King of Depravity: Chapter 3

What is happening? What is actually happening right now?

There is a part of me, the scared little girl who still lives inside me, who wants to beg. Please don’t do this. Please.

But I agreed, that’s the messed-up part. I told him he could do this.

I’ve learned the hard way that begging only makes it more fun for the man and worse for me. So, I remain silent.

I need that money.

Mentally, I replay what he just said. He wants me to take off my clothes and then he wants to masturbate. He won’t touch me.

How can I trust that? I can’t.

But what choice do I have? I try to tell myself that it’s a lot like letting those customers grab my ass. I’m not selling myself, I’m just not calling them out on their bullshit so I get the tips I need to live.

Psycho steps into my shitty place that I share with three girls. I’m lucky because I get my own room, even if it is the size of a closet. But it does have a window with a fire escape. I go out there some nights and then I don’t feel so trapped.

He stops in the dark living room, barely big enough for a loveseat, which is connected to a tiny kitchenette. He glances down the hall. “Which room?”

“Second on the right,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from trembling. I draw in a ragged breath and remind myself to think. I know this man is completely insane, but I’ve got more experience than most with deranged lunatics. “I don’t know your name.”

But I feel him tense rather than relax. “Killian. But my family calls me Kill.”

Jesus. They actually call him Kill? Do they understand he’s a soulless monster? Probably. I’m shaking despite my best efforts to remain calm. “I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what? Let a customer spray you with cum?” He opens my bedroom door and sets me down. Slapping the money on my nightstand, he yanks my jacket off my shoulders, and then starts unbuttoning my shirt. I can’t help it, I shrink away.

“I’ve never done any of it,” I whisper, and a tear manages to slip down my cheek. I don’t like being vulnerable in front of men, so I don’t date, I don’t have sex, I don’t even flirt, except for at the bar and that’s more of a professional courtesy.

“Never done any of what?”

I try to consider the angles. Should I lie? Will my words make him want to hurt me less or more? But he’s stripping me raw, and I can’t think straight. “Anything with a guy,” I whisper. “I don’t date.”

He undoes the last button of my shirt and pulls it down my arms. I’m still in my heels and pants, my plain black bra exposed to his view.

He stares at me then, his nostrils flaring before he reaches up and places his thumb on one of my ribs, his hand wrapping around my rib cage.

I jerk back. “You said no touching.”

He bares his teeth. “I meant no fucking. Take out your ponytail.”

My hands shake uncontrollably as I reach up and pull out the elastic. I’m trying to remain calm. The elastic gives and my hair tumbles down my back.

But his eyes aren’t on me. Instead, he’s staring at some of the pieces I’ve hung on my wall. “Who painted these?”

My hands fall to my sides again as I swallow. No one sees my stuff. “I did.”

He looks at me then, his gaze still unreadable in the dark, but something in his energy shifts. Calms.

He steps around me and walks up to the first painting. My arms immediately wrap around my middle, like that will somehow protect me.

But I do pivot toward him, watching as he studies the piece. It’s a self-portrait of my face but it’s broken into several pieces and scattered across a cement floor of a dark basement.

He moves to the second, a red room where I kneel on the floor, my head hanging low, painted in all hues of blue.

A third landscape, a picture of the campus where I take classes. People say landscapes are emotionless but when I first arrived here, I loved the quad. I felt immense joy to be free from my past and to be here to learn.

Every stroke of that landscape I made with love.

He turns to look at me and for the first time, I see a spark of something real in his eyes. They dance with fire. It’s just a moment, and then it’s gone. His eyes shutter, go black, all I feel is the emptiness.

“Take off your pants.”

My throat is so tight, I can barely swallow. I try to undo the button, but I can’t get my fingers to work.

With a rumble of frustration, he pushes my hands away, undoing them himself. Then he’s peeling them down my legs, squatting in front of me to get them down my ankles.

“Lift your foot.” I do as he commands, turning off the part of my brain that feels, just following his instructions like a robot. It’s easier this way. But instead of removing my pants, he takes off my shoe.

“The other one.” I do it, and he takes the shoe off, the smallest sigh escaping my lips to be out of the shoes. I can’t believe I let it escape my mouth, that I gave him the satisfaction of knowing that something felt good.

He’s still bent in front of me, but he looks up then, his fingers resting on the back of my calves. “You smell delicious.”

My lips part, trying to decide how I feel about those words. It’s so weird, I’m being forced to serve this guy, but my body responds the smallest bit. Like I feel my sensitive flesh between my legs twitch, notice that my scent gets stronger.

He smells it too. “I want to taste you.”

“No.”

He rumbles out a protest, but I shake my head. “You said no touching.”

He stands, not bothering to take my pants the rest of the way off as he undoes his belt and then shucks his fitted slacks down his thighs.

His junk springs out from between the open slit in the bottom of his dress shirt and I gasp in a breath. “That cannot be normal sized.”

This, of all the things I’ve said, draws a smile from his lips. “Nope. I’ve got a giant cock.”

I try to step back, forgetting my pants are around my ankles. I start to fall, my arms flailing.

He easily hooks my waist, and for a second he brings me back to upright. A sigh of relief starts to fall from my lips, but it’s cut off as I start falling again. This time, I’m tipping forward, and in a move I can’t even comprehend, I find my belly pressed to his powerful thighs, my ass in the air.

I’m still in my thong, my bra is on, and my pants are around my ankles. One of his hands comes to my ass, his palm coming down on it in a definite smack that makes me jolt in surprise and humiliation.

But he doesn’t smack me again. Instead, he just squeezes.

His other hand grips his monster penis, and I look back in time to see him rub his palm and fingers up the length.

It’s primal and dirty and I feel like a peeper because it’s also…fascinating. I’ve never seen a man pleasure himself or be pleasured and I didn’t expect to find it exciting.

But it is. My clit gives a decided throb as I consider how he said he’d like to taste me. Would that have felt good?

I shift my weight, the press of his right thigh, hurting my stomach, but his hand tightens on my ass to hold me, his thumb slipping between my thighs. He’s so close to the ache that’s building that I actually have to resist the urge to shift so that he’s touching me where I need relief.

Does he understand what I was feeling or does he just do what he wants? Probably the latter, but either way, he brushes his thumb right over my clit. I can’t remember the last time I even masturbated so the touch is like an explosion of sensation. I jolt in his lap, but this time it’s not fear, but pleasure.

I look back to see his hand flying over his cock, a pearl of liquid collecting on the head. What does the skin feel like? What does his cum taste like?

He brushes his thumb down my seam, the fabric still covering me, which actually makes me feel safer, like I can enjoy it because he can’t totally invade my most personal place and I whimper with need when he hits my clit again.

“I would have sucked that little clit until you screamed with pleasure,” he grits out as he massages a circle over the sensitive bud.

I’m now picturing him, with his powerful shoulders, leaning forward to bury his face between my thighs. It’s so hot that when his thumb rubs another circle, I cry out, an orgasm ripping through me. He’s barely touched me. How could I cum like that?

This was not supposed to happen. But I can barely attend the thought as I wilt over his legs, my body completely spent.

That’s when he cums, a guttural roar filling my room as warm liquid squirts all over my back and ass.

I lift my head to see the thick rope of it shoot from his cock and land on my skin.

His hand leaves my ass as he spreads the liquid all over the skin of my back, rubbing it in.

I shake my head, trying to make sense of what just happened. Somehow, I’m not surprised that this is the guy who finally makes me feel something. I’m probably just as messed up as him.

But that doesn’t mean this was a good idea. It was an awful one, in fact. I should have never…

Then again, I didn’t have much choice.

He leans over and licks the skin of my back, tasting himself on my skin. Sick fuck.

“I taste good on you,” he grunts like that’s an explanation. Like any of this makes sense.

Then he slides his hands under me and lifts me up. Shifting my weight to one of his arms, he pulls down my covers and lays me in the bed, pulling the blankets over my body.

Is he tucking me in?

Without a word, he pulls up his pants, tucking himself into them before he redoes his belt and then he just turns and leaves my room, the money still on my nightstand.

His footsteps echo down the short hall and to the front door. I hear one of my roommates gasp, how did I miss that one of them was home?

I was a little busy…

Killian doesn’t say a word to her, but I do hear the front door open and then close. Amazingly, my eyes drift closed.

I just let a crazy psycho stalker finger me while he jacked off so I could keep my own money. I try to avoid trouble, I really do.

But it’s got a habit of finding me. My last thought before I fall asleep is whether or not that’s the last time I’ll see Killian, or is this just the beginning?