Page 37 of Fed By Fear

My perfect little mess doesn’t fight me when I shackle her wrists to the head of the table. Her hands are so small. They’re going to make me look even more like a monster. Chaining her ankles to the corners gives me a gorgeous view of her cunt. Dark, neatly trimmed hair settles between her thighs. A star tattoo sits just to the inside of her left hip bone. It’s faded, not nearly as clean and detailed as the tattoos on her neck and cheeks.

Even though she appears to be sleeping, her energy is buzzing. One touch shows me a flash of screaming and pounding fists. Those aren’t dreams she’s having. Whatever she did that left her so bloodied and tired has also temporarily trapped her inside. Her actions in that room must have overwhelmed her.

Understandable under these circumstances. Especially given they don’t appear to be entirelyheractions.

She just needs a little help taking her body back. What better way to connect with your physical form than through physical pleasure?

Sliding my butcher’s belt from its place on the wall sparks giddiness, disrupting my usual stoicism. Each of the knives and tools on my belt has been used thousands of times.

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always eat my victims in the water. It’s true that’s where I usually catch them. Witnesses assume they’re dead when they go under the water and don’t come back up.

Little do they know, I’ve dragged their loved ones beneath their very eyes. When I can maintain that level of patience and control, we end up here. My little cabin of terror.The butcher shop.

Reality folds for those of us with unique skills. The water is my fuel, churning and swirling as it bleeds past the banks and sediment-covered floor and into my domain.

All I need to do is swim down. Deep in the dark, the dam breaks and fresh water spills in. Passing through my own perimeter always makes me shiver. The water of my domain is ice cold. My victims react, jolting to the chill.

When the temperature shifts, it’s my cue to swim back up. I breach the surface, and the glorious sight of my haven spreads out before me.

It’s taken years to fine-tune my kidnappings. Some people panic and suck in water too quickly. My CPR skills consist of attempted compressions resulting in crushed chest cavities. A waste of a perfectly good meal. I’m not interested in them once they’ve drowned.

I’ve gotten good at moving fast enough to keep them from dying but slow enough to make them think they might. When they finally get that lungful of air, their fear is at a mountainous high. Not to mention most of them have already been injured during the initial snatch and struggle.

I quite enjoy a fight. Those who freeze up taste just as good. Stiff, silent, eyes tightly shut as I drop them through the depths and back. The ones who fight offer me a preliminary taste of what I’ll get to experience in the butcher shop. Thighs are chomped on. Arms hang by a thread. I try not to bite through anything fatal. Humans bleed out so fast. The water helps to slow the process, but a bit of water pressure can only do so much for a severed limb.

I play the part of the butcher. I also consider myself a farmer of sorts. My favorite nights are the ones when I’m able to bring multiple people home. Having a herd of screaming, squealing humans strung across my room makes me harder than the hooks I bury underneath their skin.

I’ve jerked off so many times, standing in the center of the room, bathing in their terror. When it can be arranged, I bring one of my companions here. Fucking Madness or Hunt in front of my captive audience of crying morsels is a special kind of thrill that can’t be replicated under any other circumstances.

Maybe I’ll take Githany in the same way. Gather a crowd of unfortunate souls and hang them on their hooks while I wreck her. If she finds it disturbing, I could shield her from the sight by laying her face down. I think I’ll prefer her on all fours, force her to look at the voyeurs with my fist in her hair. The victims who are present will be lucky as fuck. The last thing they’ll see is a show of absolute debauchery and excessive cum.

I once had a man come in his pants while I bent Madness over a table. How confused he must have been. Blood draining from three missing fingers, a hook buried in the back of his neck, unable to hide from his baser instincts. Sexual attraction is difficult to ignore. His body chose to free itself in those final moments. He was visibly horrified when he realized what had happened. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.

Allowing them to see Githany naked in their last seconds of life would be very generous of me. She’s far prettier than us monsters.

Githany’s body is soft, but every few seconds her muscles tighten and shake. There’s definitely a war raging in our ghost girl. Let’s see if we can bring her back to the present moment. I think I’ll start with the boning knife.

The tapered handle is about half the length of the curved, slender blade. My palm has worn the wood smooth from years of relentless grip. Spitting on the handle, I slide it between Githany’s trembling hips. It disappears inside her cunt, leavingthe eight-inch blade jutting outward. Pinching the tip of the blade between my fingertips, I work it slowly in and out of her, casually checking the handle until a significant amount of her own arousal drips out around it. I need her very wet for this.

Githany stirs, but doesn’t wake. Her eyelids flutter as I slip the handle of my cimeter alongside the boning knife. Neither handle is overly large, but side by side they cause a decent amount of stretching. The cimeter’s curved blade stretches several inches farther than the boning knife. The muscles of Githany’s lower abdomen pulse when I slide the two in tandem, in and out, stroking until her wetness puddles on the table.

The smallest moan sings out of her. She’s starting to come around.

Excitement spurs me to choose something even larger next. The rectangular blade of my meat cleaver winks up at me. The handle of this piece is far thicker than the others. Gripping the other two blades to hold them in place, I slide the cleaver handle in above the others, maneuvering it to seek out the sensitive spot along Githany’s inner wall.

She groans, her core shuddering. Still, her eyes remain closed. I was certain the stretch and depth of the cleaver would wake her up.

The smallest of my knives, the paring blade, catches my eye. It’s merely a few inches from handle to tip. Perfect for what I have in mind.

Spit covers the petite knife as I suck it in and out of a mouth that’s already begun shifting. Once I’m satisfied it’s been thoroughly lubricated, I slip it beneath Githany and straight into her ass.

She gasps, her whole body jerking as she lurches awake. The chains rattle with her attempts to sit up.

“What the hell. Where am I? Wh—what is…” Her movements halt. I soak up the sight of her, the widening of those brown eyes as she registers the foreign intrusions wedged into her holes.

Her gaze finally meets mine. Her unspoken question burning up at me.

“Knives,” I answer smoothly.