#virginal

You didn't even know why you were running, not really. You could hear the heavy thud of his booted footsteps echoing almost cruelly in your ear. It was a cosmic joke, that no matter how fast you scrambled, Michael would always catch you, leisurely following behind as if your blood on his knife was a certainty he was merely playing into. 

Still you ran, into the pitch of night, darting between trees and praying to something that you didn't smack face first into one you couldn't see in the hellish gloom. You hear his breathing, amplified by the mask that hides his face from the world, as if it's ghosting over the flesh of your neck and leaving goosebumps there. 

You wail, low and stupid, as fear carries you, your trainers crunching loudly on every twig and leaf on the floor as if screaming 'follow me! find me!' and he does. 

Large thick fingers curl around the back of your neck like a solid brick and you squeak, terrified, as you're held immobile by Michael's gargantuan hand. Your fingers scrabble back, both of your hands barely able to close around his wrist, boiling hot and solid, as you try and tug him from you like you're batting uselessly at a statue. 

"Please - Michael - please don't do this, you don't have to - I don't…" 

You hear his breathing in your ear, the rubber of his mask against your cheek and you freeze, paralysed, as everything goes silent. 

In a rush of air you're swooped forward, pushed, until your forehead is richoteing off of a tree directly in front of you. You wail low in your throat as pain spirals out onto your face and down your neck, blood dribbling down your nose and into your mouth. You have no time to do anything else as you're yanked back, your body bowed against his, you can feel every hard line of his hulking form through his boiler suit, the small of your back only connecting with his thighs and you scream - expecting to be thrust forward again into the tree, expecting this to be the blow that kills you. Everything goes quiet again. Eerily quiet. 

Michael doesn't move you, his fingers still firm on the back of your neck, he keeps you tucked snug against him for minutes as if he was thinking. 

You're too scared to think, until your brain onlines from the pain and fear and you try again to scrabble your nails across his wrist, to wriggle your small body free and break his hold. His free hand comes sharply down, resting heavy and dangerous on your hip, you freeze again. His message is clear. Stop struggling.

His fingers curl dangerously around your hip, pinning you immobile against him, and your heartbeat is erratic in your chest. Why is he taking his time with you? Why doesn't he just end this? What's he going to do? Choke you? Shatter your pelvis with the barest flex of his fingers?

Moments pass, his grip on your hip tightens and he pulls you back into him, you scream, short and shocked, as he - he wriggles you against him, pulls you in tight to his hot heat, his thighs framing yours, large and muscular and intimidating and - and - is this fucker hard?

Your breath comes out in a stuttered exhale as you feel the unmistakable drag of Michael Myers' erect cock over the small of your back, just above the cleft in your ass. He's utterly silent still, except for that breathing, that hasn't changed pitch or volume, but you can somehow tell he's thinking, calculating, only if in the slowness of his movements. His hands on you are not gentle, you can feel bruises blossoming beneath his fingertips, but you're not dead. 

You'd never heard those kind of stories about Michael Myers before, as far as you knew he was pretty much sexless, either killing or comatose. You'd never heard even a single rumour that he got off on killing. It only served to increase your fear, making your death that much worse. He moved again, hips pistoning slowly until you feel his cock jam against the cleft of your ass and a sharp exhale leaves Michael's mask and he stills to a statue. Except his cock, his cock, twitches against your ass and you tremble violently. You're utterly defenceless and vulnerable, trapped in the arms of a brutal subhuman killing machine as he rubs his thick arousal against your defenceless, weak body. 

Something dribbles traitorously in your underwear. 

You feel it then, tears, hot and thick as the blood drying in rivulets down your face and you sob openly. You didn't want Michael Myers to fuck you, or kill you, so why were you clenching so hard? The white hot fear in you was making you crazy. The waiting, it was torture, you couldn't stand it - you were close to begging, but for what? For what? 

The hand on the back of your neck was gone, and your head snapped forward, tendons in your neck springing back to life painfully and you sucked in air through your scream-damaged throat. Then pain was shooting through your spine as something metal and sharp sliced down the skin of your back, nicking the tops of your trousers and the hands on you were gone completely as Michael seized the frayed edges of your slashed waistband, the muted rip of fabric being torn apart in his bare hands loud in the silent woods as he tore your jeans down to your thighs, leaving you exposed from the waist down in nothing but your panties. 

"No, no, no, Michael, please don't do this, you don't have to do this - I'm begging you -" 

He doesn't listen, maybe doesn't even hear you, as you hear the drag of teeth as he pulls his zip down and then there's nothing in the air but your twin breathing, Michael's measured and heavy, yours panicked and trembling. 

The hot weight of his stiff cock presses between your thighs, slippery with blood that had been dribbling down from your ruined back, and a burst of breath comes from his nostrils like a wild bull as he bucks into you, fucking the slick coppery cleft of your thighs, his gargantuan hands coming to rest on your hips, pushing your legs together to give him something tight and motionless to fuck into. 

You honestly don't know how to react, each one of his tight pistoning thrusts is hard enough to shake every bone in your body, and you can feel each ridge, each thick vein of what you can only imagine is an immense cock to match this immense man. You shake violently as he uses you, the sharp snap of his hips the only indication of what he's doing, his entire body is still, his breathing unaffected, the rubber of his mask brushing the back of your neck a constant reminder of how close he is to you, how fucked you were, figuratively and literally. 

You don't have time to wonder why he's doing this, to humiliate you? To get off without having to fuck you? Because his thrusts speed up, the height difference between you enough that he's lifting you off your feet with every upward brutal shift of his hips, and enough that he's jamming his thick cockhead, weeping with precome and slathering you as thick as the blood between you, against your clit with each thrust. 

The pleasure is sudden and all-consuming, the repeated rough treatment of your poor clit nothing you've ever experienced before, it's painful having your sensitive nub rubbed like this, merciless and uncaring, igniting waves of pleasure in you you didn't even know you could achieve. Your core feels violently hot, your thighs squeezing Michael's length of your own volition and he likes that, he must do, because he squeezes your thighs in response, whole body tensing, and it's the first time you've managed to communicate with the murderer in any way. 

You realise, with dizzying, bone-shaking horrific delight that you're going to come, his cock is too hard and unyielding against your clit. Your knees lift all by themselves, your thighs tense and shake as your vision blacks and you all but collapse back against Michael's body as pleasure ignites every one of your nerve endings. He doesn't stop fucking you through it, stringing out your orgasm until you're a jolting, trembling, mewing mess, every muscle twitching as you soak his cock with more than just your blood. Your cheeks are scarlet, your body alive and thrumming with fear and pain and you think your orgasm has hurtled you off into another realm. 

Your hands scrabble back to grab at him, seizing fistfuls of his boiler suit if only to anchor yourself as you babble. 

"Michael, Michael, Michael -" 

He stills completely, jammed right against your weeping cunt as you feel his cock pulsing, and suddenly your clothed and dripping seam is flooded with hot wet seed. He doesn't make a single sound, except for the flexing of his fingers on your bruised and wrecked thighs, he might as well be made of stone. 

You're trembling, you can't do anything else, shrill little animal screams of pure emotion ripping themselves from your throat every now and again before he's stepping back, releasing you completely, and your ruined body hits the woodland floor like a ragdoll. You feel twigs snapping under you and you register somewhere in your brain that it probably hurts. 

You roll onto your back, the biting sting of the cut and the devastation to your mottled and purple thighs, the size and shape of Michael's hands, making you twitch in pain but it's worth it to look up at him. 

He's stood where he first caught you, huge and towering, the emotionless mask not even out of place on his face. The only indication of what just happened was the opened zip on his boiler suit and his cock, good fucking christ his cock, hanging heavy and hard and scarlet with blood and white with come, if it had been inside you it would have torn you apart, of that you're certain. 

You hazily register that you're going to die now, you've served your usefulness, Michael Myers' cooling come between your legs a testament to that. You know you should run, but your feel drugged somehow, fuck drunk, your brain supplies somewhat stupidly. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was it that arousal shot through you even now at the mere sight of this colossal beast standing in front of you? 

He doesn't look at you as he zips himself back up again, not bothering to wipe his cock as he does. He might be looking at you, you'll never know. But those blank eyes seem to be staring ahead as he bends and retrieves his knife, crusted in your blood just like his cock was. 

Lazily, your hands find purchase as you try and push yourself up, animal brain finally kicking in to tell you to move now, or you're going to die. A sharp incline of his head stills you, he's definitely looking at you now. His mask cocks, regarding you almost, and your heart stutters and stops. 

It barely begins beating again as he turns his hulking form around and disappears off into the trees. 

What, your brain tries, Where is he going?

There's nothing around you but trees, you hug the nearest one to you when you finally stand, seeing the outline of your own blood there in the dim moonlight. 

That shakes something in you, and you remember the pain in your forehead, concussed probably right? That's why you'd acted like such a maniac. Your whole body ached with pain and shock. 

But you were alive. 

Why?