Jack Burton - Steamy Screams - Anthology of Erotic Horror

She pressed her back into the side of the bed.

“You have such a pretty mouth,” the mystery man rasped. The next sound Bridgette heard from behind her blindfold was the metallic zipper of blue jeans. A part of her wanted to reach out and grab the man’s bulge, feel its heat and weight in her hands, take her time and please him. But she didn’t dare move. He was in control, and that was what she truly wanted; she would feel him soon enough.

And feel it she did. Warm flesh rubbing smoothly over her lips. Bridgette clenched down as the man tried to slide his cock into her mouth, blocking his entrance. He pushed his rod twice more against her teeth. Bridgette held.

We’ll see how good this guy really is , she thought.

Suddenly the tender flesh was gone and back was the cold steel, this time against her cheek, and a strong hand. The hand forced her mouth open. “There we go. And you better play nice.” The blade tapped lightly against her check, “Or else I’ll give you a new smile.”

The hand and blade left as the man stood up, Bridgette could see the faintest of shadows through her blindfold. She knew it was coming and braced herself just before he plunged himself into her waiting mouth.

Bridgette heard him groan as his thick shaft slid further back into her mouth. He was long and she felt herself start to gag, she tried to bring her hands forward, then realized they were bound behind her. She let her head lean back until it was against the bed, but still he pushed, cutting off all air. Bridgette gagged again, and he slowly pulled out; saliva fell from her mouth and clung in long strands to his rock hard cock.

“You’re gonna learn to deep throat.”

With those words he was back inside her, not too deep though, still comfortable. Bridgette relaxed her throat, and focused on the man’s grunts and moans. She focused on the way his warm cock throbbed inside her mouth. The thoughts made her wet.

When he plunged deeper again, she swallowed him greedily. Taking his thick meat down into her throat, Bridgette massaged his shaft with the muscles of her esophagus. He gripped the sides of her head by her hair and pushed further. The cartilage of her nose pressed against his strong abdomen. He cried out and Bridgette braced herself for the onslaught of sticky cum, but there was nothing. With another cry he wretched himself free and picked her up. He turned her and bent her over the side of the bed.

With one swipe, he cut away the thong Bridgette wore to bed, exposing her backside, moist and vulnerable, to him. He leaned forward and stuffed the panties, wet with her own juices, into Bridgette’s mouth and tied another strip of bed sheet around both her head and mouth. Suddenly, Bridgette felt unsure. A hand over the mouth was ok. You could bite and give the safe words. Now she was gagged.

She tried to speak, to explain, but only muffled sounds escaped. The man leaned over her, his large cock pressing against the skin of her inside thigh. “Can’t have you screaming.”

The man grabbed the top of her hair and pulled her head back, simultaneously ramming himself into her tight hole. Bridgette was well lubricated with her own desire, but she was unprepared for the brute force of the man. She cried out against the cloth in her mouth.

He leaned over her again, cock placed firmly inside her, “This is what you wanted, you dirty whore, remember?”

This isn’t Walter.

Her pussy relaxed as he pulled out, but the relief was short lived. She was doubly unprepared for the pain as the man tore into her ass. Her natural juices, still slick on his penis, were not enough to quell the pain and she cried out repeatedly. Her attempts at safe words did not deter the man. She tried to push the gag off with her tongue, no use. Suddenly, she no longer wanted to be tied up, she didn’t want to be at anyone’s mercy or push the thresholds of pain and pleasure. She wanted to be back in bed, alone, safe.

She kicked back with her legs trying to strike the man, and then the knife was back to her throat, but it wasn’t threatening this time; it was slicing! The pain in her torn anus was muted as the blade drew across her flesh, severing skin. Warm blood began to flow down her neck. Bridgette froze with terror, not even trying to speak. The man pulled out of her and flipped her over. Weak and shocked, she slid off the bed, back into the position she maintained when he had violated her mouth.

Bridgette felt dizzy as the warmth continued down her throat, staining her white undershirt. Her only thoughts were from her friends and family.

Forget what you think you want, really think about it. What kind of a man would want to role play that way with you?

What kind of a person pretends to rape? It’s not just a sexy game. If they could pretend such a thing, they could actually do it. And if they could do that, what else are they capable of?

Not safe at all.

The blindfold was cut away and Bridgette stared into dead eyes surrounded by a black leather mask.

It wasn’t safe , she agreed. She didn’t even have the last pleasure of seeing his face. Not that it would have mattered. He was a monster, the mask only helped to hide his ugliness. But perhaps she was ugly, too. Damaged.

“Don’t pass out yet,” he rasped. “You thought I fucked your throat before, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

With endorphins rushing to the site, Bridgette barely felt pain as the man slid his cock into the bloody slit he carved into her throat. She felt pressure though as her cartilage began to crack, bloating as blood and trapped air bubbled. She faded to blackness just as the man pulled out and sprayed her face with loads of blood and semen.

“You got just what you wanted.” He whispered in her cold, dead ear. “And so did I.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black. I trust you enjoyed our pick.”

“Yes, perfect. Well worth the club dues. I sometimes ask myself why I pay so much to be a member and then, well, it’s mornings like these that remind me.”

The phone call ended and the charming man from Trans made a second call. “We need a clean-up crew at 1 Lexington Ave. The client is done.”

The man hung up the phone pleased with himself. He had created another perfect match. He only briefly wondered if the women—the thrill seeking, promiscuous women—, longing for the next high, found it when the client was through. They asked him for the roughest sex imaginable, they played with their lives on a daily basis; would this thrill be enough? Enough loss of control for them? Did his club push the boundaries enough for them? If death couldn’t provide it, then nothing would.

I acquired Bowie when he was fourteen years old. At least we think he was fourteen. Bowie told me that was how old his father said he was and showed me the tattoo on his right hip as proof: 10-4-91. As far as I was concerned, the tattoo only proved that Bowie’s dad was a bigger piece of shit than I had given him credit for.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s shit fathers. Granted, I never met my biological one. My stepfather was the only father figure I ever had. He used to come into the bathroom while I was taking a bath, grab my hair and shove me under water. I don’t think he wanted to kill me. He got off on watching me think I was going to die. A world class douchebag, no question. Next to Bowie’s father, on the other hand, my stepdad was fucking Mike Brady.

Though I never saw Bowie leave the apartment, I heard him getting beaten all the time. More nights than not, I fell asleep hoping the Doberman across the hall would break into the apartment and tear Bowie’s dad’s throat out. Unfortunately, Winky, the Doberman pinscher, was about as lethal as a hamster. I once saw him run away from a squirrel when he was out for a walk with his pothead owner. Calling the landlord wouldn’t have done anything either. The guy never left the first floor, despite also being the building super. Once a month, I slipped an envelope with the rent in it under his door for the privilege of having to fix my own plumbing and cockroach problems.