Chapter 1 #2
“You know, that’s what they all say when they have seen what I did.” He pauses, releasing the pressure of the knife just a bit, allowing me to breathe. “Now tell me what you did see, why your cock is out, and why it’s getting hard for me.”
Did he just say I’m getting hard? That’s never happened.
I mean yeah, I get morning wood, and I’ve tried masturbating before, but my dick doesn’t behave like others.
I don’t get boners. I try to look down but can’t really do that with the knife against my throat.
I twist my hand a fraction of an inch, and it sends tingles through me.
I’M FUCKING HARD WITH A KNIFE TO MY THROAT!
I’m spiraling mentally. The urge to move my hand and experience that sensation again, knowing I just witnessed a murder and am now about to die myself…a passage comes to me—Isaiah 59:19. “When the enemy comes in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord will lift you up a standard against him.”
God, is this your plan for me? Is this a test of my faith and resolve for you?
Licking my lips, I try to answer his questions.
“I…I was walking home from going out with friends. I needed to piss.” Man, this is hard to do with your dick out, a knife to your throat, and a guy looking at you like you’re a conundrum.
“I was just about to go when a flash caught my eye. Then I froze because I clearly walked into the wrong alley.”
“Did you enjoy what you saw?” he asks, his head angled to the side.
The question catches me off guard. “Of course not. Murder is wrong.”
He tsks. “Your very hard cock says otherwise. You said murder and it started to weep. Look, it’s doing it again.”
He removes the knife from my throat and lowers it to wipe it off along my jean clad thigh, forcing me to follow the movement.
My gaze detours to my dick. It’s painfully hard, and he’s correct, it’s leaking precum like this is normal.
I must look just as shocked as I feel because he chuckles.
He fucking chuckles like this is all a joke.
“I-I-I don’t know what is happening. I don’t get hard.”
“No? Cause I don’t think he’s gotten the message.” He moves closer to me, invading my space. He takes the edge of the knife and skims it across the top of my shaft. “I think he’s loving everything right now.”
My lungs stop working—locking up—afraid to release the air in them. The intense coldness of the blade sends electrical zaps through my body, igniting my nervous system.
He continues to lazily glide the knife up and down my shaft. He’s clearly an expert with it. No sane person holds a knife to another man’s dick like this.
“I think our friend needs some attention. I want you to rub yourself like you do when you’re alone.
” He leans in even closer, and I only see him—his green eyes appear brighter this close.
I can now make out the levels of green, all swirled together.
I can also smell him—instantly my mouth starts to water.
Do I like the scent? It’s masculine, if masculinity had an aroma.
Leather, something earthy, with a hint of copper.
That’s clearly the blood I’m picking up on.
But boy does it just add to him. Like it’s a part of him.
“Um, I don’t really do that,” I confess.
“What man doesn’t jack off?”
“I mean I have but just to try it out when I was a teenager. My dick is fundamentally broken. I don’t get hard for people.
I never want sex. I’m a man who is giving his life to God.
My desires have never been for the flesh but for knowledge.
” There, I told him my truth. If I’m going to die, why not go with a clear conscience?
He moves his head back and forth, as he processes my word vomit. “I don’t think it’s broken. As we both can clearly see.” His gaze darts down for a second and then back up. “I want to see you rub it anyway.”
“No, please,” I whimper, slamming my eyes shut. Maybe I’m dreaming and this will force me to wake up.
He wraps his hand around mine—the hand that’s currently holding my dick.
His is larger and calloused. “Let me show you how.” I can sense him moving in closer, our chests almost touching.
The feel of his spit hitting my erection causes me to jolt.
His fingers tighten around mine, forcing me to tighten my grip.
His hand starts to move mine up and down.
It feels amazing. Anytime I’ve done this, it’s never felt this good.
Is it his hand, my hand, or this whole situation making me this way?
I witnessed death when I was younger, but it didn’t cause me to react like this.
Probably because of the situation and my age.
Or is it this man, this killer, that’s forcing me to react?
“Your mouth said no, but your body and those moans? It doesn’t sound like you want me to stop.” Am I moaning? I don’t even know. Maybe it’s the alcohol? “You seem to be enjoying this. You’re fucking yourself into our hands. That’s not the action of someone who hates what’s happening.”
His hand continues to move mine, my dick loving every second. I’m feeling things like never before. Is this why everyone is so hung up on sex? Does it always feel this good?
He releases my hand. At the loss of him, my eyes fly open—from fear or from the lack of his presence I’m not sure—but my hand doesn’t get the memo as I continue to jack myself. I don’t want this sensation to stop.
He’s put a foot or so of distance between us, but his gaze devours me. What has my life become? I just watched this man kill someone, then he held the same knife to my throat, and helped me masturbate...
“You’re quite skilled with that hand. Does your God make your dick this hard?
Is that what’s making you so horny right now?
Thinking of Him?” He tsks and then steps so close to me that our chests are now fully flush.
His breath fans across my lips, goosebumps spread all over my body.
My hand stops moving. Again, I’m frozen, not knowing what to do or say.
All brain functions have officially ceased to work.
I flounder for something and before I can form a response, he says, “I want to know what you taste like.”