Begging for Mercy

1. Reaper

Reaper

“Oh, God, yeeees, harder! ”

The steady slap of skin on skin punctuates the air as I rail a needy college student against the wrought iron gate to the city’s cemetery.

It’s long past midnight as sweat drips down my skin and her desperate mewls fill my ears, the rattle of chains keeping the cemetery locked up tight, lost beneath the heavy drum of my heartbeat.

It pounds heavy in my skull, keeping me from coming more than the scratch of her fishnet tights over my hips.

Fuck , I just want to come already.

The girl’s fake cat tail swishes against my leg with each thrust of my hips, and I quickly wrap it around my fist and tug, making her whine as she’s lifted off the ground by the belt cinched around her waist.

“H-hey!”

I hook her to one of the spikes jutting from the mid-bar on the gate and enjoy the freedom that comes from suspension. Grabbing her hips, I slam her down onto my cock and throw my head back as she gushes, her wails reaching a crescendo as she comes first.

It’s not my goal to get girls off, but at least it keeps them coming back every year.

“Reaper,” she whines, her fingernails digging into the paint covering my shoulders. “S-slow down.”

The pain from her claws makes me hiss, my cock jerking as I fill the condom. It’s my third fuck of the night but hopefully not the last. Just the last time with her.

Breathing hard, I slip from the girl’s wet heat.

Charlotte? Natalie? I rake my hand through my hair after adding the condom to the pile and zipping up.

Only once she starts struggling do I lift her off the gate and set her back down on the ground.

Her legs buckle immediately and she stumbles into me, clinging like a grape to the vine as her lips seek mine.

No fucking chance.

I wrench her body away from mine and take three steps back. “Get the fuck out of here, Charlotte.”

Her eyes, tinted bright yellow from contacts, narrow into slits. “My name is Natalie, asshole.”

Lighting a cigarette that I pull from the carton tucked inside my back pocket, I shrug. “Don’t care.”

Natalie huffs, clearly annoyed at being dismissed. “I guess the rumors are true. I heard you were a Grade A dick.” She adjusts her cat costume, pulling her skirt back into place, and plucks her purse off the fence. “It wasn’t even that good.”

The moisture gathered around the base of my shaft says otherwise, but I don’t call her out on it.

All the girls I fuck find something to complain about, whether it’s the body paint ruining their clothes, the bruises from being fucked against a metal gate, or the eeriness of the venue.

Not many girls are willing come to a cemetery in broad daylight, let alone in the middle of the night on Halloween, but they’ll make an exception if it means getting some action from Reaper himself.

I wish I could say that I came up with the nickname, but sadly, the honor falls to my brother.

His tongue is as sharp as his knife skills, I’ll give him that.

Even though he could charm the pants off of every student on campus, he claims that he’s not interested in anyone who’s been run-through already, which excludes at least half the population on account of how often I get around.

If it’s wet and willing, I’ve put my dick in there at least once.

Once Natalie finally leaves, I pull out my key to the main gate and make quick work of the lock.

Fucking the nerd in charge of historic preservation on campus made getting a key easier than getting him off, and thank Christ , too, because I’m tired of ripping my goddamn pants from jumping the fence.

Walking into the local cemetery on Halloween night always feels sacred.

It’s one of the largest cemeteries in the state and nestled directly against Harlin Heights Community College on account of the main building being a sanatorium back in the day, so it’s well-traversed, if a little neglected.

Ancient tombstones crumble to dust beneath the shadows of thick willow trees, their boughs swaying like sheer curtains in front of an open window.

As I walk the moonlit path to our rendezvous point, I keep my eyes peeled for movement in the distance.

I’m not the only one with a hard-on for death on Halloween night.

Although I’m expecting to find couples shacking up in mausoleums, what I’m not expecting is to hear the whisper of a woman’s voice in my ear.

Melodic and melancholy, her hushed song echoes from all sides.

I stop in my tracks and peer into the night, half believing that I’m imagining it, and half hoping that I’m not.

I’ve fucked countless witches and bad little kitties, but never anyone with a voice as haunting as this.

My blood pulses in short, jerky bursts as I spin on my heel to locate the siren.

Gravel kicks up at my heels and the sound spills into the night.

I hold my breath as I listen for her to sing again, but only crickets play their song.

Admittedly, if she spotted a shirtless man painted head to toe like a skeleton, she might be too scared to speak.

Fuck. I dress up like a skeleton every year on Halloween.

Girls get off on not knowing my true face as they fall to their knees to worship my girthy cock between their teeth.

But maybe not this girl.

“Siren,” I call out, slowly spinning in a circle to scan the perimeter. The graveyard stretches for miles in all directions once you reach its center, but we’re not anywhere close to there. The outer fence is to my back, and it only extends for a block or two until you hit campus.

Whoever is here has to be a college student.

And all college students within the Harlots’ fucked-up fraternities know that I exist.

So which is it? This girl has either escaped the shackles of modern Greek life and is thus unaware of the Reaper’s territory, or she’s aware but unafraid of roaming tombstones by moonlight.

“Are you alone?” If she’s got sense, she won’t be alone at night. But if that were the case, there would be no need for her to be silent upon my approach. “I’m alone, too.”

Sort of. Zane is hanging out a few miles down, waiting for me to wrap up my sexcapades.

“You have a beautiful singing voice.” Compliments don’t come easily for me, but this one rolls right off my tongue. “I’d love to match a face with—” A shadow moves inside the nearest mausoleum. A grin pulls at my lips. “—your voice.”

The door is slightly ajar, just wide enough for me to know that whoever is inside doesn’t want to lock themselves in.

Cautious. I’d say smart , but since when would hanging out in a cemetery count for brains?

I step closer, careful to avoid patches of gravel or crunchy, dried grass from the most recent heat wave.

It’s fucking hot out for October, and if it weren’t for the body paint coating my pores, I’d be drenched in sweat.

I wonder what my siren is wearing. Has she dressed up for the holiday, or is she wearing loose spirit wear emblazoned with the school’s hideous double H logo?

I lick my lips as I try to picture her as a zombie bride covered in face paint or a makeup-less, freckled slip of a woman with wide, round glasses and her hair tossed into a messy heap at the top of her head.

Either is fine. I don’t have to play dress-up-fuck-up just because it’s Halloween.

I’ve had sex with plenty of people who never bothered with a costume.

But no matter how many fantasies flicker through my mind, Siren’s face remains as blank as a fresh canvas awaiting the first strike of paint.

I have to know.

As I wrap my fingers around the heavy metal door and pull it open, the hinges creak and the sound echoes through the hollow room. Marble floors are covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs hang from the ceiling, clinging to the arches of the candelabras.

Recently lit candelabras.

The scent of smoke hangs in the air. I take a steady, slow step into the room.

“Won’t you sing for me, Siren?” The only thing in front of me is a row of caskets inlaid into the wall, each with a tarnished bronze plaque.

Moonlight streams through the wavy glass windows, with a breeze tickling the back of my neck.

The farthest window in the corner has been picked clean, the glass panes having long been cracked and removed.

Once I recognize that the mystery girl is not in front of me, I turn to check the corners nearest the door.

One lies empty, but the other…

Someone set up a little… I crouch to get a closer look.

Picnic? A soft cotton blanket lies across the tile floor.

I pinch it between my fingers to find that it’s still warm.

Two pillows are positioned for someone to sit on, and an open bottle of wine warms by their side.

A single taper candle, recently lit and then put out, sits in a holder near a spread of sliced cheeses, meats, and fruits.

A lover’s meeting place?

I brush my hand across one of the pillows and hum in the back of my throat.

The siren isn’t here, but she left her belongings.

A quick survey of the room tells me that she scurried to the broken window and hoisted herself through, scratching herself in the process.

A deep cut, too. I touch a sliver of glass, its base buried deep within the window pane but its tip jutting out like a thick needle, and spread her cooling blood across my fingertips.