Chapter 2
Him
We shouldn’t be here. But we are. We always are.
Every night the same routine, the same screen, hell the same girl. We wait for the notification like an addict waits for a needle, and the second it pings, we’re there; logged in. Hungry.
She’s on tonight in black lace, the teddy sheer enough that it may as well not exist at all.
No panties of course cause she loves to piss us off.
Just skin and the faint sheen of sweat glistening across her thighs.
Her hair is wild, pushed back in a bun like someone grabbed her and tried to pull her off screen.
Around her throat is a choker—-thick and black—-with blinged out rhinestones placed in letters that spell one perfect word: GHORROR.
Of course she’s watching a movie, it’s one of her favorite things to do while giving a show.
Tonight it’s Hellbent; the one where Dylan Fergus and his pretty friends get hunted through Hollywood by a masked killer with a scythe and no motive.
Our little horror slut rides the handle of a silicone axe, planted sharp end down in her mattress with the handle pointed skyward.
She bounces in tight little motions, riding with practiced rhythm while blood and screams flash on the screen before her.
Her moans sync with the kills. Every scream from the movie gets a little sigh from her lips. Every slash, every spray of gore.
She grips her tits, squeezing them until her fingertips go white.
The chat is losing its mind as usual.
TonyFromAccounting: With the axe you should be watching Tucker and Dale vs. Evil
JennyBean69: Holy fuck this is cinema
Sk8rSlut97: I’d let her murder me and say thank you
QuietInTheBack: She’s not even faking, fucked up little bitch.
BloodAndBoudoir: Why is this the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life?
We watch it all. We see the tips flood in, the GIFs, the emojis. The way they beg her for more, call her a goddess, act like they deserve her attention because they can afford a few extra credits and have one working hand.
We don’t laugh. We don’t speak. We just burn.
Every username is a mark on a list we've been collecting since we started watching. Every message is another reason to track them down one by one, and find out if their insides match their desperation. None of them deserve to watch her. Not like this. Not like we do.
She doesn’t know it, not yet, but we’re the ones watching right. We see her. Not the camera girl. Not the little act. We see the core of her. The part that moans while people die. The part that gets wetter when someone screams.
She’s ours.
And like the killer in her little slasher flick, we don’t have a tragic reason. No childhood trauma. No grand manifesto about justice. We just like it. The blood and fear. The sound of someone begging for one more breath and not getting it.
We’ve killed before. We’ll kill again. And if anyone tries to touch what’s ours, they’ll get our wrath too.
She gasps now, sharp and sweet, as someone in the movie gets partially beheaded. She slides lower on the toy, hips shaking, mouth open. Her eyes flutter and she makes that sound that drives us to the brink of sanity.
SnackPackSlut: I’m gonna fucking combust
DadIssuesUnresolved: This is the best night of my goddamn life
ThighHighPriest: Someone baptize me in her sweat
We lean in closer to the screen, even though we’re already too close. Her moans rise over the movie now. Her thighs tremble. She’s almost there.
We imagine it’s us underneath her. Not the toy. Not the chat. Us.
She throws her head back and cries out. The scream from the movie and the sound from her mouth blur into one long, aching howl. Her body trembles, thighs locked tight around the axe handle, flyaways stick to her damp skin. She gasps once, twice, then lets out a breathy little laugh.
The chat explodes.
GothDaddy69: THAT WAS INSANE
JennyBean69: MOMMY JUST TOOK ME TO CHURCH
DadIssuesUnresolved: I came so hard I blacked out
SnackPackSlut: I’m clapping. In real life. I’m actually clapping.
ThighHighPriest: That was the holiest unholy thing I’ve ever witnessed. I’m reborn.
BloodAndBoudoir: My soul? Gone. She ripped it out and smiled.
QuietInTheBack: This is gonna live in my brain forever
TonyFromAccounting: I’m donating my next paycheck to her candle fund
Sk8rSlut97: I will NEVER recover
ChurchOfAgatha: Our lady of the latex and blade. Bless her.
And then, for the first time ever:
HolySpite: I’d let her gut me if it meant hearing that sound again.
That name; we’ve seen it before. Every stream. Never in the chat, never tipping, never speaking. Just there. Watching. A shadow at the edge of the crowd. We thought they were one of us. A silent worshiper. Someone who understood.
But now? Now they’ve ruined it.
They just signed their own death warrant. We hope they enjoyed their little moment of courage, because if we can trace that IP they’ll find out exactly what it costs to covet something that doesn’t belong to them.
Agatha slides off the axe with a slow, drawn-out sigh.
Her chest rises and falls. She leans forward, picks up the silicone blade, and licks it; tongue dragging from edge to handle like it’s the best thing she’s tasted all week.
She hums softly at the flavor, gaze flicking toward the camera, and gives a lazy wink.
“Thanks for coming, freaks,” she says. “Don’t forget, this weekend is request granted. I’ll be filming something extra special with a costar, and we’re hitting some of your favorite kinks. You’ll get the poll tomorrow, so be ready to vote. I’ve got some twisted shit lined up.”
She blows a kiss, all teeth, all devil.
The stream ends, and the screen goes black.
We sit in the dark for a moment, breathing her name like a prayer we don’t believe in anymore. This has gone on long enough. The watching and waiting. The tip-toeing around what we already know.
She’s not theirs.
She’s not the chat’s.
She’s not her co-star’s.
She’s not her own.
She’s ours.
This weekend, she thinks she’ll be working a scene. She has no idea it’s already been written for her.
Time to plan.
Time to move.
Time to take what belongs to us.