Page 79 of The Way We Rot
My death would be my own again.
He showed me what he was doing as he lowered the baton between us, placing it beneath me instead of his cock. His eyes never strayed from my pussy as one hand landed on my shoulder and shoved me down. I cried out at the intrusion, but only because it was cold. Harder and thinner than his cock, but longer, stabbing into my cervix in a mind-bending dart of pain.
I held on as he fucked me with it, pushed with more force than was comfortable, testing the boundaries of what my body could take, slamming against my cervix like it might break through.
“Hold on,” he repeated when my thighs loosened. He slapped me, so I tensed back up. “You don’t get to claim your death today.”
“I won’t let go,” I told him, clawing at his neck to keep from falling. We were sweat-slick, my balance poor, my focus entirely on him, his movements. It wouldn’t take much… everything was just so intense, so overwhelming. He wanted me at my limit, and he was getting me there.
Fingers pressed into my pussy then, one, then two in quick succession, shoving in beside the baton. He stretched me out on them, then withdrew. “That’s all you’re getting. It needs to hurt.”
“Make it hurt,” I cried.
He shoved his cock, thick and hot, into my body beside the baton, and pushed in and out at the same time, working my pussy to death.
I felt so beyond extended, my pussy roaring with the tension, the pull and pressure as it was taken to the edge of capability. But he didn’t care. When I cried without meaning to, when I gasped because I was sure something had broken,he didn’t stop.
“I’m going to shove this thing into your womb,” he told me as he fucked me, his breaths coming out in hard, hot pants. “I’m going to ruin your body, ram it through you like you did Brandon, like you did Randal.”
“Yes,” I begged. “Stop threatening me with a good time and fucking do it.”
He began alternating thrusts, pushing the baton in as he pulled out. “Shit,” he grunted. “That feels so good, you’re so fucking tight like this.”
My fingers fumbled.
Traction lost.
An orgasm ripped through me with no fair warning as my grip on Adrian failed. I didn’t fight, didn’t scramble. I let my last moments begin to wash over me as Adrian swore, as the baton fell from me and his hands reached out.
My ass slipped over, my torso, arms and head already on their descent.
It was a hand on my throat that pulled me back, a final desperate grasp of Adrian’s hand, half hanging over himself, that carried me back from death.
It was that hand on my throat that made me see red.
Thirty-Four
Adrian
Ipulled her up from the edge, having caught her wherever I could, scrambling to stop her death coming too soon. She would not have such an easy end.
Though I did like the way my hand looked wrapped around her throat. I squeezed harder, lifting her, moving her onto the floor to lie on her back. Our skin was hot where it connected; my grip hard, commanding.
She glared at me, nostrils flared, red stained skin cracking where the blood had dried. My feral witch. My evil, murdering cunt, looking at me with the most intense hatred in her eyes.
“You don’t get to leave yet,” I said, promising more with my expression. Yeah, she’d slipped from my grasp, but that didn’t mean this was over.
She didn’t speak, looked barely alive, as I reached for the other tools in my arsenal. I often sat up here,carving the leftover wood, making little animals or piles of crap to turn into sawdust. I had everything we needed for a good fucking time.
Right where we lay, I’d left a bag of tools just weeks ago. The night before I took her, in fact, I’d been up here, slicing into a chunk of wood and daydreaming about this very moment.
Her head turned with the movement of my hand, but she still didn’t utter a word. Her whole body had grown tense, and it was like she was holding something in, like a change had occurred in that second she slipped. Maybe she realized she didn’t want to die, that all the pomp and promises she made were a joke.
“Were you actually afraid then?” I asked, pulling out a small carving knife, smiling when it glinted in a dull light from the stage. “Was that the moment you decided against your race to death?”
“No,” she muttered, not looking me in the eye. “No.”
I nodded, not sure whether to believe her or not, focusing back on my many tools. We were still in that game, toying with her death, with power. I remainedunsure which one of us held it. Who belonged to whom.
