Masked Killer
To borrow a well-known phrase from Poe, the atmosphere could only be described as "midnight dreary." In a rush, the woman desperately needed to catch her breath. She turned around to see the masked killer nearing her. She perked up her head, sprinting away at an ungodly speed. Not as well lit as the horror movies, she had to adapt with the light of the moon of available to her. The flannel from her boyfriend, not even buttoned up, glided in the wind, the cold air invigorating her skin. She had escaped with nothing but her black panties, her gray sports bra, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, an earthy orange and blue combination.
Straight out of a horror movie, the killer wore a generic evil clown mask, also wearing a black and red flannel, overalls, and thick work boots. Slowly he pursued, inevitable, invincible, unstoppable. He wielded a meat cleaver. Word is, he was the spirit of a butcher's assistant killed in a tragic accident after seeing his wife with the butcher.
The classic cliché, she stumbled as she ran from the killer. Oh no, she groaned, possibly rolling her ankle. She had to check every so briefly behind her. He was closer. Her pace was different. Now she stumbled more, panicked. She tried to keep ahead, as best she could. Her walk wasn't possible now. He hitched closer. Closer. In a point of desperation, she screamed out. Before the sounds could even leave, she felt a hand engulf her mouth.
Now, he lifted her up, only fear emoting from her face. Terrified, she also delighted secretly. He carried her tiny body to the tree and forcing her back against the tree, caressed the edges of her her face with the cleaver. She was his toy now. Had he been capable of speech, he would have said one word. "Mine." With his hands, he slid up and down her cold flesh, goosebumps of fear and excitement.
His hands fondled her breasts, outside the bra. She could not control the pleasure or the ecstasy given by his touch. The cold steel of the cleaver followed. His hands wandered south, caressing the outside of her panties. He slid them over to the side. His finger explored, seemingly moistened by fear. As he stuck in one finger, the other hand was his playground, sliding the bra up, he caressed the cool steel against them. Almost immediately she orgasmed for the first time. Sliding, his hand up, he wrapped it around her throat. The only part of his body that could make any emotional connection was his eyes, and they locked, through her glasses. Glasses. He always like the ones with glasses. With an erotic reverence, she stared back at him, seduced yet somehow terrified.
Too primal to think, he slid off the straps of his overalls with a simultaneous growl. He turned her around and slid off her panties. Wearing nothing underneath, his cock was already hard, sliding in to her drenched pussy, accepting its arrival through its moistened environment. Through his journey, he had learned that no pussy feels as best as the one moistened with fear. With hard, savage, unrelenting thrusts, in spite of her echoes of pain, he would not stop. She was his as he had decreed.
