splitting open.’
"... look, this is all very romantic, but," you groan and shift up against your dense pillows, looking at the clock that reads four thirty in the morning, "I'll be fine… just give me a few days rest."
His response is that trademark quiver of breath, as though he's masturbating while on the phone - as if listening to your digital voice is erotic like nothing else is.
You look out through your window and his house looks back through the twilight blue of the outside world. He's probably got eyes on you too.
‘We won’t be doing that again,’ he says, and you get the feeling he means your self destructive desires and not the needle and zip ties.
"If you're so worried… just come over," a tired sigh, "... come on by and check for yourself."
The phone clicks.
Fuck, you think, feeling contentedly abused and broken and unable to move. The drugs work great because you don't even care about the wounds or the fact that your cunt might possibly be broken.
Yeah, it hurts… everything does, but that’s par for the course with The Breather and with a private - or not so secret - smile, you snuggle in and close your eyes.
Tonight, you remind yourself.
Tonight you'll either be fucked open again or treated to some weird aftercare ritual, either or, is fine and dandy. For now, it's sleepy time.
"Night, night… fucker."