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Muffled Moaning

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“Do I look like I’m in any state to wingwoman for you tonight?”

‘I dunno send me a picture… oh, better yet! - you got a one of your man’s dick yet? I wanna see if it’s as big as you say it is.’

Of their gossip the Breather’s been bothered to listen to, the comment from her ‘friend’ carries more weight than expected, for the girl Audrey knows her friend’s lover is nameless. In lieu of a reply, his little rabbit just grumbles into the phone, too cautious or perhaps simply flushed with the memory of his steely flesh...

The Breather indulges the idea that she’s as hounded by memories of their fucks as he is. How his hands broke surface blood vessels in his furious, snarling desire to ruin her hip bones into the floorboards… and gum her insides raw with cum only for her to drool her appreciation around the forlorn underwear he’d shoved in her mouth.

Half-screeching from his speakers, the friend continues...

‘Look, just because your cockacidal mania is being satisfied doesn’t mean I’m getting sympathetic dickings, and when you’re game for the game, you’re perfect at steering dick my way.’

The Breather listens. However annoying her voice is, he finds himself hanging on every word. His eyes crease as he leans across his desk, glaring at the fuzzy spy cameras, and watches his prey sit upright on her sofa with a blurry frown. It’s hard to tell, but she doesn’t look as against the request as she ought to - needs to - should do.

Soon, he’ll upgrade the cameras in her home, but that can wait after she’s bedridden from another nightly visit or indisposed some other way. It’s not as though she’s oblivious to the eyes he has on her, nor the mics and trackers. She’s his, and she knows this, yet from what he can discern, confliction instead of conviction lingers in her features.

Her thin, weak little fingers comb through messy hair as she rolls over on the armrest, “... dude, are you suggesting I’m the ugly one in this relationship? Because that’s not going to get you what you want tonight. Ya, know that, right?”

‘Pfff. No…’ her friend scoffs across two blockages of static, ‘but we both know your hot shit, but you like the dark shit and guys don’t wanna hear about your spider collection while scoring pussy, so that’s where I come in! Come on. Get your shower on, and I’ll be there in an hour.’

She looks as though she’s sneering, but the Breather can’t decide for sure if it’s contempt or excitement. It better be the former, he thinks, assuring himself before he does something… brash.

The fact that most of her expressions belly pleasure, despite troubling physical sensations, means the Breather realizes it’s hard to tell for sure what she enjoys and what she hates unless he’s within her. Through the monitors, in black and white, it’s near impossible to be sure how she feels about Audrey’s obligatory request. But oiled snakes coil and knot in his stomach at the thought of his black widow sneaking out under his gaze to fraternize with braindead homunculi.

“Fine,” she says with a sigh like the kind she makes when she beyond exhaustion, “... but you owe me some buttery, sweet waffles after this. I’m not budging on the full stack, either. I want the banana-blueberry toppings, you got it?”

Audrey, that bitch, squeals high-static. The piercing wail is loud enough to grate his eardrums and send his fist into the speaker dials.

‘Done! See you soon, baby.’

The call clicks dead as his right most knuckle begins to bleed beneath his sudden rage. What levied sustain he had for this ‘friend’ is no more. If his little rabbit wasn’t so enamored with her, the Breather wouldn’t think twice about bending a rule just to see her stomach slop with red ichor.

Ignoring the busted knuckle of his own design, the Breather straightens his spine and leans forward, eyes bulging three inches from the screen as she drops the phone on her sofa cushion with a loud groan. The sound illicites depravity and bloodshed; knives and swollen, wet flesh. Rage ebbs to lust and lust to rapturous visions of dancing his knife down her sides while shredding her ass around his cock for a second time.

Before catching the muffle of this phone call on his way out, he’d had his own plans tonight - plans outside of her, but those have now changed.

Inside her is where he prefers to be. It’s what she deserves: a violent, ambiguously welcome fuck that will fuse them more fully into one, twisted, writhing soul.

Looming over his desk, the Breather grips the panties he’d lifted off her that first night in a fist; thumbing the space bar on his keyboard before lifting them to his mouth. The black fabric’s been away from her cunt so long is hard to tell if they smell of her any longer, but they’re soft and well-worn as he scratches his lower lip with the weak cotton.

On his monitor, his prey lounges across her sofa, scratching hip beneath the waistband until she deflates as though post-electrocution. She sinks down halfway off the edge in a position that is no better than that of a child, but the motion exposes the long line of her vulnerable belly. Thin, manicured fingers tap a row just below her navel… just above the Nepalese-patterned house shorts that look new and begging to for the stroke of his blade.

The Breather’s inhales quicken within her underwear; nostrils flaring once the trace smell of her cunt hits him.

Will she pleasure herself before her shower? Will she signal for him by her window or merely ignore how the man next door is watching her? Sometimes, he truly wonders if she’s intelligent enough to realize the danger she’s eagerly welcomed inside. There was nothing but mad lust fueling her decisions before he arrived at her doorstep. Why would she be any different now?

“You gonna follow me?” She asks the empty air; his microphones and him. The crackled tone of her voice sends blood southbound to where he’s accepted she has power over him. In death, blood, and murder, he is king, but she holds his sexual needs like one held a dog's leash.

Slave, he thinks with a pessimistic sneer.

On the screen, her fingers trace the hem of linen below the jut of her hip bone. Teasing strokes to swell his hunger, lingering on the trench of that well-formed laceration.

He watches. Fuel splashing on licking coals. Fire kindles. His blood boils.

The Breather holds in a lungful and languishly shudders humid air against the crotch of fabric before teething it; glaring… waiting for her to stick her hand down… down and inside… inside herself where soon he’ll be, rocking and stretching her body to such prurient depths to be called ruthless.

“Are you listening?”

“Ahh’always,” he replies despite the pointlessness of it all.

He’s spent good money from Adam, deep web surfers and roadside meatbags to rig her whole home - to make sure he sees all while she’s left blind.

On the gritty monitor, she smiles privately; secret and unashamed as usual.

Wiretaps pick up her soft whispers, and many more little devices detect whatever she’ll be doing later or where she plans to go should she dare. The little rabbit knows he’s listening - watching - and that’s why her show ends before it begins. It’s why she sheds her clothes down the hallway where it’s darkest, smoothing her palms down those bruised breasts he’s pinched and bitten bloody countless times - the reason behind her stalwart position before her vanity mirror, just barely fucking her skinny fingers only to disappear behind the shower curtain where his cameras fog with hot steam; useless.

“I’ll be coming for you…” The Breather promises; tongue damp on her underwear with his lips peeled back like a predator on the cusp of sinking its teeth into hot, sanguine flesh.

Bent over his desk, feeling monstrous with primal urges not akin to his profession, The Breather watches the steam blur and distort her naked body; curling blunt nails into his palm. She’s vile and beautiful. Disgusting and sweet to taste. The dichotomy she presents is nothing short of madness.

Beneath his zipper, his cock pulsates with a faint erection. It takes more than the promise she withdrew and some blurry pixels to arouse him entirely, but it does what she intended. He’s ravenous; coveting.

There’s no need, no language spoken or plea uttered for the Breather to know she assumes he’s either out slaughtering - feeding his blood lust - or sitting here, watching and planning to follow. She pretends he’s watching anyway, even if she’ll never know for sure…

But follow her, he shall.

If she thinks he’ll sit in this desolate place, or leave town to pick up a weary traveler while she tags along to some club filled to the brim with degenerates and plebeians, then she deserves all he has planned and more. Her body shall be rewarded with cuts and hematomas in variously stained purples, yellows, and browns. The canvas of her flesh is his to master and practice…

Practice makes perfect, after all.

Tonight, he thinks with a lip-splitting grin - tonight he’s going to add deeper strokes.

Paint her wet…

… weeping…

… and red.

Dirty hormones and sour sweat blend with the noxious stench of whiskey. The residue of sugary concoctions split across the floor doesn't help make the odor of people dancing and grinding any better. Another one of those cotton candy beverages is slid towards your hip; generous amounts of alcohol smothered in simple syrups meant to get even the staunchest of drinkers fucked up until morning.

You are not a heavy drinker, and so the last - first drink of the night - is already making your head cloudy. Blood is flowing where it usually doesn't, making you feel feverish and oddly comfortable.

The smell continues to bother you, though.

It's been a while since you've been in a position like this. It's all too familiar despite the length of your absence.

Similar to a fast food joint that gave someone food poisoning once, this club turns your stomach with irksome memories. Men circling. Feeling of wanting it but frightened to your core, only for someone to shirk on some shining armor and save your ass... and you know now who that was...

'The Breather,' your mind offers in shivers that run down between your thighs where the inflammation from the alcohol begins to pool. Every beat of blood seems to struggle between following your heart beat and the throbbing whistle of shitty EDM music. Pumping synthesizer beats played to under algorithms perfect to get people moving, help move your own hormones across synapses riled by the thought of 'him.'

You swallow a sip from your drink, forgetting you're already a bit more intoxicated than you'd like and turn to your friend. She's bouncing to the music in the booth; pushed-up tits jiggling.

As usual, Audrey is in her element, flagging down another two happy-hour whiskey sours only to gulp one down whole like some fucking chugging champion. Even under the low, flattering lighting, you can see her eyes dilate, and cheeks color as the booze pops the blood barrier as fast as possible.

Your half-full glass of whatever Audrey ordered for you sits more than half-full while you incline across the low table, posed like a pornstar you saw in a film once. It’s your go-to move - palms flat for support, legs crossed and shoulders level enough that your breasts are in everyone's foreground. When playing wingwoman, there’s little room for shame... not that you really had much to begin with.

Fucking around with a serial killer is about as morally unjust as being one... and there you go thinking about him again. Every minute his predatory silhouette will linger in your mind's eye and another ooze of moisture will flow from your core.

"Still doing good, babe?!" Audrey yells from across the table; voice softened beneath the thomp-bwap-bwap of music.

You give her a thumbs up and one fake grin, uncrossing and crossing your legs when a gaggle of fuckbois walk by.

Positioning and repositioning usually works.

Two guys slow down, staring and grinning. Since Audrey brought over the red dress with the side slit that goes past that crease between upper thigh and hip like a fuck-beacon, it’s safe to say tonight she’s gonna get what she wants. All you gotta do is sit here, thinking of the Breather and the terrible things he's gonna do to you once he realizes you skipped the hacienda.

Two dudes had already bolted their way to your table ten minutes ago, but Audrey said you weren’t into dudes which is always step one. For some reason, the lesbian angle - forbidden fruit or whatever? - weeded out the fat dicks, according to Audrey.

Now, all you gotta do is pretend none of the dressed up guys loitering catch your eye. They don’t… not really. Besides, it's more fun watching the other chicks bump and grind, spilling drinks and rushing to the restrooms to vomit when the combination of body heat, bouncing and booze become too much to hold down.

People watching doesn’t stop your mind from wandering over fantasies. At a certain point your eyes must glaze over because, while you can hear the smokey chatter of men conversing with Audrey in one ear, it's the Breather that's panting in the other. Slim chance he followed you this evening, but you still keep an eye out; hoping. The idea that he threw himself amidst people - something you're sure he can't stand on a good day - just to keep an eye on you? Well, it's an intense response, to say the least.

It doesn’t really matter if he’s here or not, you think, sipping on your drink.

Throbbing beats chase the liquor down your throat, filling you with more heat and desperation. Yeah, you're horny now... there's no pretending otherwise. For moments like this, and you wish the Breather gave out a burner number every now and then. Even redialing the phone numbers he calls from gets you nothing but endless beeps which have turned into nails on a chalkboard at this point.

Thankfully, unless he’s out gutting hitchhikers, then you’re in for a run in with him at some point tonight. He’ll probably be home waiting for you when you get in, shadowed against an alcove waiting to strike, eager to punish you for doing whatever you want. Which you'll keep doing regardless of how often he thinks it's fun to fuck you in the ass - that morning was still a bucket of fun despite the three days it took to sit down properly again.

The promise of him - of anything he does - is thrilling, and maybe the fantasy keeps playing in your head, when a fresh face in business casual slips into your peripherals.

"Hey! My name's Kyle! What's your name?!" He shouts over the music. The question is beamed at you, not Audrey, but that's to be expected at this point in the game. His smile even appears honest, despite the glaring exhibition his buddies are making of themselves several feet away near the bar.

It’s the thought of a knife gliding with faultless precision inside this guys navel that makes you blush; imagining that killing in the alley again and getting even wetter because of it.

He ticks all of Audrey’s boxes, but your job isn’t to chat, so you throw him a quick, bored look.

The game - the trick - is simple really.

As the night progresses and more guys get turned away, they start shit talking; complaining. They all gossip and bitch and mock and ultimately some great dicked ‘redeemer of lesbos’ will come around and offer up the opportunity of a lifetime. Customarily, they’ll flash you both a glimpse of said dick before you’ll scoff, head to the bathroom and leave Audrey to confirm his cock has made her question her whole life and open sexuality.

One night stands are everything Audrey’s after, nothing more and nothing less, plus you get to say ominous shit before squatting in the bathroom stall with your phone and an open document of rape porn to indulge in. Or at least that’s what you would have done prior to the Breather breaking down your front door.

There’s no reason for the Breather to subject himself to a place like this, but for the third time - or fourth? - you notice yourself combing the crowd of gyrating bodies for him.

For a second you think there’s a glimpse of a hood, the sleeve of a dark sweatshirt but an elbow to your hips knocks your attention away and towards the guy still smiling with the lip of a beer in his mouth. Audrey's elbow tucks back in, and she nods her chin up with wide eyes.

"What did I miss? - something about your dick?" You question; only talking a few decibels above the latest shitty synth track.

This fucking guy sets his beer down, puts his knuckles on the table a few inches from your thigh, so he doesn't have to shout and asks, “I’ve always wanted to know how you chicks can fuck strapons but say you can’t stand dick.”

It’s not really an inquiry, but it’s said in the same vein as one.

No way would you ever hook up with a dude-bro like this, even before the Breather... even before you accepted regular sex just wasn't your thing, but you smile and play the game. Audrey snickers when you just laugh in his face.

Without missing a beat, she lifts up on her elbow and speaks up, “We’ve never met a guy with a dick as big as 'our' strapon.”

The man smirks, bats his eyelashes better than you can before glancing over at his pals. His shoulders bounce in silent laughter - hubris - and without warning, untucks his polo shirt and hooks a thumb behind the button on his slacks.

Both you and Audrey chose a corner booth with one of those diminutive low tables and tall snake plants that act like a waist-high privacy fence.

Right there, without a notion of embarrassment and all the unattractive testosterone in the world, he pulls his flaccid cock out, gives it a squeeze before sleekly curling it back behind his zipper.

Shameless, you think. At least you both have that in common.

The dude was packing, sure… but it’s nothing as grotesquely long as the Breather’s pale, veiny dick.

And, with that thought, your mouth waters on par with the slick trickling out your cunt.

The warm steel blade tucked inside the back of his pants becomes self-aware. The metal vibrates as the Breather watches his naughty… naughty girl lean away from the mannequin-dressed man. It doesn’t matter that she looks unimpressed by the presentation.

The asshole exposed himself to her. Once the Breather is done with her, he’ll visit this rat and dispose of him.

The Breather stands on the edge of an oblivious crowd, picturing intestines spilling beneath pique cotton. Organs are too slippery - too odorous and segmented to bother with, but he’ll suffer the onslaught of such offal if it will prolong the horror of the meatbag adjusting his genitals.

There’s more of them watching from the sidelines; learning techniques that’ll turn them into pigs wearing sheep’s skin. Schoolyard children watching the main bully for future tactics. All of it is foul and pathetic.

Desperately, he wants to perforate their writhing stomachs… almost as much as he wants to penetrate his little rabbit until she too is weeping crimson and female ejaculate.

She deserves tears and pain. He will give her pleasure and blood.

Forcing him into this peopled pit where he’s bare-faced and gloveless - garnering looks thanks to the smooth paleness that is his corporeal form - his Black Widow will bear raised brush strokes from his knife… his cock… teeth and tongue.

He’ll take her by the silky strands at the crown of her head and bury his length down her throat until the sting of alcohol-bile hits the head of his cock. The Breather wants to choke her with it; brand her. It doesn’t matter that her goal tonight is to get her frustrating friend fucked. He’s seeping with fury from each tight pore at the idea - the very thought she’d willingly take any of these men over himself - and it makes him hard.

Stomach acid and vodka on the head of his cock.

Hot mouth and tight throat… warming his rage. He’s going to throat fuck her - fuck her and fuck her - until she’s more him than herself.

A lean-muscled figure in a hoodie shifts out the corner of your eye. Wishful thinking, maybe? - but by the time you've fully recovered from the unwarranted dick-flashing, the red-lit silhouette is gone.

That syrup-sweat that says someone’s watching hits the nape of your neck.

Is he? Could the Breather actually-

“Legends say if you give it a kiss, it’ll grow another three-inches.”

Audrey raises her perfectly trimmed brows, “Woah, really? That’s so big!”

She’s doing an ace job at pretending to be stunned. It’s easy for you to see through it, but the act works every time. Every one of these club guys just LOVES a girl they can dick-school. You imagine it tickles the same serotonin receptors that popping a girls cherry does.

Looking unimpressed, both because you need to be and because you are, you slide off the table just as ‘big-dick’ sucks in his lower lip, looking like he’s won a threesome.

He hasn’t.

It’s not exactly a point of pride, but the Breather has ruined you for any other guy, no matter the size or quality of his ‘disposition.’ It’s not even about the serial killer’s insane cock, more a combination of complimenting kinks and that trust you can only truly have for someone as fucked up as you are - as shunned and longing for a cure to that ache so deep inside.

“Eh,” you shrug while ‘big dick dude’ looks down your dress, “go break your pussy on that if you want, girl. I’ve got a thirteen-inch rubber cock at home.”

The guy only looks disappointed for a second before he throws Audrey a promising grin. Dick signed and delivered, you think with a snide look.

Quickly, you finish off your glass of burning liquor with a sneer before grabbing your purse.

Audrey laughs beneath the ‘thwump-pound’ of the music while the effects of that last chug soaks your cunt and brain into inebriated arousal. You’ve already been here long enough to warrant a sterilized shower and some powdered donuts.

Tomorrow, you’ll make good on Audrey’s part of the deal to buy you a stack of waffles. Right now, you want nasty, monstrous sex with a man in a mask that kills people for shits and giggles.

You want the Breather.

There’s never been anyone that could make you cum as hard as he can…

… although, he’s become more than that. Your feelings for him are much less straightforward; muddied and lodged where no one else has ever been.

Without warning, a noxious feeling of guilt hits below the booze and adrenaline. Empathy for the Breather - a living monster - comes out of nowhere and it follows on your heels as you flee to the restrooms.

There hasn’t been a single word of commitment or dedication, tho there hasn’t been any need for them. You’re both so twisted together that it’s a wordless engagement by now, but… you just sat on a table for an hour, sizing up guys and willingly looked at another man’s cock. You imagine the Breather sizing up a female victim on one of his prowls - the same way you have the guys in this dark, dingy club - and the thought… well, it sours your stomach with jealousy.

Admittedly, he’ll be pissed that you’ve been gone - surely he’s gonna throw you across the floor and drag you down the hallway, toss you over something sturdy and fake-rape the shit out of you, right?

Maybe his idea of punishment will be bloodier.

Unless he has feelings and tonight you’ve inadvertently wounded them. It’s silly, but the thought makes you wanna apologize.

Perhaps, he’ll ignore you.

You’ve never played Audrey’s wingwoman since the Breather’s become a fixture in your life; destroying your body, mind, and grasp on reality. This stupid baiting game was different before. Walking into one of these places again after everything he’s done to you feels like a betrayal… somehow...

For a brief second you consider catching a cab alone in the ‘fuck me’ dress of Audrey’s, instead, you slip by a tall figure with hard, wide eyes - oblivious yet again of the world around you when you need that extra sense the most - while heading to the VIP bathrooms for added privacy.

Nothing sounds more enjoyable than being on the end of the Breather’s punishment, but you gotta get out of this fucking dress first. It’s too attention grabbing for one. Secondly, if he rips it you’ll have to buy Audrey another one.

After all this time, one would assume you’d be more spatially aware, but you aren’t, so you swing yourself around into a dim hallway and shoulder open the bathroom door. All the while, unaware of the bare-faced, hooded figure carefully tracking your movements.

VIP doesn’t mean the bathroom is any more or less fancy than the stalls across the club, but it’s less revolting than the puke-stained floors in the bathrooms by the entrance. Walls of painted charcoal with crimson picture frames of Noir-like femme fatales make up the three stall area. Granite countertops pick up the warm light, pinging off the metal stall doors like tiny suns. It’s almost blinding when coming in from the strobing glow of the main floor.

Thankfully, there’s no one else hanging around the wannabe-vampiric bathroom.

The hard thumping music resonates beneath the door frame, pummeling the thin walls. Electronic synth beats dampen the sound as you toss your purse on the sink counter. Like a living couch potato, you’d stuff a tank top and pair of leggings in your purse just in case.

Usually, on nights like these, you’d walk home in whatever slutty outfit your best friend squeezed you into, hoping for some shithead to follow you home… chase you down and fuck you in a back alley while your heart raced and his cock took from you what it wanted. Now, you’re happier kicking off your heels and slipping into soft, black stretch-cotton, unwilling to attract anyone else’s attention except for-

The bathroom door opens.

Prickly-heat coats you from scalp to breasts like an oven door falling open in your face.

You turn, feeling the warmth in your cheeks compress and sink like a hot stone down your throat, belly and straight into your pelvis. A half-masked Breather stares licorice-tinted daggers at you. The corner of a soft - softer than you would have thought - mouth curls meanly before its hidden with a tug and slip of the elastic band around the back of his ear. You only had two seconds at most to take in the rest of his features: a straight, slightly hooked nose with plush lips and strong jawline which met into a sturdy, triangular chin.

“... damnitt, why’s he gotta be hot?” The words come out as you think them, still staring.

His eyes bulge at your comment, but narrow hard and fast - fast enough to say he’s unhappy. Angry. Lusting. Eager to hurt you - to fuck you and make you sob in this bathroom with Audrey and her ‘cock of the evening’ flirting in the dank VIP booth.

Drool pools behind your teeth. The image of his partially exposed face will remain with you forever, much like the scars that have started to pinken and silver where he’s cut and scratched you red and oozing.

With a solid slot of metal, the Breather twists the bathroom door lock beside his hip, never severing eye contact.

Suddenly, you feel the urge to explain yourself.

The rumpled dress around your waist weighs heavy as your thumbs curl in the waistband of your leggings. Ventilated air breezes down between your breasts where the neckline dips, which is merely another stark reminder you’ve been caught with your metaphorical hand in the cookie jar.

The Breather, with his black pants, weighted boots, and a medical mask lifted back in place, brandishes that old friend - the glistening knife - from behind his back and stretches sterile-blue with a rabid grin.

You’re so fucked it’s laughable.

Her aroma cuts through the smell of isopropyl alcohol and pine. Musk, sugar and whatever familiar scent she bathed with, adds to the tang of her arousal in the air. The Breather inhales, takes her in and squeezes his knife handle until the rubber creaks.

Her body jolts as if her cerebellum twitched a microsecond before the logical part of her brain reminds her there’s nowhere to run. The movement jiggles a creamy slice of breast, making it pillow against that slashed, red neckline. Her flesh… so supple and full; blood and fat buried within.

Squinting beneath the shafts of light, blemishes of old yellow bruising can be seen where his teeth had bitten the doughy globes weeks ago. Those marks had been well hidden by the brackish lighting by her table.

The Breather stares, feeling much less concerned for his outward appearance at first glance than he thought he’d have been. With her looking so winded, aroused and disturbed by him, he’s more pleased than anything. If she finds him ‘hot’ it’s merely an added bonus.

They own one another. It wouldn’t matter if he was attractive to her or not… or her to him, though she is, but their love goes further than that. Similar to a symbiotic relationship, there’s no her without him and vice-versa.

She’s bowed against the counter, a thumb in her leggings where bare skin glimpses between black and red fabric - she’s gulping down saliva… lips quivering. Those glassy, lightly-liquored eyes say ‘please’ and ‘yes’ and the Breather grins wide enough to feel the painful stretch of tissue over his lips.

Yes, he’s not in a position to say no.

“Naughty girl,” he hisses beneath ten tons of pressure in his lungs. Seeing her laid over that table like a carcass for hungry vultures has turned him into an addict for carrion. Devourer of exposed, tarnished meats.

He gulps and wheezes in preparation; knife as heavy as the blood-bloated cock in his pants. The audible sound snaps her from whatever shock his exposure garnered. The paralyzed, awe-full disgust does not last, and as usual, she performs for him beautifully.

Like a drunken ballerina, she launches herself off the granite countertop and darts towards the high window seated above a poorly decorated radiator. He allows her one naked foot on the shelf above the metal unit - a glimmer of false hope she pretends to want - before snatching loose hair at the nape of her neck, jerking her against his air-heavy chest and laying the knifepoint beneath her chin.

She’s not so calculating as usual. The scent of alcohol on her says why, but the Breather chuckles all the harder as she struggles aimlessly; poorly acted. He hisses out his bubbling, brimming pleasure anyway because she’s too sweet even if she’s drunk.

The Breather grunts and growls and giggles until she gasps when the knife pricks her harder amidst the uncoordinated thrashing body pressing and pulling against his grip.

Madness.

Mindless.

“Fuck, no. You were supposed to-to-to-”

The smell of her cunt crying for him is all he tastes on the back of his tongue as he silences her with a cotton-wrapped bite to the jugular.

His knife slashes away from her vulnerable throat, cutting, but not too deep - perfect. The handle sits in her cheekbone, forcing her cheek along his covered mouth until he can feel the soaking sweat from around the right-most rise of her gentle nasal ridge.

With a snarl, he warns against the side of her lips, “See how she struggles-“ her body jerks hard enough he grunts, breathing hot air against her cheek as she pants, and pins her - breasts to cold wall and chest to her stiff back, “-soon she shall be but the dirt that sprouts the rose; remembering mercy refused.”

Blood flows from the slice across her throat, flooding down his gloved-wrist into the dark cotton cuff of his hoodie. The fluids stain and cool, and for one second he forgets about the thing that resides inside her that makes her different and his. For a moment he fists her hair in his fingers all the harder, tugs her back but stops before smashing her face into the porcelain wall.

The Breather lets loose a winded sound as she gasps in pure terror, realizing how quickly his mood shifted; intions churning. He releases his trusted knife to clatter across the floor like a betrayful snake. The urge to stab her to death had not be far behind the desire to bash her nose in.

“No,” he shudders, hugging her underbelly with one forearm before sliding fingers from her hair to grasp the bulging tremble of her beautiful, long… weeping throat. “Too sweet. Even among vermin, etched in false red, you’re all-all-allll mine.”

Her heart races against his arm, inside her stomach. Bird wings flutter in the arteries around his palm. She swallows, producing a sound unlike anything he’s heard the living utter, and gradually sags against him. Her cushioned ass slots down in the narrow cavern of his hips and upper thighs, squeezing his cock beneath layers of fabric.

From her lips, the Breather catches a breathless ‘ruin me’ against the edge of his covered mouth.

Yes.

Always, yes.

It should have been pretty obvious how unlikely it was that the Breather would wait until you got home. As if he was some typical guy with normal quirks. He’s not a boyfriend or a husband or a fuck buddy for that matter. He’s something so much more than all that and yet… nothing like any of those monikers in the slightest.

You mutter a weak ‘please’ against the outline of softly parted lips. His breathing is unsteady. Another throaty, moaning ‘pretty please’ gets you pulled from the wall where you’d been sure he was about to bash you to death a minute ago.

“Did-did security see you?” You get the question out just before he’s cinching you suffocatingly around ribs and neck; choking down what little air you’d had. His chest against yours shakes like he’s already cumming for you.

The crotch of your leggings is scratchy and wet already, leaving you momentarily flustered to think you might have pissed yourself but it’s nothing like that… just arousal - just sick need for whatever he has planned. Even in this shitty bathroom with the thud-thump-boom of club music muffling through the walls, you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. Besides, he’s fucked you in nastier places: back alleys, petrol-slickened van floors, soaked undergrowth just off your usual jogging path… and one time on the dirty floor of a gas station stockroom.

Tonight, even if he fucks you over the toilet, it won’t disappoint the cravings between your thighs one, single bit.

“Insulting.” The Breather intones, but malice bows under frightening, eager determination while he steers you across the breadth of the bathroom, back-kicking a stall door open with a loud bang.

Against your cheek, his cotton-dampened breath heaves and gurgles; wheezing open mouthfuls. “By now, you know my weaknesses… such a rotten tease.”

You wonder if a part of him got off to you being the eye candy for Audrey’s ‘bait and fuck’ plan. Yeah, that idea sits very well with you right now, and the fantasy starts settling itself in reality as the Breather releases your throat to tear free one breast from a red slice of satin.

His thumb and forefinger - rubber-clad and tacky - pinch your stiff nipple so hard you buckle and moan. No time to savor the sensation. The Breather spins you face forward into the stall, bends you over the black porcelain of the toilet shelf and smothers your sounds of gratitude behind his hand.

Nitrite and orange cleaner assails your nostrils.

The Breather tears your dress open; breath soaking through the mask into the side of your face. He’s everywhere, and he’s hot and smothering and… it feels so good to have the hidden cock you’ve been mulling over all night lodged between the cleft of your ass cheeks.

Sure, it’s a little humiliating, you think, but quickly forget the setting as his rubber-palm cups and squeezes your free hanging tits.

By now, you know the dull tickle of a forming bruise, and by the time he tears his hand off your mouth and starts shoving down your black leggings, your breasts burn and itch; aching for more.

“Jesus-fuck. You better have been-“ teeth, hard and dull from the mask, sink beneath your jaw, crunching close to an artery. It takes your breath away, but not the little twinge of fear, thinking that the more you both fuck and play and fight, the less cautious he becomes.

“Careful?” He mocks; gritty and moist against your ear.

Shaken, fucked up on adrenaline, you nod though there’s no point. The Breather’s mask shifts against your affirmation, but his hot breath remains plastered to the side of your face.

“I, not welcome anywhere I go, bow to need and greed,” he recites while exposing your naked rear to the cool, sharp air of obsidian-colored restroom walls, “mask unmasked, his face belied; the humiliation of no more.”

Chills and goosebumps run and raise along your limbs; erecting all those baby-fine hairs along your body.

“I like it,” you manage to get out before his fingers creek around your ass cheeks, peeling and pulling them apart to expose the puckered hole he’d fucked a few weeks ago.

Like always, your cheeks fatten with a blush. If it’s a kink of his or something liked forced humiliation, you’re not sure, and it doesn’t matter because you withstand it anyway.

“... I like it,” you whisper again, unable to adequately explain that it’s his face you’d glimpse that you like. You like it a lot actually. Like it more than you thought you would.

The Breather seems less inclined to listen and more willing to make you hurt. Without a stroke of warning, he stuffs a thick thumb up your ass, dents his fingers in your cheek so deep you jolt in double-shock; tongue on the roof of your mouth.

It’s that last glass of vodka-whatever that’s cotton balled your brain, meaning you jerk forward despite his grip and arch your back to twist, throwing a blind elbow into his stomach.

A giggle wheezes down your neckline.

His chest falls over your spine, shoving your collar bones down on the toilet shelf so your soft tits can freeze on the black porcelain. Fighting him off - that thumb still hooked in your ass - gets a fist clamped around your throat.

The Breather squeezes until you gag; lesson learned.

He yanks you up off the toilet, against his chest where your hands fumble against the charcoal painted wall for some semblance of support until your fingertips slip away from the surface; body bowed against his own.

“Unzip me,” he demands besides your hot cheek; voice scratchy and baritone.

A quiver sneaks down your belly, snatching your cunt muscles. A leak of moisture slides down your inner thigh while you fumble around his firm wrist, reaching behind knuckles that bulge under blue rubber - thumb inside you where it pounds and beats like a ventricle - to find his front button and zipper.

It doesn’t take long to unfold the disgustingly long, turgid dick from his pants anymore.

Veiny, rock-hard cock weighs heavy in your hands in under five seconds. In fact, you would’ve asked for a fucking metal if you didn’t know it’d get you choked out right now. The palm around your throat squeezes as you churn the malleable skin around his hardness up and down… back and forth; thumbs circling the flared cap before smearing around his oily precum.

“Pretend.” Another harsh, stuttering command.

And so, despite being wet enough to slip in it, you pretend.

Feeble, weak throws of limbs and torso.

It’s not enough, so the Breather swings her ninety-degrees, lowers her by the throat to her knees and steers his cock by the narrow base to her painted lips. She makes a fake face - one of disgust and fear - but it’s not enough without tears.

She’s grown too familiar with him to look as terrified by the prospect this than he wants her to be.

It’s his own folly. The last time he broke into her home, it was quiet… it was a rule ignored. He’d crawled across her bed, smothered her lips in one hand and tore the covers down with the other. He fucked her in her bed without the knife at play… just fucked her, almost like a man would.

The Breather remembers the way she’d blushed in the darkness, her ankles hooked around his hips, as he now forces her toward the purpled-cap of slim, long cock. She tries to fight him, turning her head to the side so a slimy trail of precum shines across her cheek.

A hard squeeze to her neck, making sure his thumb dents her esophagus, helps change her tune. It isn’t long before she’s gagging on stolen breaths and he’s wedging himself past lips, teeth and flat tongue to the back of her snug, tiny throat.

Inside, she’s as hot as blood.

Outside, with tears starting to shine her eyes, she’s even hotter.

“Open wider,” he growls with glee, pulling her close while pressing his hips forward; more sweet heat wrapping him up until the muscles inside contract.

One, large tear slides down her flushed cheek as she gags. So beautiful in such pathetic rapture. Her lashes flutter, and more droplets escape like rain as she swallows and winces and tries so hard to open her throat for more.

Admirable…

She retches again, and stomach bile reaches the head of his cock. The sensation sets his balls against his body; hugging close while his stomach tightens.

Like a good girl, she swallows again, pulling down the vomit until she’s choking and gagging and moaning as he thoroughly face fucks her. The thud of her skull against the bathroom stall only adds to the orchestra of her natural sounds, his fluid thrusts, and the insulting electronic music that hounds the cocoon he’s erected with the single turn of a latch.

They’re locked in.

She’s locked in with him, taking nearly every grotesque inch of him while the real tears fall and her face turns a deep shade of asphyxiation.

Her eyes droop - nostrils flaring - and just before she can’t stand it anymore, he drags the whole length from her mouth, watching how her pale lips turn bloodshot and swollen.

Shoved against the wall, his palm gripping her slender neck, she gasps, inhales through snotty tears and sniffles.

Strings of spit connect her lower lip to the swollen head of his cock. The sight does things to him… wrong, emotional things that only grow when she leans forward despite his grip and pecks the dripping slit that’d been down her throat seconds ago. It’s not a rape-game when she proves her love for his sexual violence like this.

“Yesss,” he hisses low and thick, unable to deny the flutter in his chest.

“Do it again.”

His tear-stained, puffy-faced Black Widow gives his slobbery cock another kiss. Her raw tongue flicks out against it and a jolt of pleasure runs down the root. Every little peck and gentle suck makes his knees weaken, loosening the grip on her throat until he’s guiding her by her temples to take the head into her mouth. She suckles and laves her tongue around the knot beneath the cap; gentle worship that should be revolting but isn’t.

“Succinct sweetness; devoured bit by bit… slow… ebbing erosions of the soul…” The Breather recites from memorized passages of poetry.

The Breather leans back, shoulder and skull bracing the wall behind him as he rocks his hips to and fro, pleasure warming his lower body as her lips stretch and suck down inch after inch until he’s shivering.

“Faster,” he snarls.

Her palms twist and stroke what she won’t shove down her throat - what she refuses to choke on. Each hot engulf of rubbing tongue and soft palate coaxes his balls against his body.

Soft, slim fingers grip, squeeze, and stroke.

Her teeth graze.

Another inch goes down.

A swallow and euphoric moan resonating on his spongy, swollen cockhead.

The Breather pets down her mused hair, rubs the thumb he’d stuck inside her rear entrance just around the crest of her ear and holds her in place.

Little rabbit, so quickly tricked into naivety, smiles wicked around his cock.

Without a word to prepare her, the Breather’s hold turns malicious. His fingers tighten around her face - thumbs denting beneath her cheekbones - and shoves his cock back down her throat until she’s gagging and the tears are crawling down her face.

He lurches with sticky bliss and a clogged grunt.

Hot cum surges forth, spitting down her throat. He orgasms while her nails dig into the taut muscle above his groin; nearly clawing him in shock. He giggles through his nostrils and groans, relishing the rise of burning bile in the depths of her esophagus.

The last trickle of cum weeps like a string of globular goodness as he pulls from her orifice.

She retches once more but quickly swallows it back with all the cum and saliva until there’s nothing beneath his palm but a pile a panting exhaustion and gummy tears.

“Say it,” he needs to hear it even as his cock softened beside her cheek.

“Mean it. Tell me, or you’ll gag on my knife tomorrow night. Devour blood and beg for semen.”

She trembles in his hands, clinging at his sagging pants in a pitiful attempt to right herself as her thighs refuse to lift her up.

Her red, ruined tongue licks up a stain of creamy saliva from the bottom of her lip before she gulps and exhales a wet moan of pain, “I-mmm… I love…”

The Breather tips her head back, exposing wet lashes and red-rimmed eyes the color of postmortem gashes.

“I… love you, so…” a painful swallow, “so much.”

Those words turn his fingers along her cheek, contemplating baring his fingers to feel the velvet of her tear-softened skin.

Her eyes squeeze shut against another troubling swallow as if she’s trying to realign her deeply fucked throat but through the pain she leans forward. A kiss to the bare pelvic muscle above his softening cock makes the Breather exhale with lousy emotion.

Another kiss hits the edge of his hip, just below the hem of his hoodie and he forgets why he’d been so enraged.

Her palms, still tacky, fold beneath his undershirt; fingers spreading across his abdominals.

Kiss after kiss after gentle, loving peck coats his stomach, moving up towards his navel until his cock begins to lift with renewed lust. This time… he’s been tamed like a fucking dog, and the violence he wants to lash down on her is replaced by the same goopy sentiment that brought him gently to her bed that one night.

“I know what you’re doing to me,” he accuses but doesn’t change course.

“You think kisses and words will save you.”

This is about his desires - a failed mantra. It’s about what he wants. Her pleasure is a happy accident… or so he lies to himself still as he pulls her to her knees and hefts her up against the stall wall.

The moans that wheeze out your throat hurt. Every breath is a thousand papercuts. Blood stains the back of your tongue where the brutal blow job left slivers of broken inner flesh behind, but none of that is of any concern while you’re cunt is gradually filled with his spit-wet cock.

The Breather insults you and praises you in equal amounts while cupping your ass and turning your chin up, so his pupils absorb your own.

You blink, remembering his exposed jawline of smooth, paleness and soft lips curled into a grin. Without thinking you wrap your arms around his neck and bend up to kiss his masked mouth.

He groans noisily, thrusting only so deep before he meets resistance. It’s almost… gentle. It’s almost like that night in your bed where he’d locked your ankles around his back and… made love to you with bare fingers around your carotid arteries.

“Harder,” you beg against his medical mask, but get smooth, slow thrusts in response.

The Breather doesn’t wanna go hard, he wants it slow and just deep enough to tap your cervix but not enough to make you cry. It’s funny that this tenderness is what makes your eyes burn without an ounce of pain.

His palm slips across your ass, squeezing your thigh to turn and delve down where you’re both joined. Rubber fingers scoop through moisture, stimulating your outer lips before swirling your clit in slow, firm motions.

You can’t muscle enough strength to keep yourself wrapped around his hips.

One leg drops, a naked heel hitting the floor. You hook the toes on your other foot down back of his pants and rock over what cock he’ll give you. It’s good, but you’re a glutton for punishment.

You want it to hurt.

“Please, deeper-deep-“ you suck down the rest when the bathroom’s main door bangs under a fist. Some woman starts calling out through the cheap hollow-frame wood.

The Breather giggles nasally at the look of panic on your face. He pins you against the stall, mashing your clit until it’s the perfect amount of rough friction to make you whimper while granting you an inch more cock.

Deeper… deep…

‘Anyone in there?! Come on! I gotta-... fuck it…’

“Fuck it,” you mimic with a watery smile; kissing him again.

Behind the mask, the Breather grins - blue cotton stretching to each side of his jaw. His black eyes dilate; whites expanding as his pace shifts, rocking faster but no deeper. His finger and thumb pinch and drag up over your mound before plucking your clit between his knuckles and squeezing until you squeal.

It should be enough but it’s not - not really. You need more to finish, but you climax despite knowing you shouldn’t be. It’s so soft and radiating; lengthy and gentle.

It’s fucked up… but it’s so, so good…

You cling to him, exhale through the peak as your cunt ripples and contracts and his fingers churn.

“No,” you whimper and again, repeating the objection until the Breather is letting you unhook the elastic band around his ear - letting you lay your lips over his bare grin. His teeth rake your tongue. You swallow his wheezes and groans and cum all the harder as the stall rattles and your body quivers.

That beautiful wash of jizz stains your inside, not so deep you can feel it behind your navel, but enough to start sobbing about how much you love him and need him; wanting him no matter how much it hurts or doesn’t hurt.

The Breather sucks down your senseless words, bites your bottom lip and finishing pumping you full of a second load. It’s barely enough to run out and down your thighs, but what does drip forth makes you sigh and smile like a well-fucked dope.

The door bangs again.

Two women shout behind the door, demanding an answer. They sound more worried than upset, perhaps thinking someone drank too much or had an accident.

Even past the sound of EDM and your own racing heart - orgasm-bells still in your ears - the unmistakable jingle of keys forces you and the Breather apart.

He untucks your toes from his pants, sets you against the stall and sits down on the shelf of the toilet with his boots staining the rounded seat. The mask hangs against his jaw, exposing the unexpected features that are both gentle and chiseled.

He folds his half-flaccid cock inside his pants, zips, and buttons himself decent before resting back against the wall - eyes like organic saucers upon you. Just before you make the mistake of asking him ‘what the fuck he’s doing’ the door unlocks.

Quickly - clumsily - you hike your leggings up and drop to your knees, leaning your head over the open toilet between the Breathers boots as if you’re-

“Hey… hey! You alright in there? Honey? You’re not allowed to lock the door, sweetie.”

You rest your palms on the Breathers boots, peering up to see a lazy grin and a pink tongue pinched between white teeth.

He’s too-

“Miss?” The voice is a little less authoritative this time.

“Y-yeah… yes,” you manage in a voice appropriately wrecked, just not by puke as they probably assume.

“Just… too much to drink.”

As you find your voice, the Breather plays with the messy hair obscuring part of your forehead. He leans a forearm on his thigh while your own fingers toy with the cuff of his pants leg.

“For your own safety you can’t be locking that door, okay?”

“Sorry,” you gasp, still looking up at the Breather with those huge eyes and that grin which seems so wrong on a mouth so soft, “I just didn’t want my friend knowing I can’t… hold my booze.”

Above you, the Breather’s eyes narrow. His fingers tug and fist a patch of hair on the top of your head, lifting you straight up, straining on your knees and toes.

You make a sound between a gasp and a sob; appropriate for the setting.

“I can find your friend, or call you a cab. Did you make the toilet?”

“Yes, no! No, I’m okay… and yeah, no mess. Sorry-sorry again…”

Your last sentence goes in one ear and out the other.

That woman who so desperately needed to piss takes the stall furthest away, avoiding the stench of vomit of which there isn’t any… just the tang of sex that goes unnoticed oddly enough. You barely hear the toilet flush, or the sink run, not the loud music that comes when the girl leaves the restroom because while this position is fucked up and gross and you shouldn’t wanna make out with the Breather period let alone hovering over a club toilet, you do.

With gusto and longing and new desperation you leap up to kiss him while he steers your mouths together with barbaric violence. You take each punishing bite until you taste blood. A final, tongue gouging kiss sends your mind reeling worse than the alcohol, making you stumble when the Breather shoves you back.

“If you’re not home when I get there… hehe, you know where I’m sticking my knife.”

You nod, collect yourself despite leaving your dignity on the floor. Beneath the sink, your purse still sits… and beside the radiator, his knife still gleams.

The ruined red dress goes in your purse and the tank top goes on. You pad out into the hallway of the club like a gangly thing freshly born. The music pummels your ears. Somewhere, Audrey is either getting dick or on her way to dick town. It’s sorta cheeky to think you just got fucked and will soon get fucked again despite going out when your last shred of sense said to stay indoors.

Lingering for a second with the red exit sign in the edge of your vision, you send your best friend a quick text to let her know you’re getting a cab home.

You don’t get a text back from her until you’re halfway home, sitting in the warm backseat of a leather-smelling cab that’s driven by a stocky middle-aged woman.

‘I heard you were yacking in the bathroom. We need to increase your tolerance, dude. I’m on my way to Bradley’s place now.’

She ends her text with a winking emoji and sends you a heart followed by a quick ‘feel better’ text that sounds half-hearted at best. You roll your eyes, because yeah… that’s Audrey with dick on the brain.

The short drive home is quiet and cheap. Outside, the cab is cold and damp with the sprinkles of approaching rain but you make it under the awning by your front door before it starts to pour down, fumbling through your purse for your keys.

You blink, lift your brass key and pause. Your house is unlocked… the door is ajar... and someone - you know who - is waiting inside with a knife.

Inside you find what you expected: the Breather standing in the darkness with his sharpened blade aimed outward and the mask back in place.

From the shadows, his silhouette shakes with quiet laughter.

“Welcome home… my Black Widow.”

You drop your purse, smile charmingly and throw your door closed behind you.

“Happy to be home, baby.”

The Breather gives you not just the hard, battering and morally fucked up hammering of cock you’d wanted all night, but he stays afterward, tracing the tip of his knife down your naked side, hip, and arm while you doze and watch Netflix. Something couples might do, you think lazily… sleepy and coaxed into an unfounded sense of safety.

For some reason… it feels… perfect, even when the Breather knocks you on the floor, lift your hips and takes you a third time, despite how loudly you cry and how good it fucking hurts.