2. Chapter 2
The flashlight beam caught the devil first—a flash of red horn and black leather before the dark swallowed him whole.
Jessie stood at the edge of the jump scare room, the chainsaw's roar vibrating through the floorboards and up her bare legs, her painted wounds gleaming under the single swinging bulb.
"You're the new one." A girl with a bloody apron and a bored expression appeared beside her, chewing gum. "When the chainsaw guy revs, you scream. When they run past you, you grab. Grab whatever you can reach—an arm, hair, a belt loop. Make them feel it."
Jessie nodded, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Through a gap in the plywood wall, she saw two shapes tangled on a pile of fake skeletons—the chainsaw man, still holding his prop, one hand buried between the thighs of a woman in a nurse costume.
The nurse's head was thrown back, her mouth open in a sound Jessie couldn't hear over the saw.
The chainsaw man's hips were working in a rhythm that had nothing to do with scaring anyone, his free hand gripping the nurse's hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
The woman's costume was pushed up around her waist, her legs wrapped around him, and Jessie watched, transfixed, as he drove into her—no finesse, no patience, just raw, hungry fucking.
The nurse saw her watching. She grinned, slow and wicked, and reached down to spread herself wider, showing Jessie exactly where the man's cock was sliding in and out of her. The chainsaw man grunted, and the nurse's eyes rolled back.
Something moved behind Jessie, and the air changed.
"You available?"
She spun. The devil stood close enough that she could smell leather and smoke. The mask was sculpted red, with black horns curving back and eyeholes that held nothing but shadow. His voice was low and rough, the kind that didn't ask twice.
"Yes," she heard herself say, and the word came out steadier than she felt.
The devil's hand closed around her wrist, and he pulled her into the shadows behind a stack of painted coffins.
The chainsaw roared on the other side of the room, and somewhere a customer screamed, and none of it mattered because his hand was already pushing her forward, bending her over the nearest coffin lid.
"Hands on the wood," he said. She obeyed.
His palm ran down her spine, over the painted gash across her lower back, and settled on her ass. He squeezed, hard enough that she gasped, and then he was spreading her, his thumb dragging through the slick heat between her thighs.
"Already wet," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "The paint job do that, or was it watching them fuck?"
"Both," she managed, and the devil laughed—a low, dark sound that vibrated through her.
He stepped closer, and she felt the heat of him, the leather of his costume pressing against her bare ass. One hand held her open while the other guided himself to her, and then he pushed in—not slow, not gentle, just one hard, deep thrust that filled her completely.
Jessie cried out, her fingers scrabbling at the coffin lid.
He was thick, and the stretch burned in a way that made her thighs tremble, and he didn't give her a second to adjust. He pulled back and slammed into her again, his rhythm fast and punishing, the slap of his hips against her ass echoing off the plywood walls.
"That's it," he growled, his hand fisting in her curls, yanking her head back. "Take it. Take all of it."
She did. She took every thrust, her body rocking forward with each impact, her hands white-knuckled on the coffin's edge.
The devil's cock hit something inside her that made her see sparks, white and sharp behind her eyelids, and she felt her whole body seize around him, a tight, convulsive grip that dragged a choked sound from her throat.
The heat of him was a brand low in her belly.
She heard herself moaning, high and desperate, the noise spilling out of her unbidden, not caring who heard, not caring about the thin walls or the men just outside or anything but the thick, relentless pressure of him driving into that spot again, and again, and again.
"Look at you," he said, his voice ragged. "Barely two hours on the job and already begging for it."
"Please," she gasped, not sure what she was asking for, only that she needed more, needed him to keep going, needed the edge he was pushing her toward.
He gave it to her. His hand left her hair and snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rough and knowing, working her in time with his thrusts.
She felt herself climbing, the coil tightening in her belly, and she sobbed his name—or tried to; she didn't even know his name, so she just sobbed.
"Cum for me," he ordered, and her body obeyed like it had been waiting for the command. She shattered, her cunt clenching around him, her whole body shuddering against the coffin lid, and he drove through it, fucking her through the orgasm until she was limp and shaking.
He pulled out, and she felt the sudden emptiness, the cool air on her wet skin. His hand pumped once, twice, and then heat splattered across her lower back, thick and hot, painting her over the fake gash the artist had drawn there.
"Welcome to the floor," the devil said, his voice already distant, already walking away. The chainsaw roared again, and Jessie stayed bent over the coffin, her breath coming in ragged gasps, his cum cooling on her skin, wondering if this was what every shift would be like.