Chapter 29
The Doctor
She’s lying on the DJ’s podium, spread out on top of the mixing boards like a musical sacrifice. My mouth waters, and I lick my lips in response.
Her thighs are kept in a perfect V-shape by the ropes I brought, and I have her open to the cool night air. Her pussy glistens under the neon lights flashing above us, and a tiny little puddle forms under her perfectly plump ass.
She’s perfect. A cure created especially for me. Here, as my sacrifice to the festival, to the Gods, to my elder.
She’s here to save me, and she doesn’t even know it. But yet, she smiles. Smiles at me as I undo my belt, dropping my suit pants to the floor.
Her breath hitches when she hears the metal clank against the stage. She knows that sound. Such a dirty little angel.
Grabbing her hips, I pull her closer to the edge. A yelp escapes her lips, echoing to the crowd via the microphone I have set up next to her head.
They’ll listen to her sing for me. And they’ll understand. The deathbringer is mine. Indy is mine. I’ll show them, too.
A special treat for the last night of the festival.
An offering to the Gods who like to watch.
I smirk, breaching her in one hard thrust. My dick slides in like she was made for me. Made to take me.
Every thrust is an offering, a promise.
I tear my mask from my face. My master’s chains no longer hold me. They will no longer infect my mind.
Because my cure is right here, thriving under my touch.
And as she clenches around me, reaching her climax, I reach out. My fingers grip the soft fabric around her eyes, and I pull.
Her eyes snap to mine, and she screams as her orgasm crashes around her. She doesn’t stop looking at me, though.
Instead, she catches me by surprise, reaching toward my uncovered face as her body spasms between us. I flinch, scared of her intention, but my heart calms as her fingers find my cheek and she caresses it, rubbing soft circles against my jawline.
My heart stutters.
And she smiles again.
“Beautiful,” she whispers, a tear slipping down her face.
I don’t know if any of this will work. If the festival will accept her, if the voices will stop.
But as she writhes, looking up at me like I’m her cure, I realize that none of this was ever about the infection.
It was about her. My Indy. My angel.
I unravel the ropes around her thighs, red marks covering them like a map of my obsession. I grip her hips and bring her to her feet. Placing my palm out in front of her, she intertwines her fingers with mine, her face turning a deep crimson.
We look at the audience as one. Bodies dance around infected corpses like a fucked up offering. Bass booms around us, each pulse beating under our feet like the start of something new.
We walk.
Into the crowd, into the infection.
As a cure, as one.
As us.
And, I know forever will look a lot more promising with her by my side.