EIGHTEEN #2
I would never defile her with my hands. These blood-covered hands. These sacrilegious hands…
That was for him. For D’Angelo. For the pretenders.
What I gave her was purer. Until she was purged of the filth. Until she was ready to lift the veil and step past it.
A slow buzz started under my fingertips as I powered on the base unit. Lights blinked – green, amber, red. I keyed in the rhythm: slow thrust, pause, grind, withdraw. Her hips tensed even before the piston moved. She was already imagining it. Already clenching.
My sweetheart.
I stepped in front of her, just close enough to watch.
The shaft rose, mechanically precise, then angled forward by the motorised arm beneath the seat. I held my breath as the machine adjusted for resistance. Flesh met steel, heat met cold. A sacred clash of synthetic and human.
Then it pushed in.
She gasped.
Slow. Steady. Deep.
I gripped the railing at the edge of the setup, the mask vibrating faintly over my jaw as my breath stuttered behind it.
She took it. All of it. And she didn’t even know whose name she was supposed to moan.
The machine retracted wetly, only to thrust again much deeper, much smoother. The lube caught the low light like the gloss on her cunt.
I didn’t blink – I didn’t want to miss a single drop her pussy released. I watched.
Because this was worship.
This was love. This was mine.
Every shaky breath she took, back arched, moans broken into uneven pieces.
I pressed a button on the control box, adjusted the pace on the machine. Slightly faster. Each thrust sent a ripple through her thighs, her fingers curling tight against the handle above her head. She could have moved. She could have left.
She didn’t.
She wanted this.
She wanted me.
Through a gasp, slick with heat and shaken from the haze, she whispered, ‘Ghost… please… kiss me.’
Like a blow to the chest, the ache spread.
My hand tightened around the steel rail. Every part of me turned to ice. Her voice. No game. No command. A plea. From her.
Kiss me.
She didn’t know – I wasn’t him.
I dug my fingers into my hair and pulled just enough to feel the sting.
She was blindfolded. Moaning. Split open on a machine I had built with my own hands.
And she wanted a kiss.
My mouth dried under the mask. Something twisted in my gut that ranged from possessive to hungry to afraid.
Confused.
I couldn’t touch her. That had been my rule. My line. Because once I did, there was no pretending this wasn’t a lie.
I stifled a whimper.
Beyond that line laid utter ruin. Monstrous cravings. Unholy thoughts.
But she asked.
She asked.
And those rules meant nothing now. Not when she begged for me. Not when the monster was all she needed.
For a moment, I did nothing.
Let the machine take over. Let her ride it as though she were riding me.
Then her voice broke again. Softer this time.
‘Can I… taste you?’ she whispered, lips parted, head raised towards where she thought he stood, unaware it had been someone else.
God almighty. I couldn’t refuse her.
I stepped forward, my body moving of its own accord.
Her head tilted towards the sound of my feet. She was so fucking close I could smell the salt of her skin, the sweetness of her scent.
My hand hovered near her face. Trembling.
No, a little voice in my head whispered ever so quietly. Not the mouth. Not yet.
I leaned in.
Let my breath fall across her lips, watching her skin pebble along her neck like prayer beads. And then – barely, barely—
I paused. Loomed.
A kiss? From a man?
But I wasn’t a man. Not really.
I was the thing that followed at night.
The shadow in her eye.
The breath on her nape when no one else was there.
A monster. Her monster.
And what did monsters do?
I slid the modulator down beneath my chin, the static hum fading.
My tongue slid out, damnation coating it, and traced her lips with a slow, obscene, unholy drag.
My lids closed, pressing hard as if to banish what threatened to snap the leash of that monster.
She gasped, lips parting, and I ran the tongue tip over her bottom lip once more, letting it linger just long enough to feel her breath catch.
Then I pulled back.
Air refused me.
I had touched her. Tasted her.
My tongue burned from the truth of what I had sampled – from the sacrilege I had committed.
Because she wasn’t just a woman to me.
She was my altar.
My church of flesh and breath and bruised prayers.
I had dared to defile it.
My palms tingled as I circled the seat, keeping far from her.
Not from shame – there was no room left for that – but from the magnitude.
From the realisation that I had crossed some line.
And it didn’t even feel like trespass. It felt like truth.
Like slipping into a wound to find it pulsing with welcome.
And the world?
It hadn’t ended. No hellfire or judgment.
Only her moan. Her body. Her offering.
And now I was terrified. Of ecstasy.
Worship had never been this filthy. And hunger had never felt so holy.
I bit down on my lip, swallowing a sound that crawled up my throat like something between a sob and a laugh.
She had no idea what she had given me.
What had been gentle rolls of her hips were now waves of feverish contortions. Beautiful. Thighs quaked, her arousal spilling in slow drips like pearls from a torn rosary.
The machine pumped faster, each thrust harder than the last, echoing wet against the bare walls.
Her climax was building. I could see it.
And I wanted more.
From the shadows, I reached into the supply bag, fingers damp with sweat as I grabbed the lubricant. Still half full. Still warm.
I stepped forward, just close enough to see her beautiful cunt stretched open around the silicone shaft – slick and red and sacred – and then I flipped the bottle and started chanting inwardly to sanctify its contents.
I squeezed it over her body.
Hard.
A thick stream of gel slithered over her folds with a noise so lewd it made my breath stall. It dripped over her, down the shaft, pooling where the machine met her body – coating her with fresh, gleaming wetness. Too much. Filthy. Dripping. Like holy water from the wrong source.
She gasped, back arching again, her blindfold already damp with sweat. The machine adjusted, registering the change – thrusting harder, deeper, as if responding to the mess I had made of her.
Pulling the mask over again, I moaned. Silently.
‘Touch yourself for me,’ she whispered.
Damn it! She was the devil, and I was the sinner in the desert, begging for mercy.
My hand moved to my trousers, and I finally gave in. Unzipped, freeing myself, my cock already aching, flushed, needy. Wrapping my fist around it, I began to stroke, slow and tight, watching her body bounce with every mechanical push.
I inched closer, standing over the machine – close enough for my mind to twist the sight, to believe it was me inside her instead.
She was close. I could hear it in her whimpers. See it in the way her stomach tightened, the way her lips parted like a silent cry to God.
But I was the one listening.
I was her God.
And in this moment, no one had ever looked so perfect.
So fucking ruined.
So mine.
Yes. That was it. That was what had changed – tonight I had made her mine.
Her breath stalled, then broke.
A sob tore loose, part pleasure, part disbelief.
Desperate. Her thighs shook violently as her body seized with release.
The machine adjusted for the final rhythm: shorter thrusts, faster, unholy, programmed to finish without overstimulation.
Her mouth fell open, cunt pulsing around the slick shaft as the final strokes pushed her over.
And drove me to the edge with her.
Fist tight around my cock and my jaw locked behind the modulator, I groaned as raw heat surged through me. I stepped closer just as the machine slowed to its programmed end, piston slowly retracting with a wet hiss.
And I spilt over her.
Ropes of my release striped her stomach messily, her thighs, the tender line where her pelvis met the seat.
She didn’t know it. She couldn’t.
She was an altar, carved in soft flesh and unknowing grace. And I – filthy, shaking – had spilt sacrilege across her. Worship turned to ruin, and there was no undoing it.
But I gave her my all and took all she gave me.
My blessing. My curse.
My angel.
My slut.
And now, like all sacred things ruined, she had to be returned to the dark.
Made pure again.
Unmade by the only hands that truly loved her.
My gaze slid to the backpack in the corner. The knife inside thrummed like a second heart. A prophecy. A final act of devotion.
A promise I was finally ready to keep.