5. Chapter 5
Ipressed my back against the wall, my thighs still slick, his cum drying in sticky trails down my legs.
The chainsaw's roar faded into the dark, swallowed by the maze of plywood corridors.
I stood there for a long moment, breathing, feeling the ache between my legs that was already turning into something else. Something hungry.
The haunt was still alive around me — distant screams, the thud of a door slamming, the rattle of chains somewhere below. I walked looking for more patrons to scare, or to fuck.
The hallway smelled of plastic and the chemical smell of the fog machine.
The floorboards groaned under my bare feet.
Every few steps, a prop lunged from the shadows — a hanging dummy, a painted clown face, a mirror that showed me my own smeared makeup and the dark marks on my throat.
I kept moving, my skin prickling with every gust of wind that leaked through the warped windows.
A sound stopped me. Not a scream. Not a roar. A whimper, small and sharp, cut off like someone was trying to swallow it.
I followed it to the end of the hall, where a single bulb hung from a wire, swinging slowly, throwing long shadows across a storage room where a cracked leather chair sat for those who needed a break from the spooky fun. And in the chair, a guy.
He was young. Maybe nineteen, like me. Lanky, all elbows and knees, a hoodie pulled up over his head. His hands shook as he gripped his knees so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked up when I stepped into the light, and his eyes went wide.
"Sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn't— I got lost. I thought—" He swallowed. "I thought this was the exit."
I should have sent him on his way. Pointed him toward the stairs, told him to follow the red lights.
But he was shaking, and I was still buzzing, still raw, still open from everything that had been done to me tonight.
And there was something in his face — that same desperate, hungry look I'd had when I signed the contract, like he was drowning and didn't know how to ask for help.
"Hey," I said, softer than I meant to. "It's okay. You're okay."
I crossed the room and knelt in front of him. His eyes dropped to my chest, then snapped away, his cheeks flooding red.
"I'm Jessie," I said. "You look like you need a break."
"I know. I just—" He laughed, a broken sound. "I freaked out. The guy with the chainsaw. He came out of nowhere."
"He does that."
I put my hands on his knees. He flinched, then went still. His legs were trembling under my palms.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Tyler."
"Tyler. You want me to walk you out?"
He shook his head fast. "No. I mean—" He looked at me, and there it was again. That look. "Can I just... stay here for a minute? I'm not ready to go back out there."
I should have said no. I should have stood up, taken his hand, led him to the exit, and collected my hourly wage like a normal haunted house employee.
But I'd signed a different contract. And I could feel the heat still coiled in my belly, the ghost of a cock inside me, the taste of a stranger on my tongue. I wanted more. I wanted to be wanted.
"Okay," I said. "Stay."
I climbed into his lap. His breath caught, his whole body going rigid.
I straddled him, my knees on either side of his thighs, my naked body inches from his, the cool air of the room brushing my nipples into hard points.
He stared at me, mouth open, his hands frozen in the air like he didn't know where to put them.
"What are you—"
"Shh." I put my hands on his shoulders, working the tight muscle there. He was all bone and thin cotton, his shoulder blades sharp under my thumbs. "You're tense. Just let me help."
I rubbed him through his hoodie, slow circles, feeling the tremor run through him. His eyes kept dropping to my chest, then away, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
"This isn't—" he started.
"It's okay," I said. "I'm supposed to be here to help. I'm available to the guests. For whatever they need." I leaned in, my mouth close to his ear, and I felt him shudder. "You need something, Tyler."
He was hard. I could feel it through his jeans, pressing against my thigh. He tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go. The chair was against the wall, and I was on top of him.
"I've never—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never done this before."
I pulled back, looked at his face. He was blushing so hard the color ran down his neck. His eyes were wet, and I realized he wasn't just scared of the haunted house. He was scared of me. Of this.
"Never?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I'm nineteen. I know that's— I know it's pathetic. Everyone else has—" He broke off, his jaw tight.
"It's not pathetic," I said. "It's just where you are."
I moved my hands down from his shoulders, over his chest, feeling his heart hammering through the cotton of his hoodie.
I found the hem and pushed it up, revealing a pale, narrow stomach, a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel.
He sucked in a breath, his hands finally moving, landing on my hips like he was afraid I'd disappear.
"I can take care of you," I said. "If you want."
He stared at me. "You mean—"
"I mean I'll make you feel good. Better than good. And you don't have to do anything. Just let me."
His hands tightened on my hips. "Why?"
The question caught me off guard. Why. Because I was empty, aching, and needed to be filled.
Because the devil had used me and left me, and the chainsaw man had claimed me, and the couple had marked me, and I still didn't feel like I belonged anywhere.
Because a boy who was shaking, scared, and untouched was the closest thing to safe I'd felt all night.
"Because I want to," I said. "Because you're here, and I'm here, and it doesn't have to be more complicated than that."
He didn't say no. He didn't say anything. He just looked at me, his eyes dark and wide and hungry, and I felt his cock twitch against my thigh.
I leaned in and kissed him. Soft at first, just my lips brushing his.
He made a small sound, like a question, and I answered by deepening it, my tongue sliding into his mouth.
He tasted like cheap soda and fear, and he kissed back like he was drowning, both hands coming up to grip my hips, pulling me closer.
I broke the kiss and sat back. His lips were wet, his breath ragged. I reached down and found the button of his jeans.
"Is this okay?" I asked.
He nodded, fast. "Yeah. Yes. Please."
I undid his jeans and pulled them down, along with his boxers, just far enough to free his cock.
It was hard, standing up against his stomach, the skin flushed and smooth.
Not as thick as the chainsaw man's, not as long as the devil's, but real, warm, and alive in my hand.
He gasped when I wrapped my fingers around it.
I stroked him, slow, learning the shape of him. He was already leaking, a bead of moisture at the tip that I smeared down his shaft with my thumb. His head fell back against the chair, his eyes closed, his mouth open.
"That feels—" he started.
"Good?"
"Yeah. God. Yeah."
I worked him with my hand for a minute, feeling him throb against my palm, feeling his hips start to move in small, unconscious thrusts.
I shifted, lifting my hips, and reached down to guide his cock to my entrance. He was watching me, his breath held, his hands gripping my hips so hard I knew there'd be bruises in the morning.
"Ready?" I asked.
He nodded. "I don't— I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to do anything. Just hold on to me."
I sank down onto him, slowly, letting him feel every inch of the way in.
He was slick with the mess the chainsaw man had left in me, and I was already wet again, my body greedy and aching.
His cock slid into me, stretching me open, and he made a sound I'd never heard before — a kind of broken, desperate moan, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, God."
I took him all the way, until my thighs pressed against his hips, until I could feel him deep inside me, filling me up. We both sat there for a moment, breathing, his cock twitching inside me, my cunt clenching around him.
"You feel—" he started, then stopped and shook his head.
"Tell me," I said.
"Incredible. You feel incredible. I can't— I don't know how to—"
I started to move. Slow, a roll of my hips that made him gasp, his hands flying to my waist. I rode him, my thighs working, my cunt gripping him with every lift of my hips. He sat there, staring up at me, his eyes glassy, his mouth open, like he couldn't believe it was happening.
"You can move," I said. "If you want."
He shook his head. "I don't want to mess it up."
I laughed, a low, breathy sound. "You can't mess it up. Just feel."
I leaned forward, my hands on his shoulders, my chest brushing against his, and I rode him harder.
The chair creaked under us, the sound loud in the quiet room.
His hands slid up my back, under my hair, pulling me down until his mouth found my nipple.
He sucked, clumsy but eager, and I moaned, my hips grinding into his.
"Yes," I breathed. "Just like that."
He gained confidence, his mouth working on my breast, his hands gripping my ass, guiding my rhythm. I could feel him swelling inside me, getting harder, and I knew he was close.
"I'm not going to last," he said, his voice muffled against my skin. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." I looked him in the eye. "I want you to cum inside me."
His eyes went wide. "Really?"
"Really. I want to feel it. I want to feel you fill me up."
He made a sound like a wounded animal, and I felt his hips buck up into me, his rhythm turning frantic. I rode him through it, my cunt clenching around him, pulling him deeper, and when he came, he cried out, a sharp, broken sound, his whole body shuddering under me.
He gasped, and I felt him pulse inside me, hot and thick, flooding me.
I kept moving, slow, riding out his orgasm, feeling every twitch of his cock as he emptied into me. When he finally stilled, he was breathing hard, his face flushed, his eyes wet.
"That was—" He shook his head, like he didn't have words.
"I know," I said, and I leaned down and kissed him, soft and slow.
He softened inside me, and I lifted off him, his cum dripping down my thighs. He watched it, his eyes wide, and I saw the wonder on his face. I stood, my legs shaky, and his cum started to leak down my blood-painted thigh.
"You should go," I said. "The exit's down the stairs; take a left, follow the red lights."
He didn't move. He just stared at me, his jeans still around his thighs, his cock soft and slick.
"Will you be here?" he asked. "Next weekend?"
I looked at him — this boy I'd just taken, who'd given me his first time, who'd looked at me like I was something sacred. And I thought about the couple who were coming back. The devil, whose name I didn't know. The chainsaw man, who'd welcomed me to the floor.
"I work every weekend," I said.
He nodded, pulling up his jeans, his hands clumsy. He stood, and for a moment he just looked at me, like he was trying to memorize my face.
"Thank you," he said. "I won't forget this."
He walked out, and I listened to his footsteps fade down the hall. I stood there in the dim room, his cum cooling on my thighs, the ache between my legs already turning into a new hunger. I knew he'd be back.