Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Caine
When I think I can’t fall harder, Margot goes and does something so Margot that it opens a trapdoor in my heart, and I tumble further into Oh my god, we are soulmates.
She’s running through the dark, my cum dripping down her pretty thighs.
That knowledge has me rock-hard as I follow, haunting her in every sense of the word.
Instead of heading toward the hall of mirrors, where the emergency lights reflect to brighten the space, she’s heading deeper.
Down to the rooms we haven’t begun to set up yet.
I haven’t swept back here, and her Converse leave scuffs in the dust for me to follow.
It’s strategy, not cheating that I grabbed the wolf mask she loves so much.
Not only is the mask outfitted with a voice modulator, it has night vision lenses installed.
I’ve never been happier to have splurged on the ones with thermal detection. Call it a tax write-off.
Stalking through the haunt, I follow the heat signature from Margot’s footprints.
Winding through the maze, my need builds with every step.
It’s all I can do not to race after her, but I know better.
The anticipation of the monster is far scarier than the creature itself, and for Margot, fear and arousal go hand in hand.
Adequate, my ass. I’m about to give her the most terrifyingly erotic experience of her life.
Mine too. My cock is throbbing as if I hadn’t already released inside her once tonight, aching from the mental edging of hunting her.
Another turn, and then another, I follow her footprints down the narrow hallway staff members use to access the rooms. It’s interesting that she opted for this instead of running into one room and working her way through them the way a patron would.
She must have an end goal in mind. This isn’t running-for-her-life terror; this is a plan.
Fuck. Why does that make me even harder?
Despite my plan to savor the hunt, I increase my pace.
Step by step, her path stays certain, no almost turns or doubling back.
Where is she leading me? Possibility makes my head swim.
I have no idea how there’s blood anywhere else in my body besides my cock.
Is she—she can’t be—
The next turn, and the big metal doors not twenty yards ahead answer my question. Margot’s led me to the killing floor.
Holy shit.
Despite being called the Abattoir, most of our themes skew more toward psychological fear and jump scares as opposed to gore.
The killing floor is the exception. With hooks hanging from the ceiling, blood-splattered walls, stained metal tables, and every possible torture instrument, it looks straight out of a horror film.
A faint glow illuminates the porthole windows on the swinging doors.
I barge through, skidding to a stop. Margot’s hit a smaller light in the far back corner, likely so she can find a hidey-hole, but the space is dim otherwise.
Canvas-covered props litter the room. We didn’t use it last season, and it became a bit of a catchall.
The objects only add to the creepiness. There’s only one reason Margot would come in here. She wants to be terrified.
She came to the right guy.
And the right room.
Hot little footsteps lead right to a canvas-covered mass, a table, judging by the shape.
I prowl the room anyway, making enough noise that she can track my movement.
Every muscle in my body is tense, my entire being consumed by a singular need: Margot.
I don’t feel like a person anymore. I’m more monster than man, my purpose shrunk to the hunt.
Knowing she’s under the canvas, squirming, mouth covered, pressing her thighs together, is maddening.
My hands should be shoving her legs apart, my cock driving into her warmth.
Spotting a disembodied mannequin head, I get an idea.
Once I’m positioned at the opposite end of the canvas-covered table from Margot’s footprints, I toss the head across the room.
It thumps against a partition, the sound echoing.
Dropping to a crouch, I lift the edge of the canvas.
Sure enough, tucked under the far edge of the long stainless steel industrial table, beside an assortment of bottles of faux blood, is Margot. She’s trying to peek out from beneath the fabric, looking in the direction I threw the head. I lunge, wrapping my arms around her.
Her scream is earsplitting, the elbow she drives into my stomach sharp.
We’re grappling, her trying desperately to get free, me loving the way she fights.
Realizing she can’t pull free, Margot lunges at me, driving her shoulder into my chest. I let her, rolling sideways with the movement.
The canvas goes tumbling with us. Thinking she’s free, she scrambles to her feet.
I move with her, snatching her up before she makes it two steps.
Her heels drum into my shins as I lift her.
“Get off,” she shrieks, the sound more rageful than scared.
My chuckle is ominous through the modulator. “Don’t worry. You’re about to.”
Margot’s thrashing eases. She tucks a leg up, one of her arms fumbling beneath her dress.
Oh, hello.
Spontaneous masturbation while being carried away by a masked man is a unique choice, but I respect it.
“Are you touching yourself? What a filthy—what the fuck?” My taunt is cut short by a scrap of light blue fabric twanging away from us.
“Fetch,” she yelps, a giggle chasing the words. Without giving me a second to make sense of what just happened, she bites the shit out of my arm.
What the hell?
I release her on reflex. Margot’s sneakers squeak against the floor, her breathless laughter making me smile beneath the mask.
I’m hot on her heels, grabbing her again before she’s halfway across the room.
Tangling a hand in the back of her hair, I keep her mouth aimed away from me as I tow her back to the canvas.
Margot continues to thrash, but I’m not playing anymore.
Tugging the dog leash out of my pocket, I bind her hands in front of her, then to the leg of the table.
She gives an experimental tug, and when it doesn’t budge, she scoots sideways on her knees.
Note to self: start carrying rope.
Or handcuffs.
I haul her back onto the canvas, tugging the front forward to make sure she’s fully on it.
When she goes to move again, I yank up her dress, fighting a groan at the sight of her bare ass.
“No. Ma’am.” I punctuate each word with a loud spank.
She yelps, giving me a dirty look over her shoulder.
I catch her chin. “We can play as rough as you want, but you can’t be on the concrete with how hard I’m about to fuck you. ”
“Big talk,” she mutters, jumping when I spank her again. “All right, all right. Got it, stay on the canvas.” She drops her voice, mocking me.
Margot having a brat streak isn’t surprising, but it is fucking fantastic. She’s pure sass, breathless and jumpy, nervous but unable to stop running her mouth.
“So much attitude.” Grabbing her hips, I tug her against me. Hot and needy, she grinds on me immediately. Pushing her torso to the ground with one hand, I use the other to keep her hips high. “Too bad it doesn’t matter.”
She squirms, but it’s an impatient wiggle, not an escaping one. Freeing my cock, I drag it against her soaked slit. Back and forth, back and forth, until she’s shoving her pussy back at me, chasing the movement.
“Thought you were going to fight me,” I grit out. I’m choking my cock, using all my self-control to keep from thrusting into her. “Thought you didn’t want it. Thought it was adequate.”
She lets out a frustrated groan.
Tangling one hand back in her hair, I lean over her, my throbbing erection pinned between me and her pussy. Mask right behind her head, I murmur, “You’re going to take it, you’re going to like it, and you’re going to say thank you when I’m finished with you. Understand?”
A shudder jolts her, but she nods, the movement jerking her hair in my fist.
Straightening, I grip my cock, lining up with her entrance. “Atta girl.”
The first thrust is hard and deep, her keening cry echoing through the space. Her body rocks, but she braces right back at me.
“Harder.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I try to hold form, but a chuckle slips out with the words.
She put on her list that she was interested in both degradation and domination, and my tastes run toward the softer side of both.
As much fun as punishments can be, her bad behavior thrills me because this Margot, the mouthy, impolite, tell-you-to-go-to-hell-and-give-you-detailed-instructions-on-how-to-get-there Margot, only comes out when she feels comfortable.
I’m over her, chest pressed to her back, driving into her mercilessly.
Her knees slide farther apart on the canvas, her body dropping.
One arm pinned beneath us, I work her clit.
Thrust after thrust, I drive us closer to the edge.
She gasps, the “Make it hurt” coming out strangled.
I’m fucking her all the way to the ground.
My triceps are burning, but I can’t stop.
She feels too good, her hot, throbbing pussy gripping me like she’s trying to pull every ounce of cum from my body.
Realizing how hard I’m fucking her, I choke out, “Too much?”
“Perfect,” she pants. “Keep. Going.”
“Fuck.” It’s barely audible, an exhale of a whisper, but the cry that follows it as she tumbles into another orgasm is world-shattering.
Stars flash in my vision as I try to stave off my own climax.
I want to give her as many as I can with my cock buried deep inside her.
She takes every inch, every thrust, her body grabbing mine as if it doesn’t want to let me go.
She wants an apology?
I’ll give her one.