The Ghost ~ Kip Present Day #2
“I bet you taste absolutely sinful.” I chuckled, the eerie sound echoing through the cold room. “I have something special for you.” I held the cross up, then located the edge of the blade buried in the longer part of it. Removing it, I ran my finger over the edge and grinned as blood bloomed on it.
Fear twisted her mouth, and she grabbed the edge of the bench. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll love it and beg me for more.
” I reached out, spreading her lips apart and ran my tongue along her cunt, her taste exploding in my mouth.
A soft, airy moan escaped her as I nipped and licked her swollen clit as she writhed beneath me, responding to each flick of my tongue.
I took the cool, smooth end of the cross, running it along her entrance, and her body arched to meet it.
When I dragged the cool metal over her skin, pressed the edge deep enough to blur the line between pain and pleasure—she stopped being my good filthy slut.
She became my sacrifice.
I pressed the crucifix against her pussy lips. A sick twist of devotion—something stolen from my past, corrupted into satisfaction. She whimpered like it was a blessing. Like she was grateful.
“I’m going to fuck you with this cross while you choke on prayers that won’t save you from the way I will break you.”
I feasted on her, and her juices dripping down my chin while I dragged the crucifix up her quivering thigh.
A scream tore from her throat as I began to fuck her with the cross, plunging it in and out of her with a relentless fury.
I seized my cock, stroking it as she thrashed against the cold metal invading her.
Seeing her cunt devour the cross, stretching around it like some obscene, sacred desecration, sent me spiraling toward the edge.
The sight was fucking transcendent. Profane.
A brutal, carnal communion—everything I craved.
I buried my face between her legs and licked her clit as I fucked her harder and harder. Cries of pain and ecstasy reached my ears as she struggled against me, trying to pull away. But she didn’t want to. Not really. She thrived on the pain as much as I thrived on giving it to her.
Her panting filled the room, and I knew she was close to coming. But not yet.
I stood and took one of her hands and placed it on the cross.
“Fuck yourself.”
“No.”
Without a word, I yanked the object from her flesh and turned it around.
The blade's tip gleamed menacingly in the dim light, a wicked promise of what was to come.
I dragged the knife over the silky skin of her thigh, slicing with deliberate precision, enough to draw crimson tears from her flesh.
I observed her frantic struggle against me, her sobs echoing the agony I inflicted.
She thought she knew pain, but this was a mere whisper of the torment I could unleash.
Her chin trembled before she said, “You’re a monster.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “Yes, I am. Now, fuck yourself.” Grabbing her hand, I wrapped it around the handle and shoved it into her pussy again.
She didn’t dare defy me this time, and she eased the cross in and out of her center.
I stepped back enough to watch the glorious show in front of me.
Gripping my cock, I stroked with a fierce hunger, matching her intense pace.
Her tears evaporated, replaced with gasps of pure pleasure, the echoes of pain forgotten in the heat of her lust-filled frenzy.
“You like it. I knew you would. Fuck that cunt for me.”
“Say it,” I demanded, my voice low and commanding.
“You’re my monster.”
“Again.”
“You’re my monster,” she repeated, breathless. Desperate. Like she loved it.
I watched the way her hips rose off the bench to meet the crucifix. Her ecstasy was agony. Beautiful. Dangerous. I wanted to destroy her and keep her forever.
She bit her lower lip and said, “Does my monster like to watch?”
“Your monster loves to watch.” My hold tightened around my dick as I stroked faster while she neared the edge of her orgasm.
“That’s right, little whore, where is your god now?
I’m your god tonight, the only one worthy of your devotion.
Surrender to me. Come so I can lick your juices off your pussy when you’re finished. ”
Her head fell back, and ebony hair cascaded down her shoulders like a dark waterfall as she guided the object and pumped it against her.
Her hips moved in a frantic, desperate rhythm.
Her eyelids were closed and lips parted.
“This is for my monster,” she murmured, her hips bucking wildly against the cold, unyielding metal.
My body tensed as I looked at her, my desire throbbing and pulsing in tandem with her movements. I could feel the heat building, the pressure rising, the electric tingle at the base of my spine. I released myself as she collapsed back onto the rough stone bench, heaving.
As I approached her slowly, my footsteps echoing in the quiet room, the air thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and desperation. I could see the goosebumps on her flesh and the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. I removed the cross from her, and her skin was flushed and warm to the touch.
Parting her legs, I thrust into her, her center hot and slick.
She screamed, the sound raw while her back scraped against the cement bench.
The red streaks from her thigh smeared against my side, sticky and warm, as I moved against her, my hips driving into her at a brutal, relentless pace.
I dug my fingers into her hips and drove deep enough to make her arch against me.
We moved together with a kind of animalistic logic, the slap of skin against skin and her little gasps punctuating the silence.
I lost myself in it, let it erase the rest—the stench, the filth, the gnawing disgust—until nothing remained but the rhythm and the feeling and the raw, selfish need.
Her fingernails dug into my shoulders as she came again, her breath hot against my ear, and I felt her tremor.
I grabbed her neck and cut off her air. “Say it,” I demanded, my voice low and commanding. I released her enough for her to gasp air.
“You’re my monster.”
“Again.”
“You’re my monster,” she repeated. Desperate. Like she loved it.
Her head tilted. Something ancient stirred behind her murky blue irises—like a memory fighting its way to the surface. For a flash, her features sharpened—high cheekbones, her full lips trembling, and freckles splattered across her nose. Familiar. Impossible.
I seized her jaw, dragging her up to meet my mouth, and kissed her like I wanted to devour the last bit of her soul.
I was close. So fucking close to the release I so desperately craved.
And then a whisper in the background said my name. “You did this, Kip.”
Higher. Sharper. Twisted.
My rhythm faltered. She was still under me, but her eyes were gone now—glassy, vacant.
“You did this,” the echo in the distance said again. “Run, little girl, before it’s too late.”
Her skin, colder. Crimson fluid seeped up from the cement, soaking my hands.
The words rattled me, too sharp, too familiar. My mother’s voice. For a split second, it almost sounded like she wasn’t condemning me at all, but warning someone else. Protecting her. But that couldn’t be right. My mother never saved anyone.
I blinked and jerked back, chest heaving, cursing.
I didn’t come.
I couldn’t.
Suddenly, she faded. She was gone. Again. Her body slipped through my grasp like smoke.
And I woke up—hard, sweating, and furious. I shook as I glanced at my ragged, chewed-down fingernails. I reached for the cross on my nightstand, clutched it until the sharp points dug into my palm—grounding myself in the present.
The cold steel bit deeper. My stomach twisted. It always did, but I never knew why.
Until the flashes started.
Hands. A voice. My mother’s voice? “You did this, Kip.”
I blinked, but the image smeared across my vision like bad film stock—grainy, cruel, and wrong.
I don’t remember that night. But the needle always came after the screams.
I stared into nothing, my skin prickling with shame.
There was no peace in my head—only the rush of blood and the echoes of her laughter.
The darkness wasn’t done with me.
She was still gone.
And I?
I was still the monster.