Page 53 of Psycho Obsession
The crowd starts to riot. People are screaming, some covering their children’s eyes, others staring with a sick, hypnotic fascination at the mechanical violation. The secret service is trying to pull him off the stage, but he’s frozen, paralysed by the sight of the monster he created.
I thumb the remote one last time, a “Kill-Switch” that sends one final, massive surge of voltage through the anchor.
Hallow’s body snaps into a rigid, terrifying arc. Her eyes fly open, staring directly into the camera—directly at him—as she hits a peak that sounds more like a death rattle than an orgasm. She screams his name—not mine, his—a long, agonising wail of “FATHER!” that shakes the very foundations of the pier.
The screen goes black.
The countdown on the dead man’s chest hits zero.
I don’t look at the explosion. I just pick up my teacup and take the last sip.
“Polls are looking down today, Dad,” I mutter, a slow, dark grin spreading across my face as the first wave of fire hits the stage.
Chapter
Twenty-One
HALLOW
The world is a red blur.
The explosion outside was a dull thud in my ears, but the explosion inside me is constant. The screen is black, the city is screaming, but I am still caught in the teeth of this machine. My wrists are numb, the leather biting into the bone, and my legs are locked in that wide, humiliating V that Jex carved into the air.
The anchor is still grinding. It’s a low, cruel throb now, a vibration that feels like it’s trying to shake my soul loose from my skin.
I lift my head, my hair sticking to my face in sweaty, tangled clumps. Through the haze of my own undone nerves, I see him. He’s standing by the balcony door, the teacup gone, replaced by that matte-black remote. He’s just watching me. Not with love. Not even with lust. He’s watching me like a scientist watches a chemical reaction he finally mastered.
“You… you sick… fucking… prick,” I wheeze. My voice is a ghost, a shredded remnant of the girl who screamed on the big screen. “Take it… out. Take it out now.”
I thrash against the ropes, the magnets snatching at my labia with every jerk. Each movement is a fresh sting, a reminder that I am tethered to his whim. I want to kill him. I want to wrap these chains around his neck and watch his eyes bulge the way our father’s did.
Jex doesn’t flinch. A slow, dark smirk crawls across his face—the kind of look a shark gives the water right before it hits.
“You’re still talking, Hallow,” he says, his voice a low, terrifying crawl. “That means the frequency is too low. You shouldn’t have enough breath left to hate me.”
He thumbs the slider.
The hum turns into a roar. The anchor inside me kicks into a violent, offset orbit, slamming against my G-spot with the force of a piston. It’s not a buzz; it’s a goddamn assault. My vision fractures. The red light of the clown head above me turns into a thousand bleeding suns.
“Oh god—” The scream is ripped out of me, but it morphs mid-air into a wet, helpless moan. “Oh god… oh god, no… Jex…”
“God?” Jex lets out a short, jagged laugh as he walks toward me, his boots clicking on the glass shards. He stops right between my spread legs, looking up at the wreck he’s made. “There is no god here, sweetheart. There’s just the ghost of a brother who died in a chair, and the sister who’s finally learning how to scream his name.”
I’m cumming again. It’s a violent, unwanted surge that feels like my internal organs are being turned inside out. My pussy is weeping, the slick heat running down my thighs in a steady stream, making the metal anchor slide even deeper, even harder.
“Oh god… Jex… fuck… I’m cumming… stop it, please… oh god…”
I’m begging for the end, but my body is betraying me, reaching for the peak with a frantic, animal greed. I’m shaking so hard the rafters are groaning, the chains rattling a frantic rhythm.
“Don’t look for heaven, Hallow,” he whispers, leaning in until his lips are brushing against the swollen, vibrating skin of my inner thigh. “Look at me. I’m the only thing that’s real. I’m the only one who knows exactly how much it takes to break you.”
He thumbs the remote again, a sharp, rhythmic pulsing that mimics the beat of a heart. My muscles clench in sync with it, my climax stretching out into a long, agonising plateau of pleasure. I’m lost in it. I’m drowning in the frequency.
Outside, the funhouse is surrounded by the orange glow of the burning pier. But in here, in the dark, there is only the machine, the man, and the girl he turned into a riot.
The frequency shifts.
The violent, industrial grind of the anchor drops away, replaced by a rhythmic, staccato thump-thump-thump. It’s a tapping sensation, a localised pulse that hits the most sensitive nerve endings in a way that feels exactly like a hot, frantic tongue darting against my clit. It’s light, teasing, and so fucking precise I feel my toes curl toward the ceiling.
