#spm2

The Crypt was a hole-in-the-wall joint that certainly lived up to its name. You could hardly see inside, save for a few red overhead lights, because of course they were red. The light fog that swathed the room was either from an effects machine or so many people chain smoking. When you approached the bar, you scanned the cocktail menu, all named after and inspired by classic monsters. You ordered a Frankenstein-themed drink, wondering if it were possible for a place to be too campy.

“C’mon, let’s try to get closer to the stage before they go on,” Marcie said once you both got your drinks.

About fifteen minutes later, the band strutted onstage, an abundance of leather and pompadours. Almost like—no, you weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. Not bothering with introductions, Shriek and the Spyders went right into an upbeat song that made the raucous crowd go wild. They didn’t let up, sweat dripping down Shriek’s face as he ran back and forth across the stage, microphone in hand.

In the middle of their third song, a spray of fake blood rained over the crowd, leading to cheers and screams nearly drowning out the music. Some of the effects looked a little too realistic for your comfort. The bass player’s “eye” popped out at one point, and the lead guitarist’s face seemed to literally melt during a solo a few songs later. 

You and Marcie had been dancing along to the whole set, your drinks long since discarded, half spilled on each other as other concert-goers bumped into you. It was the most fun you’d had in a long time, but you couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that settled in your gut no matter how much you tried to focus on the show.

In the middle of another song, Shriek broke into a howl as a giant drill emerged through his chest, spraying the crowd with blood again. Except, this time you weren’t so sure it was fake. No one else seemed to care. The carnage only electrified the people around you as they roared and cheered when Shriek collapsed near the microphone stand, his guts hanging off the stage. The floor beneath you shook at the crowd’s riotous stomping and jumping at the scene they’d just witnessed. When you looked up at the stage, you were horrified to see him. Gore hung from the end of his drill-tipped guitar, splattering the crowd as he revved it, keeping eye contact with you and grinning slyly at your disbelief. 

He leaned into the mic, the corners of his lips curling into a cat-like grin as he announced with a swoon-worthy croon, “This is dedicated to the one I love.”

Then he pointed right at you.

The energy in the room shifted to a tangible malignancy, or maybe it was your own panic as you tried to push and shove your way out of the crowd. Instead, you only found yourself being forced closer to the stage, his romance-laced innuendos and skillful guitar strumming overwhelmed your senses and made your skin crawl. It felt like the whole crowd was in on his scheme to get you.

With each song you were shoved closer, and closer, until for the first time since he manifested in your dreams, you were able to reach out and touch him.

Was he even real?

You were dizzy by the time the show ended, hardly able to protest when you were manhandled and told something about wanting to be seen backstage.

“I want details!” Marcie shouted, oblivious to your plight as the rent-a-cop shuffled you away from her. 

Backstage was a stretch. More like a narrow hallway with a utility closet and a small, graffiti-covered room that had been requisitioned by the bands. The door to the makeshift dressing room slammed behind you when you stumbled inside. He was waiting there for you, sitting on a grungy looking red velvet couch, his leather-clad legs spread wide open. His jacket was discarded in the corner of the room, revealing the sheen of sweat and blood that coated his body.

Your eyes drifted to his drill, large and intimidating, with a red tip that looked angry against its large shaft. You could’ve sworn you saw it twitch a bit, and recoiled at the thought of it penetrating you. 

With a click of his tongue, he drew your attention back to him. Raising his hand, he beckoned you over to him with a curl of his index and middle fingers. You felt a jolt rush through your core at the motion. Almost involuntarily, you approached until the points of your kitten heels touched the tips of his steel-toed boots.

“How’d you like the show, baby?” he asked.

“It was…a lot.”

“It was all for you.”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, blatantly ogling the bulge straining against his tight pants.

He grinned, thrusting up toward your face. “Could use a little help, sugar,” he crooned, eyes dangerous as he palmed his crotch. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.”

You let out a shaky breath in response, and proceeded to sit on his lap. He threw his head back, groaning at the sensation of your weight on him. Tangling your fingers in his slicked black hair, you pressed yourself closer to him, kissing his neck as you rolled your hips against his. You nipped at his throat when you felt his cock twitch against your pussy.

“Goddamn, baby,” he moaned. “Gimme more of that.”

Rolling your hips again, you let out a soft whimper at the friction from his pants on your clit. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, desperation flooding your senses as you chased your pleasure, grinding against him, almost embarrassed at the sounds your wet pussy was making as it rubbed against his hard cock. 

Your breathing shallowed, muscles ached as you rutted against him, feeling yourself getting closer to orgasm. For a moment, it felt like he was only there for you to use, to get off with like some living, leather-wrapped sex toy. Maybe he was. You weren’t thinking clearly enough to question it.

“Wanna go all the way with you, baby,” he forced out. “Wanna make you mine.”

You moaned at that. “Yours.”

You swiftly shifted so you could pull off your panties, tossing them aside on the couch. He undid his pants, his leaking cock springing free from its leather confines. Your pussy involuntarily clenched at the size of him, and your eyes frantically met his smug face. 

He reached between you, his fingers stroking your sensitive pussy. “Cat got your tongue?”

You kissed him again, more teeth and tongue than before as you lifted your hips, slowly lowering yourself onto his cock and whimpering into his mouth at how it stretched you mercilessly. You caught his bottom lip in your teeth, biting down a little too hard and drawing blood, but he took it in stride, licking it from his lips.

He sung your praises, his hands firmly on your hips as he guided you, your pussy taking all of him. His five o’clock shadow scratched at your sensitive skin as he pressed kisses to your neck and shoulders. 

“Fuck!” you cried out as you bounced on his dick, your cervix pounded by his length. Your vision blurred with tears, thighs burning as you kept riding him. So close. “I—I’m gonna—“

“That’s it, sugar. Come for me.”

Your orgasm rolled through you, rocking your hips against his as you held onto his shoulders to steady yourself. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and you could feel his hot cum fill you as your body milked his seed from him. He was vocal when he came, your name practically echoing throughout the room in a perverse melody.

Riding out your orgasm, you shuddered against him, feeling his soft, spent cock still buried inside you. 

“That was…are you real?” you asked breathlessly.