are you here to kill me?

Shrill screeches fill the air around you as blood splatters creating a soft red glow from the TV set a few feet in front of you. You’ve long since stopped paying attention to whatever flick Stu had playing on the tv. Your sense of self being depreciated to focusing only on the feeling of the silicone cock keeping you stuffed chockful and the warm puffs of air against the back of your neck. Every exhale made the fine hairs stand on end, gooseflesh dotting your skin.

Your legs were beginning to ache with how they were positioned, the backs of your knees hooked over Stu’s bare thighs. The man’s wiry blonde hair that covered his legs tickling your skin. You wanted desperately to close them, to pull yourself off the thick cock filling you even if it meant leaving the tortuous bliss that numbed your mind.

“Pay attention babe, this is the best part.” Stu murmurs, pressing his lips to the nylon spandex material that covers your shoulder. You try your best to focus on the TV, to watch the poor girl try and escape the gorey demise that awaits her, but your attention is fractured at the feeling of Stu’s long fingers stroking against your throbbing cock. You go to buck your hips widely, trying with a renewed desperation to entice Stu into fucking up into you, to make your vision swim and fireworks burst behind your eyelids. But, instead, bitten down nails curl into your hips to still your gyrating hips, and you hear the clicking of the man’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I didn’t say you could move.”

You whine in exasperation, and Stu laughs. You want to protest, to beg the man to fuck you with reckless abandon, to use you like a fleshlight for nothing more than his entertainment but the gag that fills your mouth prevents anything more than garbled moans to fall from your lips. Although you can’t see it, you’re sure that Stu had that overweening grin pulling at his lips.

“Oh what’s wrong? You sound so pathetic, baby.” Stu coos mockingly, hands trailing from your hips to dance along the hem of the binder you wore. Each time warm, calloused fingers dipped under the material to brush along the delicate skin of your ribs; you couldn’t stop yourself from squirming, back arching and head lolling back against Stu’s shoulder. “You can wait till the end of the movie, can’t you, baby?”

You whimper, thighs quivering at the idea of having to wait even longer through this torturous teasing. How long had it even been? You weren’t entirely sure at this point, mind having long since turned to mush being replaced with an unhinged ravenous desire to have Stu’s strap split you in two.

The glass is hard against your elbows of where you rest your weight, a book by Manly P. Hall placed between them. Your eyes skim over the worn, yellowed book’s pages absorbing the words printed on the musty pulp. The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires can be heard faintly from a distance, and you exhale softly in anticipation of having to deal with some snot-nosed tourist. Presently though, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching is something that has your eyes flickering up from your book to catch the source before they return to their downcast position.

“Ya know, I pay ya to work, not read.” Spaulding speaks in a lilting voice as he putters around the oddities shop. It’s hard to tell if he genuinely is joking around or in a sour mood; the two seemed to often coexist in such an indistinct fashion. However, you’re willing to roll the dice of chance and bank on it being the former.

“That line might work if you, ya know, actually paid me.” You roll your eyes, rereading a passage you hadn’t entirely absorbed due to being rudely interrupted.

“Roof over yer head ain’t enough?” The man snaps back. However, the chuckle he emits shortly after tells you that this is nothing more than banter, and you didn’t have to worry about facing the temper that simmered below layers of greasepaint.

“Could be better.” You say, lifting your head with a smirk to catch his gaze. Blackened lips spread into a yellowed smile before he let out a long whistle that echoed through the storefront. He walks towards you, clown shows flopping against the stained cement. You don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him or his advances instead of focusing on the words printed on the paper. They’ve lost meaning at this point and seem to be closer to hieroglyphics than English.

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, swallowing an undignified nose as Grimey hands find your waist. And while you can swallow the noises you make, the shiver that rolls through your body like a wave can’t be hidden. “This whatcha want?”

You don’t answer, instead just press your hips back against his groin in a not-so-subtle attempt at seduction. Spaulding laughs; the noise snared between glee and something more sinister. He leans forward, the blue pom-poms of the patriotic clown suit pressing into your shirt. Lips press against your ear, puffs of warm breath tickling the skin. “Want me to fuck ya like a whore right out in the open?”

This time, you moan aloud, head tipping back to rest against his broad shoulder. The grip he has on your waist tightens as he begins to grind his swelling cock against the curve of your ass. “I believe, I asked, ya a goddamn question.”

“Yes, please.” You whisper, eyes falling shut. A wet kiss is placed to the side of your head in praise for your obedience, you’re sure some paint probably stains your skin and clings to the wisps of your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to mind.

“Don’t even care if anyone walks in? Or is that what ya want?” Sometimes, you think that Spaulding just enjoys hearing himself prattle on, allowing filth to slide off his tongue and worm its way through your soul, leaving heat in its wake. Of course, you’d be a filthy liar to say that the depraved things he spewed didn’t affect you. “Do ya want to be the center of attention here, baby? Might draw in some better cash than the murder ride, what do you think?” You go to open your mouth to sputter out a response, but a crisp bell ringing derails your train of thought, leaving the remnants to catch fire.

Eyes snap open to see the shocked faces of what was clearly out of place tourists staring at the sight before them. Mouths slightly agape and cheeks flushed yet unable to turn their sights away from the horrors that lay before them. You wonder what had them so shell shocked? Was it Spaulding enveloping your body with a wicked grin? Or perhaps the alligator boy who was proudly displayed.