32. Madelyn #2
“Since you don’t want my mouth on your pussy, we’ll go with plan B.”
I’m about to ask, but there’s no need. He brings the sharp end of the knife over my clothes again, down my blouse, and this time, he tugs at the fabric, leaving enough distance between it and my skin, so he can slash through it. He cuts the fabric in a straight line, from the top to the bottom.
Then, he hooks a finger past the belt loop of my skirt and does the same. His hands stretch the fabrics and tear them apart.
I stand still, petrified at what’s happening, my breath ragged and my heartbeat overheating.
I’m left in nothing but my bra.
That’s until he leans forward again, placing both arms around me, as if hugging me, and causing me to arch my back toward him. With another simple move, he unclasps my bra with his fingers, and it drops to the ground.
My nipples harden as a chill runs down my spine.
I’m exposed—though the abundance of tattoos on my skin, courtesy of him—help cover me up. The ‘Devon’ scribbles around my breasts, and sex is technically a bra and panties set of their own.
“You’re so beautiful.” He stares me up and down, knife in hand. “And you’re all mine.”
I don’t try to cover myself or run, despite everything. I’ve seen what he can do, and that’s enough to root me in place against the lockers.
He switches the knife to his other hand and rubs his fingers through the fresh wound on his arm, gathering some of the blood.
“Since you don’t want my mouth on your pussy, you’ll have my blood.”
“W-what?” I rasp.
“I need to get you ready, somehow, my wife.”
“R-ready for what?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
His body moves impossibly closer to mine—it’s me, the lockers, and the blade to my jugular again. His hand finds my throbbing core, the heel of his palm presses into my clit, and I purr as he rubs it with circular motions.
When I attempt to thrust against it, he stops. “Careful, or you’ll get hurt.” He presses the blade a bit deeper against me, reminding me he’s in control. “Let me do my job. Just relax.”
He slides his bloody fingers across my slit, making me sticky and wet from the friction.
I moan, and a sharp pain follows as he inserts his fingers inside me without warning.
He doesn’t give me enough time to adapt before he starts moving them. My pussy tightens around them, long and thick and bloody, softening the friction that should be present.
He’s using his blood as lube.
The thought should disgust me. But it doesn’t. It’s sick—and it’s intimate, too.
He doesn’t let me catch a breath. His fingers slam inside, and he curls them, attempting to hit my G-spot.
I succumb to the pleasure, my mind plagued with thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
If his fingers feel this good inside me—will his cock feel just as good? Will it be better?
Will it hurt as he rips through my folds? How far am I willing to go to find out?
I find myself being greedy as he speeds up his movements. “More.”
I can’t deny my body the pleasure.
“Fuck, you are enjoying this, aren’t you? I’m going to stretch you so good,” he says. “Such a naughty little whore for her husband.”
“Yes.”
“Give in to it, my wife.”
I’m so deep in my pleasure, so focused on it, staring with half-closed eyes at the masked man I’m sure I manifested with my diary, that I don’t notice how his fingers are thicker, fill me up more, and slightly hurt. They’re not soft but rough, hard—almost like plastic.
I startle and press my hands to my neck—there’s no blade against it. Only flesh, stretching around it, giving me a false sensation of tightness that, while lost in the moment, didn’t make me question anything.
That means the knife—
I shake my head, attempting to lower my gaze, only to be forced to stay put.
“Eyes up here, Madelyn.”
He won’t let me.
“W-what are you doing?”
My breath quickens, and my hips buck involuntarily against the object he’s holding.
“What do you mean?” He laughs. “I’m making my wife feel good.”
“With what?”
He tilts his head, stopping mid-thrust. “With your favorite thing in the whole world.”
I swallow.
“Danger.”
My pussy clenches around it as the words leave his mouth.
“It’s the knife.”
“Bingo,” he says. “Well, the handle. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my wife. I’m a gentleman.”
Now that I am aware, he loosens up his grip a bit, and I manage to dart my gaze down.
I stare at the handle inserted between my folds, fluids dripping down my thighs with every single push.
It’s hot, and I throb even more; the waves of pleasure it sends through me are electric.
Then, I catch sight of his hand, of the blade digging into his wrapped palm. A lump forms in my throat. That must hurt like a bitch. Is it cutting through his skin?
“Y-your palm,” I say.
“Oh. This?” He pushes the handle deeper into me, making me moan louder, pressing the blade into his skin even more. “I can handle a little pain.” Thrust. “Danger feels good, doesn’t it?”
It does. It feels so good that I’m really getting into this played-out fantasy.
He positions the knife at an angle in which he can run his thumb across my clit, giving me the most delicious stroke as he ruins me. Going back and forth with the handle playing dildo, and his thumb adding a little extra pressure.
Thrust and rub, thrust and rub. My orgasm is curling in the pit of my stomach.
“Y-yes.” I moan. “Faster. I’m almost there, I—”
He stops moving. The knife is still filling me up, but it’s not enough. The sensation dwells.
I need this. I want to be touched so bad.
My pussy is swelling with arousal.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I groan. “Don’t stop.”
“You’ll come when I tell you to come,” he says. “Now, beg me to let you come with my knife.”
I don’t want to. I won’t. I shake my head.
“Beg.”
I’m the one edging myself at this point. But begging means letting him win this game. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I don’t—
He clutches my neck harder—barely leaving enough room for me to breathe—and pulling half of the handle out at the same time.
Fuck.
“P-Please,” I whimper.
“Please what, my wife?”
Asshole. “Please, let me come.”
“That’s it. Not so hard, is it?”
He restarts, pushing the knife further and sliding it in and out, doing magic tricks on my swollen pussy again.
I can’t stop myself. I’m digging my nails into his back now, grinding toward the knife and thrusting.
I want this. I need this release. I’ve held it up for so long. I’ve dreamed about this.
I’m. Almost. There.
I’m a mess. Looking into his mask-covered eyes. Then closing my own, and opening them again. Sounds I never thought I’d be able to invent leave my mouth.
“I’m coming.”
I rise on my toes as I let the orgasm take over me, and I ride the wave of pleasure bursting out.
My body shakes, weakening as the sensation peaks. I let myself falter.
He pulls the handle out from inside me, and the fullness is replaced with an immediate void and deep yearning.
This was amazing—my pussy is still throbbing—and yet, it wasn’t enough. Something is wrong with me because I toyed with danger, and I want more.
I want his cock inside me.
He showcases the handle soaked in my fluids, turning it from one side to the other so I can see. Then, he brings the knife to my mouth, carefully holding the start of the blade with his palm, the handle facing me. It’s glistening with the same fluids that are dripping down my thighs.
I’m in the perfect position to press it right into his throat if I catch him unfocused. It would make the perfect mess. The perfect cut. I could be done with him.
But I don’t
“Taste it,” he says, my pussy clenching with his words. “Taste yourself on the knife, my wife. Open wide.”
He pushes the edge of the handle into my mouth, forcing my lips to part.
A mix of saltiness and sweetness hits my tongue and makes me almost gag from how deep he pushes it, yet I comply. He bobs the knife in and out of my mouth, and I suck it.
The thought amuses me.
I am practically giving a blow job to the knife’s handle.
Why is it so hot?
“Look at you, so greedy for it,” he says, his fake voice deeper than usual. “Are you imagining it’s my cock?”
I nod.
He only pulls the knife out once it’s clean.
“Good fucking girl. Looks shiny and new,” he says, admiring the knife. “You know what else is shiny and new?”
“No,” I say.
“Virgins.” He cackles. “Just like you, my wife.”
He pauses, the knife is pointed at me again, a never-ending game between us.
“Not for much longer, though. When I’m done with you tonight, you’ll be anything but.
I’m clearing out every single one of your fantasies.
And that diary is thick. You’re a greedy little slut, my wife.
” A cackle, that neon red mask staring right at me.
“You’re lucky I’m just as greedy. Let’s see how many we can check off that list.”
An image of my diary flashes through my mind. Being fucked by someone with a knife at school after-hours wasn’t part of the list.
But being fucked at work was.
And so was in public, with a discreet object. The circumstances are different, but they kind of fit.
“Now, I don’t want to keep you waiting. You want my cock? You’ll get my cock,” he says. “First, be a good girl for me again and kneel.”