Be honest, killer-boy, how many times a day do you think of me?
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. I don’t have to imagine her thinking of me as she tries to make herself come. I get to witness it.
More than I should.
I didn’t have to be that damn honest.
The message disappears off my screen and lights up hers. She scrambles for her phone, fingers still inside her aching pussy, the pad of her palm bearing down on her clit as she reads the text. Her heavy mewl lands right on the tip of my cock, precum coating it. I rub it over my length, imagining her spit coating every inch of me.
Another text flashes on my screen, and once again, I swipe on it.
Were you thinking of me tonight?
My dick has definitely taken over, because there’s no way my brain thinks the next word is a good idea.
Yes.
Her pleasure-tainted cries imprint on my walls, filling the air around me and sinking into my lungs, my mind, my nerves. My very fucking soul demands more of them.
She types with one hand, and another text pops up.
Was I on my knees or on top?
Jesus, she’s direct.
I like it.
On your back. Legs spread wide. My knife to your throat. Your blood running down my blade and between your tits. A thin thread down your belly…
This honesty can get me in fucking trouble. Only, on the feed on my phone, I don’t see panic. No disgust. No fear. Unhinged desires painted in pleasure and elation are all I see on her stunning face.
What have I stumbled into? How is this woman real?
Most would fear my honest words. Would fucking run screaming. Yet there is Scarlet...smiling as she types the next text. She slows the thrust of her fingers, but the movements harden. Her rhythm grows passionate, finding those threads that bring true pleasure rather than frantic, desperate pleasure.
Down my belly…between the soft, wet seam of my pussy. Is that what you imagine, with your cock in your hand, late in the night? Does thinking of killing me make you hard, killer-boy?
I reply before I even finish reading it, pumping my cock harder, flicking the head with a tighter squeeze.
You’re taking liberties…such a greedy little slut, aren’t you? The thought of punishing you makes me hard, kitten.
“Aaah...”she moans so loud I’m compelled to join her, throwing my head back as my release inches much closer.
Tell me more of this punishment.
I would strip you naked. Sit you on my thigh, your side to my front, your ass hanging out. Your flimsy throat would be in my hand so I could feel your screams vibrate through my skin as I spanked you silly.
Like a good little whore, you would beg me to turn your pain to pleasure as your slutty little pussy drenches my leg, grinding to chase that release that I wouldn’t allow to come. I would slap your ass until thin threads of blood coat your creamy skin in crimson spiderwebs.
It’s official. I am going mad.
I could have said anything else. Like cut her fucking throat. Torture her. At least maybe whip her. Use any other instrument that would keep me at arm’s length from the reckless woman.
I could have.
But I wouldn’t have dared. Because the moment I get my hands on her, I want to do anything in my power to feel every single thing she feels. Her pleasure, her pain, her desperation. All of it. I couldn’t use an instrument and deny my own pleasure. My satisfaction.
“Oh god, yes!” she cries on a wanton moan, bending her legs for better access.
