Page 74 of The Monster of Hotel No. 7
No one will want me.
You don’t know what you’re asking for.
“I wantyou,”she repeats, more urgent in her fervor.
“Shut up.”
I watch as she teases her manicured nail around her entrance. So pretty and perfect and nothing like me.
“Please,” she whines. “Please finger me.”
You are such a stupid girl.
“Please, Sullen.” She is gasping now, begging for me.
But she will pretend I am someone else. She will imagine Von or Cosmo or another man of Writhe. Someone I can never be.
“Sullen.”
Fuck you.I drive my finger lower, pushing into her cunt, watching as the juxtaposition of my repulsiveness dives into her perfection.
She moans, a sigh leaving her lips right after, like she has been longing for this. If only she could see how defiled she is now.
Tight and wet and soft around me, I marvel over it before I move my finger out, but not all the way, then back in. Her clit grows puffier, her hand grazes my bare one, and she says, “Add another,” with a whine.
I glance at the yellow tip of my middle finger and feel a sick sense of satisfaction knowing I am fucking her up this way with my disgrace.
But my satisfaction morphs with anger. Glee turns to wrath. Desire to please her commingles with an overwhelming sensation to press on her thigh and break her leg so she can never run when she truly sees me for what I am.
“If you knew what I looked like, you would hate me.” I speak as I stare at her, at the glistening wetness along my fingers every time I push in and out of her, her walls gripping me tight while she writhes beneath me. “If you could see how vile you are now, you wouldn’t let me touch you. Von won’t want you anymore. Neither will Cosmo. You’re tainted now, Karia.”
She grabs my wrist, bare skin on my scarred flesh. Her other hand pulls down at the one covering her eyes and I lift my gaze to her, then curl my fingers around her throat. If she talks aboutthem,if she calls me bytheirnames, I will strangle her.
But she says none of that.
She lets me live in this dream.
“Let me see you,” she says, her face flushed, but just as she averts her eyes to look at my hands, I shift on the bed, looming over her on my knees, my palm pressed to her windpipe as I finger fuck her faster as she gasps, her eyes wide with fear at me above her.
“Pull down my shirt,” I whisper, feeling her throat roll beneath my hand. How tight her walls close in around my fingers as I fuck her with them. I think she is contracting so much because now she is scared again. “You want to see? Pull it down.”
Her nostrils flare as she breathes, but she lifts her hand, grasping the high collar of my shirt beneath my hoodie. Her fingers graze my skin and I flinch, hand still between her thighs but I leave my fingers inside, unmoving. If she screams or tries to run, I will ruin her.
Her blue eyes lock on mine and she tugs at the fabric there, just below my chin.
Then, not slow at all, she yanks it down, exposing the lumpy, sewn flesh. “Lower,” I snarl, because there are so many more delights for her to see.
She is trembling beneath me, clenched around my disfigured fingers. But she does as I say, tugging down the fabric.
Her eyes go wide.
I know when she’s seen it.
He did it with an Exacto knife. I had to spell out each word.
“More,” I say, spreading my fingers inside of her and she flinches. But she doesn’t disobey me.
She keeps drawing down the collar, pushing on my hoodie, too, when she gets there. Her face is pale, her eyes glistening.
