Actions

Work Header

Squeaking

Work Text:

It’s been a week since the Breather dumped you back in bed after that surreal altercation at his place. Since then, he’s been by twice. All visits unannounced and uncharacteristic in various ways. Neither time has lead to getting fucked either, which was double weird. Until now, the Breather's been synonymous with consensual rape and messy sex… not whatever these last couple of visits have been.

However, to say you don’t relish his subtle presence would be a lie.

The first visit without cock-hammering sex was the night following the early morning where your cunt had nearly been split open. Sex so soon after that could have sent you to the hospital… so you’d only been somewhat disappointed when he hadn’t flipped you and fucked the literal life out of you.

Instead of annihilating your insides with a ten-incher, the Breather popped by to double and triple check his aftercare work. You’d sprawled there in bed, stimulated to tears as he rewashed your body where his blade had been, cruelly steeping the profound cut on your hip before applying germicidal cream. You'd held your breath and stared at his bare hands as he tested the prickle of stitches before taping it down with a fresh compress.

His cuticles were raw and red as if he'd scrubbed his hands to the point of bleeding often, but his knuckles jutted; finger bones long. Strong hands… soft too. The word soft just didn’t fit well with him, yet there you’d been, marveling at the nearly tender care he’d laid over all your many love-scratches and slashes.

The Breather was even more careful when he’d rinsed out your cunt, using some sort of numbing antibacterial solution that made you stretch and open your thighs wide for more. He might have purposely lingered around your sore clit too long - slick thumb nudging and circling until you’d shivered and asked him for more - because there had been a nasty smile in his eyes when he’d denied you further friction.

Asshole...

You didn't call him that though. Nope. Instead of telling him off, you caved, and you’d moaned louder, begging him to eat you out - needing more.

'Please. Touch me... please... let me suck your cock-then... then you can do whatever you want.’

All he’d done, despite your pathetic pleading, was pull away; clipped nails dragging down the naked length of your thigh. The feel of those weak, cherry welts still makes your stomach tang in pleasure. The denial, while annoying as fuck, was hot as hell.

The second time he showed up was two nights ago...

You’d been sitting on the sofa with a hot water bottle on your sore pelvis, not knowing if you were dealing with pre-period cramps or something more concerning when he'd practically emerged from thin air. The cold popsicle you’d been sucking on at the time nearly went down your throat when you’d startled at his reflection in your television screen. The flat, sixty-inch had been playing a slasher film on Netflix when the movie finally faded to black.

The Breather stood behind you - facing the couch - and he'd never said a word.

You’d clutched the hot water bottle like a weapon, and made to run but a hard, rubber creaking grip pushed you back down on the sofa; cunt muscles squealing at the pressure from the sofa cushions. Still, it didn't stop you from keening with hunger.

Even before he’d gotten any closer, you remember the stench of sweat and blood on him, imagining and questioning what was going to happen. Apparently, nothing happened that night, at least nothing the neighbors could phone the cops over.

He merely kept you seated as the b-movie horror flick chattered incessantly and sat beside you on the cushions. There had been greasy blood stains on his clothes and a wild, twitchy look in his eyes that said he’d just killed someone… maybe… quite possibly. Still... hot... you thought at the time and think even now.

He spoke not a word, and neither did you; to unsure what to say. The both of you merely sat wordlessly and watched the movie together. It was the eeriest encounter you’d had with him yet, which only proved that your relationship with him was past being ‘unconventional.’ If something so elementary like sitting on the couch and watching tv was akin to being abducted by aliens, then the definition for what you had with the Breather didn’t fit inside your poor vocabulary.

Once the weirdness of the moment wore off, you’d sorta found satisfaction in his quiet - albeit crazy - company. He didn't talk through the better parts of the movie, and he barely moved except to shift a little closer or steal looks at you. In a lot of ways, it had been like watching a movie by yourself, but you still got to glance over to see the glow of moving pictures in his eyes and sometimes - sometimes you caught him staring.

He’d just watched and gave you side looks until you eventually fell asleep. Then he was gone, and you were waking up in bed with a fresh bandage on your hip and a numb cunt; gummy with freshly applied cream. Would have been extra lovely had he roughly fingered you before patching you back up, but you'd decided that begging was only gonna lead to humiliation on your part.

You’ve never wanted his touch more… because every caress is sickly sweet, your body begging for it to end in boneless, painful ecstasy. Perhaps, he’s found a new means of torture. It is nice, though - the softness. In a way…

Sure, his visits without release have been clouding your mind, yet it's only a matter of time before he reopens the injuries he's made, this you're confident of.

All that being said, you can’t undersell how special it makes you feel knowing that the Breather not only doesn’t want you dead but wants you healthy. The fear of a gruesome death by his hand has been gradually abolished by the tender, yet super fucking creepy way he’s aided the healing of your body.

Despite the sexual tension and healing wounds making your body stiff, this morning has been pleasant.

It’s the first time you’ve been able to shower since the near cervical prolapse thing, and the hot waterfall does more for your mood than a bottle full of Valium ever could. You’re all smiles, walking lightly around your house in a tattered birthday suit to let the stitches and glued cuts air dry before using the plastic bag of medical supplies left by your bedroom window.

The Breather's left you a stockpile of antiseptics, bandages, gauze, medical tape, scissors and a sleeve of powdered donuts which you’d finished off last night. You'd be creeped out if not for everything else he's done to you.

There's no denying it, he's charming when he wants to be it seems.

You hum something obscure but easy in your head as you rifle through the bag in front of the window.

Not one brain cell thinks about the possibility of your blood-lusty neighbor being up at this hour because if he does sleep, he probably does it in the morning or well into the afternoon. He’s always been a night owl anyway. There’s zilch chance of him catching you doing his ‘cleaning’ work for him, but you’re still underestimating his obsession and sleep habits.

He’s watching, and you don’t even know it.

“... maybe you should've dropped by, you bastard,” you mumble to the empty bedroom with the plastic baggy in hand. It’s a soft admonishment; mind running out your mouth as you lower your naked ass to the bed with a faint wince.

The germicide feels cooling on your healing hip, and the fresh gauze covers up the long jagged wound nicely. You dot a couple unglued knife-scratches in the same gooey antibacterial paste and maybe… maybe you poke a couple of them until they nearly bleed fresh again because it turns you on. The pain reminds you of where they came from - how they came to be.

Renewed agony makes you slippery and starved; famished for brutal affection. Is it any wonder - since you’re so fucked up - that you fall backward; naked across your comforter with an eager hand on your cunt. No one has to know that the pain gets you off at this point, or… at least know that it lubricates you to the point that three fingers feel like nothing. All that warm slick mixed with silky cream works wonders on your clit.

You gasp and spread your knees, circling your firm nerve in slippery fluids that bring back memories of the Breather’s agile, exploring tongue. All those heedless orgasms he’d pulled out of you… all the painful goodness and sweet releases… the pain...

Fuck, it’s enough to make you bow your back, fuck your tender cunt deep enough to sting and squeeze out the sunlight from your open window as you drop into a gut-wrenching orgasm.

No one is watching anyway… not even him… or so you tell yourself once again. Like an idiot.

After relaxing a minute, only to work yourself into a fast, fervid orgasm once again, do you lay still - heart pounding and endorphins rushing - and think about how you wanna spend your day off.

You’re not on call. The day is yours. More orgasms and binge-watching on the sofa? Delivery lunch and dinner? Sure, you could, but by evening your mental clarity will be garbage.

Audrey could swing on by earlier than usual, bringing with her Disney movie recommendations decorated in sunshine and sick rainbows. That could work, but somehow, it's fresh air you think you'll benefit from the most.

So many options, yet all you wanna do is close your eyes and sleep until nighttime when the Breather is awake and on the prowl. Maybe you’ll end up discovering how easily provoked he is even while you're still on the mend. There’s nothing that says your mouth is off limits and you could undoubtedly take his cock down your throat if it means hearing his stifled, savage growls - even if it involves him yanking on your hair… fucking your face until you wanna retch...

Instead of sleep, you get dressed, pad into the kitchen and shove a blueberry pop tart down the toaster.

To bolster your immune system, you gulp down a thick, sweet glass of carrot juice and gobble up the sweet pastry goodness in four hungry bites. After eating, sleep seems like such a stupid idea past-you had, and past-you was lazy as fuck.

The weather’s so pleasant this morning that you figure ‘screw it’ why not walk down to the Paper Stock store for some new headphones instead of driving there or ordering them online like an agoraphobic? You could use the activity, and the walk would be good on your stagnant muscles. Plus, clean air was supposed to be good for one's mental health, and you can use all the help in that area you can get.

Perhaps if you added some cardio to your mornings, you'd be able to outrun the Breather a bit more than you can now. It might make the sex even better when he eventually overtakes you. All that perspiring, heart-pounding adrenaline and muscle strain solely to get thrown into an exhausted pile and brutally fucked sounds marvelous.

Sex is a brilliant motivator, after all, you think while tying your sneakers and snapping the clingy cotton leggings around your ass. It’s brazen. The black baggy long sleeve with the word ‘buck’ written like ‘fuck’ across the chest only adds further esteem to the tight, thin leggings.

What’s the worst that could happen anyhow?

The first few minutes up the street are a nightmare on your thighs and calves until you pause by the stop sign at the end of the road to stretch everything out. Angry muscles smart sweetly in places you know the Breather purposefully worked back into a tight knot after his last visit, which only makes you moan quietly as a man strolling down the sidewalk opposite the road walks on by. You’re beyond caring about any man aside from your masked serial killer, so if the dude in red pauses to stare while you touch your toes and flex an ankle against your ass, it doesn’t snag your attention.

So much lactic acid has built up over the past several days that the extension and gradual release of all those cramped muscles feel nearly as good as masturbating this morning had.

This walk feels like an ingenious move on your part, but apt is an oxymoron in connection with you as of late which means this could be your undoing for all you know. Maybe today you'll get run over by a bus or shot down by a bunch of gangbangers. Who knows, but right now, you feel somewhat sure today will be one of the good ones.

Apart from the expanded blood circulation making you warm and hot-cheeked, the outer world is nice and crisp. The clothing is breathable, if not revealing in the ass and leg department, but nothing is too tight to pull at your stitches, and the long sleeve does well to cover the manacle bruises lingering around your wrists.

Cool air tickles the free hair along your jaw and neck as you relish the breeze, taking in your surroundings with the enchanting blur of someone only half paying attention.

The guy across the road is gone. You don’t care, to be honest. There’s not a single concern you have right now despite all the things you could be stressing over - should be stressing over.

Thanks to the mild weather, gentle clothing and stretched limbs, you feel fine walking up and down concrete hills. It’s refreshing, and any pain you’d have felt while the cotton rubbed against your many tender cuts, is kinda pleasant instead of tear-inducing. Just a wee bit of pain...

As you walk down to the Paper Store, your mind gradually refocuses on the tenderness between your legs. You envision how bad it would hurt… how terribly you’d scream... if the Breather were to ram his cock to the hilt tonight. The idea is more than alluring, and as you walk, a lazy smirk crawls over your lips. One day, not too far into the future, the Breather is gonna end up doing some severe damage to your body. Irreparable harm, if you’re not careful.

Tonight, around two or three, you’ll undress in front of the window and massage your breasts against the glass. You’ll pick at the glued cuts and finger your clit until he shows up. At the very least you’ll get yourself off again and sleep better because of it; dreaming about him violating those rules so he can slip through your window like the creep he is and ambush you there in bed; unawares.

Excitement descends down your throat, crowding around your heart until throbbing heat flows beneath your abdomen.

Jesus on a pogo stick, you think with a slight scoff, you can’t even enjoy a walk down the street without getting hot and bothered by the thought of him.

Out the corner of your eye, the crosswalk guy turns green.

You traverse the intersection with blotchy cheeks from your daydreaming, still half-aware of the world that churns around you. Guilty pleasure is all your mind formulates until an unexpected cold sweat glues your long sleeve to your spine, signaling primordial fears that force your muscles to cramp the second you hit the opposite side of the road. Someone is following you.

A vehicle grumbles gasoline behind you. It rises in volume like a bestial roar as it cleaves through the intersection. Car horns blare, and tires squeal.

That unmistakable white van speeds past your paralyzed form; eyes sliding as if attached to ‘The Mystery Murder Machine.’ Black fumes billow and belch, leaving a tunnel of carcinogens behind him.

Fresh reeking petrol reminds you of the backfire exhaust from the Breather’s van back when he’d shoved you against it that one night - the night he’d kissed you for the first time.

By the time you’ve collected your wits, his van has long since rounded the corner at the end of the street, making you question if it had been there at all. No, he was.

He’s out in the morning sunshine when he ought not to be. He’s following you. The thought produces a little hill of goosebumps beneath your sleeves, realizing the Breather was tailing you in broad fucking daylight when he's supposed to be a nocturnal killer and fucker and not… this...

You’re so focused on what this means for your recovering body that you completely ignore a red mustang’s honking horn. It’s only when the convertible peels - breaks slamming - up into two empty parking spaces by the sidewalk that you slowly, painstakingly turn; wide, shocked eyes staring at blurry faces. No one ever said you were great at multitasking and the Breather just procured all your limit attention.

“Wassup, sugar’mama? Wanna take a ride?”

A basic-looking fuckface hangs his head out the convertible and whistles; tongue clicking and eyebrows bouncing. His buddy in the passenger seat sits up, twists and slaps the back seat like he’s coaxing a bitch in heat. He shouts something about your ass in a thick Brooklyn accent, but you’ve got greater worries now than some catcalling, so all you hear are pathetic mating calls.

You start walking away.

They follow you at one mile an hour, down empty parking spaces as you shuffle mindlessly ahead. Instead of trying to think around dude bros barking at you, you turn down the alley between the nail salon and an empty office building, leaving the sunshine behind and electing instead for the darkness and quiet. The alleyways are safer. The Breather will be where there’s darkness, and if anyone is going to have their way with you today, it’s going to be him. Always him.

‘Come’on, baby! It safer in here than down there! HEY! YO, BITCH!?’

The Breather is out and about, and it would have been a significant coincidence for you two to be so close outside in the daylight for him to not be stalking you. For reasons, you can’t imagine him running errands like a reasonable person; getting toothpaste, groceries, and whatnot. He probably orders all his supplies via dead drops or something...

There’s no way he isn’t finding someplace to hole up - a place to lie in wait before snaring you and doing as he pleases.

To be honest, though the idea sends a tingle down your spine, you’re not confident you’re ready for his games so soon. In the light of day, he seems too real. The stalking too wrong. His crimes too disturbing.

There’s not much difference in tempting him tonight or getting fucked today, but somehow, it feels too soon. Your cunt can't handle the kind of raw, unhinged pounding he gave you last time.

Even though you're lost in thought, the unmistakable sound of footsteps wetting a puddle behind you sneaks through your feeble senses. Somehow, you know it’s not ‘him.’ The wet pace that follows is too uneven and slow, nothing like the racing confidence you’ve come to relate to his prowling. If it’s not the Breather, then it’s those mustang assholes looking for an easy target or sick kicks, and you're not into either.

An undoubtedly male cough echoes not far behind you.

Instinctively - like a prey animal - you twist just enough to realize it’s not the two guys from the convertible with some ‘bright idea.’ It’s one guy, which somehow makes it worse. You see red, and a flash of familiarity hits you while staring cautiously at a guy with belted jeans and a tawny polo shirt beneath a red letterman jacket.

He’s got mean eyes that shine like a feral dog's and the same color palette as the dude you’d glimpsed on the sidewalk opposite you - the one you noted while stretching your sore muscles.

No. This isn’t what you want any more, you tell yourself. The world is a dangerous place full of animals wearing the skin of people, and yes, the Breather is a wolf in sheep's clothing, but he’s the danger you know and the danger you trust. This new monster is not welcome. Also, where the fuck is that asthmatic serial killer anyway?!

The man behind you cocks his head, bangs brushing his eyebrows and keeps the same rough pace as you do.

Fuck this, you think with a newfangled frustration that quickly combines with an immediate sensible panic. You know… how normal girls react to being stalked down an alley. Go figure.

This might have been one of your fantasies several months ago but having some rando pursue you down a shady alley has dropped back to the ‘sane’ level of trepidation and ‘what the fuckery’ it should've always been.

“Morning, Angel. You got the time?” He asks with a voice about as slimy and unflattering as you’d previously only seen in movies and shitty rape porn. The guy returns your glowing expression of shock with a smirk and eyes that recede inward like a pestilent rat's.

You turn as if underwater, swallowing a deep breath that doesn’t feel like enough and run.

This guy’s a fucking moron if he thinks you’re the kinda girl that can’t spot a wristwatch and malicious intent, not to mention the glaring fact that he’s a guy following a woman into a mother fucking alleyway. If fear weren’t clogging your synapses, you’d have realized this wasn’t just some one-time stalker but an 'old acquaintance' here to take care of unfinished business.

You can’t think. You don’t think. Running is the only thing your body and mind understands, so you fucking run.

Humid air smothers your lungs as you gasp and give chase.

An aluminum trash bin grabs your eye a yard ahead, and with a swipe, you send it to the ground; barricading the way behind you. The action causes you to lose speed but when you hear the man grunt, kicking away the bin, you grin. Adrenaline sugarcoats the fear, and though you’re not running from the Breather, the feeling remains tied to sexual anticipation.

So, maybe you’re not entirely over the fantasy after all, because when fingers reach and tear out strands of your hair, you squeal - moan - and turn on a dime down a parallel tunnel of darkness. This new alley ends in a chain link fence that divides two businesses, but a dempsey dumpster in blue stands against the steel fence. In milliseconds your brain assures you that yeah… you can make that jump, and this murderer/rapist won’t catch up to you.

You slip outside of his grasp again without losing any more strands of hair, hearing him bounce off the brick wall before stomping after you with a weak slur.

Twin pitch black alcoves pass you on either side. One of them carries eyes and a knife, but you keep running and running, launching yourself up on the blue top of the dumpster despite how the stitches on your hip stretch and tear beneath your leggings. It isn’t until your kneeling on the stiff, plastic top - fingers laced in the chainlinks - that you realize the sounds of pounding footfalls are gone.

A delicate, resounding gasp of pain sends a bolt down your belly.

Behind you, the Breather has your stalker pinned against the damp alleyway wall. A blue, rubber-gloved hand squeezing the man around the jaw, mouth, and nose while Mr. Red Letterman's rat-like eyes pearl with tears. The Breather’s black-denim knee is shoved up against the guy's crotch while his knife does a stiff, wet-popping jerk inside his stomach.

You drink down excess spit, gazing at the display several feet away like it’s a movie projecting directly on your eyeballs.

Softly, almost compassionate despite the trace of glee in his voice, the Breather shucks the tarnished blade from his victim's belly and snarls, “Long time no see’he’heeee…”

It clicks then, while you watch the scene unfold that you know that red letterman jacket and who it belongs to.

The Breather’s arm shakes with tension as he straightens his elbow, forcing the man’s head towards you before the bloody knife dives back inside his paunch, drawing another weak whimper from the man.

So soft… so smooth - the sound of razor sharp steel delving through skin, muscle, and organ. It shouldn't remind you of fucking, but it does.

One stab. Shlick.

Two. Shlick’lick.

Three stabs… four… five… and Mr. Red Letterman’s eyes begin to droop - his mouth starts to hang.

The Breather’s own eyes widen as he gut stabs the man over and over… and again... and again until the sounds coming from the perforated belly turn into slurping. The man’s last moments consist of being penetrated rapidly by the Breather’s long, precise blade. All the while, he's made to look at you as you kneel and watch with a blush; moisture leaking inside your leggings like a fucking monster.

It's what he deserves, you think. Raped by a blade like you assumed you intended to do to you but with his cock. Fat chance now. Now he's worm food.

Mr. Red Letterman sags in death - twitching weakly. He's one of the men responsible for jumping you outside that club long before you met the Breather when you actually wanted the real deal. Back then you were fair game, and he'd been lured in by something you thought you wanted, but… as blood bubbles pop outside the corner of his mouth and the Breather watches with saucer-shaped eyes filled with frenzied pleasure, your cunt throbs as he dies, and it’s wrong.

This is fucking wrong, you tell yourself, maybe say it allowed because those large, dilated eyes turn to you like a starving wolf on crippled prey. The Breather grins behind the tight surgical mask, and a little part of you dies inside, replaced by a chunk he now owns.

One more victim of the locally infamous serial killer slumps down the wall of wet bricks, dismissed as the Breather trains his furious focus on you; eyes daring you to run.

As expected, you don’t disappoint.

Halfway over the fence, a sudden, unexpected belt of laughter rings out your throat. You can’t tell if you’re running, so it’ll be that much sweeter when he catches up to you, or if you’re genuinely terrified. The mixed emotions of basic survival instinct he infects you with has never been all that clear. Both afraid, soaked and mindless, you tear down the last leg of the alley until the sunshine of morning light cuts your eyes; blindfolding for a split second.

The Breather is nowhere behind you, but that doesn’t mean shit.

With the heel of your hand, you shield your gaze, dampening the daylight until you spot the dilapidated, little playground across the street. Twinkle lights, dead during the day, shine under the sun. Instead of taking a right, heading back home where it’s not safe but safer than getting caught by him in town, you book it to the left.

An elderly man walking a terrier down the sidewalk pays you no mind.

Following a quick glance, you probably look like any other adult woman talking a morning run, but there’s no way your face doesn’t show a few creases of panic. Or perhaps not if the way your lips stretch is any indication. If someone caught sight of your expression now, they wouldn't be able to tell you had a murderer on your heels because you can feel a smile splitting your hot cheeks and chicks that ran from serial killers definitely didn't grin like a lunatic.

You’re fucked up. Fucked in the head. Horny as hell, and as you run, the image of Mr. Red Letterman plays on repeat like a song stuck in your head - his mouth parting, blood sacs popping and leaking below his sagging lip and chin. The Breather… the way he’d used all that lean muscle to subdue his victim - the way he stabbed and kept stabbing - it shouldn’t be arousing but it is, and maybe you’re running from that as much as you are him.

Two minutes of running and the air in your lungs feel like cold fire.

A splint stabs under your ribs. You slow down into a jog and whip your head around to see an empty sidewalk. The jog turns into a stiff walk, and at the corner where the town turns into a chain of bars that are desolate at this hour, you spot a weak bench by the bus stop and practically fall into it.

Panting breaths dry your lips in the fresh air.

What had once felt refreshing, is now freezing against the sweat beading across your forehead and coating your lower back. The muscles in your legs ache, starving for oxygen. Your cheeks burn with the cold despite how hot they are to the touch.

Just that added two-minute run has winded you more than any chase the Breather has incited before. Everything seemingly hurts; tingling as you catch your breath and only half paying attention to the slow trickle of vehicles that drive down the street. Some cars pause at the stop sign, before turning on their way while others merge onto the main road, heading towards the burbs.

A dog barks - maybe the one being walked by that older gentleman - but you barely hear it over the whoosh of blood pounding in your eardrums.

The wind howls through the one-lane road at the quiet intersect where it’s empty unless there’s a bar crawl.

Just as you’re beginning to let your guard down - just as you’re starting to find a steady heart rate, that familiar reek of petrol hits your olfactory senses. Unfortunately, you’re slow and tired and in a mild state of shock, so the reaction to warning signs is sluggish at best.

You shakily sweep a damp strand of hair off your sweaty forehead, lean back and come face to face with the Breather’s white van.

Much like the other times he’s surprised you, instead of a scream, he garners paralyzed silence.

You suck in a surprised breath, hold it and tense as the windowless side door screams open on its ungreased tracking. As he probably suspected all along, you’re too slow to do more than make it halfway off the bench and one footstep into a gallop before he seizes you around the waist, throwing you bodily into hard, stark darkness.

Something slams into your shoulder blade, stopping your rolling tumble. It feels like the metal leg of a table, judging by the shocking line of pain it lays on your shoulder bone. To add insult to injury, something lightweight drops on the side of your head in a plastic clatter. You’re blind the moment he throws the door closed, but the offending object might have been headphones?

In the abyssal darkness, you sit up, remove the - yup, headphones - from the side of your neck and blink despite your blindness.

“It’s daytime-” you managed just before he comes at you in the black pitch. A greasy, iron-smelling hand, wrapped in rubber, clamps over your mouth. The smell of it - the touch of that assholes blood - makes your throat lurch in reflex, but the pop tart from earlier stays down.

The Breather shoves you down with one hand until the back of your head touches the van floor. A warm weight settles across your hips, pinning you to the hard metal floor where it’s so cold, proving how much more appealing the Breather can be by his body heat alone. You’re still wet… so damp and needy and afraid, but above all, you’re confused.

“Shhh,” he whispers in staggered breaths, shuddering in the tinted darkness, “so much unfinished business: the homunculi, us…” a trembling exhale, “in ways pristine and rotten. Now you; ill-behaved. I can smell your filth.”

His vile poetry always gets to you. The blush that floods around his hand is hot and pounding. He can feel the blood run hotter between the rubber, you know it because he wheezes in that way that’s partly a laugh but mostly a warning siren, and leans in. His weight digs deeper over your hips, hard enough to ruin the remaining stitches. Behind his fist, a weak howl of pain begins and ends without touching air.

The Breather is not gentle. But he’s tricked you into thinking so over his most recent visits. The aftercare - the cleaning ointment and brief moments of soft bliss where his bare hands had been careful and passionate; teasing.

No, there’s nothing gentle about him. He’s an animal. A killer. He’s not soft, and he’s not kind.

Freshly fused skin separates and bleeds beneath his lower body. The severance of plastic stitches and scabby skin is slow - every bridge of tender tissue breaking thread by thread. Tears flow down the side of your face as the Breather inhales raggedly and rocks his hips over your own until he can feel your moans of fire and disgust behind his palm like true sobbing.

“Remain. Quiet.”

Without question, you nod behind his iron grip.

You’ll agree to anything to get him off you - anything to end the slow-motion tear of the deepest cut he’s made on you yet. The pain of it is sickening, mainly for how moist it makes you. The thrill is made even more unhealthy in the light of day. Shit, you can’t even go five minutes without replaying the stabbing in the alleyway. People have been Baker acted for less and should Audrey get wind of this… it’ll be a long while before you’re admitted into the real world again.

The Breather sighs brokenly and releases your jaw, exposing your raw lips to the stark air that smells like shoe polish had a lovechild with rubbing alcohol. It’s almost sweet in its acetone flavor. Sickly, like an oversaturated hospital.

“... I’ll be good,” you whisper, just to make everything crystal clear.

His tacky thumb catches your chin, and before you can react, a cotton-covered kiss brands over your parted mouth. Warmth floods down your throat. Your heart thuds and gross addiction settles under your skin. A trailing moan sticks in your throat as his tongue wets the sterile medical mask, pressing against your own twitchy muscle.

Jesus fuck, you think. Yesss... it’s been so long…

It doesn’t matter if he hurts you beyond repair. Let him reopen wounds or carve new ones. Let him fuck you until you’re busted and bloody and half-dead. If it kills you, so fucking what?

You whine, moan and lean up to kiss him back, but his hands take fistfuls of your waist and thigh, holding you down. Now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, it’s easier to see his gaze - full and wanting - through the bruise-colored tint on his windows. For a moment, he stares as you lick your lips, trying to taste the little saturation of spit through the mask but there's nothing but the nasty tang of someone else's blood.

You think about Mr. Red Letterman and his dead eyes and all that blood. A quiver wracks your lower belly, just above your mons… and before you can beg the Breather for it, he squeezes your body in his hands, twists you over and slaps you on your stomach; chin bouncing against the hard metal floor.

Knocking bone travels like a jackhammer in your teeth and skull. It doesn’t hurt because it doesn’t have time to register. There’s too much happening all of a sudden for you to focus on something as minor as pain, such as your wrists being snatched up, followed by the loud adhesive-rip of duct tape. In a handful of limb-jerking seconds, the Breather has your wrists and ankles wrapped in utility tape.

Because he knows you’ll do as your told, he doesn’t bother covering your mouth, just leaves you bound in the back of his van.

“... fuck,” you whisper, turning your flushing cheek against cold steel, “fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck. This is way too fucking dangerous. This is so stupid...”

The Breather cranks the engine as you mutter to yourself.

Diesel fumes leak into the van and up your nose. The floor of the vehicle vibrates, sending shocking static through your reopened hip wound, and with a menacing chuckle, he drives off with his new cargo: you. All the while, blood gradually soaks through your leggings, and you can’t stop repeating your own stupidity to yourself despite gradually getting further turned on by whatever the sick fuck has planned.

He knows where he wants to resume his game and it’s not far away. At least you don’t think it is. The sounds outside the van close in; exhaust pipe echoing as though he’s driven into a tight space. Darkness swallows you back up, and less than a minute later, the Breather turns off the engine, stepping into the back where you're still bound and calling yourself a ‘fucking idiot.’ You can’t see him, but his presence is stifling, and the sound of his rubber soles leaving sticky track marks on the steel against your ear says it all.

He must be covered in blood… though the thought is arousing as it had been that night he showed up to sit and watch Netflix. It’s different now. You can’t close your eyes without seeing the soft padding of a beige polo shirt growing heavy with red - of a wormy mouth leaking blood.

The Breather killed for you… he's killed for you before now too. Those dudes you’d baited… that was your fault.

As he steps around the roomy van, opening drawers with items that rattle maliciously within, you accept he was the murderer that killed those guys outside the club, but that you’re as much a killer as he is. It doesn’t take much to put two and two together now, only that, perhaps, it should have been evident from the beginning. Now, more than before, you feel like a fucking moron.

“Don’t fret now, my black widow,” he tells you in that throaty, haggardly whisper, “like trash - like refuse - garbage rots where garbage belongs,” and, as if you’re too thick to decipher his poor riddles, he growls aloud, “It’s in the dumpster.”

“I know,” you whisper; sounding too aroused to be on the subject of murder.

You twist your hip, wincing as the cut chafes and bleeds. He’s hovering somewhere above your thighs. Body heat floods through your leggings. Silently, he crouches low, and it’s not mean, but it is shocking when he skims rubber-tipped fingers along the exposed sliver of skin between your leggings and the long sleeve ‘buck’ shirt. One touch - one strangled whimper, and his knees hit the van floor, rattling the whole vehicle before laying his palms all over you, squeezing your tits and hips and stomach… pinching your arms only to roll you entirely on your back.

You shiver as he stretches gloved fingers beneath your top, dragging the thermal cotton up and over your ribs, exposing the thick sports bra. At your throat, he forces the material to its limit, stretching the threads just shy of tearing before roughly shoving the collar over your head and wedging the shirt down around your taped wrists.

The cold crowds in as he leans back.

The most massive, most powerful muscle in your whole body, spits out blood at an alarming rate. Your heart palpitates. In the silence it’s loud; deafening. The wheezing breaths that dampen his mask nearly shout against your own panting, but it’s the knife he shaves just above your navel that sends your heart racing louder than anything else in the van.

“P-please,” you stammer, “a light? It’s-the darkness… I can’t-” He’s a billion times more efficient in bringing you terror without seeing his next move, and in the darkness, it’s so easy to see Mr. Red Letterman getting pummeled by sharp steel… and the way the Breather puts as much strength in his knife work as he does fucking.

“You will,” is all the Breather gives you in response before snagging a thumb under your sports bra and ripping the crusty blade through the snug nylon blend. Delicate flakes of dried blood rain between your tits. Breasts, already stiff-nippled, spill free and aching while he cuts each shoulder strap. He jerks and yanks the ruined bra off, tossing it against the side of the van, much like you imagine he’s thrown away people; without empathy.

For a second it feels like the filtered shivers of his breath ghosts across your nipples, but it’s gone as soon as you feel any iota of warmth.

The Breather rolls you back over, hissing with delight as you sob loudly against the sudden pain in your hip. He reaches beneath your belly, hand slipping just above your mons, and forces your ass up; hips lifted off the metal flooring. Muscles in your abdomen pull taut without the support of your arms which are useless against your side; hanging with numb fingertips trapped in the folds of your long sleeve. Against the cold, hard bottom of the van, your breasts throb, but it’s the way he fingers the open wound and loose stitches over your hip bone that brings on the waterworks.

Tears dribble out your eyes.

Shamelessly, you hiccup and cry and heave at the brilliant licks of fire his smooth, slimy caress brings. He’s assessing the damage - the touch much like the ones he’s been placing on your healing body since your ‘breaking and entering’ and the events that had followed.

“Heh’he…” He giggles.

The thought of your body taking on more permanent marks from his attention is something you know very well excites him, because while the pain is revolting, it excites you as well, which is why you don’t even fight it when he hikes your soaked leggings down your ass until the folded cotton hugs the backs of your knees. You’ll take the hilt of his knife up your cunt if he so chooses. He can cut marks on your ass… he can do anything to you...

“... yes,” you practically heave with a smile.

His masked breath ghosts the swell of your ass. It’s warm, fuzzy and inline with the clogged panting that’s so distinctly him. Although, the sudden, bright slap to your right butt cheek is not something you had expected, nor do you anticipate the second or the third. It isn’t until the fourth hard spank that you hiccup a yelp and strain upwards for more despite the bright, branding itch. If there’s one excellent thing the Breather has done for your body, it’s that your pain threshold has never been higher. So, if he wants to spank you like some shitty ‘bad girl’ roleplay, then you’re game.

“Stah-!” You play at pretending but are silenced by another clapping smack that hurts enough to take your breath away.

“Stop, stop. Please, please… just stop,” you repeat for him even though it stings and burns, making you grunt with each lightning bolt of contact.

Surgical-grade rubber catches skin, making every slap to your ass cheek sticky compared to a bare handed spanking. Of course, because you’re so fucked in the head and he could do just about anything to you, the loud moan you release when the last slap transitions into a rubber-wrapped palm cupping your sopping cunt is not surprising.

The Breather growls - softened by the mask - as if he can feel the wetness through his gloves. He can’t, but the wet sounds his fingers comb through your wrinkled folds and healing flesh, speak volumes… as do the puffing groans you give him. Maybe, a ‘yes’ slips out when his thumb slips down to flick your clit… and maybe he exhales a litany of strangled groans in turn, but it’s okay because you’re back in the darkness, and he’s something phantom again as opposed to the reality of the day.

Another flashing image of Mr. Red Letterman hits you as soon as the Breather’s long fingers press and shove through sore cunt muscles. Your insides clench in response and without considering how messed up it is, you replay the vengeful slaughter while rocking yourself on the Breather’s fingers… much to his quiet, asthmatic amusement.

He’s going to fuck you, you think with a wet smile. Of course, that’s what’s going to happen. There’s nothing that says he won’t. You’ve no reason to believe that the Breather has other plans. Your hip is weeping just like your hooded eyes are, and your right ass cheek is throbbing with palm-sized welts. Security is a funny thing to have around him, but it’s there.

Secure in the idea that he’s gonna start feeding that disproportionately long cock into your cunt, it’s all the more shocking when one of the fingers your fucking yourself on, leaves your warm, eager insides to swipe up between your cheeks; skimming the puckered hole recently ignored until right fucking now.

You inhale.

“No screaming,” he warns harshly, grabbing a fistful of your left ass cheek - thumb from that hand grazing the edge of your hip wound - and digs one slippery, hot finger inside your ass. No preamble… no prep… just shoved his finger inside like he’d shoved his knife in that dude’s stomach. Beautiful brutality...

Your eyes pop open in the darkness as a knuckle slurps through the ring of iron-tight muscles, only to push deeper until you’re drooling and wheezing - mouth hanging open - on the van floor.

The Breather fucks his fingers in and out of your ass until his knuckles are smacking against your cheeks and your fingernails dig into your palms. Your breathing runs uneven and shallow. The pressure inside swallows up any sound from your throat until the Breather chuckles, twists his finger and curls it sharply upwards.

“No...”

“Yessss,” he informs you, using that same tone the night he’d ignored the safeword. This… this isn’t like that night, but… no…

“Not there,” you gasp and shiver inside his grip, clenching around his wiggling finger, “... anywhere but here, please. Stah’p.”

“No stopping. Hush. Now.”

While he says that… as if he’s about to add another finger and really give you something to cry about, his searching finger pauses and gradually the pressure inside fades away while it’s slid from your hole. Instead of finger fucking you where you want it the least, he holds both ass cheeks in his palms and breaths those clogged, heavy exhales over the exposed flesh.

Prickly fire brushes beneath the palm that cups your bruised backside. He peels your ass open, exposing the stiff opening to darkness and a gaze you know can see through the black tint better than you can. Vulnerability sticks to the back of your tongue like bile, knowing he’s a nocturnal hunter if nothing else and he can see you… see it...

Something wet and warm and slimy globs down one inner cheek, heating your puckered flesh. Another trickle dabs right on the mark, though it’s the third dribble that wakes your brain up.

The Breather is maskless, and he’s drooling over your asshole, and he’s gonna-

“No!” You shout. Maybe you scream. Perhaps you yell ‘NO’ louder and even start to struggle out of his grip, but it’s for nothing because five seconds is all it takes to rip off another piece of duct tape, grab your jaw and slap the adhesive gag over your mouth. The Breather taps another piece against your front teeth, before coiling the tape around your face and head two times around, before tearing the end and throwing it somewhere behind the both of you.

Humiliation. Terror-sweat. The familiar stages of panic wash over you. What about the safeword? What if he tears something?! You can’t go through another night like before… not anally - not like this.

Not like this. Oh, fuck. No. You can’t do it. No. No… no-

“Time for a new game.” The Breather declares with raw lust and giddy energy in his throat, adding heavily, “... new game. New rules.”

Something plastic and soft bumps your knuckles. You jerk against the contact and groan behind the tape in stuttering, thoughtless panic, before accepting the round ball he shoved into your palms. You squeeze it on pure instinct, and it squeaks like a dog toy.

“What singest thou, with no lips to sing? What say you now, but to squeal?”

The next sound besides your pulse in your ears is the music of his zipper as it’s quickly torn down. Thick fabric slides over smooth, hairless skin - soft sounds more damning than the screech of a blade - and… yes, you’re scared and barely coherent at this point, but as expected, that noise and the promise it brings makes you salivate; dripping with arousal. His own spit sticks between your ass cheeks as his thumbs pry them apart again.

A dozen more relentless, naked breaths quiver above you.

“Jutting pain she is. Promised pleasure he lies. Soon, she’ll be screaming.”

Goosebumps rise like static electricity raising the hairs across your body. Behind the duct tape gag, you scream and scream and scream. You shout and cry until your throat goes dry, but the ball between your palms remains quiet.

The head of his long, slim cock presses to that place - a place you’ve never let anyone near before. With nothing but two mouthfuls of spit and no patience, the Breather shoves the brim of his cockhead through the rigid ring of tightness until your body gives under a thousand pounds of scorching flames and the tip is pulled inside. He’s wearing a condom… the feel of it is noticeable… but it isn't lubed enough for this… nothing could have prepared you for this...

The pressure is astounding. The pain? - just shy of too much. It’s foreign and wrong. Like a knife stuffed in someone’s belly, it shouldn’t happen but does and is. You try not to move, too afraid to jostle yourself around so little cock because even just the head is-

A wet, weak sound sticks to the tape as the Breather inhales and runs you through until you wanna die and die and be eaten by maggots instead of this. You tremble and lurch away, but he brings you back harder, yanking you over all that steely cock until his warm hips touch your flaming backside. The realization that his whole cock is inside you… where it shouldn’t be… makes you delirious.

Around the squeaky ball - your new safeword - your fingers tremble and twitch.

Nausea grips your stomach, threatening to drag you down while a stale sweat breaks out over your skin.

The Breather molds your cheeks in his hands, running stiff fingers through the damp plush, leaving pain behind where he’d spanked the shit out of you. He rakes his rubber-gloved nails down your spine, scratching itches you didn’t know you had while your body does it’s best to reject the gross length of hard cock that’s sitting inside your ass right now.

If you survive this… you can survive anything, you think, even if that’s far from accurate.

Having this ball makes it all bearable. The idea of having a way to end this increases your pain tolerance. The fear, while heavy, isn’t overpowering. If he was going to brutalize you to the point of no recovery, then it’d have happened by now.

“Breathe,” he groans, reminding you while your thighs rattle beneath your hips and your lungs start suffocating. Every inhale feels like you're squishing your insides against his cock, but he’s right… so you focus on your breathing, getting lost in the groping and scratches from his touches. The gentleness, if one could call it that, doesn’t last.

The Breather plucks your hips in both hands, pressing you down flat in the back of the van until you’re cooling on the metal floor with his cock hovering just an inch inside. It’s there, with your spine shoved down and one hand pressing your slapped cheek open to the side, that he starts to fuck. Not thrust or feed his dick back in, but fucks you. From one to eleven, the Breather starts to hammer your ass, filling the van with sweaty sounds of slapping hips, ass and all the spoiled groans he bleeds.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not slow.

There’s no consideration except to take care he doesn’t shred you to bits. Every thrust is like wet fire and papercuts. The pressure swells at the base of your spine until it feels like your vertebrae will pop but before they do, he rears back, nearly dragging your insides out with him, before filling you again… and again...

The dry, rough thrusts pin you to the floor. Puddles of drool ruin the adhesive duct tape around your mouth and pool over the cold metal. Each stab makes you choke - each moan and groan from the Breather makes tears fall but after several minutes the beauty that is his giving pain, causes pleasure to bundle somewhere in your lower back. Sweet, sick pain infects your muscles, flushing your skin until you feel feverish and mad.

You try to push back into his thrusts because you’re an idiot and need more of everything, but the Breather susurrates with raw vocal cords, laying his weight on the hands he’s got you pinned with, refusing to let you have any more than he’s giving. There’s no moving, only tape-covered cries for more as he forcefully penetrates your ass; hips slapping down on your backside with every deep, fathomless thrust.

There’s no cervix for him to bruise - no real barrier in his way. His ten-inches is free to fuck as deep as he wants and that’s just what he does.

The Breather destroys your body as he has done every time since and relishes the chaos with muted sounds of harried bliss and hellish wheezes. He lays over you - body weight stifling - and picks his hips up, slamming deeper… harder, faster… without care and… you fucking love it.

 

‘More!’ you scream behind the tape, getting enough out the damp edges that the Breather gives you more. More pain and pressure and pleasure and reasons to question your sanity.

There’s not enough to satiate you. No amount of pain is too much. The feeling is awful and addictive and unnatural - you love it deeply.

Behind the duct tape you gasp, moan and sob loudly. The Breather is no less noisy; frantically angling your body down into the van as he fucks you. Unclothed teeth rake across your naked shoulder, leaving behind soft pain until he takes a bite of skin and soft fat on the back of your arm. True, dull pain, makes you sing. Around the ball in your hands, your fingers nearly clench.

Something wet runs down between where your inner arm is stuck to your side. It could be blood or saliva. You can’t tell, but it hurts, so howl it beneath the tape until everything reaches a crescendo that sends a flash of white light against your retinas in the darkness. Stars flicker in the black of his van. Constellations appear and recede. You blink and row you ass up into each smack of cock like a possessed lunatic until the Breather is leaving rough, bruising bites across your shoulders and neck and grunting through the tightness of your body; heedless.

Something warmer than warm and unknown follows the stretching muscles he keeps driving inside - something like the growing of an orgasm, but not.

“I’m…” he snarls around a bite of skin on the nape of your neck, “coming.”

But you’re already there, you slur in thought and tape-coated nonsense. It’s nothing like the sopping orgasms he’s fucked out of you before now. It isn’t even close to the creeping pleasure he’s fingered and licked from your clit. This pleasure is thicker, like contentedness that borders the line between shameful and innocent, but there’s nothing shameless about this anymore

If you do cum, it’s something unlike any orgasm before it, though it’s no less satisfying. All the physical twitches you’d expect ripple around the Breather's cock, contracting until his thrusts meet resistance so tight it slows him down.

The Breather opens his mouth beneath your ear, where the duct tape adheres to your skin and hair and shudders as he cums. Those lava jets of semen don’t warm you from the inside out, but a sudden bulge of pressure reminds of you of past fucks with other guys - the weight of a filled condom. It’s disappointing, but hopefully, there will be more fucks and more cum. He’s punished you after all… so you’re mostly in the clear.

After this, things should return to normal, right?

It isn’t until that veiny, spent cock of his is dragged from your body that you whimper, trying to curl into yourself as stagnant air breezes against internal tissue. That weird airy feeling is somehow worse than everything proceeding it… and the sound you make, as your ass gradually recovers, makes the Breather giggles and ‘hmmm’ like a villain in some wacky video game. It’s sorta funny, but there’s not much about him to laugh about right this moment… and fuck…

… like hell you're gonna laugh now that you’ve been anally fucked within an inch of your life.

In your palms, the rubber ball is removed.

The telltale snap of a condom hits your ears like a gunshot and then - because he’s an asshole and loves it when you're squirming in pain, pleasure or married forms of both - he tears the duct tape away; threads of hair coming with it by the roots.

You curse, kick your taped ankles and get a clap to your sore rump for your efforts. If it weren’t for your clenched teeth and wincing body, you’d have broken down and cried. Right now, you don’t wanna give him a reason to even poke your butt let alone jostle it. The feeling he’s left behind is beyond fragile.

“Can,” you say with quiet horror, waiting for a spanking that doesn’t come before continuing, “can you drop me… at my place. I-I can’t… don’t think I can walk.”

It's no lie, and truth be told, it would be funny to have the Breather carry you through your door like last time. Maybe he’ll throw you on the bed like a sack of trash in the same manner, but somehow you doubt either option are very likely. The way he remains silent - close above you but not touching - says he’s still pissed.

What he has to be upset about now, you can’t imagine He stabbed that guy to death, minced your ass like a piece of meat and got off. If anything, he should be fucking giddy.

“Don’t move,” he slurs with stale pleasure from a ragged throat.

You do as you’re told, mainly because you don’t really wanna move anyways until your asshole doesn’t feel like it’s just been pounded mercilessly by a serial killer with ten or more inches to go around.

Even when a white dome light switches on, casting the back of his van in grimy blue-grey tones and his re-masked face in a pale glow, you barely flinch. The blood-stained knife sits a foot away from your face, but it’s the rest of the interior that stimulates your senses. He’s got a mobile hunting unit in here. Audio equipment, bolted monitors and locked trunks full of stuff you can only guess are the implements of a serial killer on the prowl. There’s a box of torn open condoms as if he’d fumbled with the opening before using brute force to open it.

Behind you, the Breather removes his gloves. You watch the gloves fly across the van with mild interest, too sore to strain your gaze on him longer than a few seconds.

He snaps on a new pair of sterile gloves and peels your cheeks apart much to your tongue tied embarrassment. It’s different with the lights on…

‘Is this…” you gulp and close your eyes to stave off the feeling of shame as he inspects you, “necessary? I mean… really, really necessary?”

He gives no reply.

Much like his aftercare, the touch is assessing. It doesn’t last more than a few seconds, which hopefully means you’re not bleeding or busted… at least not there of all places. He does roll you over on your back, not ungentle, but not kind either and that is enough to make you start crying for real.

It’s there, on your back, looking up at him - tear-stained and bruised - that he wipes down your naked breasts and stomach with something cold, white and wet. It smells like baby wipes and alcohol, but it doesn’t do shit for the horrible ache in your ass.

He slides a trunk out from under the table he’d thrown you against twenty? - thirty? - minutes ago and pops the latch, though you’re still sobbing softly and barely pay much attention.

The cut on your hip is crusty and engorged with inflammation, but your ass still pounds sickly, so when he pours on hydrogen peroxide, the fire is but a sting that bubbles. Though, to be fair, the dabbing and brushing away of old blood gets him a reacting grunt out of you.

By now you know the drill, electing not to panic when a needle catches the dome light above. The prepped hypodermic needle slips beneath the wound, injecting lidocaine in several places before the hook-needle and plastic threading come out. It’s nothing but tugging pressure after that. The Breather sprays the stitches down with antiseptic and bandages it back up as he’d done before… all the while you’re sniffling at the pain in your rear starts to recede.

Almost awkwardly, you shift, wince and wiggle as he tugs your leggings back over your hips and pulls your thermal ‘buck’ shirt over your head and down bare tits. The effect is probably a poor attempt at fixing you before he tosses you out the van, but… the Breather surprises you again, and not the butt sex sort of surprise like last time.

This time, he lets you lay in the back of his van after cutting your wrists and ankles free.

He cranks the van, steps on the gas and drives you home. This - the journey back home - is surreal.

Violence is expected. Sex that hurts and makes you struggle, scream and cry is par for the course, but it’s the odd gestures that surround those traits which make you feel… strange. There’s no living without him now. This is something you’ve accepted since that first night, but the oddly romantic and loving things he does are so jarring when they follow something like what happened just now or… perhaps it’s the fact that you think shit like this is romantic that’s odd.

You lay there, curled up in a ball, staring at a bunch of bolted down trunks as he drives. A pile of rope uncoils when he takes a hard right, and something that looks like surveillance audio equipment rattles until the van comes to a stop and the soothing vibrations of the engine falls silent. Somehow, you know you’re in your driveway.

The Breather steps out of the van, slams his door and tears the side door open, blinding you with midday light and the cool breeze of clean air.

You inhale like a newborn before hitching with breath as he snags you by the arm and hauls you out the van. It’s not the bridal style walk up to your door you’d secretly been hoping for, but he does keep you slightly aloft with a strong arm under your ribs.

Walking has never sucked more, but you make it, and without opening your mouth, the Breather reaches behind your mail slot for the spare key, opening your house and walks you inside.

“You gonna put me to bed too?” You ask with snark and wincing discomfort, but the Breather still says nothing, just keeps helping you down the hallway and into your bedroom. He is, you think, incorrigible. He does, too.

Blood stains his dark hoodie and the leg of his black pants, but that just brings back the fresh memory of murder and… jesus, he knows it turns you on. It must show in your eyes or your cheeks or somewhere too obvious.

“Rule one,” he pants behind the mask and slides a fresh-gloved hand down the front of your leggings, “I come for you.”

You suck in a sharp breath as he pulls moisture from the outside of your cunt, using the slippery fluids to swirl your clit as he grips the hair at the top of your head. You wince, but let him tip your head back until your eyes are locked, and he’s watching the way you fluster with those wide, horrific eyes. His finger slides down, picking up more moisture, digging under the delicate nerve and rubs it in tight little circles.

“Rule two-”

It won’t take much, you think, unable to stop rotating your body into his hand despite the pull of pain in your rear. An orgasm - the kind you're used to - is coming on strong and it’s been too long since he’s given you one of these. You’ll agree to about anything now that you’ve experienced another level of pain and survived it.

“... yes, anything,” you whisper; teeth raking your lower lip as the pressure builds. Between your fingers, your sheets bunch.

The Breather sweeps up more moisture, pinching your clit between two fingers only to mash it so fast and hard his shoulder swings up and down.

“-play games outside of this,” this being him and you and this fucked up way you both live, “and it’s nighty night. End. Sweet dreams.”

Pure pleasure blossoms beneath your lower pelvic muscles, snagging your uterus in little shivers. You gasp, moan and curl inward while his fingers fuck and shove your head back into the pillow.

“I’ll kill you,” he enunciates as if you’re thick. An image of him gutting you in the alley like he had Mr. Red Letterman is what finally tips you over the edge.

You open your mouth to scream, but nothing but a deep hush comes out. You shiver against his fingers, cumming and staring dumbly through him.

He leaves you smiling - sweaty and flushed - in your bed with the curtains drawn. The front door clicks and locks. Outside, his van backfires before he reverses out your driveway and into his own just next door. Sure, he said ‘rule one’ was to stay out of his house and all that… but he’s so close, and if he doesn’t return soon with something to apologize with for the ass-fuckery, then you’ll have to go grab an apology for him.

Everyone's gotta die at some point, you think with a big, troublesome smile on your face.