Page 5 of Killer Bones

“I can’t? No? Why? Explain it to me.” He kisses me again, works his teeth down my exposed throat.

The knife tip pricks through the dress into the underside of my breast. I feel the sting of a cut, a minute cut that surely bleeds.

“Your face was seen. Kill me here, and they’ll remember you.”

“Say the other word, if you wish to.” He purrs that as if this is a new threat, dark and low, creeping into my flesh.

The other word? Did we have one? He means the word to end it all if I want to stop everything. I don’t know it, but the question is important. That he asks it tells me he must be that man. Am I still doubting? And he must be ready to stop if I say so. So he won’t truly hurt me, says the logic.

This is a play within a play, a very, very unhinged play.

I remember his story. I hesitate then I think to offer my own continuation of it. I don’t know why. I’m here in this city for everything but sex. I shouldn’t. No one would. It’s just…

“Maybe…” I jerk out the first word. “Maybe you’ve come for revenge? For the fire. Maybe you’re going to cut me, just a little, paint my stomach with stripes of blood. Make me cry while you fuck me hard.” I lick my lips again, nervous.

He stills. A line appears between his eyes, then smooths flat. I’ve puzzled him by playing the game. I’ve ruined it.

My mouth is an O, but my tongue betrays me, sneaks out, just the tip, and I crane my neck to look upward where his hands squash my wrists to the brick. I flex my fingers and feel how impossible it is to budge them. Nice. I shut my eyes for a moment, open them, wait.

Slowly, a speculative expression colors those darkened eyes. “Maybe I’ll do worse. I might fuck you then leave you here, lifeless, your legs spread and spilling blood and cum from your holes.”

The imagery is violent, and yet I’m in. I am in. This is a page from my darkest books, and my clit has risen, is pressing hard against my panties. Sick, sick, sick.

I inhale deeply. “No.”

“No? Why?” A bleak smile is granted, then vanishes a moment later. I’ve amused him by playing along.

The knife has gone somewhere, his pocket, the ground, and while I stare and process, he’s bared me again, gathered up my dress, ripped at the lacy panties. They slip past my thighs and down my legs to drape over my shoes. If I were to run, I’d have to kick them off first.

“Why. Because…I’ve seen you but so did they. Those people. They’ll ID you to the cops. You need to leave me thinking this was just an accidental encounter. Just Dead Guy returned, and it’s all fine, until one day you track me down and?—”

“Maybe.” He shoves my dress higher, before parting my thighs by running his hand between them, curling his fingers upward and along. They easily slip inside me, the rest of his hand jamming at me, stuck between my legs, setting everywhere thrumming. I gasp, shocked at this first overture, squirming to get away, or to get him closer, deeper.

“Fffff…” The back of my head taps the wall and I huff and moan as he pumps his fingers in and out, stroking along, circling my clit before entering me again and repeating the exercise.

I’m in an alleyway being assaulted, being fingerfucked.

A harder thrust then another, another, and I’m arching though it sometimes hurts. The wet sounds of my arousal are obvious.

He pauses with two fingers lodged in me, high. My eyelids have fluttered downward, and I almost miss his next words.

“You’re drenched. What a messy little cunt this is.” He sounds surprised.

He’s objectifying me. One of my favorite kinks. Am I in Heaven? Of course I’m not. I make stupid noises when he works his fingers around, plays some more. I fucking want his cock inside me, and that begging? Please, please, command me.

He introduces another finger and shoves them higher, lifting me onto tiptoes so my shoes slip off. I’m almost off the ground. I choke, cry out. If I was standing, I’d be collapsing at the knees. Instead, my pussy is clamping onto those fingers and I writhe, somehow slipping myself deeper. Wetness dribbles onto my inner thighs.

His chuckle is almost inaudible. “I tell a girl I’ll nail her hands to a wall, and she gets wetter? What will I do with you? Knife you? Cut you? Choke you until the life is all gone and the light fades in those pretty eyes?”

I whimper. I might come here, suspended and impaled, just from those words.

The tension builds until the air feels ready to crack. He waits, staring. One hand stretched above and clamped on my wrists, one below. Those three fingers are so far inside me I might have a religious revelation when he pulls them out.

I open my eyes wider, panting. I wriggle a little, and he offers me that brief flat smile. Our gazes lock in some creepy dark connection.

How dare I get super horny over this screwy situation—being fingerfucked in an alley, being told a story only a serial killer would like to enact.

“And if I shove your knife up here?” He thrusts me an inch higher up the wall using those fingers, and my mouth drops fully open. My dress has caught on brickwork, my ass is scratched, and I’m moaning while he watches me squirm and kick. There is an excitement in those eyes, I swear, that was not there before.