Page 123 of Beneath Her Skin

Euphoria warms my nerves. My climax builds with each thrust of the toy. Pleasure begins to mix with the gruesome act in front of me.

Miles’ gags continue, the rubber cock abusing every inch of his esophagus. Soon, bile begins to leak from his nostrils, the stench defiling this perfect union of devil and angel in unholy matrimony of death.

I grip his hair, locking his head into place and I continue my assault on his throat, refusing to give him an inch of space to breathe. I can feel myself nearing the brink of an orgasm and I want—no, Ineed—to feel my release as his body slips into oblivion.

Miles whimpers against the obstruction. A sickening sound of a dying animal. I click the button on my toy, upping the intensity and drowning out his insufferable whining. The build-up in speed tingles against my clit, sending me over the edge.

“Go fuck yourself,” I grunt out, each word emphasized by a deeper thrust into his wrecked neck cavity.

I cry out, my orgasm finally finding me. Bursts of pleasure rush through my body. Juices squirt out, mixing with the filth Miles ejected from his nose onto the dildo.

My breathing is ragged. My head swims as I come down from my high. I can feel my eyes blurring from the over stimulation. Ears ring against the drowning silence of the house.

I take a few deep breaths to ground myself. My head swims with endorphins, causing my body to heat from the inside out. It’s like a warm hug after a long day, and I know I’ll never be able to find this kind of high again.

Shifting off the bed, I pop the dildo out of Miles’ mouth. A flood of bodily fluids escapes his slack jaw, spilling over the bed sheets as a few drops splatter onto the floor, his lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

“Well, fuck,” I mumble to myself.

That’s more than I expected for clean-up.

But I can worry about that after I clean myself up. Aftercare is the most important care, and bringing yourself to orgasm by death of your enemy is going to create one hell of a drop. All I want right now is a clean pair of clothes. And a shower.

A shower would be good.

12

My feet stick to the tile in the bathroom.

The slip dress is no longer flowing over my curves, but stuck to every nook and cranny it can possibly cling to on my body.

Still donning the rubber gloves, I peel myself out of the dress, discarding it in the trash bag I preemptively stored under the sink.

I pull the hair knives from my bun and place them on the pearlescent countertop. Not a drop of blood or other unnamable fluids leak onto the white stone. My golden hair drops down into a curtain around my rosy face. The bathroom mirror shows a haunting reflection of who I once was.

Ignoring the urge to smash the mirror into bits, I step into the shower. I don’t bother to let the water preheat. I need the stinging feeling of the icy water against my skin. A rough reminder that I’m still human.

Twisting the knob, I stand unmoving as the subzero water cascades over my skin. I wait until my limbs begin to shake from the cold and turn the dial to hot.

Hot water spews from the shower faucet immediately, making me yelp. The change in temperature scalds my skin further, but I still don’t move.

I stand there, falling to the bottom of my abyss as the hot water soaks into my bones. Baptizing me in a way only water can.

Tears fall freely as a wave of emotions wash over me. A mixture of everything I’ve felt and everything I’ve repressed since I discovered Miles’ deceit. Everything has led up to this point. I will never be the same once I leave this shower.

So, here I stay, slinking into the tub, allowing the water to wash away my sins.

I don’t know how long I stay curled up, but eventually the water runs cold.

Not caring about the temperature, I work up the strength to wash my hair and body. With the adrenaline finally dissipating, I can feel myself on the verge of crashing out. I allow the water to wash over my face, savoring the feeling of it bringing me back to reality.

The doorbell rings as I step out of the shower. Not bothering to dry off, I grab a fluffy towel from the shelf and pad my way to the front door. I check the peephole before answering—can never be too sure the neighbors didn’t hear our good time and call the cops for a noise complaint. Standing on the other side, equipped with a roll of oversized Saran wrap, a large black bag, and duct tape, is Brooke. She’s all smiles as I open the door to let her in. Waddling through the threshold, I can feel the excited energy falling off her in waves.

Brooke makes it to the middle of the living room and unceremoniously drops everything on the ground, rubbing her hands together. Somehow totally in her element and not an ounce of fear.

“Alright, who’s ready to hide a dead body?”

HOPE CENTER

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