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7

PENELOPE

Fuck me or kill me, he said, and when I shoved that knife against his throat, I had every intention of doing the latter. In fact, even as I’m fumbling with the zipper on his pants, I know I should be doing it. He’s not fighting me. One slice across his trachea, and I’ll be free.

But I’m also burning alive right now.

I don’t know if it’s the fighting or the adrenaline surging wildly through my body. I don’t know if it’s the stupid fucking gas mask, which is working for me in a way it really, really shouldn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I keep watching Chloe and Abi sigh moonily over their Hunter boyfriends, both of them undeniably happier than I’ve ever seen them.

Despite my upbringing, I’ve never fucked a Hunter before. I knew it was stupid.

I know it’s stupid, and yet I’m wrapping my fingers around this Hunter’s very thick and very erect dick.

He shifts beneath me, lifting his hips to jerk down his jeans. The bug-eyes of the gas mask bore into me, and I can feel the presence of him behind them, like he’s waiting for me to plunge that knife blade into his throat. Maybe I still will. Maybe I’ll fuck him first and kill him once I come.

That idea appeals to me more than it should. I rise up on my knees, still straddling him, still keeping the knife to his throat. My pussy might be screaming to be filled, but I don’t trust him or his frankly baffling ultimatum.

Kill me or fuck me.

I jerk down my own jeans, push my panties aside, and guide his cock inside me.

He groans as I do, the sound wheezy from the gas mask. I’ve barely got his cockhead in before he drives his hips toward me in one firm, decisive stroke. I cry out, surprised by the intensity of his thrust and by how fucking good it feels to have him fully inside me.

This monster was going to kill me not ten minutes ago.

And you’re still going to kill him, I tell myself, rocking my hips back and forth, trying to find the right angle. Our clothes keep getting in the way, but I don’t want to lose the hot, slick friction of our bodies as I grind down on him. When he lifts his hands—slowly, like he wants me to know he’s moving—I press the knife a little harder against his throat.

“Don’t,” I pant out, finding my rhythm. “Try anything.”

He groans again, and I hate myself for thinking how hot it sounds coming out of the gas mask. Then he clutches at my hips as he thrusts upward, driving into me. I fall forward, my forehead brushing against the mask. The knife doesn’t move.

“Harder,” I rasp, squeezing my pussy down on his dick. Heat ripples into my core. “Fuck me like a Hunter.”

He makes a sound I don’t know how to place: a laugh? A groan? It doesn’t matter. I roll against his cock, desperately trying to find the angle that will let me come. Once I come, this madness will wash out of me, and I can kill him like I need to.

But the angle’s all wrong. He’s in deep, stretching me to my limit, but he’s not hitting the right places.

This is why I hate being on top.

“I’m not going to come like this,” I pant, digging the point of the knife into his throat until a tiny drop of blood wells up. He hisses at that and then fucks me a little harder, which sends a frisson of excitement down my spine. Someone, I manage to get out, “So you’re going to eat my pussy.”

He laughs, still driving his cock into me. This time, there’s no mistaking that it was the cold, cruel laugh of a Hunter. “You trust having my teeth that close?”

I press the knife harder into his throat. “You trust having my thighs wrapped around your neck?”

Immediately, there’s a dizzying blur of movement and a shudder of pain up my spine. Then I’m sprawled on my back and the Hunter is between my spread legs, dragging my jeans off. For a wild, delirious moment, I think I’ve made a mistake, that I’m going to die, and I immediately hook my leg up around his head, dragging his masked face down to my cunt. I latch him in place with the other leg and grind on his mask, the rubber cool and slick against my throbbing clit. I moan, dropping my head back into the dirty leaves, squeezing my legs tighter around his neck, clutching the knife in one hand. There’s just enough light in the sky that I can see where the tree branches tangle together, blocking the stars. The cold night air settles on my skin as pleasure builds in my clit, as taut as a rubber band.

I imagine swinging my arm around and sliding the knife into the side of his neck as soon as I come—and I’m going to come soon. It seems I don’t need his mouth at all. This is enough, fucking the mask’s grated respirator.

I moan and arch my back and squeeze my thighs tighter around his neck. Maybe I won’t stab him at all. Maybe I’ll break his spine instead. My thighs are strong enough. Or maybe I’ll strangle him. Or⁠—

My orgasm tears through me without warning, and I scream out my pleasure, legs vibrating around his head. For a long, drawn-out second it’s all I’m aware of: that coursing, pulsing heat pounding between my legs and spreading up into my core.

And then I’m aware of him. On top of me again. Caging me with his arms. Mask inches from my face.

“Fuck—” I cry out, just as he drives his cock into my pussy again. My protest dies on my tongue. His thick erection feels fucking divine in the aftermath of my orgasm, and in this position, his firm, strong strokes are already stoking another peak. His mask hovers above me, slick with my arousal.

Kill him, I think, and I imagine it again, plunging the knife into his neck. But I don’t move. He feels too fucking good, the steady, rhythmic roll of his hips sliding his cock up against my G-spot. He can sense my pleasure, and he’s fucking me accordingly.