Page 14 of Killer Bones

He says, quietly, so only I can hear, “Look at those dirty fuckers, watching you getting your cunt destroyed.” Dead Guy lowers his head, bites the side of my neck until I’m sure he will be chewing off a piece of me. My whine satisfies him. He licks the stinging bite then twists me so I must look at him. “Interesting, how a woman can enjoy this, no?”

His irises are a pretty gray, for such an evil man.

I close my eyes, open them, spit out a word, “Bastard.”

“My middle name.” He withdraws, slams in, lifting me off my toes. My cry makes him smile.

“I want a list of what you intend to do, Mister Smith! Cut off a finger maybe, daily? Things like that.” Montez has stood, and he unzips, begins to stroke himself.

“It shall be done,” he tells me this, intimately close, then kisses my mouth, bites my lip, my chin, my jawline. “I want to eat you, piece by piece.”

At the next brutal thrust, I shift my head so I’m looking at the entry, instead of the watchers. He turns me back to face Montez, his words a growl as he plows me, “You let them see you as I fuck you. Or else.”

I’ve no idea what the ‘or else’ is but the knife is in my view, sticking up straight from the back of my hand. Blood stains my skin, runs and spills to the table. Shamefully, this mirrors what has happened below. The wet noises as he impales me grow louder, more obvious.

He shoves the side of my face to the table. I squeal as his weight hits me, hard, as he slaps into my ass, rams into me.

The room moves, sways, as we fuck.

But lust is king. Lust is queen, king, and conqueror.

I won’t come. I won’t.

I vow this, even though he’s halted, reaching beneath me to find my clit, to slowly press and circle it. Pressing, pressing, fucking me slower as he does so. I resist then I collapse to the table, my hands twitching despite the pain evoked, my thighs tensing. I’m groaning and cannot stop.

I’m shaking, I’m spreading myself, I’m begging even, in a small pitiful voice.

I’m bleeding, I’m hurt, and yet I’m going to come. Shamefully, I know this.

“Blood and a crying woman who opens her legs.” Dead Guy says hoarsely. He’s grunting now, speeding up. “Perfect.”

I try to rise. He shoves, palm to my back. He fists my hair again. He yanks me off the table, rips down the front of my dress then scoops both breasts from my bra. “Stay where I fucking put you.” My hands are no longer pinned. The knife will slide. Then he comes to my rescue and traps my left wrist.

He rams in, battering me. I can’t stop him. I no longer want to.

My resistance falters and fails, and I’m swimming, drowning deep, in the darkest, filthiest, most shocking desires.

He swears, and I feel the warm ejection of his come, the degrading, yet head-spinning pleasure of this man’s release. I’m stretched upward, am made to arch, being shown off to the others as he finishes. My dress is ripped even lower while he pulls out and lets his come spill. It wets and runs down my thighs.

When at last I’m lowered, my butt is smacked. “Stay there.” I’m left belly-down, on the table. Panting, I see the knife, hazily.

Montez is laughing, talking, but its background noise.

“Stay there,” Dead Guy rasps out. “Let them see you. Spread your legs more. Outstanding. Don’t move.”

He zips up. My hand seems to have swelled and feels enormous, though my eyes say it’s a lie.

“I should carve my name in you.” With one finger he pretends to write something on my ass cheek.

In. ‘In’ sounds bad. As does carve.

“Adelmo’s whore,” he says quietly.

A name? Could that be his real name? I start to twist to see him, and he sticks a finger into my asshole, thrusts in as far as he can go. I wince, which makes my left hand shift. I yelp.

“You moved. Should I put the knife in here?” His finger rotates, probes.

“No,” I plead, and take care to only look at my bloodied hand. “Please?”