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“Harder,” I plead, panting through each stroke. “Fuck me harder. Fuck me like this slut wanted to be fucked.”
Emily’s eyes bulge, and she’s on the verge of passing out from blood loss, so I give her one last show before she dies. I let her see what it’s like to explode all over Rhett’s cock, screaming in ecstasy as he buries himself deep inside of me. What it’s like to have him completely and wholly, to myself.
He’s mine.
“Yes,” Rhett grunts, pounding me harder. “This pussy was fuckingmadefor me.”
My orgasm slams into me, and I scream for him, letting Emily watch every second of it. Rhett isn’t far behind me, too worked up with the anticipation of filling me once I was done fucking around with Emily. His thrusts slow as my orgasm ends, and he milks himself with my pussy, drawing out every last drop of his cum.
With my pussy dripping, I slide my finger through it, then bring it to Emily’s lips, pushing through them and coating her tongue.
My voice is low and petty as I say, “Here’s a little taste of what you wantedsobadly, but couldn’t have. A little something for the road toHell.”
Emily’s breathing becomes labored and rattled for a few seconds before it stops completely, her chest caving in with herlast breath. I smile to myself, turning to Rhett, who’s watching me with the most adoring look.
Iamas fucked up as he is, but he loves it. No one else would accept me this way.
That’s why he chose me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
RHETT
The cold night air is thick with the dank smell of decay. My breath puffs out in little clouds as I pull Emily’s lifeless body across the grass, the damp earth squelching beneath her as I drag her along. Her once-vibrant clothes are now stained with dirt and blood, and I grunt with effort as I drag her toward the hay bales piled next to my girl's shed. The remnants of her once glorious Halloween decor.
The set up she put on full display, just for me.
Each pull on Emily’s lifeless corpse across the ground sends a shiver through the grass, her body leaving a dark trail behind her.
The moonlight casts eerie shadows over the scene as I work.
I knew the moment my girl lost her control that Emily would meet the fate she deserved, and while this might not be her first kill, it’s one that needs to be remembered.
It’sspecial.
I maneuver the bales closer, their rough, yellowed edges pressing against my hands. I kneel beside Emily’s stiffening body and begin my work. The bales of hay are coarse and dry as I tear open the first bale, the straw spilling out like golden worms along the dark grass.
Carefully, I start stuffing her clothes with the hay. Clothes Cara dug out of the back of her closet and was willing to part with, since my girl ripped her dress to shreds. I force handfuls of straw into her shirt, pushing it deep into the fabric until it bulges grotesquely. The hay sticks and scratches against the inside of her clothes, making a rasping sound as it forces its way in. Her pants get the same treatment, hay stuffed down the legs, creating a crude and lumpy shape.
I pack the hay tightly, making sure it fills every crevice.
Standing, I look down at my newest art project, but something is off. It feels incomplete. A mischievous smirk plays on my lips as an idea comes to mind.
Her face remains exposed, pale, and lifeless under the cold moonlight. Grabbing her hair, I tilt her head back toward me, forcing her empty eyes in my direction. I stare down at Emily’s neck, the jagged wound my girl carved into her flesh with that broken wine glass still glistening under the dim moonlight. It’s a mess-nasty and raw. The edges torn to shreds. It’s not a clean slice like a knife would leave. No, this is brutal. The glass didn’t just cut her; it tore through her throat like a savage broken promise, shredding skin and muscle with relentless cruelty.
Knowing my girl did this and finding myself curious of what else she’s capable of has my cock hard and craving her.
The rest of Emily’s features are frozen in a vacant expression, mouth slightly agape, as if caught in a silent scream. The once-soft skin of her cheeks is now mottled with dirt, blood and bruising.
Gripping her chin with one hand, I force her mouth open. It takes a bit of muscle as the early stages of rigor mortis have begun to set in. With my free hand, I grab a handful of hay and shove it into the opening of her mouth, packing it tightly until it bulges grotesquely.
The straw sticks out like a gaping, grotesque smile.
I chuckle before continuing.
I smother her eyes with more hay, forcing her eyeballs to the back of her head and the straw into the empty sockets until they are nearly obscured.
I step back, admiring my handiwork. Emily’s body, now grotesquely transformed, is bound and twisted into a nightmarish scarecrow. Her once-human form is distorted and stuffed with hay, her face a hollow, sinister mask. I revel in the sight—there’s something deeply satisfying about turning her into this macabre creation, a dark, twisted art project.
