Free Use Haunted Attraction

1. Chapter 1

The basement of the haunted house smelled like mildew and old wood, and Jessie's sneakers stuck slightly to the floor with each step.

She clutched the clipboard against her chest, the paper already damp from her palms, and tried not to stare at the painted walls that looked like they were bleeding rust in the flashlight beam.

"Just sign at the bottom, sweetheart." The makeup artist—a wiry woman with silver rings on every finger—gestured at the clipboard. "Standard release. Means you can't sue us when you get spooked and pee yourself."

Jessie's laugh came out too loud, bouncing off the concrete walls.

"Right. Yeah. Totally." She scanned the page for the Free Haven Haunted House, the words blurring together: agree to be available for use by staff and patrons during operating hours and consent to physical contact of any nature and compensation upon completion of each shift.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she scrawled her signature anyway, the ink smearing slightly.

"Good girl." The woman took the clipboard and tossed it onto a cluttered table. "Now strip."

Jessie's fingers stilled on the hem of her tank top. "Here?"

"Unless you want to do it in the boiler room." The artist's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Your choice, but the light's better here."

She pulled the tank over her head, the cool air raising goosebumps across her skin. Her worn jeans followed, and she stood in her plain cotton bra and panties, suddenly aware of how small the room felt, how the shadows seemed to lean in closer.

"All of it."

Jessie reached behind her back and unclipped her bra. She shimmied out of her panties, dropping them into the pile at her feet, and wrapped her arms across her chest out of instinct.

"Don't cover up. You're going to be on display all night." The artist circled her, painted fingernails trailing across Jessie's shoulder blade. "You have a beautiful body. Shame to hide it."

The brush was cold, loaded with something thick and dark. Jessie flinched as it swept across her collarbone, painting a jagged line down her sternum.

"Hold still." The artist's voice dropped, intimate. "This is going to be your look tonight. Cuts. Gashes. Like you've been through something terrible."

Jessie held her breath as the brush traced across her stomach, leaving a streak of red that looked disturbingly like blood. The artist worked swiftly, painting wounds across her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her belly.

"Lift your arms."

She obeyed, and the brush swept beneath her breasts, painting a long gash along her ribcage. The paint was cold, but the artist's fingers were warm where they pressed against her skin to steady her, and Jessie felt her nipples tighten—not from the chill.

"There's one more thing we need to do." The artist set down the brush and stepped closer, her hand sliding between Jessie's thighs. "The costume isn't complete without the finishing touch."

Jessie's breath caught as two fingers pressed against her pussy, finding her already slick. The artist hummed, a low sound of approval.

"You're already wet for me, sweetheart. That's good. That's very good."

Her fingers pushed inside, and Jessie gasped, grabbing the edge of the makeup table for balance. The artist worked her slowly, curling her fingers just right, and Jessie's thighs trembled as she felt herself clench around them.

"Look at you." The artist's thumb found her clit, circling. "All this for a little paint and a signature. You're going to be so good for them tonight."

Jessie's hips rolled against the artist's hand, her head falling back. She could hear herself making sounds she didn't recognize, small and desperate, and she didn't care.

"That's it. Let go for me." The artist pressed deeper, her thumb relentless, and Jessie shattered, crying out as her body convulsed around those fingers. The wave took her from the inside, hot and blinding, her spine bowing off the floor as she clenched and clenched, the ache of it turning sweet and savage. She heard herself—a broken, keening sound—and the artist held her there, riding it out, not letting up until Jessie’s hips stuttered and fell still, trembling.

The artist pulled out slowly, sucking off her juices in her mouth. "There. Now you're ready." She picked up the brush again, and Jessie felt the cold paint paint a final gash across her throat.

"Go on up. They're waiting for you on the floor."