Page 5 of Psycho Obsession
I close my eyes, and for a second, the hallucination shifts again. The room is no longer white. It’s gold. It’s burning. The floor beneath us is turning into a bed of crushed playing cards, the edges sharp enough to draw blood. I feel a tongue—not Miller’s—trace the line of my jaw, a taste of smoke and expensive gin.
Miller’s fingers push deeper, stretching me, his knuckles rubbing against my clit in a way that makes my vision go white. I’m balanced on the edge of a jagged, psychotic climax, a scream building in my lungs that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the fact that I’m shattering.
“Say my name,” Miller demands, his voice cracking.
I open my eyes, and the shadow at the door is back.
It’s taller now. More solid. It’s leaning against the frame, watching us with a stillness that is more terrifying than any scream. It isn’t a doctor. It isn’t a nurse. It’s the devil, waiting for his turn.
“Jex…” I whisper, the name finally breaking past my lips like a secret.
Miller freezes. The friction stops. He looks at me, his eyes wide and panicked. “What did you say?”
“He’s watching,” I giggle, the sound wet and broken as I look past him at the empty, dark glass of the door. “He’s watching you touch his favourite toy, Miller. And he looks… hungry.”
Miller’s eyes darken, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s nothing left but a void of pure, predatory heat. He doesn’t give a fuck about shadows or names anymore. He sees the way my breath hitches, the waymy chest heaves against the leather, and the fear in my eyes acts like a hit of adrenaline straight to his heart.
“You want to talk about ghosts?” he growls, his voice dropping into a guttural, jagged register. “Talk to me when I’m buried so deep inside you that you forget how to breathe.”
He yanks the hospital gown up further, bunching the cheap, thin fabric around my waist until I’m completely exposed to the sterile, biting air. He doesn’t just look; he feasts.
His gaze crawls over my stomach, over the sharp dip of my hips, and settles on the soaking, glistening mess between my thighs. I try to clamp my legs shut, a pathetic, instinctive jerk of my muscles, but the five-point restraints keep me splayed wide, my pussy bared and weeping for him.
“Look at how wet you are,” he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, desperate hunger. “All that talk about fire, and you’re just a fucking lake down here.”
He drops to his knees between my legs, the weight of him pulling at the mattress. I feel the heat of his breath first, a warm, moist cloud against my inner thigh that makes every hair on my body stand on end. Then comes his tongue.
It’s not a caress. It’s a broad, flat swipe, licking a trail of heat from my mid-thigh all the way up to the sensitive, pulsing centre of me. I let out a choked, broken sob, my head thrashing against the padded mattress as the drug haze turns the sensation into a technicolor explosion of nerves.
“Stop,” I rasp, the word dying in my throat as he does it again.
He ignores me, his hands reaching up to grip my thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh like talons, anchoring me.
He buries his face in me, his nose hovering right over my clit, inhaling the scent of my arousal mixed with the metallic tang of the facility.
He licks again, his tongue flicking fast and sharp over the swollen hood, teasing the tiny, hyper-sensitive nub until I’m seeing stars behind my eyelids.
“You like that, don’t you?” he mumbles against my skin, his voice vibrating through my bones. “You like being used like the animal you are.”
He uses his teeth then—just a graze, a tiny, sharp nip right on the edge of my pussy lips that makes me shriek, the sound echoing off the white walls. The pain is a shock, a jagged contrast to the heavy, sliding heat of his tongue. He’s teasing me, purposely avoiding the core of the ache, circling the drain while I burn.
I’m fighting the straps, my wrists raw and bleeding as I try to get away, try to close the distance, try to do anything but lie here and take it. But the more I struggle, the more my pussy pulses, clenching around nothing, sending ripples of desperate, unearned pleasure through my spine.
“Please,” I moan, and I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore.
“Please what?” Miller mocks, pulling back just enough to look at me, his mouth glistening and wet with my nectar. “Please stop? Or please finish it?”
He reaches up with one hand, his thumb and forefinger finding my nipples again, rolling them into hard, painful pebbles while his other hand slides down, twofingers disappearing into my pussy. He’s stretching me, his knuckles rubbing hard against my clit in a rhythmic, punishing grind.
He’s pulling me right to the precipice where my thoughts turn into white noise, then stopping.
He pulls his fingers out, leaving me empty and thrumming, only to replace them with a long, slow lick that starts at my bottom and ends at the very top of my slit.
I’m a wreck. I’m a fucking disaster. The hallucinations are screaming now, the white room turning into a forest of writhing, golden snakes, but the only thing that matters is the friction. The way he’s destroying me. The way I’m so wet it’s dripping onto the sheets.
“You’re not going to cum yet, Hallow,” he purrs, his fingers diving back in, faster now, hitting my g-spot with a brutal, repetitive force. “I’m going to keep you right here. I’m going to make you beg for it until you’ve forgotten every fucking thing but the way I taste.”
He leans forward, his tongue darting out to swirl around my clit while his fingers pump inside me, a dual assault that makes my vision fracture. I’m sobbing now, my hips bucking against the leather, my whole body a live wire of psychotic, agonising need.
