Chapter 12
Agatha
The chat is losing its mind again.
I can barely keep up with the messages flying across the screen, a blur of usernames and thirst. Some are begging. Some are threatening to sell organs to tip me. Others just keep typing the same thing over and over—more, more, more.
I lower the camera slightly and pan the angle, dragging it from my mouth to my chest. My nipples are stiff, the cold barn air working in my favor, pebbled and proud as they press against the brown lace of my lingerie.
The blood is sticky now, not quite dry, so it glistens in the light and gives the illusion it’s warm.
The camera dips lower, hovering at my belly button before catching the thin triangle of my thong.
The VCH shows when I shift my hips just right.
That sets them off.
GothDaddy69: God she’s unreal.
GraveyardDaddy: I’d sell my soul for 5 seconds
DadIssuesUnresolved: Spread it…and take it off.
CryptCummin: I’m on my knees in a Walmart bathroom. Show mercy!
I laugh softly, letting the moment linger before I speak.
“You’re all so greedy,” I murmur, dragging my fingers along my stomach, leaving a trail of fake blood behind. “But, lucky for you, I’m feeling generous.”
The camera picks up the subtle shift in my breathing. It’s not fake. I’m not acting. I’m really into tonight. There’s a humming in my veins. Not just arousal or adrenaline, something more, something unhinged.
A sound like a branch breaking catches my attention.
I freeze.
My eyes dart up toward the rafters, the far corners of the barn, the door I left cracked open. Nothing moves. No new shadows. Probably just the damn wind.
I turn my back to the door, letting my body block the frame. If something is out there, it can wait. I reach for the prop knife. The dildo knife really.
It’s hard plastic, a matte black handle with a rubber blade that bends just a little when pressed. I lick it slow and deliberate, letting my tongue curl around the edge.
“Wanna see me fuck myself with it?” I ask.
The screen explodes.
GothDaddy69: HELL YES
NotACopIPromise: Do it.
TonyFromAccounting: Oh god, please.
GutterPrince: I will tattoo your name on my cock.
User259: PLEASE.
ThighHighPriest: YES MA’AM.
I smirk and set my phone in the tripod so I can be hands-free. The camera’s set wide enough to catch most of the barn now, a calculated risk I took earlier to show off the full spread of gore.
Then, someone types something new.
NotACopIPromise: Who is that behind you?
The comment stalls me mid-step. I blink at the screen.
Another one pops up.
DarkRoomDoll: Wait... who the fuck is that?
And another.
DadIssuesUnresolved: Behind you. Oh my god.
I whirl around so fast I nearly drop the knife. My heart is in my throat, pounding like it’s trying to break out.
And there he is.
Standing across the barn, half in shadow, half bathed in the amber flicker of my lighting. Head to toe in black, silent, still, and watching me with a mask I’ve never seen before.
It’s shaped like a skull, but not quite. A marriage between The Purge and The Punisher, sharp angles and black void eyes.
My stomach flips. I can’t tell if it’s panic or desire.
“You came,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Just takes a step forward.
I can’t breathe. I don’t know what this is. What he is. He could kill me right here. Slit my throat and leave me bleeding across the floor like an art piece. I dared him to come. I asked for this. But now that he’s here—
"Are you going to hurt me?" I ask.
He nods, and the world tilts sideways as he steps closer, my thighs clenching without permission.
"Are you going to kill me?"
He shakes his head and takes one final step, closing the distance until I can smell him—tobacco, marine soap, sweat, and something heavier, like regret clinging to his skin.
I tip my head up, staring at the mask, at the soulless black behind the eye holes. I don't see his face, but I feel him. The weight of him. The heat.
He raises one gloved hand and waves.
I remember the camera behind me; the stream is still running, every second broadcasted to an audience that I’m sure hasn’t looked away.
If he murders me, I’ll at least die on live.
Someone will call the cops. Someone will know where I was.
Hopefully. If I’m lucky. If I haven’t terrified them too much.
If I still have at least one fan who gives a shit.
His gloved hand slides over my collarbone. I jerk back, but not far enough. His fingers glide down, over the curve of my breast, until he finds my nipple. He flicks it with his thumb.
I gasp.
He chuckles; a gritty, amused sound that vibrates through me.
Then he pinches. Hard.
“Fuck!” I cry out, the pain sharp and arousing and utterly insane.
He spins me before I can react. My stomach slams into the edge of the table, knocking over a bowl of fake guts and a coil of chain. He shoves me down, palms flat against my back, pressing me into the gore.
I look up and catch sight of myself in the phone’s camera, bent over, blood-streaked and wild-eyed, completely crazy looking.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife, a real one, not some rubber prop.
I freeze. My breath catches as tears blur my vision, and a wave of heat crashes over my body, chased immediately by cold, then heat again, my nerves flickering like a failing circuit.
This is it. But there’s no pain, no blade, just a soft tearing sound, and then my thong hits the ground. He cut it. Both sides. Just like that. He kicks my legs apart with one boot and steps closer behind me. I hear the zipper, and my body seizes.
He lines up without hesitation, not giving me time to think or process or beg. The head of his cock presses at my entrance, thick and demanding.
Then he thrusts.
“Oh God!” I scream, the sudden stretch nearly splitting me in half.
He doesn’t wait or ease in, just grabs my hips and pounds into me like he owns me, relentless and unyielding.
The table rattles beneath us with each thrust, my breath coming in ragged gasps as he drives me forward and back, over and over, until I know I’ll bruise from it. I’ll wear the shape of him for days.
I glance up at the phone again.
The comments are chaos.
ChurchofAgatha: CALL THE POLICE.
JasonWasHere: This is too real.
GutterPrince: Is this part of it?
GraveyardDaddy: I’m scared and hard.
DaddyVoid: Don’t stop.
GoreSlut420: She’s a fucking goddess.
SnackPackSlut: I think this is really happening.
“Mmmmmm,” I moan, my voice shaking.
A sharp sting answers me, a slap across my ass that echoes through the barn, and he doesn’t let up. He fucks me harder now, deeper, every inch of him unrelenting. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t slow down. He just keeps going, like this was always the plan.
"I'm gonna come," I choke out.
He drives into me like a hammer, relentless, brutal, perfect.
My toes curl inside my boots. My hands grip the edge of the table. I’m losing control. Losing myself. And then I come, hard and loud, a shudder that rolls through me like a freight train.
He keeps going, giving me no pause, no space to breathe, just relentless motion until I feel him empty inside me, hot, raw, and reckless. There’s no condom.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper. “Do you know how to wrap it up?”
I have an IUD. I’m not stupid. But STDs exist, and now I have to get tested because I let a masked man fuck me live on camera, again.
He pulls out without a word, one hand still pinning me in place as the other moves with calm efficiency, adjusting his pants, zipping up like this is nothing. Then he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me upright until my back is flush against him, his breath hot against my neck.
“He was right,” he murmurs, voice unfamiliar. “Even better in person.”
I go still.
That’s not the same voice from the woods.
"See you soon, Little Horror." And then he lets go.
I stumble, catch myself on the edge of the table, but when I spin around—
He’s gone.
I run out of the barn, into the trees, into the night air thick with the scent of grass, mold, and dirt.
“YOU FUCKER!” I scream, spinning in circles. “What do you mean he was right?”
My voice cracks.
The silence answers.
“There’s more than one of you?” I scream again, louder this time. I stomp my foot like a child and glare into the empty night.
“Fucking fucks!” I don’t even know what I’m yelling anymore.
Then it hits me: the stream. I sprint back into the barn, grab my phone, and stare into the screen. My reflection blinks back at me, unrecognizable with wild hair, mascara smeared like a drowned raccoon, and blood and sweat streaked across my skin like war paint.
I look insane.
I give a crooked smile and a small laugh.
“Well,” I say, voice rough. “Thanks for joining me tonight, you degenerates.”
I end the stream and sink down, heart still racing as I try to make sense of what just happened.
There are two of them. At least. Do they take turns?
Vote on who gets to rail me next? Is there a fucking sign-up sheet taped to some murder wall I haven’t seen yet?
He was good…really good, but I didn’t ask for this one.
I only agreed to one masked psycho, not a fucking rotation.
I breathe in deep, exhale slowly, and start cleaning up, one fake organ at a time, while turning everything over in my head.
What the hell have I dragged myself into, and how much deeper am I willing to go? The answer, apparently, is still deeper.
Because I’m not running. Not yet.