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Beverly Marsh started her night like any other. She took a condom, fingered it up her hole, and got ready to go out.
She had started too late and still had the prepacked lube on her fingers as she applied blush with her fingers. It made it build up on her cheeks like tears of blood. Beverly picked them off at her final check in the mirror before running outside.
Who she fucked didn't really matter, they were almost all the same. She walked casually to a house three places down from hers.
Sometimes they said no. They weren't alright with spending their night with a kid, thank you very much, and please don't come back unless you're selling cookies or something proper for someone your age.
"Something proper." Like killing or snooping was any better than being a prostitute. Besides, she was 16. That's nearly legal.
She knocked on the door. A young Jester opened it, wide eyed and fearful.
"W-wh-what are y-you here f-here for?"
"Let's get to y'a bedroom first, then let's talk, sweetie." being direct like that got her more success, usually.
Their wide eyes got even wider. "Sure m-ma'am!" Through the clown's thin greasepaint she could see them blushing more than a little.
As soon as they were led in to their quaint bedroom (it reminded Beverly of her grandmothers-cutesy glass figurines watched from everywhere).
She shoved them on to the bed, bells ajangle, and threw herself on top of them. Instantly matched mouths and grabbed their groin.
She didn't like what she had to do, not one bit. They came faster if she acted like this.
Two hours later and the little clown was fast asleep with a bright red smirk. It turned out that their stutter and shy demeanor was a disguise, as they were really an investigator and very interested in her personal parts.
Besides that it was an average meet-up. Her makeup was smeared, along with little Jesty's.
Beverly sighed, leaning against the lynching post. Scratching her ear, she looked at the moon. Tears slid down her face now, like stars on a bloody red sky with two glowing moons.
Only one person noticed this from far off. He thought this metaphor while watching her fit. He saw her outfit and the order of her makeup and slowly cracked a smile.
He'd have more than a little fun tonight.
After ten minutes of standing around weeping, she slid off the post, almost falling, and stumbled home. Her watchful friend followed under the eaves of houses.
They really were friends. During the day, they left each other alone, 100% free of accusations or taunts. That's what really made a pair friends in this backwards town.
He lusted for her though like a puppy for attention. It was so, so easy to pick out her role that it was embarrassing. Alas, as soon as he knew, he wished so dearly to be her chosen target some lucky night.
She hadn't the bravery to meddle with the lives of those that she actually liked, however, so the Killer wouldn't receive his much wanted Personal Attention.
He had had e-fucking-nough. Tonight was the evening anniversary of him deciding that if she didn't fuck him, oh, if she didn't fuck him, she's gonna be more sorry than a cat in a river.
He got hard just thinking about her, ravishing her small, tender body, with her beautiful red curls clinging to both of their sweaty bodies and his masculine, brown hair mussed by her hands dragged through it. He'd still be wearing his favorite green shirt while her dress would be tossed away in the corner, and her stilettos in the corner.
Promptly after, he'd kill her. Preferably by stabbing her a few times, but anything would do. Maybe, if a knife wasn't available, he'd simply suck at her throat until she choked in her sleep, give her the hickey of a lifetime? What about crushing her, pounding her in the chest a few times?
Oh, it was all just too exciting for him! He couldn't wait for each and every second of it!
Thank God she left the door unlocked, just like most in Salem. He hated having to pick a lock to do his damn job.
He saw her, and she almost saw him, through her main hall that ran from the front door. She would have at least seen a weird shadow had her head been turned another inch to the left.
Beverly, unaware of her soon to be rape/murder, calmly wiped away the layers of makeup from her night out. She hummed a soft song from her childhood while taking away all the evidence of what she did. Before putting on her pajamas, she slid out the condom from before, tied it off, and turned around.
She spotted the Murderer and shrieked. Yet another hopeless call in to the night.
Her breasts quivered with her scream and he felt a rush of heat in his cock. The condom slipped from her hand and spilt an indifferent splash of milky white sperm on the floor.
He slithered in the room like a deadly and beautiful snake, prepared to strike or anything else as he felt due.
Before she could do anything than scream or squirm her bare ass against her seat, he was over her. He snatched her hands from the air and sat himself on her lap, trapping her in the seat, faster than lightning.
She had a second to see his gruesome, owning grin before he mashed his face on hers. It was like kissing a rock for him, only if that rock gave you an unjustifiable amount of longing and lust. He passed her right hand to his left, holding both of her frail, tiny wrists tightly. She felt as if they would break eventually.
He used his freed hand to grope her milky, glowing breasts. His hands left faintly pink outlines where it went.
Beverly and Dexter almost fell b=backwards, making her gasp in surprise.
He himself was shocked long enough to permit her some breathing time.
He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered in a voice like sandpaper on wood,"If y'wanted to do it on the floor y' should've asked, slut."
"Slut." An echo of a nickname from Before. Outside of this town.
She entered after a rather difficult night. She attended a high school party to celebrate something-or-other, got so drunk she passed out, got raped, and dumped in a small ravine barely outside of Salem. The witch dragged her in and forced her to relive the worst of life over and over again.
Tonight was a long, painful, burning flashback to the little bit of time she could remember from That Night.
He thumbed her nipple while forcefully sliding her tongue in to her mouth. She tasted deliciously of strawberries with a hint of that clown's cock.
'Nothing to be upset over,' he thought. 'Soon it'll be mine in her orifice.'
Bev squirmed and cried out on his lips. She dug a finely painted nail in to his wrist and received a tightened grip. Both hands squeezed on their property, bruising one and snapping one in the other.
He gave up the frenching to again whisper in her ear.
"Stop it." A glint like a dagger of silver left his eye. "I'll use you as I see fit. Besides," He backed off only a few inches, but they let in some cool air on her sore breast. "That is your job, slut."
Now she really started crying. A squeeze to her wrists.
"What did I say!?" He yelled in his increasingly insane voice. "Stop it unless you want to see your guts spread round this room!"
Crying reduced to sniffles. Sniffles reduced to a pained moaning.
He gave up on her breast. There was so many more interesting things on the female body to play with.
He slid a piece of thin rope out of his back pocket and tied her wrists together, freeing his own hands.
"Try anything and I'll keep up on my promise. Alright?"
She did a shuddery nod. The rope squished her broken wrists in to highly uncomfortable poses.
Dexter slapped his hand down on her pussy, testing its moisture. She shrieked like a bat.
A hand slapped her bare thigh. There'd be another bruise for her to deal with when this was done. 'If I survive,' she added to her thought.
"Quiet! I'm prepping to slit your fucking throat right now! Once more and you're dead!"
A reluctant yes.
He continued testing her mound, inserting in to different layers of her lips and poking at her anus.
She was barely wet at all. A disappointment for Dexter, since he personally preferred an easy insertion.
He got off of her lap. She saw he had a small boner blooming from his pants that she personally hoped was his full length. Long dicks weren't her favorite since she had to do this merely as a career. Orgasms were just so weird coming from a stranger.
Dexter spread her legs apart with little resistance from her (Pain wasn't something she desired).
He pulled her hips closer to where his face now was, at the end of the seat. She cringed in preparation of what she knew he was going to do.
His mouth was hot as boiling water against her cool vagina. She groaned, from both disgust and a saddening delight.
Dex focused his forces on getting her hole wet. Repeatedly, he inserted his tongue and followed by slobbering over the outside.
She got close to an orgasm with him doing that. Then when he decided that she must have been well lubed with his spit, he gave a hearty kiss to her clit.
She cried out as it tore through her like an electrocution. Dexter was proud of himself for "pleasuring" her even though she was 'so damn resilient'.
"Now, sweet little girl, are you ready for it? Your hole's all primed and wet now."
He looked up at her. His jaw was covered in juices, both his own and hers.
She just looked at him, shocked in to silence by this, this activity.
"Say yes." Nothing asking about this.
She nodded.
He slapped her on the same spot from before.
"I said say it."
"Y-yes..."
Tears ran down her face.
He stood back up. One of his knees cracked and he stretched the other. He took off his pants, sending a wave of fear through her.
'This is happening. My god, dear fucking god, this is happening.'
Happening again. It was pre-Salem Dexter that did that to her too. Some souls are just destined (or cursed) to find each other over and over again, no matter the circumstance.
Down came his boxers, and a beer-can dick sprang up. It was already dripping with precum and sniffing out her warm and artificially moist hole.
Dexter lifted her ass off the chair, slipping himself under her.
She couldn't help the sobs that knocked her forward. He dropped her, narrowly missing either of her holes, and had his already tiny dick get squished.
He cringed in pain and anger. Dexter slapped her across the face, making her bite her tongue and fall out of his grip.
The Killer leaned his head forward, setting his forehead on the top of the chair. He gingerly tried to grab his dick, which was fairly pink and seemed to be bent in the center.
What he needed was ice, and maybe a doctor. In his blind rage from what he did, he never even put a bandaid on it.
He giggled.
"Heee-hehehehe... Look at what 'cha've done, you sweet, sweet little girl."
She winced away at every word. Under her pillow was a switchblade perfect for defending herself with. She only needed to go five more feet, a hop if he'd stop fucking staring at her.
He gingerly lifted it. Tapped the side, and nearly started crying from pain.
"I-It's broken!?" The bewilderment in his tone would have been comical if only this wasn't the scene of a rape and soon to be murder. "You fucking-Broke it!?!"
His focus did shift to his broken meat. She got up and tip toed to the pillow, sliding out her blade while he continued to tap his penis.
'Do it, do it now, while he's distracted by his dong.'
A thumb to a small button on the side and the blade flung out. It was five inches, 'longer than his squashed can,' she thought, but it would do the trick.
Tears still blurred the bottom of her eyes. She couldn't believe that just an hour ago she was doing her regular nightly clean up. Now, she was about to slit a stranger's throat and probably splash blood all over her makeup.
She took a breath and blinked her tears away. She screamed, for the last time this evening.
She got lucky, I guess. It's a little unimpressive to us outsiders, but I'm rather proud of her.
She snatches him by his hair and yanks his head over. Still yelling, accompanied by him now. She rapidly plunged her fist at his neck, blindly wiggling around the blade in hopes of hitting his throat.
Huzzah! Dexter would be no more, all thanks to Beverly. Her wails changed in to quieter crying while he groped at her, squeezing her broken wrist for a final "gotcha".
God, this evening was so, so awful. He sneezed and wheezed blood all over half her room in his final moments, and now she had to finish off her night by dragging a corpse, a corpse she made, out to the center.
No. She was too tired. Too tired physically, emotionally, spiritually, you name it.
'Why can't I be free? Why can't I leave? Oh, why, why, why.'
She considered the gory blade in her hand, laying down on her bed. Perhaps she'd end her life, perhaps not. That's none of your concern.