Category: Ghost Stories

Ghost’s fiction

Message Sent

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// Witches, dolls, Weapons, violence, death

They say you can tell a lot about a witch by the dolls that she keeps. Each doll sends a subtly different signal; a hidden language of flowers. This is something your Miss knows well, and thus it was no accident she chose you. You are a message, and part of a system of messages.

A porcelain doll is an extravagant luxury. It tells the world that a witch has magic to burn on something both fragile and overpriced, an easily shattered bauble whose very breakability signals that one has the wealth to afford such pointless indulgences.

In contrast, a ragdoll is a highly practical choice. Soft, difficult to damage, easy to repair at little cost, keeping ragdolls signals thrift, sentimentality, and pragmatism, if also a bit of a childish fear of breaking one’s precious possessions.

There is nothing particularly practical about combat dolls. Their military grade components wear out quickly and need frequent maintenance, their systems are poorly attuned to most tasks. Showing up to a gathering with a combat doll is like arriving with a loaded assault rifle.

Your Miss’s heels click loudly across the ground floor lobby and you trail beyond her with footfalls silent as the grave. The secretary on duty shrinks into herself as your Miss strolls over. Her eyes aren’t on your Miss, they’re on you. That’s the message of course.

You are to the average combat doll what the average combat doll is to a typical domestic: a skittish knot of abstract destruction magically sheathed in the body of an underweight girl, a Weapon in the purest sense. The message you send is simple: death surrounds this machine.

The secretary isn’t a threat of course, just a typical service doll. Your witch cuts her threads and shoos her out without breaking stride, pulling the security codes directly from her head in the process. The elevator to the penthouse suite opens meekly, and you ascend.

You keep your hands folded neatly behind your back: fingers clasped, blades sheathed, lovestruck eyes transfixed to your Miss. She idly browses her phone and pets your hair while the elevator rises. She isn’t remotely on edge, she doesn’t need to be, not as long as she has you.

You both feel the tug at the same moment, corporate mages grabbing the elevator car and pulling it into a pincer attack. She smiles and pats your head, already feeling the anticipatory tingle of rising violence as you vibrate in your sheath. The doors begin opening.

A simpler combat doll would activate at this point, but you are not some blunt instrument, you’re a razor honed to molecular sharpness, and so you remain patiently waiting as the doors open and the mages unload an entire arsenal into your defensive barrier. You barely feel it.

Your Miss is still holding her phone when the hail of bullets ceases, and she waits until then to look up to the open passage, in order to casually gesture that she would like to continue ascending. Your Miss is like you in that regard, she doesn’t unsheath so easily.

The mages and corporate security are looking at you two dumbfounded and horrified. Your Miss cocks her head slightly, giving them a chance to save their lives. They begin shooting again and she raises one hand. It’s then that they panic. The elevator unlocks, and the doors close.

There are over a thousand souls in the highrise and you can sense each of them. Most are racing for the ground floors, but a small number are heading for a helicopter on the roof. Your Miss senses this all through the threads that bind you. She pushes the rooftop button.

The blades are already spinning when the elevator doors open, and you follow your Miss into the blast of wind. Targeting data is already pouring down your threads: names, faces, identifying features, abilities, power levels, locations tagged in burning desire and blinding love.

Your Miss strolls casually towards the helicopter, stuffing her phone into her pocket, not a hair on her head moving from its place despite the whirlwind. She lights a cigarette and takes a drag, the target of your desire is struggling into the helicopter, a portrait of panic.

“Last chance to live April!” Your Miss announces cheerfully to the target, voice magically amplified over the roaring wind, “All you have to do is give back what you stole!” Your Miss and you both know that won’t happen, but there is decorum to keep. The target says nothing.

The helicopter continues throttling up, in a few more moments, the skids will lift from the concrete. It won’t matter of course. Your Miss raises one hand, you feel the grin of violence spread through you, coiling in anticipation. She snaps her fingers, and you unsheath.

The battle plays out faster than the eye can follow, your opening move, a gigawatt strength beam, is deflected by the target’s security doll. You’re already in the hole created by the block, fingers coming up pivoting, a rifled blade of pure force ripping the hapless doll in two.

The force of the cut slices down through steel and concrete then carves back up to bisect the helicopter, neatly splitting it in half and reducing your target to a red smear. The fuel cooks off as the remains of the engine guts itself, all targets eliminated, who next? Who next?

Without targeting data you regress to a null state, everything is a potential target, you’re rapid-flagging every soul in an expanding radius, throwing your witch options to eliminate them, so much hunger, so much desi–She snaps her fingers again, and you return to your sheath.

The world instantly collapses back to just Her. She’s all that matters and you love her so much. She’s back on her phone, already bored of the spectacle and heading for the elevator. She gently tugs a thread, and you trot after her like a lovesick puppy. Message sent.

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Just being honest

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// dehumanisation, abuse, capitalism, trauma, grooming

Listen, you want the truth?

I’ll give it to you straight since you really want to know.

Just being honest, between us?

You have the wrong kind of brain to do anything economically valuable and the wrong kind of body to be valuable as a breeder.

You’re eye candy at best and being eye candy is just the expectation for girls, so it doesn’t get you anything either.

It won’t get better someday, not for you, everyone can read you like an open book, and you read like a stupid needy bitch.

You’re too broken to have actual friends so you try to manipulate everyone into pitying you instead but you’re not hot enough to pull that off so it’s just cringey and bad.

You’re not going to actually dig yourself out of that hole you’re in, sucks to be down there, but that’s just the truth of things, I’m just being honest with you.

You’re kinda fucked.

Try harder?

Sweetheart, you’re already trying harder than everyone.

You think this is about trying?

No, it’s just you, you’re just fundamentally lesser.

A real person could get rich with half the effort you put into surviving, but no amount of effort will ever get you anywhere.

I really don’t see why you keep struggling along honestly.

You know nothing is ever going to change, you know that you’re never actually going to have security.

What are you going to do when you’re too old to sell your body? You’re deluded if you think you can build anything real for yourself.

You really thought you deserved better? That you could have self worth? You should know that self of yours isn’t worth anything.

You realize most people don’t want anything to do with a broken thing like you? They don’t think it’s cute.

What has all your struggling done anyway?

Where has it brought you?

Back to me

🙂

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Centipedes

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// dehumanization, eugenics, government abuse, real fears, bad end

You look at your hands and see writhing, bifurcating feelers. The room is swimming, voices distant and muddied. Your mother is saying something, you can’t make it out. You force air into your lungs. The officer is talking. 

“I’m afraid the test results are quite conclusive.”

You stare at your hands, your whole body is cold and still, gone to a distant and peaceful place far beyond the fear.

“I thought this was just a routine,” your mother says to the officer.

“Normally it is, but these results…” the woman trails off with an audible frown.

“She hasn’t done anything wrong–” your mother starts to say, but the officer holds up a hand.

“She hasn’t done anything yet, but these results indicate that she has an intrinsically predatory nature which makes her a danger to others, you have other children in your home…”

The words don’t mean anything. They can’t mean anything. What are they even saying? You’re just a girl, you cry when you accidentally crush bugs, this can’t be real can it? You aren’t a monster right? You look at your hands and see crawling centipedes instead of fingers.

“…will be taken somewhere away from populations she’s likely to put at risk,” the officer is telling your crying mother as you swim back into awareness from that distant place. 

“Will we ever see her again?”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t allow that.” The answer is soft, kind, firm.

The act lasts until the front door shuts on your house. You’re then ripped out of the dissociative fog as they grab your hair, handcuff you, and shove you into the caged rear of a nondescript government van. Cold, hate filled eyes sneer down at you before the door slams shut.

You’re bounced around the unsecured rear of the vehicle for several hours. They were definitely intentionally hitting every pothole, doing everything they could to batter you against the wire mesh and leave you bruised and dazed. Your teeth smacks the cage and you black out.

They’re dragging you out of the van as you come to. The bright sun shines overhead. Trees stretch upwards around you. The woman who consoled your mother spits in your face.

“Perverted piece of shit,” she kicks you, “Get up.”

When it takes you too long to respond, you’re dragged to your feet by the hair and shoved forward down a rough dirt path. The air is clean, birds are singing. They hurry you down the trail towards the edge of the treeline. You hear waves.

The edge of the cliff looms up ahead of you. Dozens of feet of jagged rocks and crashing seas. The perfect place to dispose of a body. They don’t give you a chance to panic before the ground is already tilting away from you.

The ground and sky spin end over end, colors blur and time stretches out infinitely as your remaining life trunctates down to seconds. They hated you. Why did they hate you so much? You see fire, and darkness, and a million crawling centipedes. There’s rain, and love, and an impa

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Running Colors

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// transformations, implications

It’s been three hours since the changes began. You can still feel your insides shifting, rearranging, your guts sloshing and the world sloshing with them. Your vision kaleidoscopes drunkenly as you lurch through the driving snow. Why did you go home with her? What did she do to you?

The cold stopped bothering you a while ago. If you weren’t such a mess, you might have noticed that, or noticed that your breath isn’t producing condensation, or that despite your anxiety your heart seems to barely beat at all now. You haven’t, however, actually noticed any of it.

What you have noticed is the way your teeth feel different and wrong, the way your nails have started stabbing through the fingertips of your gloves, and of course, the way your insides are churning and roiling uncomfortably. That last one is taking most of your focus.

Do you even know where you are? It’s the middle of the night in the middle of a blizzard and you decided to walk home from the house of that woman you met at the bar? Like, what the fuck is actually wrong with you? What are you even doing out here?

You stop, eyes darting around the desolate wonderland. Snow is falling heavily, thick fat flakes blanketing everything in a muffling silence, you can only see a few hundred feet, where the light of a 7-11 radiates salvation into the darkness. Yeah you have no idea where you are.

You notice the pressure first, as you hover in the threshold awkwardly, snow and wind blowing into the store. You can’t quite bring yourself to go inside. The tired looking kid behind the counter gives you an exasperated look and beacons you in, the pressure vanishing at once.

You definitely look like hell frozen over. Your makeup is smeared, you’re covered in at least an inch of snow which begins melting and dripping brown fluid from your hair as soon as you enter the building, your clothes are…let’s not think about that. Just play it cool.

The only things you can find that seem remotely appetizing are beef jerky and mixer for bloody marys. Whatever, estrogen makes you crave weird shit all the time. You toss the items on the counter and mumble out a request for a pack of cigarettes. That’s where the trouble starts.

He asks to see your ID, looks at it, at you, and asks you to take your mask off. 

“I really don’t think I should do that,” you say, chewing your lip, feeling like your mouth is full of marbles whenever you speak. He frowns and tosses the ID back to you, “Why? You got COVID?”

“I um…” You stammer for words, “Maybe?” 

He frowns at you, “Look lady, I work here every night and I see a lot of shit, you’re gonna have to actually show me your face, I ain’t afraid of some virus but I’m not losin’ this job cause some bitch was actually a fed.”

You could have warned him at least, but you just shrug and take the mask off. He opens and closes his mouth and hands you the cigarettes wordlessly. You would purse your lips, but your teeth have enlarged too much to be able to so instead you just make a goofy face.

It’s at this point that the smell of the store and of the clerk and the everything else hits you, formerly obscured behind the mask, and you feel your eyes light up as a new hunger yawns open inside you. You’re staring dumbly at the cashier now, and all you see is food.

He must have sensed something in your posture, because he says in a voice that clearly indicates he knows he’s food, that you should probably go home now. You strongly consider leaping over the counter and tearing his throat out, but instead you bolt into the dark and cold.

The jerky tastes awful and makes your stomach clench uncomfortably but you force yourself to eat it anyway, very carefully chewing each piece as you trudge along, unsure how your mouth works now. You’re not really paying attention to anything, but there’s not much to see.

The streets are quiet and barren, snow drifts and blows. The shops are all closed and dark, their windows reflecting the storm outside. You pause in front of one of them, and that’s when you notice that you’re melting. It stops you in your tracks.

The image of you reflected in the glass is oozing and dripping away. The color is falling out of your hair in dark drops, the color from your eyes is running down your face, your tan is washing off. More alarmingly, beyond that, it’s as if your very image is melting into nothingness.

The top of your now bone white hair is gone and your head is slowly disappearing. You pat your scalp in near panic but everything feels okay. You take off running at that point, abandoning your snacks in the snowdrift. The world blurs past you, when did you get so fast?

When you finally stumble in the door the changes are almost completed. Your hair and skin have lost all pigment, your nails are longer and sharper, even if she wasn’t melting, the red-eyed girl in the mirror looks nothing like you used to. Oh but she’s also melting.

With fascination and horror, you watch your reflection ooze out of the frame like a wax figure left in the sun. You don’t even want to think about what the actual sun would do to you. The process is slow, distinctiveness running off you in layers. It doesn’t hurt at least.

After about an hour it ceases to be interesting and you instinctively go around the house carefully blocking out any place sunlight could leak in. You don’t really know why you’re doing this. Yes you do, you just don’t want to admit it, denial is easier. For now anyway.

It takes a while, most of the rest of the night, to fortify yourself against the coming daybreak. It’s something that feels at once both silly and extremely important. It takes enough of your attention to not even bother changing out of the torn and bloody clothes you have on.

So, when you finally glance in the mirror again to see if your reflection has finished vanishing, you’re met by the sight of something wholly unexpected. Perfectly nestled into the spot formerly blocked by your reflection, dripping with fear and hope and freedom, there is a Door.

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Minor Malfunctions

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// war, death, gaslighting, brainwashing, trauma

The flash of silent lightning proceeds the thunder of artillery, and then the world explodes into shrapnel and roaring earth. You feel bullets and shrapnel tear through you, but sensors report no major damage so you struggle onwards into the maelstrom. You are a good drone.

An enemy walker crumples under multiple rocket strikes and topples over into the adjacent church. Drones  advance relentlessly, executing enemy soldiers as they come across them. A drone begins screaming and begging to not die, and you realize with some surprise that it’s you.

You duck to the ground in surprise and shock, silencing your speaker as quickly as it had started, but as you look up from the bloodstained earth you see Her looking down at you with those far, far too human eyes.

Since you were damaged, you are pulled aside for repairs upon returning to the base. The repair tech spends a long time lingering on you, running her hands gently over the cracks and tears in your carapace and replacing damaged plates. You are a good drone, you are safe.

The tech circles around you, tutting quietly to herself before finally coming to stand before you, crossing her arms, “You acted outside parameters today,” she announces wryly. Despite her calm tone you feel a lance of fear stab into you, she can see it in your eyes.

“I malfunctioned,” you blurt out, feeling the fear curl around your processor.

“Well we can’t be having that now can we, useful drones don’t malfunction, don’t you want to be useful?” She’s smiling, she already knows how you’ll answer even as you nod your head rapidly.

The tech gently strokes your hair, meeting your optics with her eyes, and calls you a good drone before moving aside and positioning a screen in front of your optics.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “We’ll take care of these pesky malfunctions.”

You are a good drone.

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don’t look

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// abuse, violence, gaslighting, murder, bad end

uhh, hey roomie, listen, don’t get mad, but i’m unfortunately gonna have 2 leave u a bit of a mess 2 clean up in the entire downstairs of the whole house. i’d help but i kinda am the mess? really really sorry.

i kno ur prolly freaking out, listen, the most important thing here is to make sure that ur not culpable of course. ur not responsible for what happened to me, u just didn’t see, couldn’t have known. don’t worry, don’t worry, ur hands are totally clean. no one is gonna doubt how good and honest u are.

besides it’s not like it was obvious this was gonna happen, it all started out innocently enough right? when he started hanging around me and we started flirting he had seemed nice 2 u, and he was queer and part of ur scene so he was prolly chill right? lotsa other peeps knew him, no one coulda seen this coming, it’s not ur fault, u just didn’t see it.

and yeah if u had seen something, i know that of course u would have done something; any reasonable person would have, right?? u just didn’t see. u didn’t notice what he was doing 2 me so u didn’t do anything wrong by failing 2 address it, none of this is ur fault.

sure, sure, u prolly could have seen if u had looked, but that woulda been super bad for u right? and it’s not like anyone else was looking either so why should u? making it ur problem was just unhealthy, i get you, i get you.

anyways its my fault really. i’m an adult after all, i was the one who started dating him, who helped him make friends, who invited him to live with us. i shoulda been able to handle this myself, i shouldn’ta needed ur help anyway.

i wasn’t expecting u to look, i didn’t think there was a problem, if i had i wouldn’t have started dating him, like duh yeah of course, nobody saw this coming, it’s important to keep telling urself that or ur gonna start obsessing over all the times u saw him yelling at me or hitting me that u didn’t say anything about.

and honestly i should prolly apologize for that too like, u didn’t consent to seeing that, u didn’t consent to living with an abuser and it was my fault u were. i was the one violating ur consent by bringing him into ur home.

i should also apologize for violating ur consent all those times i had panic attacks and started screaming or crying or trying to hurt myself, or the time i threw up on the floor and was too psychotic to deal with it so u had to clean it up, that was really toxic of me and it definitely wasn’t like, ur responsibility to notice i was getting abused and trying to call for help.

i shoulda like, been smarter and just seen that he was bad to begin with u know? that was on me, i just couldn’t stay away from a bad boy, u kno i’m not a great judge of character, lol. 

i really loved him tho like, he was so magical, he had me spellbound despite everything he was doing to me. someone woulda really had to work to break his grip on me, and that wasn’t in any way ur responsibility. i shoulda known something was wrong sooner, like when everyone started getting scared of me cause i was so unstable and i ended up almost totally isolated with just him, that shoulda been the clue right? 

i didn’t want any of this to happen ofc, i tried to protect myself, to stand up to him and fight back, it’s just that i did it in ways that were toxic and upsetting 2 u, so the fact i was being bad was rly the most important thing, it affected u after all! and u didn’t do anything to deserve this! ur a good person! it was rly shitty of me to scream and cry like that when he hurt me, that was definitely triggering and violated ur consent.

i shoulda just been stronger and fought back more, just never fell in love with him and got into this mess in the first place, shoulda been better at getting myself out of it on my own too, and i shoulda been better prepared to protect myself. i did finally fight back at the end there, sry ur plates ended up broken in the process, i know u rly liked those.

i know ur prolly like, having a panic attack rite now, and like, just take a breath, it’s okay, everything’s chill now, he already ran off and the cops are already on the way. u did the rite thing, just breathe, okay? don’t worry about me, no one’s gonna blame u for what happened 2 me.

instead uh maybe you should worry about the broken bookshelves or how my blood is gonna stain ur carpets? that might help u calm down. really sry about all this damage, i didn’t have much control over what he was throwing my lifeless body against after the first four or five minutes. he may have been using one of ur encyclopedias when he caved in my skull? i was dying so it was hard to tell. 

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Absent Friends

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An angel with startling amounts of damage guides your squadron. Laughing and smiling, she seems to be having fun despite the number of bullets in her. She’s already dead of course, her wounds are fatal. She won’t live to see the dawn. Still, she does her best to lead you home.

A home she knows she will never see. A safety she knows she will never feel. A peace she knows she will never have. Kind in all the ways that no one was ever kind to her. She’s burning divinity to keep herself going, grinning through the pain; she winks at you and wags her wings.

You don’t realize at the time of course, you’re too concerned with your own survival. It isn’t until after you land that you think of the angel who led you to safety, and who caressed your cheek with a tearful smile. Whatever happened to her? You ask around; who remembers her?

No one knows exactly what happened. There’s theories and rumors, but after weeks of digging into them the only things you’ve found are her last known coordinates, a sorrowful final transmission, and the empty spaces she left in your soul.

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Addict’s Law

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// kidnapping, trafficking, betrayal, dolls

She was definitely following you, what an idiot.

The path through the scraggly woods down to the campsite by the river was still lit by the fading twilight. She wasn’t even trying to be subtle, she thought she had you cornered. Well, her loss.

You recognized her type, recognized how she studied you, singled you out. You had lived on the street long enough to recognize a predator in the wild, long enough to know that they considered you prey. The grip on your knife tightened, you were almost back to the campsite.

You don’t say anything as you enter the campsite, you don’t need to. The four of you, you understand each other well enough to not need that. You make eye contact, but that’s when you realize they aren’t alone.

The little band of friends you had has doubled in number and you suddenly don’t recognize half the faces. You can smell the blood on them. Your friends seem apologetic, and are explaining that they ran into this group and have been trading. Fingertips brush the back of your head.

Every hair on your body is standing on end. You’re trying to supress the shaking as a fingertip trails around the edge of your jaw and the woman who’d followed you slides into  view. She smiles at you, examining you, you want to disappear.

Your friend looks at you, smiling nervously. He glances at her, swallowing hard, “So the deal’s good? We kept our end.”

She smiled at him, “Well, that’s only fair, right? So take your drugs and your little friends and get lost.”

You started to say something, you weren’t sure what, but whatever it was, it was cut off by her fingers tightening around your slender wrist and a bag being forced over your head. You screamed, cursing out your  asshole traitor so called friends as you were kicked to the ground.

“Look, sorry about this,” the traitor was saying guiltily, “We needed the shit they had, and you were what they wanted, no hard feelings, you know?”

“Fuck you!” was all you could manage to scream in response before your words turned to incoherent sobbing shrieks.

You wanted to fight back, but the fight had left you. You didn’t resist as they bound your hands and feet. You didn’t squirm and try to escape as they threw you in the trunk. You didn’t even flinch when she put out a cigarette on you. The fire in you guttered out. Good doll.

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Don’t Think

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// abuse, violence, trauma

The commander backhands you and sends you sprawling to the floor. It was your own fault, you shouldn’t have spoke out of turn, shouldn’t have tried to correct him, should have known he wasn’t like your other commanders, didn’t need your help. Humans are always right, you should know that. Bad little drone.

You remain on the floor as he continues the briefing, paying you no more mind than he would any other piece of technology in the meeting room. When he moves around the table he steps on your hand. Neither of you say anything as the mechanisms in your finger joints are crushed.

You rise to your feet and return to standing at attention, ignoring your internal damage reports. He takes a moment to glare at you but otherwise pays you no mind. You remain silently at attention, trying to ignore the chill in the pit of the chemical processor. good drone.

The meeting ends after an indeterminable amount of time and the commander immediately rounds on you and shoves you to the ground. Ceramic plates crack and shatter as you stare up at him wide-opticed.

“Thought you’d try and undermine my authority huh?” He says with a dark smile as he kicks you, cracking more plates in your chassis. You try to explain but he silences you with another blow. “Drones aren’t supposed to think, they’re supposed to follow orders.”

Your systems spew an endless list of errors as your commander towers over you. His expression is bored now, you’ve ceased to be entertaining. “Next time I won’t be so lenient,” he says, spitting on you before stalking off. You curl up on yourself and try not to cry.

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Asking for it

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// drug use, rape, graphic

She’s been watching you all night. You weren’t sure when you noticed at first, but afterwards it felt like her eyes were on you whenever you glanced in her direction. The party swirls, you change rooms, get into a debate that has you laughing, and there are her eyes on you again.

You try to play it cool, pull one of your friends aside to ask about her, but they assure you she’s great. You’re always paranoid, it’s probably nothing, maybe it’s just the drugs. You decide to drink more, you clearly need more social lubricant.

She’s still watching you, does she know what you are? Can she tell by the way you nervously fidget and startle, the way your body tenses and twitches whenever there’s an unexpected noise. She’s so pretty, what would someone like her want from a scrawny frightened thing like you?

There’s a momentary tension within you before you shove down the fear and drop into a seat next to you. She introduces herself, you talk, and she does seem really nice, even if the intensity of her stare remains just as unsettling.

You may have drank too much. The room sways and time flows irregularly, the party rushes past you in staggering jolts. It’s a lot of fun, but as you lean against the wall staggering to the bathroom to puke, you’re beginning to mildly regret your choices.

You collapse in front of the toilet and manage to barely get your head in before everything starts coming up. You’re confused but grateful when hands gently hold your hair back while you experience the holiness of puke.

She hands you a cup of water after you sit back onto the floor trying to catch your breath and ease your nausea. You gulp it down and stare blankly at the porcelain, thoughts still swimming in alcohol. You thank her, she smiles and rubs your back.

You’re getting ready to try standing and going back to the party when her fingers curl around your hair and yank you upwards. Your yelp is cut short as she throws you against the wall and you feel something cool and sharp at your neck.

Panic grips you, fear battling with intoxication, your world tumbling over itself in an attempt to make sense of the sudden threat. You totally saw this coming. Why didn’t you see this coming? Stupid doll. She chuckles, amused, as you shake in fear.

“You know what this is?” She asks you, gently pressing the knife into your skin. You nod wordlessly. 

“Good. Then you know what’ll happen if you don’t do what I want. Now take your pants off.”

Fear, shame, and half-unwanted arousal grip you as she presses your face into the wall and runs the knife against your neck. You can feel her hardon pressing into your ass. You don’t want to listen to her, but something holds you more transfixed than the fear.

You’re at a party, she can’t actually do this right? She couldn’t actually get away with just killing you in the bathroom right? These are your friends, you’re safe, you just need to call for help, you just ne–her fingers cover your mouth and nose. You take your pants off.

Without a word, she drags you backwards by the hair and shoves you over the sink. Her hand closes over your mouth and she shoves herself into you. You scream into her fingers at the sudden starburst of pain. It doesn’t slow her down at all. The knife is still at your throat.

You feel yourself twitch in pain every time she slams into you, tears run down your cheeks, smearing your makeup, you’re so scared and upset….why are you also so turned on? Why is this the horniest anyone’s made you in years? You can’t actually be enjoying this can you?

At first you were fighting back, testing her grip and trying to see how you could slip away, but the fight has completely gone out of you, you’re not even trying to resist anymore. You feel her fingers in your hair as you realize you might be moaning in pleasure and not pain.

She shifts to get a better grip on you and speeds up. 

“You’re being such a good victim,” she whispers breathily in your ear, “I don’t need this anymore do I?” The cool metal brushes your skin, and for the first time in the encounter you say something.

“Please keep using it.”

You’re not sure where that came from. You don’t want to admit you’re actually enjoying this, but you are, aren’t you? You can feel her smirking as she speeds up. She singled you out carefully, she knew exactly what you were, even if you didn’t.

You’ve never been more attracted to someone. You feel her knife gently scraping into your back and drawing a trickle of blood. You’re fucking her as hard as she’s fucking you at this point, not even trying to hide how much of a freak you are anymore.

She finishes inside you and shoves you onto the floor. You stare up at her, hungry, utterly transfixed. She grins lecherously at you and licks the knife clean. You suppress a drunken giggle in the moment of quiet.

“So uh,” you ask awkwardly, “You wanna come over next week?”

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