Page 87 of The Way We Rot
I fucked her until everything grew too much, then I filled her pussy with my cum, letting it shoot deep into her, against her cervix, coating her walls with my life. She would flutter around me, no doubt coming herself though she couldn’t move, couldn’t react.
If I looked in her eyes, I could see a fraction of the tension behind them, bliss rocketing through her even now.
She wanted this too, loved this too. My headache abated with the pleasure overwhelming.
And when I crawled down the table and swung her body around so she was horizontal across it, her head and shoulders hanging over the edge, I knew she’d be spreading her legs wider for my shoulders to fit between.
I lapped at her body, sucked the blood off her skin, between her elbows, along her wrists, down her chin. My tongue dragged all over her, tasting iron and sweat and cum, so delicious, depraved. I lapped and licked, then I latched onto her pussy.
She was cold, her skin pebbled from the chill in the air, but I sucked her clit and drove my tongue inside her, eating all my cum back out of her until no more came.
Standing, I grabbed her chin, squeezed her jaw until her lips popped open, and spat my cum onto her tongue. A familiar dance now. She would be groaning, licking her lips, if she could move. Begging for more, teasing me and pushing me.
Instead, I had to work her jaw, massage just under her chin, to get her to swallow it all down. Most dribbled out the side of her bloody lip, so I leaned down to lick it up, feeding it back into her mouth with rough, cold kisses. I didn’t stop until every drop was pooled in her throat.
Gentler than she deserved, I closed her jaw and studied her. Her eyes blazed, I think, but her face was so still.
So damn still.
Everything we’d done, all of it, I remained unsatisfied. I didn’t know if I ever would be. It hurt, the idea that this would never end, that Penny was rooted under my skin in a way that would never change. Shewas evil, but her evil had infested me, made me rot, turned me into a monster like her.
She was a sickness, a virus, disgusting, impure, vicious and festering. My heart squeezed; my head throbbed. No. She’d transformed me into a person worse than her. She’d won.
My knees slammed to the floor as grief and pain rocketed through me, the images of all I’d done to her, to myself and to others, flashing through my mind like a horror film, like a nightmare digging claws into my skull. Fuck, no.
I hammered the heel of my palm into my head, over and over, trying to force it all away.
I wasn’t evil. This wasn’t me. She did this; she turned me into this monster. A sob racked from me. Jake would be so ashamed.
He would be so ashamed. My brother, mother, sister, even my dad, who was long since gone from this world. They would all despair. Phoebe, my partner who was probably gaining on us by the second, she wouldn’t be ashamed; she’d be furious. Disgusted.
That’s what I was.
A disgrace.
But that was all that remained for me now. Disgrace.
Thirty-Seven
Adrian
Penelope Karner became my puppet with the final few carvings on her body. I had to remove her tongue because I couldn’t sew her mouth shut. I had to take away her voice for real.
Marionette’s mouths moved, their jaws hinged up and down, chins swinging and swaying. But they didn’t speak; they were spoken for.
I felt nothing as I yanked her tongue out, slicing my blade through, sawing until the organ was free of her body. And nothing struck me, not even a wash of nausea, as I discarded it in the dusty sink.
We were complete. Her transformation done. She was no longer going to die by my hand; she was going to live in hell.
The wounds I carved into her turned purple, the seeping fluid drying up, so I scooped her up andcarried her to my bedroom. The room seemed a farce now, a joke, like I thought I might run a half-assed sex dungeon, with my worst nightmare tied to my bed while I tested outlandish toys on her.
What the hell had I been thinking?
Penelope’s body was colder than normal, stiffer, but she never stopped glaring at me. Once she was healed, when I’d reopened the scars and driven black ink into them, I’d string her up on the stage again, but for now, my bed.
I was so damn tired.
Her body was unyielding as I laid her down under the sheets, draping the comforter over her before tying both her hands above her head. Her skin strained where her arms hung, floppy and heavy. None of the fight I was used to, none of the rage that fed every step of what we did.
