Page 177 of Phobia
Shit, I forgot I can’t move.
I fight against the binds again. Static’s hand moves faster.
I slump as my balls tingle, tightening and throbbing. Saliva pools in my mouth, increasing by the second. I try to swallow it down, but it creeps out between my stretched lips, dripping down the wooden handle. Onto my chest, down my stomach.
Static’s hovering over me, towering. So tall and leery. I feel utterly and wholly consumed. Decimated and irrevocably discombobulated.
His white eyes snap up to my face. The sudden move makes me gasp, having that frightening gaze locked on me. It drops to my mouth, where the ax is still lodged very tight. My spit is warm but sticky. And it itches.
Static’s hand leaves my dick to swipe up a bubble forming near the corner of my mouth. His finger pricks my skin as he drags it across my face before sucking my spit into his mouth, wrapping his scarily long tongue around the digit.
I gasp, choking on the spit that flies into the back of my throat.
The ax clatters to the floor, drawing a shriek from my throat as the blade dings against the wood, sending a deep, jolting vibration into the air. One I feel in my bones.
The clown drops out of sight. I blink through the flashes, disoriented. My head throbs, my temples pounding to the beat of my heart—which is going absolutely haywire.
Hands on my pelvis make me jerk. My head drops. Static is below me and… andoh… Oh, Jesus…
He shoves forward and buries his white and black painted face into my damp boxers. I feel the rush of air as he inhales. It lasts a long time. His shoulders raise, chest nearly bumping into my legs from how full his lungs get.
“You smell delectable, darlin’. Wonder if you taste just as good, too.” His long fingers rip my boxers down my legs. The waistband is stretched tight, trapped around my upper thighs from the black strap crossed over both of my legs, a few inches above my knees.
My dick bobs in his face. The fog circulating the air is cool against my burning flesh. Static descends on me. The pulsing light makes each inch of movement appear distorted, frozen in time.
He moves.Flash.Leans forward.Flash.His tongue’s out.Flash.It’s on my dick.Flash.
Wet heat surrounds every inch of me. I gasp and cry out, hands fisting. Tugging, pulling against my restraints.
Sharp teeth scrape down my pathetically rock-hard erection. Nothing more than a tease, but I scream, regardless. At the threat, the pleasure.
Why does it feel so good…
What’s happening?
His throat closes around my head and squeezes the glans with a tight constriction that makes my brain flash like the freaking pulsing lights dousing the room in a drugging pull.
His hands drag up my thighs, scraping over my leg hair still standing on end, moving around my hips to my ass, where he digs in deep to the muscle there. Pointed fingertips score my flesh, adding a fresh sting to the ache his mouth has put in my dick.
The ache to come. To release the boiling adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream.
All of it—everyounce—has congregated to my balls, where it sits heavy and tight and painful. But sogood and wrong and…I need it.
The muscles in my legs flex, my fingers clench, nails biting into my palms until my skin separates with a fresh wave of stinging air. I flex them outward, scraping them over the metal bar, gathering what’s probably rust beneath the nails as I dig. Scrape. Bury.
Static’s spiked, black hair tunnels in and out of my warped vision as he moves over me, using his grip on my ass to pull himself closer. Deeper. His teeth are sharp with every swipe of his mouth.
They cut me, maim me, make me bleed. But then his tongue is right there, wickedly long and wet, soothing the destruction of his fangs.
He pulls back. Air caresses my wet flesh, making me hiss at the loss of his warmth. My hips make a pathetic careening gesture, desperate for it again, even as my brain screams at me tostop.
That my very flesh is seconds away from being ripped off my body and devoured by the sinister clown with death in his eyes… or maybe it’s the desire for carnage.
But my dick doesn’t care. My body doesn’t either.
The fear… like he said… makes mehot.
Oh, Jesus, I’m pathetic.
