Page 156 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

His body moves first, a slow roll of his hips, and mine follows—guided by a force I cannot resist.

His pelvis grinds in deliberate waves, each one tightening my skin and clenching muscle.

His fingers part me with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a place soaked with blood. Heat floods through me, thick and coiling deep.

I want to reach for him. Drop the knife. Rip the mask away.

But my hand won’t move.

I try—to lift, to shift, to stand.

But it’s like one of those dreams—you run and run, but stay rooted.

Helpless.

The realization bleeds in slowly, slicing through the haze.

This isn’t real.

The thought drifts through me like smoke. A warning. A whisper.

I know I should wake up.

But I don’t want to.

Not yet.

Consciousness creeps in slowly, like tide over sand.

At first, only darkness. I blink, but nothing changes. My lashes flutter against fabric. A blindfold.

The blackness is too complete. It feels like I’ve woken inside a void.

I shift—or try to—and feel pressure at my mouth. A strap. A gag.

I breathe through my nose and a muffled moan escapes.

Awareness spreads to my aching wrists—bound, pulled downward.

Not above my head but between my legs.

I’m cuffed to a bar cold and firm. My ankles too, spaced wide enough to keep me open.

I test it—barely moving and meet resistance. I can’t close my legs. Can’t free my hands.

I’m exposed like a perverse offering.

How? How did he do this without waking me?

Was I that exhausted?—

My thought is interrupted by the sensation of soft lips.

A warm tongue.

A moan vibrating against my center.

My back arches before I realize what I just did.

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