Happy Halloween everyone.

Here’s a story written by my good friend and favorite smut writer of all time, FancyLadySnackCakes ! Once I read this story about ghostface I asked her if it would be cool if I drew some pictures to go along with it, but I don’t think they do it justice. I hope you enjoy!

 

Summary: Ghostface is sorta done with the whole stalking thing. While the boys and girls are having their after-match meeting of the minds, you’re all alone in your little cabin by the campfire, perfectly ripe for the taking, and take you, he most certainly does.

Tags: tit fucking, small breasts, cum feeding, bondage, knife play, blood play, blood as lube, body worship, breast play, mild pain play, mildly dubious consent, vaginal sex, anal play, recreational drug use, multiple orgasms, squirting, mask stays on

There are many ways to sleep while a threesome is happening in the shack beside you, and yes, eventually, you found a way, but there’s many more ways a distant threesome could wake someone up than put them to sleep. This orgy business seems like the likely culprit when your tired mind suddenly resurrects itself into Entity-controlled limbo. For a few moments, you lay in that line that’s both a finish line and a start line between sleep and consciousness, savoring the mild euphoria.

It was all peachy keen but an echoing cry, which definitely sounds like a wild Megan getting checkmated by David’s king piece, cuts through the blanket. A weird tugging on your wrist tears the last veil of nod off your head.

Blearily, you crack your eyes open in the darkness only to find something blotting out the dull Entity’s glow, which usually leaks in from outside the murky windows. That something moves… it moves in time with a stretching ache in your arm, and maybe it’s someone’s shoulder? Hard to tell…

“… told you I needed sleep. Jesus,” you mumble; butchering words between disgruntled groans and grunts. The firm grip on your wrist jerks harder, and you snarl, but lose the fight—too exhausted still to fight whatever hijinks the boys are up to now. This feels like the work of Dwight… encouraged by a voyeuristic Bill maybe…

You go to wipe something akin to sweat off your face or crust out of your eye but meet the sudden abrasive resistance of a loop around your wrist. Amid half-sleep—body more than weak from the last trial against a belligerent Oni—you lift another hand to your face but sigh in frustration when it’s grabbed and pulled taut above your head.

“… dude.”

The figure breathes as if through a plastic funnel. Their hands are too big to belong to a masked Megan or Nea. Which begs to question who the fu-

You suck in a biting breath as your other wrist’s delicate ligaments are stretched into a sharp twinge of pain. It’s that pain that fully awakens you into your cabin’s snug confines where someone—who, you’re not sure—is strapping your wrists and ankles to the small, rickety bedpost.

“Excuse me…” you slur, more loudly this time.

The intruder creaks as they move down your bare leg, tugging a slim ankle out into one corner of the bed. They don’t respond except to cinch a ratty rope tight, then knot it around a bed knob.

“Hey, yo…” Suddenly, your voice is a bit less annoyed and a bit more shaken.

“I said I wasn’t interested in your celebratory gang bang.” And you weren’t. Honestly, the last thing you wanted to do was get stuck between Jake and David, who both had very different ideas about how best to spend their time between meat hooks and electrical burns. If everyone else wanted to fuck each other to damn near dementia when they weren’t running for their lives, more power to ’em, but you hadn’t been here long enough to settle for sex as your only way to spend your allotted free time.

That being said… was this actually anyone you knew? Suspicions were slapping you in the face, but it was only survivors here. Right?

“… ha’ah’alright, very funny. It’s funny, okay? Who is it, huh? They’re a lousy lot of you just chilling in the corner??”

Nameless Creeper gives another bleary exhale from deep down in their throat. It makes a lick of apprehension grow; watered with that heavy breathing, turning fear into bright seedlings. A cacophony of porny noises drift from the cabin beside yours, which sounds a lot like David King and two other ladies… so, either Dwight is really laying on the horror-show sounds or The Entity is fucking with you.

The mattress dips beneath you. The loud creak of leather fills your cabin as rubber soles pinch the soft skin around your hips. Whoever the fuck it is… they’re putting their mother fucking boots on your sheets. Do they know how hard it is to keep shit clean in this place?

You’re so close to yelling that your voice box starts vibrating, only for you to be viciously silenced.

Like a bitch slap to the face, the figure yanks on the overhead chain, as if to declare ‘let there be light!’

In a permanent flash, the single bare bulb in your one-room abode throws a garish golden stain over the one and only-

“G-g-Ghostface?!”

He throws you a gloved thumbs up, still holding the skinny chain in his other hand, pinched between thumb and forefinger; pinky out like the class act he is.

His cheeky reveal and your response are way too Scooby-Doo for even a nerd like you to handle, which is why you color in embarrassment rather than fear or anger or any other number of proper emotions to a killer straddling black boots around your hips. A weird, terrified half-laugh squeaks out your throat as he gives you an eerily playful wave of leather-gloved fingers. The bright white plastic mask stares in mockery while you twist your wrists and ankles in the rudimentary bindings.

“You’re-” it blurts out without proper thought behind it.

For a moment, you freeze, staring upwards past tight leather pants… a soft bulging crotch and a lean upper body into eyes of massive, black crescent droops that almost squint with pleasure. You drink him in against your will before stuttering into a complete sentence.

“… th-they said you-… k-killers can’t be here. They aren’t allowed!” Eh, more or less a full-sentence…

Ghostface raps a pointer finger against the black slide of his gasping mouth in a silent request for you to shut the fuck up and shut the fuck up you do not.

“The Entity has rules. You’re not supposed to be here-! N-none if you are supposed to be heh-”

A great bounce upon the bed takes your breath away.

Ghostface lulls into wide-shouldered ambivalence as the mattress settles beneath his feet. Motherfucker just did a jump on your bed to shut you up! Fucker…

You scrutinize the way he stands, leaning preternaturally over your helpless figure with both boots planted on either side of your waist. The way his neck cranes—the mask angled directly over your own of confused terror—makes a little leak of moisture stain your underwear. It better be pee, you think, daring your body to actually bring up very private and very secret fantasies involving this sneaky shit. Now is not the time!

Or perhaps it is because, as you glare at all corners of his frame, maybe hoping to find an area weak to your eyeballs, an area of growing mass catches your attention.

“Oh, fuck me…” you blanche; focus centered on the erection perforating beneath a tight belt buckle.

Oh, yes, indeed, his masked visage replies, wagging much like a dog’s tail at the sight of a bacon-flavored biscuit. Except you’re the snack in this scenario, and thanks to The Entity dictating life and death and all those sensations between, you’re not worried about getting turned into swiss cheese… at least, not by a knife.

Of course, thinking about knives and all means you indirectly summon one.

Ghostface procures a nice beefy blade from behind his back and gives the shiny thing a twirl between middle and pointer fingers. Its sharpness dazzles beneath the naked bulb, throwing a sharp needle of light into your right eye.

“What-umm… what’re you gonna do with that there?” Tennessee twang floats in despite your best efforts. Death, or whatever happened to you out in those woods, took away many qualities you had prior, but the hint of southern doublespeak comes through when your monkey brain clicks on. Something in his posture brightens as if the sound of your regional baroque tickles him a little.

Mr. Ghostie-goo himself flourishes the knife along several fingers into his other hand, snatching it up with a thick crack of leather. The seams of boiled cow skin crease around his constricting fist, but it’s less horrifying and more… alluring than it damn right ought to be. There’s something about the triangle-cut trim cowl, dashed in vivid red, that makes your tummy flutter. Also, you hate him…

“If this’s about all those flashlight-” you suck in the rest of your words, sputtering into a half-choke, half-gagging fit as he drops down into a low crouch. That knife slashes a hair’s breadth from your chin, resting gently over your lips. He taps the flat end over your kisser until you can see a thin string of spit connecting you and the knife.

Only when the blade slips down to the hollow of your throat do you speak up again, albeit much softer than before. “Nothin’ personal, but you know how good The Entity’s approval feels… being a vicious killer and all. Wuh-wuhn of the best, right?”

Ghostface nods as though this is all common knowledge, of course. He’s not nearly the most humble killer you’ve dealt with, but he’s also the first you’ve ever talked to, which garnered such an opinion. Well, you talked at him, more like. There’s only a handful of killers you’ve heard utter singular words or things that sound like words… but he’s not one of them. The silence from him is guttingly quiet; loud in its nothingness.

You blink a look over his crotch again, perhaps thinking it wouldn’t be as swollen and threatening as before, but it is. Did-did he just push his hips out a little more?—and angle them upwards too?? Certainly, it wasn’t that ginormous before…

“… um, at any rate,” you bumble through incoherent talk like a drunken bull over glass, “… what do I owe the pleasure?”

Fast as a flash, Ghostface withdraws his knife and raises a pointer finger. Then, without warning, he falls to his knees. You jolt against the mattress, stomach bumping up between his legs in a bright brush of contact before the springs settle, and you’re left a splayed mess of frenzied thought. The thick pat of leather across your bare belly continues to burn long after Ghostface has stilled above you.

Several, thin, high-pitched groans come from David’s cabin, which means Dwight joined the party. A brief picture show of David and Megan suctioned to that dweeb’s asshole and johnson plays behind your eyes.

Fuck-ah-doodle-doo… you think, staring wide-eyed up at-

“W-wait! Is-! Are you…” you squint over the lean bulk that makes up the man sitting on top of you, “How do I know you’re not one of my buddies dressed up on ah’ tear?”

So-called Ghostface sits in silence for what might be an hour, but is probably a few seconds since Dwight groans again; needles in your ears. The man above shrugs quite elegantly, but then, he snaps his fingers and settles down over your hips with heavy, heated pressure. The masked face tilts to the side, then angles downward, lopsided where the long plastic chin taps his chest.

You hold your breath as he reaches beneath the mask, thumb deep under the polymer lip.

Heavy breathing finally leaks outside the cocoon of cotton and plastic… sifting past the fine hair inside your ears like feathers; tickling a part of your brain that releases more chemicals through your bloodstream. Another dose of slick fluids slips between your inner lips, as his breathing grows heavier… grated. Unfortunately, the delicate deluge is a clear sign it’s arousal and not something else.

You wait, nipples hardening beneath the old undershirt still stained in gasoline. For a hot second, you worry what attraction this pose and this body with these pit stop clothes do for someone like Ghostface. Does he smell the countless night shifts that you still catch whiffs of when you’re hiding in the tepid swamps? Can he tell you were nothing so special before all this? Or does he-

He second thinks any idea of a face reveal, probably hadn’t planned it at all. Just a trick instead of a treat, but that’s fine because you’re not sure seeing his face will ruin whatever you find so hot about this. If it’s not the real Ghostie-goo, you’ll just pretend he is ’cause… well, ever since you saw him throw down over Jane’s backside and stab her senseless… you’ve had mixed feelings. There’ve been many limbo sessions between trials where you fucked yourself to the idea of getting gutted in other ways by him…

Instead of flipping his mask up, Ghostface pops the buckle on his pants.

Your eyes bulge open like some cartoon character from the forties. He tosses the knife beside in rumpled sheets of ratty linen and drags a loose belt out of each snug loop until the massive erection hidden behind boiled leather fills the granted extra space.

“Hot chicken…” you exclaim on a whistle; shameless as you stare.

Ghostface snaps a clasp open and drags one strained zipper down to the merriment of your monkey brain. A tawny-colored and brightly blushing cock swings out in a rigid stance, aimed right between your tits. Well, at least now you know what his little visit is really all about… not that the restraints and general flare didn’t already give him away. By now, you’re also damn near sure it’s not one of your fellow survivors in arms, because like it or not, you’ve pretty much seen the heat everyone is packin’, and it ain’t nothing like this.

Even though it’s meant to humor or terrify you—or both—the sudden twist of hips and wag of cock does neither. Spittle pools beneath your tongue, yet your mouth feels parched; dry… in need of moisture. A little pearlescent bead of precum swells out the tight hole on his cockhead, taunting your tastebuds.

You’re part-hypnotized by the turgid weight of wobbling cock that you don’t even feel the damp miasmic air hit your bare tits until soft leather fingers roll one nipple between thumb and forefinger. He’s inched your gossamer undershirt over your small breasts, both hands shaping the pert flesh with animated relish. Several black-cloaked fingers glide across the tender buds, forcing them into tight peaks to be pinched and pulled as you begin sweating and panting. It’s instinct to try and bite your tongue when under duress… but his plastic mask leans in close, hard ridges moistening against your hot breath.

He twists both nipples until you cry out. Electric pulses drum from your tits to your navel, which twists, eliciting warmth down further. Usually… usually you’re not fond of your frontal assets or lack thereof—but the attention is building rare confidence in your chest. You arch up despite the ropes, lifting into the rough, warm gloves that massage and smooth out your tits until they’re hot and itchy; two brands over your ribs.

Hoarse breathing hits the inside of his mask as black, and red shoulders rise and lower, elbows tucked in as his fingers and palms continue plucking at your nipples.

Only when tears gather in your lashes—sour little moans on your lips—does that muffling panting turn hostile. Seeing those tears must trigger something in Ghostface, same as the bloodlust when he’s so close to burying his knife in a survivor.

“… enough-” a violent wrench of your nipple rips words of mercy off your tongue, but his fingers release, skating down the hot, tender flesh to where your ribs end into your belly’s softness.

His dick’s underside taps your navel as he scoots down your hips, lifting a knee to straddle one rigid thigh. Those leather-clad digits walk over your hip bones to the nylon-cotton blended boy shorts covering more than longing. Beneath them, you’re soaked… there’s no pretending otherwise…

He lifts the hem and jerks it beneath the slope of your mound. Dark drooping eyes and a black, plastic scream cocks to the side. A middle finger scoops between your folds, pulling up a visible string of crystal clear moisture. You stare, flabbergasted as Ghostface—the one and only—plays with the glob of arousal between thumb and finger. If he thinks he’s charming by showing you just how wet you are then… then…

Well, he’s not wrong…

As he shuffles back over your stomach, parking his ass over your ribs, you realize that his finger test was some sort of approval system. Wet meant ready and raring to go! Because he slaps the hot slab of ghostly dick between you small breasts with a rasping sigh and rubs his palms together like he’s about to dive into a buffet.

Fuck.

It’s abundantly clear what he plans to do.

Fucking good luck trying, you think, oddly smug about your tiny assets if only because this sneaky shit’ll be sourly disappointed. You’re not exactly built for that kind of th-

A sudden, blurry cut to one tit takes away all thought. You stare, lower lip quivering as the thin, clean slice slowly begins to well with bright, oxygenated blood. The pain is sharp; a rotten sting. Yet you don’t scream, too shocked for that.

Instead, you stifle a whine as he wipes his fingers through the weeping wound, lathering the area between your breasts in rich, gummy blood. A haunting exhale says it’s not enough for him. This time, you wince and brace for another quick cut. Perfectly symmetrical lines of red seep from either side of your breasts, pooling in the hollow space between them.

The gentle pat-tap-tap of cock in all that sticky blood should throw you into a tailspin of useless struggle, but that’s pointless in The Entity’s realm. This will happen whether you want it to or not and you’re okay with it… because what else would you rather be doing?? Certainly not getting squished between a coward and a brawler while Megan or Nea try to stick their tongues down your throat. Nah, this is way more interesting. It’s… way more hot.

“Well,” you throw out the rules and spit a glob of saliva down where your blood pools around his cock, “go for it…”

It’s hard to see at this angle, but you think that wad of spit landed on his dick… it would explain the choppy, weak sigh that bleats beneath his mask and the happy wiggle-spank his cock does in all that sticky red.

Despite what you might have assumed, Ghostface does manage to tit fuck you. There’s no overlap, no fatty jiggle of ampleness, but he forces what you have against the substantial girth pulsing between and gives the friction a test thrust. Your breasts drag around the bloody, sticky cock until two more thrusts work that spit you spat on him into a pink lather. Poor, stiff nipples nearly end up squished into the side of tan dick, more than close enough to grow scratchy with his hips’ smooth jerks. The tattered ends of his cowl tickle your ribs and the sensitive skin beneath your arms… and maybe you snort a totally involuntary laugh, and maybe Ghostface sucks in rattling breaths that could be chuckles as he fucks your little tits raw.

Tacky leather thumbs caress your nipples as Ghostie-goo fucks himself between the snug channel of fat. Friction burns. Blood dries, making every press a little less smooth—a little stickier.

His gloved-palms mash and fist your breasts tighter, throaty breathing raspier… dick rutting faster.

He saws his hips until the bedpost starts slapping the log cabin wall—until the ropes around your wrists and ankles erode skin into brilliant burns… until you part your lips at the skewed visage of a wide cockhead getting squeezed between your small, tender breasts.

With a parched inhale and languish sigh, a sudden squirt of cum splatters across your chin. You gasp, jerk, and whine as another hot spurt coats your lips.

Ghostface cums along your throat and lower face until it’s seeping past your mouth to your teeth and tongue. The taste is unpleasant—too salty and a tad sour. But that’s jizz for ya, you think, slightly scatterbrained by what just happened.

Another weak leak dribbles down the slope of your chest to the hollow of your throat where most has pooled already; growing cold and thick.

“Jesus Christ, that’s a mouthful…”

He struggles for breath as the mask bounces grated sighs and sucking lungfuls of air.

“… I’d… say thanks, but,” you lick a layer of cum off your lower lip and frown, “I’m fixin’ to call it ah’ night if you’ll be so kind as to-”

Ghostface puts a finger to your lips, pressing hard enough that your front teeth ache a tad. He shakes his head, frozen, plastic scream more disapproving than usual. You glare back; hot an’ bothered but ready to be done now that he’s frosted your face like a Krispy Kreme. In your limited and fruitless experience, guys—killer or not—are done after blowing that first load.

“Rea’lee?” You mumble under his finger, “What more could you want now? Like… right now?” It’s an honest question. Even at this uncomfortable angle, you can see that behemoth of a dick softening. It’s unnerving, but the sight of its veiny length, all bloody and raw, will haunt all future perverted thoughts.

The Entity’s realm has ruined you, it seems…

Ghostface reaches behind him, where an apparent black hole of nicknacks resides, and pulls out an unlabeled pill bottle. He gives it a cheeky shake close to where his cock lays over your chest, then pops the top.

You remain silent, except for the slight noise of curiosity, as he knocks two white, round pills into his gloved palm and shoves them under his mask. Thick, wet sounds like a slick tongue, and thick swallow makes you blush. Are you only now blushing?? Wouldn’t that be amazing…

It could just be a coincidence, but you’re pretty sure those are Billy’s. You’ve caught Megan pilfering through that dude’s realm a couple times and come away with a similar-looking pill bottle, which begs to question how Ghostface got them. The Entity has rules about that sorta thing, then again… after tonight, those guidelines don’t seem to apply to him. He’s here, having freshly tit fucked you, after all.

He bows his spine, leaning over to where the delicate, impossibly soft ends of his cowl caress your raw nipples. You sigh through your nose, lashes lowering as he cleans off your face with sweeps of his thumb. Ghostface wipes his cum off only to nudge the slippery fingers to your lips. You balk at the request for only a second before opening your mouth, letting his practically spoon feeding you cum over and over again. Each dripping thumb past your plush lips leaves a coating across your teeth – a lingering tingle over your tongue. After the fourth feeding, you swirl your tongue across his leather thumb, craving more.

By the time Mr. Ghostdick finishes cleaning off his mess, his cock is stiff again and you’re panting, gasping for more. You eye his hard dick like a snapping snake but dare not say what you’re really thinking.

Death by cock was way better than death by meathook…

He taps his fingers over your boobs like a walking spider for several seconds—like a bored psychiatrist rapping his fingers over a wooden desk… except… titties. You stretch your spine to accommodate the ache in your shoulders and hips, semi-prepared for what’s to come.

All signs point to this visit being far from over. You’re probably gonna get fucked, which is a thrilling concept, but if that thing is gonna fit inside you any which way, then limbering up is priority number one. It’s a little hard to do while you’re splayed out like this, but you’ll manage, and you do. A couple half-assed pilate stretches that open up the tendons and muscles in each gluteus medius make you sigh. Triceps loosen with a roll of your shoulders, and all those tight ridges coddling your ribs relax with a couple challenging twists of your waist. Ghostface only stares for a moment in apparent confusion before shrugging obnoxiously, leaving your sore titties for an assault on your naked stomach.

His palms grope everything he comes across. The dip of your waist gets mapped and stroked. The soft pudge beneath your navel gets squeezed, smoothed, and massaged right down to your mound, which sits against your askew boyshorts where he left them.

Your underwear disappears with two sawing cuts of his knife.

“… that’s my only pair ya know.”

A throaty sigh is your only reply, and it doesn’t even sound that sympathetic. Go figure…

Your poor undies get tugged from beneath your ass and tossed carelessly to the floor. You’d request a song sung to their memory, but two firm gloves suction themselves to your ass, really leaning into the butt groping as that cock starts to slime precum inside the dip between inner thigh and labia.

Ghostface pinches, pulls, and molds your ass in his palms, pushing your body up with erratic bounces every time he adjusts his grip. There’s fewer nerves in your ass as there are in your tiny breasts, but there’s also more heft there, and his fingers dance inside the fat and muscles, relishing the firm squish until you start to ache deliciously.

Who would have thought fucking around with Ghostface would entail such a thorough massage? Maybe, subconsciously, he knows you need to limber up before whatever’s about to happen happens? Very hard to tell thanks to the comical scream molded on his mask.

As sweat gathers over your skin—adrenaline and arousal opening your pores—his touch glides. A finger slips between your cheeks, swiping unconsciously against your tight hole. The contact makes you sputter and gasp, suddenly starving for oxygen.

Ghostface pauses, your ass still fisted in his hands. He studies you through heavy crescent blacks then wiggles his fingers between your cheeks again, assaulting that puckered ring of nerves just to be a shit head.

Your lips part, puffing hot, desperate breaths against your raw nipples. It’s not like you to get a riled up over assplay. The one time you tried, it ended in failure, and, to be honest, the feeling was about as pleasant as going to the toilet. But, if that’s what Ghostface wanted… you’re in no place to object. Thankfully, his teasing is just that. After a few choked moans and one shake of your head, he abandons your ass with a clawing drag of his fingers, down the backs of your thighs, curving up above your knees and squeezes.

His hands sit there for a moment, testing the taut muscle there, then snatches up your hips and settles himself under your lower body; thighs beneath your tender backside.

Ghostface sits back on his heels, surveying the way your lower half rests in his lap, then grabs his cock and presses the head to your clit.

For some reason, you hadn’t prepared yourself for that. The sudden firm but slippery pressure, right there, is like a stake of hot bliss shoved up your middle. Pleasure guts you as he smears his juicy cockhead up and down your clit, sweeping around the nub until he’s panting as heavily as you are.

A band tightens in your belly—the precursor to an orgasm. You can feel it.

Desperately, you grind your hips, rolling yourself over his rubbing cock, terrified he’ll stop before you can finish. He seems like the type to do that. Someone like him probably got real giddy about leaving others hanging for his own pleasure, but he doesn’t stop. He braces himself with a fist on your breast, opening back up half-clotted wounds while slickening precum in and around your swollen clit.

You orgasm while rolling your hips in tiny, barely curling circles, spreading your thighs wider than the ropes just to feel the spongy, slick head of cock rubbing all that pleasure deep inside. Inner muscles clench and release, contracting around nothing for about half a second before Ghostface glides that cockhead down and drives it home.

No warning. No mercy.

Before you can even count the last second of your climax, Ghostdick is balls deep where he probably shouldn’t fit, but does and… Jesus jumpin’ Christ, that’s a big one…

Your eyes roll into the back of your skull. No time to waste with those pills kickin’ in, you think. He’s as hard as Mikey’s steel pipe, but thicker and easily half as long.

If things like death didn’t exist here, then limitations didn’t either, because Ghostface more than stretches yours. But it’s damn good. Everything is orgasm soft—still convulsing—adding to the sucking insides that clamp and clutch each time he pulls back. The abrupt pace means your body opens up by the fourth thrust, allowing all the ones after to go in like a well-lubricated piston. You arch your spine, lifting your hips higher to feel that cockhead tap your womb.

It hadn’t crossed your mind before, but the blood from your tits is now deep inside your pussy. The realization makes a string of drool crawl out the side of your mouth as the cut on your tits bleed again.

Cock pummels your body; breasts bouncing rapidly across your ribs.

The ropes make way more sense now. There’s no way you wouldn’t get fucked off the bed without the loops around your ankles, holding you steady while this sweet ass killer just pounds the ever-loving daylights out of you. There’s a bunch of bullshit sentiments running through your head, but all of them get destroyed by thrusts that hammer your cervix and smooth your inner walls. All those textured ridges are getting tunneled out like a dick kneading dough. For a moment, you question the thoughts and word choices supplied by your inner monologue, but that’s neither here nor there. Right now, it’s cock.

Cock all the time.

“Yes!” You shout. As surprised as a resurrected corpse by the life Ghostface fucks into you.

“Y-yess!” You scream this time, probably disturbing everyone else’s fuck fest, but you can’t remember if you heard any errant moans in the past ten or twenty minutes. It doesn’t really matter, though. Ghostface has you right where he wants you, and you ain’t going anywhere. Suffice to say, even if Dwight or anyone else was to waltz in—thinking your cries of passion were mating calls—nothing about this would change.

Ghostface would keep fucking you, and you’d keep taking it like the filthy fucking slut you are.

“Fuck-fuck me! Fuck me like ah… like ah’ fuckin’ slut!”

He breathes out in a hoarse groan. If he didn’t expect that to come outta your mouth, then even better, but he gives you what you ask for.

The ruthless pounding and slap of his hips pick up. The crack-crazy speed literally steals the wind out of you. You choke, curling your fingers into a fist and spreading your toes as Ghostface turns you into a dick receptacle. He fucks you like you’re unbreakable—like you’re having a heart attack in your pussy and this is the only way to keep you alive is through obnoxiously hard, fast dickings. Screw chest compressions; you need him to fuck a new hole in you.

Suddenly, you’re jealous of everyone else that’s been kicked on their stomach and stabbed in the spine. You want next time to be like that: on your stomach, Ghostface’s cock lodged deep from behind… maybe a camera in your face and a knife in your back too. Who knows what you really want? Except, right now, you want cock. You want it up your ass, down your throat, blasting through your womb into your abdomen. If Ghostface doesn’t murder you with his cock right now, you’re going to… to…

“Oh’oh fuck!” It’s coming, you think. You’re coming. “… I’m-”

Ghostface nods vigorously while slapping his hips between your thighs, jackhammer you with all those fat, glossy inches. Your blurry eyes catch the rise of your stomach and a shadow that comes and goes with each thrust. You blink, but can’t tell for sure if his dick is literally denting your abdominal wall or not. Certainly feels like it… certainly… feel… oh, God…

In an implosion of quivering muscles, gushing fluids, and something akin to death, but definitely isn’t, you finish again. This is different than what you finger fuck out of yourself every now and then—different than the orgasm his cockhead smeared into your clit earlier. This sensation comes from an invisible knot behind your navel that corkscrews your intestines into revolting pleasure. Popping bliss races down your legs, up your chest, out your arms, and settles in your cranium. A full body orgasm wracks your body as Ghostface wrecks it.

A hot, stinging release floods your abused cunt, but it’s impossible to care as you leak your own clear fluids in his lap, ejaculating as your pussy softens and clenches with uneven contractions.

To say a good fuck could cure most things was kinda laughable until now. If you had a missing arm, this dick down might have triggered a regrowth because… hot damn. 

So lost in the glow and comedown, you don’t even feel the immense amount of cum Ghostface pumps you with. Only when it starts leaking out around the seal of your pussy, dribbling down your ass crack, do you blink into semi-consciousness.

Maybe those pills weren’t Billy’s… perhaps they were something else. A Clown concoction or something from the Nurse’s counter. Who’s to say. It doesn’t really matter; all that matters is he’s got a full bottle’s worth, and there’s no point stopping now. Not like you’re gonna die… not like he is either…

“How many,” you pause for a greedy inhale and thick swallow, “how many more them pills ya got??”

He sighs long and low, sounding content and needy all at once. The pill bottle in question gets pulled out of a black pocket behind his back again. He rattles it by the white cap like wiggling a hunk of meat before a starving animal. You salivate without thinking.

Inside, where his cock is lodged up snug and deep, your pussy contracts.

“Looks like you got plenty for a couple more rounds…”

Ghostface nods enthusiastically and gives you a couple happy pumps of his hips. His dick feels only slightly less steely than it did a minute ago, but the movements unleash several viscous puddles of jizz. The mess, however, is more than satisfactory. You’re gonna need all the extra lubricants you can get if you plan to stay intact until those pills run out.

You watch, teeth in your lower lip, as he throws a couple more white caplets back. He adjusts his mask by the long chin, breathing in like preparing for a battle, and smooths his boiled-leather gloves down your stomach and hips once more. There are a fair few moments of just petting—just the exploratory squeeze of a tit here and the thumbing tease of your clit here… maybe a thrust of cock too that sends dull currents of pleasure into your stomach.

There’s more blood and more moaning puddles of drool.

A minute and a half later, the threesome in the cabin next door erupts in another round of debauchery while Ghostface plants his fingers in the meat of your back, holds you down, and begins fucking you slow and steady… and so deep you mewl like a fucking baby.

Only a moron would complain about this…

An’ despite what many killers and a fair few of your buddies might say, you ain’t no moron. Not, at least, when it comes to this Ghostdick.

This sweet, cervix-mashing dick… 

You coiled the rope around your fist, lift your hips and lie back as Ghostface has his way with you. All through the night—the endless, meaningless night—until The Entity needs you both again.

You’re here for whatever he wants.

 


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