#ghostface!vi

Scare Actor Vi who sees you around the park, shrieking with your friends as some of the free-roaming actors simply appear from behind you, the butcher sharpening his knives against each other making you and your friend jump into each other's arms and scurry away. You’ve got one of the orange bands on your wrist, neon enough that in the blacklight of the haunted house will still light it up for the actors to see. Your friends all wore similar ones, with varying colours of the traffic light system the company had implemented to let the actors know customers' comfort levels. With an orange band, you were letting them know that you could get scared easier than the one or two friends you have sporting green bands, but weren’t at risk of a panic attack or potential emergency situation like your friend in the red band currently trying to hold back tears after walking by the creepy doll currently following your group behind. Vi has to bite back her laughter behind her mask, just in case any customers notice her and hear the noise, because that creepy doll is her sister Powder — or Jinx as she’s been calling herself as the doll — and she seems to gleaming with delight at the reactions she’s getting from your group.

You wouldn’t say you were frightened by these things, after all if you were you simply wouldn’t have come. You prefer a slasher movie over a traditional horror, so the revving of a chainsaw simply brings a shriek of laughter past your lips instead of a scream but you still find yourself falling for the jumpscares, clutching your friends upon instinct before falling into a fit of giggles. Or, when one of your more easily frightened friends arms is the one you fall into, scurrying off out of the scare actors clutches. And, not that you’d admit it to any of your friends, secretly you found yourself getting turned on by the danger and fear these kind of movies and attractions created. It wasn’t uncommon, plenty of women had kinks for masked men and women, some books even dedicated to getting fucked by a masked killer or murderous creature (and you totally don’t have a kindle library full of books like this). It had seemed like a waste not to come when the attraction had popped up and announced they would be opening  two weeks before Halloween and, with some convincing from your other friends, you’d bought a ticket. You’d scanned their website beforehand, comforted by the safety regulations and efforts their team went to so they could ensure customer comfort — but that didn’t stop you (and your friends) stopping by the make-shift bar to swallow down some liquid courage… Or three before finally making your way to the line for the main attraction: the murder house.

Two of your friends ditch the line before you’re even halfway through it, three don’t even line up for it — were already self aware at that point that they weren’t built for it — but by the time what remains of your group is at the front of the line, you’re partially regretting not ditching sooner. It’s not that you’re chicken, it’s that with the alcohol buzzing in your veins, your heart racing in anticipation and the recollection that this is literally designed for you to be chased like this is a life or death situation, you’re probably not in the position you would have been before the ‘liquid courage’. But still you listen as the guy gives you the explanation of what will happen, just in case you guys weren’t aware. A group goes in, a five minute headstart per group, chased around by multiple killers, picked off one-by-one, if somebody survives you get final girl or final boy sashes, or simply the last survivor if preferred. Actors are allowed to touch, grab to remove, etc but once ‘killed’ you are simply taken to one of the back tunnels and brought to the exit. Confirmation that no abuse, harm or injury will occur during the game. You suppose it’s something he’s contractually obligated to do, perhaps to ensure the company doesn’t get sued for not disclosing everything — now you’re wondering if anyone has ever sued one of these places… Your eyes wander off, unfocused as you imagine that case and how it may fare going to trial — only for your eyes to focus back in on one of the windows at the entrance of the murder house, to a cloaked figure with a ghostface mask staring blankly in your direction. Unconsciously you draw your bottom lip between your teeth, thighs shifting to relieve the ache that follows as your cunt starts to throb at the thought of getting fucked by the one behind the mask. You drop your gaze, trying to shake the thoughts out of your head (very much aware you’re surrounded by your friends) and focusing your attention back on the guy and nodding when you notice your friends doing so. 

There’s a sense of unease over you the further you move through the house, the group's collective movements clumsy from the tipsy nature of the remaining five of you but otherwise an eerie silence. You had come in with confidence, well prepared for the jumpscare from the ill-hidden ghostface — only nothing had happened yet, and the further you move through the house the more uneasy you feel. The floorboards creek under each step you all take, each of you clutching onto someone. You’re trying to see where it is you’re walking into, but even with the blacklight in parts, it’s too dark to get a real idea of the layout.

Two of your friends are ‘killed’ by the Butcher in what you now realise was the kitchen, one thrown down a chute that makes meat grinder noises after and the other thrown over his shoulder and taken to the meat locker behind the curtain. The three of you remaining have no shame about sprinting out of there as fast as you can and when you manage to make it to the upstairs, realising it splits to three possible exit routes you all do the one thing you curse movie characters for doing: you split up.

The blood curdling scream one of your friends lets out gives you the sick sort of relief that you chose a good path, the silence from another keeps the nerves rattling through your system that you haven’t. You’re not entirely sure how the hell the layout of this murder house works, are you supposed to make your way back downstairs somehow? Is there a secondary staircase — like the layout in That’s so Raven? No- No! Now is not the time to get distracted thinking about childhood tv shows. You make your way to what looks like a typical teenage girls bedroom, the lights killed except for a singular lamp at the far end of the bedroom illuminating an old home phone. You grit your teeth, waiting for the inevitable shrill  ring of the phone but you still almost jump out of your skin when it does. You laugh shakily, more so at yourself for still reacting even when you knew it was coming and grab the phone to “answer”

You assume it’s an automated message, something they play for all visitors to ensure everything moves quickly but your breath catches when you hear your name from the receiver. It’s spoken through a voice changer and your eyes light up in recognition, Ghostface. The actor you’d seen through the windows earlier, who you’d anticipated earlier in the game — this must be their assigned room. You hear your name called again teasingly, trying to regain your attention. “That is your name, right? I just want to make sure I know who it is I’m looking at” Such a cliche line, ripped from the movie and yet you gasp in surprise when you feel a body pressed to your back, a blade coming up to your throat. The phone falls from your hand, bouncing on the carpeted floor of the bedroom set as a hand comes up to your waist to hold you firm against Ghostfaces’ body. You shiver at the hard press of something firm at their crotch, the thought of it turning you on more than the fear had done before. You crane your head to the side, feeling both a sinking sensation that you’re about to lose the game — be ‘killed’ off — and the unmistakable sensation of your pussy dripping so much arousal that you’re sure you can feel your underwear soaked, flush to your cunt. You murmur a soft, broken please — for what, you’re not sure; for the ‘killer’ to spare you, for them to fuck you? A shaky breath falls from your slightly agape mouth again as their hips grind against your ass, the ever present hard length pushing against you. “How about I let you live… If you do something for me”

Distantly you’re aware that, at any time, someone can walk in and find you… like this. They’d pulled you into one of the back rooms, some cold hallway and then another room, it was bare apart from some throw blankets and a couch but it had hardly mattered when you’d ended up with your pants shoved down, ass up and exposed while they played with your arousal, toying with your pussy almost as if torturing you.

You feel shame heating your cheeks when their knife, which you’re beginning to think isn’t as fake as you’d believed, is stabbed into the couch cushion and the familiar voice orders you to ride it. “Don’t get shy, slut. I saw how your cunt started dripping.” They say, hands coming to your hips to guide you down to ride the thick handle. It's hard, the plastic sinking into your tight heat with minimal issue and it’s stabbed into the couch far enough that you don’t have to worry about the blade being inside of you — but you’re still comforted by the other person's hand at the base making sure you don’t accidentally pull it out.

The knife is soaked by the time Ghostface decides enough is enough, a hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and ordering you to stop. Carefully you’re made to clean it up, lips wrapping around the handle and tongue laving at the taste of yourself. For each whimper, each moan that you let out around it, you can feel them rocking their hips and grinding their cock against your wet pussy hard. It’s a tease, the plastic head nudging your poor, oversensitive clit and every time you beg for them to just “Do it, fuck me, fuckmefuckme— please, jus’put it inside” you get a spank or a pinch, sometimes both, to your clit. “Demanding and yet—” the knife is brandished to your throat again and you don’t even notice it’s the blunt side of the blade, just needy whimpering and moans filling the air. “I’m the one in control.” “If I want to fuck—” A ragged noise rips from your mouth, the strap sinking deep inside of you with one solid thrust and taking you by by such a surprise that you swear you almost cum right on the spot. “This tight pussy,” Another hard thrust, pushing you chest first into the back of the sofa, the cushions muffling your garbled slurring.“then I’ll fuck it.”

Getting fucked so roughly, pussy split by the onyx black strap beneath the costume that all you can really do is take it. The inside of your thighs growing tacky with your dripping arousal as it thrusts deep and fast inside of your cunt, so tight that they growl in your ear about how they’ll have to find you again and keep fucking you until you’re fucked open perfectly by them. Every slap of your pussy, your tits, squeeze of your throat has you getting closer and closer to your orgasm which has you squirming in an attempt to get off their cock. Are you still playing like you don’t want it, or that you don’t want to cum yet?

Wrapping their arms around you, keeping you still and fucking up into you until you’re cumming all over their cock, your moans echoing around the room. You’re lucky the ‘backstage’ area is soundproofed or the other guests would have heard you. 

You leave about ten minutes later, looking a bit more presentable and snuck back into the room Ghostface inhabits as promised. Somehow it’s not questioned how or why you disappeared for 20 minutes but when you do make it to the exit, you don’t say a word as the final girl sash is placed over your head and across your body. It’s your secret, the workers and your friends don’t need to know you earnt it by whoring yourself out to one of the scare actors. And when your friends decide an hour or two later, after an absurd amount of carnival-like food and drinks, that it’s time to go home you wave off the offer for a ride home and tell them you’ve got other plans.

Vi gets off work twenty minutes later, a rogue-ish grin on her lips as she sees you sitting on one of the picnic benches in the assigned food vendor area. She’s got her work bag thrown over her arm, uniform and mask tossed in there ready for the next day as she climbs over the bench to sit next to you. It’s with practiced ease that she pulls you in for an easy kiss, which you happily respond to with a grin. There’s still enough people around that she stops after a moment or two, not deepening it or moving further. “Thanks for waiting for me, baby. Did you have a good time?” She asks, but you can hear the underlying question your girlfriend doesn’t want to ask out loud — not here at least. “Yeah, Vi. I had the best time. Think we might do it again”