9. Githany
Githany
Crickets sing and a breeze blows with it the scent of something damp. I’m flat on my back, staring at a starry sky. Time loses itself. Did I make it out? Memories crawl closer to the surface of my mind. The ghost led me to a door, the people were startled and staring, and then…nothing.
Contentment entices me to stay right where I am.
Hands drift along my skin. My own touch setting my every cell alight. I laugh, a full-belly laugh, one that burns my abs when I can’t seem to stop. Maybe the blackout was Madness’s doing. I’ve had many blackouts before. I’m usually tired, achy, exhausted when I come to.
This time I’m happy, if not a little dizzy. It’s like someone has replaced all my blood with tingling sparkles. More laughter seizes me.
This time my stomach lurches with the action.
The good feeling fades. My insides cramp. I’m too hot. Sweat drenches me. The grass is itchy against my back. I’m too stretched, like my skin may rip at its seams. A mass of blooming energy throbs through my veins. The power claws at my muscles and bones, fighting to find a way out.
The pain comes on so sudden and strong.
“I didn’t expect you to be so messy.” The depth of the tone is too intense.
Each word burrows into my squirming soul.
I’ve gone blind from the pressure inside my skull.
More words are muttered above me, or maybe inside me.
Every syllable worms its way through my interior.
“Then again, none of us expected you to be this.”
Who is standing above me, speaking? Arms scoop me up. The rush of being lifted off the ground is too abrupt. I beg to be set down until my mind gives way once more, and I drop back into the dark.
Gator
Blood-splattered tits slap against my back as I haul her over my shoulder. Her limp body dangles behind me as we trudge into familiar territory.
I’m going to need to have a talk with the boys. Our little ghost girl isn’t a ghost girl at all. I’m not certain what she is, but all those dead bodies I passed on the way to find her confirm that we have our hands full with this one.
Stitching my room to Hunt’s so that our domains overlap isn’t cheating.
It’s ingenuity. He’ll be pissed, of course.
Especially when he realizes I sealed the seam once she got close enough for me to catch.
It won’t be impossible for him to break through.
Nothing is that strong. But it will delay him.
They should be grateful I’m the one who found her and cleaned up her mess. Hunt will be jealous he missed the blood. I bet he’d do just about anything to lick it off her naked body.
I can handle Hunt. I prefer him pissed. It means he’ll try to fight me off.
There’s nothing more satisfying than pleasuring someone who’s determined to hate you.
Watching the war rage, the fight draining as bliss tramples through their resolve.
I know how to touch Hunt in ways that snatch away every last bit of his perceived control.
Githany must have thought she was subtle, sneaking between the branches and brush. I could hear her bounding through the trees within two footfalls of passing through the curtain.
Humans don’t stand a chance against demon senses. Not that she’s human. What the fuck is she?
Having Githany’s ass this close to my face should be thrilling. It would be if her scent wasn’t so different.
A bitter taste envelops my tongue. Someone’s had their fun with her.
She no longer smells entirely herself. Of course I recognize Madness’s scent.
Greedy little two-faced bastard. He should be wearing the pig’s mask.
The plan was to take turns scaring her until she was bursting with fear. Then fuck her until she fell apart.
They started without me.
Which is why they’ll be fighting to get into my domain while I’m busy making Githany drench my cock.
A muddy boot print stains the cabin door as I kick it wide.
The small, warm-toned room is like a second home.
We’ve all developed special relationships with our haunted-house personas.
Our domains have shifted over the last few years, becoming closer and closer to our masked characters.
This part of my domain is just the front room.
A butcher’s block in the center, a few meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. The real fun happens in the back.
Githany is still unconscious as I drop her onto the table. Years of old bloodstains color the wood, matching the crimson coating her changing skin. Such abstract beauty. She looks gorgeous lying atop it.
My perfect little mess doesn’t fight me when I shackle her wrists to the head of the table.
Her hands are so small. They’re going to make me look even more like a monster.
Chaining her ankles to the corners gives me a gorgeous view of her cunt.
Dark, neatly trimmed hair settles between her thighs.
A star tattoo sits just to the inside of her left hip bone.
It’s faded, not nearly as clean and detailed as the tattoos on her neck and cheeks.
Even though she appears to be sleeping, her energy is buzzing.
One touch shows me a flash of screaming and pounding fists.
Those aren’t dreams she’s having. Whatever she did that left her so bloodied and tired has also temporarily trapped her inside.
Her actions in that room must have overwhelmed her.
Understandable under these circumstances. Especially given they don’t appear to be entirely her actions.
She just needs a little help taking her body back. What better way to connect with your physical form than through physical pleasure?
Sliding my butcher’s belt from its place on the wall sparks giddiness, disrupting my usual stoicism. Each of the knives and tools on my belt has been used thousands of times.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always eat my victims in the water. It’s true that’s where I usually catch them. Witnesses assume they’re dead when they go under the water and don’t come back up.
Little do they know, I’ve dragged their loved ones beneath their very eyes. When I can maintain that level of patience and control, we end up here. My little cabin of terror. The butcher shop.
Reality folds for those of us with unique skills. The water is my fuel, churning and swirling as it bleeds past the banks and sediment-covered floor and into my domain.
All I need to do is swim down. Deep in the dark, the dam breaks and fresh water spills in. Passing through my own perimeter always makes me shiver. The water of my domain is ice cold. My victims react, jolting to the chill.
When the temperature shifts, it’s my cue to swim back up. I breach the surface, and the glorious sight of my haven spreads out before me.
It’s taken years to fine-tune my kidnappings. Some people panic and suck in water too quickly. My CPR skills consist of attempted compressions resulting in crushed chest cavities. A waste of a perfectly good meal. I’m not interested in them once they’ve drowned.
I’ve gotten good at moving fast enough to keep them from dying but slow enough to make them think they might. When they finally get that lungful of air, their fear is at a mountainous high. Not to mention most of them have already been injured during the initial snatch and struggle.
I quite enjoy a fight. Those who freeze up taste just as good.
Stiff, silent, eyes tightly shut as I drop them through the depths and back.
The ones who fight offer me a preliminary taste of what I’ll get to experience in the butcher shop.
Thighs are chomped on. Arms hang by a thread.
I try not to bite through anything fatal.
Humans bleed out so fast. The water helps to slow the process, but a bit of water pressure can only do so much for a severed limb.
I play the part of the butcher. I also consider myself a farmer of sorts. My favorite nights are the ones when I’m able to bring multiple people home. Having a herd of screaming, squealing humans strung across my room makes me harder than the hooks I bury underneath their skin.
I’ve jerked off so many times, standing in the center of the room, bathing in their terror.
When it can be arranged, I bring one of my companions here.
Fucking Madness or Hunt in front of my captive audience of crying morsels is a special kind of thrill that can’t be replicated under any other circumstances.
Maybe I’ll take Githany in the same way.
Gather a crowd of unfortunate souls and hang them on their hooks while I wreck her.
If she finds it disturbing, I could shield her from the sight by laying her face down.
I think I’ll prefer her on all fours, force her to look at the voyeurs with my fist in her hair.
The victims who are present will be lucky as fuck.
The last thing they’ll see is a show of absolute debauchery and excessive cum.
I once had a man come in his pants while I bent Madness over a table.
How confused he must have been. Blood draining from three missing fingers, a hook buried in the back of his neck, unable to hide from his baser instincts.
Sexual attraction is difficult to ignore.
His body chose to free itself in those final moments.
He was visibly horrified when he realized what had happened. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.
Allowing them to see Githany naked in their last seconds of life would be very generous of me. She’s far prettier than us monsters.
Githany’s body is soft, but every few seconds her muscles tighten and shake. There’s definitely a war raging in our ghost girl. Let’s see if we can bring her back to the present moment. I think I’ll start with the boning knife.