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Harsh gasps went to and from your lungs as you ran a lethal race. Behind you was… God, you didn’t even want to think about—every instinct within you demanded your prey body dash from the hunter, dash from the evil drooling in anticipation of your capture to a place where you could be safe.
But where? There was no grove in which you could obscure yourself, no magic hiding place where you could be safe—this snowed-in hotel was your only domicile now; as long as he was in it, you’d always be his target.
Like a nimble gazelle you rounded every corridor corner you could, serpentining like your very life depended upon it—which unfortunately it did—and pounding the ground with inordinately sturdy feet considering the imbroglio.
It was all too fortuitous that you were a runner before you came to this wretched, immoral place. Though, regardless of your lithe form, you knew even one who swept marathons had to be given the opportunity of surcease eventually; and such sprang on you when you unwillingly forced your speeding legs to a halt, your heart feeling as if it were on the verge of arrest.
You didn’t want to, but your exhausted condition left you with no other choice. You doubled over, hands on your knees as your quick, noisy breaths continued.
Where was he?!
You whipped your head in every which direction, your short hair frustratingly catching on the features of your gaping countenance. You flipped the locks away in a frenzy as your eyes darted about for any sign of movement. You got tripped up by mentioned locks occasionally, only furthering your fretful delirium.
But as you focused all your efforts into the realm of sighting for danger, real danger (and not just spare strands of hair) the hard pulse in your ears obscured your field of hearing, and you were deaf to the leopard-like leap that occurred behind you, knocking you to your hands and knees amid a visceral scream and furious paroxysms of your limbs.
Your hands slapped the floor, and you jolted up to see a large figure poised, standing, with something held high above his head. Not risking another second, you rolled out of the way, the force behind his swing causing him to entirely miss you, and thrust the axe into the carpeted floor, splintering it. You watched, paralyzed, as he tried to pull it out with increasingly frustrated pants, until he eventually gave up and rounded on you, now weaponless, instead.
You hurriedly skittered away from him on the carpet, but given that he was upright, and you were exhausted from both running and terror, he met you with ease—and you said your prayers in silence.
As of now, he towered over you, wolf to wounded rabbit, his bitter, yellowed snarl completing the image. The muscles of his arms tensed, prepared to spring, to strangle, to punch—to harm.
It was certain:
If nothing happened in the next few seconds, if no miracle occurred, you could kiss this life goodbye. Everything you ever worked for would be for naught.
Thus, with no other escape in sight, you did the unutterable—you hoisted your aching body to your knees, lunged sharply forward—
And was now abutting your hunter’s pants with your flushed left cheek; your feeble hands on his belt.
Your pulse pounded in your jugular, the only indication of your vitality.
Otherwise, you were frozen. Eyes large like a caught rodent’s. Kneeled like a captured traitor before his ireful former king.
You looked moribund. And though no form of lacerations were visible on your flesh, you felt it, too.
Beats and beats passed by. Tense seconds you held onto with all your life force, your living breath, ticked by.
You waited, face to his jeans zipper, but no blow ever came.
No muscle twitch nor constriction offered any clue to Jack’s behavior.
And it only terrified you more.
“…I’ll give you anything.” You whispered, deathly delicate.
“Just please… don’t kill me, Mr. Torrance.”
This finally actuated a response from the man, cold and smug.
“So this is what you’re pulling now? Hoping to get out of taking your medicine by playing the role of a little fawn? You’re too cute.” He chuckled in his low, menacing manner.
You kept yourself from flinching, but just barely.
Yet, more disturbing, you felt a twinge of… pleasure rush through you at his words.
The Overlook really had gotten to you. Only you couldn’t decide if you were thankful or pained you weren’t the same level of forgone Jack was.
In either case, a feeling of heat pooled in your stomach—like moths fluttering about—particularly with the solid, ever-burgeoning bulge that your face sat directly before.
A tentative spirit like an internal smile flashed within you, and with it you were divested some of your inhibitions. Your right hand found the tiny silver zipper of his jeans, the metal held lightly between your index and thumb, and gave the piece a firm, though careful, tug downward. The plucky yip of the zipper landed on your ears as the bit inched down. For a hint, you considered Jack’s posture—
This was until his calloused hand slammed upon your occiput and pushed it back to have his and your gazes connect.
Your neck strained with the pressure, and your scalp burned. You paid dear attention to his words, and the sharp, arching features that punctuated them.
His lips contorted to a half-glower, half-grin,
“But you’re going to listen to me—alright fawn?”
The question bore no signs of being one apart from its very structure; no man in Jack’s neurotic headspace would pose something with no breed of threat beneath the surface.
It was evidently obstinate.
Obey, or else.
You gulped.
Belying your fierce heartbeat, you gave a steady nod.
His hand loosened its hold, and you were allowed a second of repose. Whereupon however, he grabbed you by the hair, pulling you up and leading you to one of the many doors in the practically abandoned hotel. He huffed as you both stopped before it, and fished around in his pocket until he produced from his jeans the master key he still had on him. He jammed the key into the door’s lock, wrenched it open and tossed you inside like a sack of margarine, then traipsed into the room to the protesting screech of the door after it was flung back into place.
You—who’d just barely caught yourself on your own two feet when so carelessly thrown in here—cowered at his limned silhouette, still thinking about the pain that had ripped through your scalp just moments before. That is, up to the point when he grabbed you by both the waist and shirt collar and forced you into a kiss. Nonplussed, you froze for a moment.
A kiss.
Your mind and body suffered a disconnect at the boiling heat of his body (no doubt brought upon by his incessant enragement), the tincture of hard liquor on his cracked lips, the strong arms bolstering you into place, and a multitude of other factors that put your already confused system through yet more turmoil. Your heart was palpitating in fear and your hands were shaking, however a hot wetness had already begun collecting in your undergarments (in spite of your less unseemly wishes).
So to say, you gradually (easily) caved in, angling your head to more comfortably meld your lips with his, to more comfortably fit yourself into the curves his slightly crouched posture gave him, as if you two were interlocking pieces of jewelry. He even held your body as if you were a precious material, keeping his grip on you tight like you could suddenly be stolen.
It was funny, in a droll, roundabout sort of way, that the exact man who’d been chasing you with a ravenous look in his eyes and an axe in tow currently handled you as if your loss would be of great hurt to him.
A typical man, you chided silently while still mouthing against his lips—like the cusp of a glass, in the way they possessed only a mote of the alcohol they consumed. You could taste it, feel it invigorate you.
A drunk man trying to sleep with whoever’s closest to him. What a pathetic thought.
You felt no pity, withal. Indeed, you felt its polar opposite—not jealousy, but its closest relative; want.
And that was pathetic as well. This all was. Yet the feelings were anything but muted.
Seemingly able to sense this, Jack wrenched his mouth from yours, determined in his action even as the inertia behind the rough kiss caused your head to sway forward, and graze his collarbone for a brief second. Just before you could produce some kind of reaction at this pitiful display, whether that be a barely stifled cry or a few real tears, Jack took the hand previously on your shirt collar and cupped it under your chin. He lifted up your head, so your eyes met anew.
His blue-grey eyes, a confounding combination of crazed and calm, studied your face. You were sweating, and likely appeared mortified; just what he wanted, if you were to take a stab at his sick fantasies.
“Take off your clothes.” He breathed, gesturing with a tilt of his head,
“Get on the bed.”
You looked behind you (from your inhibition of his fingers) to see that a bedroom (completed with a large, King-sized mattress dressed up in quilted blankets) did indeed lay beyond, turned your head back to him, and nodded.
This appeared to ruffle him.
His brow became ever so slightly creased,
“Go.” He simply growled, actuating you to bow your head, and mindfully back away to the implicated space.
You looked not over your shoulder as you swiftly gamboled, and leapt backwards onto the springy mattress with a spirit you hadn’t possessed prior—even slackening your form and bringing your right arm over your head in a fashion terribly coy (not to forget dangerous). He soon sidled up to the doorway and rested an arm upon it, taking the sight of you in, as it seemed.
A wicked little closed-mouth smile complete with a poisonously playful glare flashed before your eyes, and you knew it then.
You were playing with fire. Much more, you were sitting before—scratch that, sitting in the jaws of a hungry carnivore, drool spilling from over his bloodied teeth and lips while you tried fervently to appease the beast. Those who coined the phrase “swim with sharks” had never been in a level of precarious peril as you; in a position where you could end up either with punctures over your precious skin, or body poised, pussy filled to the brim. It all depended on how you played it. If you could fawn enough. If you could fawn right.
A derisive laugh dragged you from your pondering,
“I can’t even be mad you’re not bare yet.” Jack spoke, half-lidded eyes giving away his sense of satisfied pride,
“Not when you look so adorable, giving in as you are.”
You breathed a hushed sigh of relief at this response, immediately after sitting up and going after your buttons. As deliberate as you could; not out of a desire to toy with your captor even more (the risk in that line of action was clear), but given that your digits quivered with jittery energy, you knew that forcing yourself to be quick would only take more time in the long run—what with the fumbling. So, you plucked the hard plastic from the fabric holes with care, Jack in the background as he ripped off his own shirt, never minding the buttons he popped in the process.
The surface below you sharply curved, causing you to jump and dart your attention upwards to see the new, sudden weight—him of course. Men never knew the virtue of patience, a fact written all over his steely features as he looked you over. A hand to your heart (which now beat twice as hard), you tried to curl your legs in, but was halted by Jack taking hold of your still clothed thighs.
By then your breathing tipped from stable to ragged, and your fear increased manifold. You stared into your captor’s eyes, imploring him for some kind of an answer; though he only looked down and began baring you himself. This led you to realize that he was nearly unclothed, his jacket, undershirt, and shoes left abandoned by the closed door. Even as he roughly unbuttoned your jeans, you couldn’t help yourself from staring at his large chest, and the curls of reddish brown which trailed from his thorax delightfully down to his crotch, now covered by jeans loosened thanks to an undone belt.
Regardless, that form outlined within them was perfectly clear.
God.
You let him tear off your pants once they were unbuttoned, and resisted nary as he popped open several buttons of your shirt, revealing the off-white brassiere that lay beneath. You fought to keep red from your face—turning your head in a manner you hoped was surreptitious—yet his hungry eyes posed pressure on your delicate composure, rendering the maintaining of such an illusion nigh impossible.
He smiled at this, leaning over until his shadow eclipsed your form. As he hunched over you, a set of fingers reached to direct your head towards his darkened face.
“Why so modest all of a sudden?” He asked with a faux-sweet lilt to his tone—his expression positively honeyed as his voice went a pitch higher,
“Is this your first time, little fawn?”
You breathed shallow gusts in and out, now uncomfortably aware of your environment. You could feel Jack’s subtle breath on you, his rough skin, and the strength behind the hand that remained on your thigh. Most of all, howbeit, you felt his presence—a looming force like impending, threatening dusk. A force not to be trifled with unless one was absolutely sure they could handle a gargantuan, monstrous entity (in particular, one who was hellbent on homicide not long before… hm). He was volatile, suffice to say, and whatever Jack had in store for you was not going to resemble any relationship (real or perceived) you’d ever encountered.
Perhaps… that’s what made it so enticing.
It was a tightrope walk—no… it was a free fall. You could control nothing except the way you fell, and you’d almost surely die with the ground hundreds of miles beneath you. For now though, it was just weightless you, and the open, unobstructed sky. You were free.
And to embrace this freedom, you stilled, and shut your eyes. Risky didn’t even begin to cover it—but who cared? This was your life in his hands, not anyone else’s. You were well prepared to reap the results; either rewards in the form of placating pleasure, or disaster in the literal shape of holes in your body seeping crimson.
If they thought it was the height of iniquity, so fucking be it.
Yes, you allowed the apoplectic man to keep up in his part of your undressing—for the simple rationale that it was a shot of pure adrenaline, the hungry look he gave your chest as he stripped you down. Even if such entailed Jack wrenching open the rest of your shirt to crudely reveal the entirety of your cleavage and cause several buttons to go off flying.
Well, there goes that, you thought with some sparse irascibility. But, you still had other shirts, and you were pretty sure you could sew the buttons back in anyhow, so you easily scrubbed the itinerant objects from your mind and considered Jack as he stared (and really, stared, no better word described it) at your covered breasts.
It was as if he were transfixed, hypnotized by them; something that made your figure flush.
A weaker woman would’ve make a retort, or a coaxing cry. You knew better, though. You puffed out your chest a hint, subtly priding yourself in this attention, this ability to distract your would-be killer. If it wasn’t so mortifying, perhaps it would be something to gloat about.
You waited, anticipating him snapping out of his gawking and finally revealing your tits, and such a time never came. If such was a consequence of the man being too engaged in his stare, or him implicating you to undress yourself, you didn’t know—but silently sighed nonetheless. Warily, you did the arduous task for him—reaching behind your back and unhooking the strap to make it easier to pull off.
He finished this process (the complete removal of your top layersincluded) as if nothing had happened and immediately turned to your pants once he was done. For a split second you assumed he would surcease anew at the view of your half-uncovered crotch, though he continued until the deed was complete—and once your pant legs were peeled off (with the help of you bending your knees), he removed your panties, clearly relishing in the motion; even throwing them to the floor with a theatrical flick of the wrist.
After, you were left bare under his lascivious gaze. You hated to reiterate, but you very much felt a piece of prey fallen before a fearsome canid—the deep shadow and glowing teeth highlighting this carnal canine quality in Jack. And to be frank, you didn’t hate the response it drove from your animalistic survivalist instincts. In fact, your more evolved reveled in the spike of anxiety, the spillover of adrenaline.
For the first time in a small while, a bonafide smile crossed your newly and naturally rouged face, and you breathed in a soft, dulcet breath,
“Fuck me, Mr. Torrance, please.”
From your half-lidded eyes you fleetingly thought you could see yourself in his own, but more so you saw zeal, drive, firm tenacity in his tight face, with its unseemly smile and sickeningly pleased narrow eyes.
You just wanted to kick him. Or kiss him. Or both.
So he ripped off his belt and lowered both his pants and underwear with his thumbs—but before you could get a feel for what you were up against, Jack thrust you onto your back, forcing your view upwards. Again, his smug countenance took up your sight. He leaned over you, his head abreast yours, and you could scent clear as day the bitter pungency of liquor on his breath, feel the short stubble scratch at your delicate skin. No sensation was more shocking, howbeit, than that of a duo of his thick fingers plunging themselves in your sopping pussy.
You gasped, then quickly tried to stifle it—though you weren’t quick enough if the grin you felt form against your face was any indication. You were tempted to grin too, and inadvertently succeeded in such when Jack thrust his digits deeper, stretching you more.
His fingertips rubbed against your G-spot with splendid roughness, only amplified by the tough quality to his skin, and the strength behind his phalanges. Mouthwatering elation seeped from your abdomen and spread through your entire body, mollifying you instantaneously as if a pressure point were struck (which you supposed was the case).
You let out low, humming suspirations while Jack’s touches prickled your senses, practically deactivated you, with how you lost all train of thought and lay splayed on the comforter, unable to do more than crave and cry out as a consequence of the overwhelming gratification. You gasped and groused for more, utterly stupefied by the feeling of fingers inside you—to where you actually let go a noise of forlorn when you felt Jack pull them out with a squelch.
Fuck, you were soaked.
The man rose and pulled back, settling himself on his knees in front of you to a cloud of anticipation sublimating up your spine. He wiped the hand previously fingering you on his hip and promptly took hold of your thighs, spreading you apart and succeeding in running up your heartbeat anew. You breathed heavily, eyes large as saucers as they focused on his determined face. A few more seconds passed and you felt something rub at your vulva. Immediately you stilled, still concentrating on Jack’s calculating expression to keep up your propitiation; though your mind was focused on his size. He wasn’t huge, but a hell of a lot bigger than anything you’d ever taken, a nerve wracking fact that only got worse when he reeled back and drove the head of his member into your entrance.
You squeaked, but he only gripped your thighs harder. He was sure to leave bruises. Though such wasn’t as bad as him taking his sweet time in pushing more of himself within you, amid deriding commentary.
“Quit your fulminating already,” He grumbled,
“I stretched you out beforehand, what else do you want?”
You braced your elbows against the bed, but that didn’t help to ease the discomfort of being drawn out, either for your legs or your cunt. Droplets sparkled on the edge of your vision, but you made out no more protests bar quieted whimpering and whispering—though you suffocated them even more as you put your hands to your face.
When he at last bottomed out—his pelvis pressed flush with yours—he inspired a large gasp, as did you. You looked through your fingers (the tips of which were now tangling in your hair) to see a small bump lightly protruding from your stomach, and feel a sizable object stuck within you, which engendered a feeling oh so foreign (not to mention discomfiting).
Giving you paltry time to digest this, Jack began thrusting into you, moving his hips to and fro and pulling you aft by the upper part of your legs.
By now it was useless to say this action felt about as comfortable as repeatedly pushing on a just-barely loose tooth; though with Jack’s quick pace (and your desire to live), you grinned and bore it until the ache became a distant feeling, and pleasure gradually took over your senses. Soon you were openly moaning, wordlessly pleading for more, even bucking against Jack as his hips came to meet yours.
He angled his cock upwards and dug in his fingernails with every drive of his hips, earning from you utterances so indulgent, rapture so paradisal, one would think you’d met a physical manifestation of euphoria—of a high you weren’t meant to have, but whose illicitness only made the feeling sweeter.
Perfidious, incorrigible, evil, some might call the man you lay with now, and perhaps they were right—but what “right” man fucked you this well? Who of them stretched you, broke you so finely, latched on to you and took what he wanted, in turn giving you what you did as well? No one else could make you this wet! This horny, this desperate for—
His tip repeatedly grazed the rough area designating your most sensitive inner spot, and once more you could feel honest tears build in your vision.
Your body felt consumed; overstimulated.
In the most addictive way possible, naturally.
Jack Torrance was a most strange farrago; he forced you through Hell, using you as if you were a subhuman toy, then sent you through Heaven and let you graze ineffable highs in somehow the exact same stroke.
Upon vocalizing your pleasure from this mélange, the man gave a strident, resonant laugh.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” He grinned; in a tone a cross between amused and derisive.
You nodded with alacrity, words simply unavailable.
From him sounded another harsh bark of a laugh, and he leaned to poise his lips against your ear. Anew, the alluring stench of a hard drink flooded your olfactory senses, intoxicating you by proxy.
He nipped at your neck, making you squeal. The man chuckled again.
“This is all a bitch wants, isn’t it?”
You took an especially hard thrust and whined rather loud, riling his hushed speech up further,
“She whines and whines but deep down all she needs is to feel herself used as a sleeve—doesn’t she, fawn?” He couched rakishly, to which you cried,
“Yes, yes—oh God yes, Jack!”
A smart slap to the cheek corrected your malfeasance (though in truth, it wasn’t too hard—rather like the kind delivered when correcting a foal), and you hurriedly uttered,
“M-Mr. Torrance, Sir.”
With the result of one of his stupidly bewitching smiles, which you could see thanks to Jack now lowering himself to kiss your exposed bust.
“You’re pretty, though.” Murmured he, while he mouthed against your left nipple.
“Oh, how I wish I could have you—I’d come home to you and fuck you every night; anywhere, anytime, because that’s what good girls are for, right?”
The man looked up at you as he said this, and his eyes suddenly looked a more electric blue.
Between basking in the little sparks of delight the small pecks to your tits gave you, you drunkenly regarded his sentiment.
Did his wife not do that for him? Is that why he wanted it so badly? Is that what made him like this?
Well, you could certainly take up the mantle if that were the case.
You’d be the best damn Mrs. Torrance you were ever meant to be.
He groaned, the gratification getting to him,
“I’d fill that cunt every time we bed before sleep, cum seeping out of you as you lay against me—“
The noise of wet skin against skin was so obscene—almost as much as the words Jack spilled to you now, like honey in your ears—it aroused you more. Now, the drives of his hips sloppy and graceless, you danced on the cusp of a climax; a hair’s breadth away from a hot, all-consuming waterfall of euphoria.
Huffed he,
“On those late, lonely nights when I’m up writing, you’ll be beneath the desk keeping me warm with your pretty little mouth—and if you’re good, I’ll let you sit on my lap as I write the next bestseller, your warm pussy the only inspiration I’d ever need…”
That did it for you. With a simpering cry, your walls clenched around his cock while a soaring sensation burst through your chest. You relaxed and a breezy deluge swilled over your form; the pleasure so fulfilling you could feel fluid well beneath your eyelids.
You wilted backwards, feeling and appearing so seemingly peaceful. That is, until you realized that Jack was still humping into you with rabbit-like fervor; dead set on reaching his climax. You opened an eye to the desperate sight and groaned.
However wizened Jack’s face was, you knew he still had quite a bit left in him, given that he hadn’t climaxed yet. He was older, but not that much older (though saying that implied orgasm didn’t serve a universal motivator, regardless of where one was in adulthood).
Obviously, this fact inspired that familiar twist of trepidation and titillation; your fatigued, sweaty form notwithstanding.
Jack took notice of your staring (his skin too shimmering with labor-induced perspiration) and onto his face came a toying smirk. He halted his hips.
“Tired already?” He quirked his head in an imperiously prideful display,
“You’d better know you’re not getting away that easily, sweetheart.”
You yelped as he yanked up your left leg and hoisted you to rest on your other side. Your arms quickly steadied yourself for your new position, and Jack was already back to fucking you into submission; however, that connoted you weren’t being abjectly obsequious already. The pleas made out under your breath hammered this point in further:
“Mr. Torrance, ah—please, please, more—“
And more spilled from your lips.
You privately remarked between pants how mangled oxytocin turned your thoughts and speech. Because really, to think that you were this despairingly desperate for Jack of everyone on the planet validated your theory that the hotel had done some strange things to your psyche in concert with his.
He threw your leg over his large right shoulder, holding onto it on one knee (like a proposal) while your tryst continued. The new position (in addition to your prior orgasm) made slipping in and out easier than ever, and hastened his pace accordingly. Your pink flesh squeezed around him, head abutting the mattress while deep breaths intermingled with saliva left your agape mouth.
Had you been in a more composed state of mind you’d be appalled—perhaps even a mote acrimonious—with the painfully longing, literally drooling constitution you pinioned yourself into. You could just barely breathe with all the stimulation, for fuck’s sake. It was thoroughly humiliating. But, with a fluttery thought, you realized it was truly Jack who’d pushed your present perniciously pleasurable posture upon you; and all of a sudden your feelings became unreasonably complicated.
Were you comfortable with the unbecoming version of yourself the man saw now? Were you comfortable letting any other version of you bar the bland, personable one you put on as a public face be seen by him? Was he deserving of that privilege?
Owing to his degradation and contumely (and, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, the not so distant attempt on your life), the answers seemed to skew negative—and yet, you wanted him nonetheless. You wanted him to finish, wanted his body to coo over and study, wanted to partake in the inane fantasies he crowed as he chased climax. You rejoiced in the way he abused your body with abandon, how he satisfied and gratified you better than anyone ever did or could, but highest of all—how unapologetically acerbic the words from his irresistible snarling smile were.
Everything the man acted out and spoke was pure, untainted venom—the taste masked with a kind of tired nicety you found only in an individual so worn out by social standards they gamed the system to deal with them as scarcely as possible. To be less verbose—he was blunt. Honest. Frank in his disillusionment with the current state of affairs, and in his wish for something new.
And that “something new”, as it seemed, was you. A visualization that caused you to feel special in this shitty little existence, so really.
Maybe he was deserving of that privilege.
A true laugh punctuated the air, loud and forceful, as you rested an arm on your hip. The other remained supporting you, stabilizing your form against Jack’s hard fucking.
“Are you still going to kill me, Mr. Torrance?” You sung, with inappropriate levity.
You felt at your abdomen, and could sense the subtle bump that formed when his cock dove fully in. Additionally, you strained your head up and past your own panting to listen to the unseemly sounds of your bodies meeting, and his ragged huffing.
He toyingly considered your leg—slung over his shoulder like a deer carcass—for a thoughtful moment, sliding his hand along the skin. Came from him a light chuckle to match yours, as well as,
“Probably not. After all…”
He dug his nails into the tender flesh of your thigh—you sniveled, your clenched teeth forming a grin,
“I think I found a better use for you. And besides, I now find you suit my original goal just fine.”
You gasped, letting your head fall back to the covers; a small puddle of saliva greeting your descent. You had no mind to actually keep your mouth shut to preclude adding to the pool, for your head was swimming in the swill of sensations Jack (should you call him that? Even in your mind?) thrust upon you (or into you, if you were to be coy).
All you could define for your perceptions was a salient lightheadedness—the stimulation interbred with the oxymoronic brutalizing praise formulated within euphoria utterly unimaginable. As your pussy tightened around his size in preparation for climax, you gave voice to this ineffable experience via unrestrained moans which filled the room in their volume. Jack sunk his fingernails, deep into your skin (scratches were almost a guarantee), presumably to dull your noises—though, contrarily, this sharp bite of pain spurred more out of you. As if you were a blaring siren, stuck on the highest setting with nothing that could be done to vitiate the screech.
A laugh crinkled your face at the thought, and you came again—he allowed your leg to fall and for your knees to turn inward—when you swore you could hear the man whimper. Honest to God, whimper; assuredly from his nearing finish, not to forget your naturalistic vice grip. He sniveled anew, and he stilled. The man held onto your now parallel legs, knuckles white.
Notwithstanding your screaming skin, you smirked.
You’d be remiss to not bring up the effect you had on him in turn. He was a bastard, a wretched, volatile one in this state at that, but all bastards bore an Achilles heel. A truly severe one, too—life meant nothing without basal splendor.
The end all be all was benefit and pleasure—and it was a weakness that could be exploited exactly as you were currently.
Nevertheless, Jack grinned as if he had the upper hand in this game like a calculating, holistic mastermind (to his credit, perhaps you did get a little more than you bargained for).
He sidled down to rest on both knees when he lunged fore and nabbed your throat with both huge hands. Not much pressure was applied, allowing you to comfortably breathe, yet the action shocked you regardless.
Those sizable biceps weren’t lying.
Forcing your head to point straight upwards, away from your accrued puddle of saliva, simpered he,
“Came again, fawn?”
You nodded, an uneven smile tilting your spit-soaked lips.
Now he was applying more weight to your throat—not much still, though enough for a minuscule gag to escape your throat.
Jack appeared to revel in this, massaging a thumb in the skin just below your chin. The casual cruelty to his gaze made itself well known then—his head inclined so in a literal sense he looked down upon you, his haughty beam holding true.
One could tell from the overstimulating motions the man made that his stamina was running low. Though ardent and quick, their roughness indicated a desire to be done as soon as possible, a fact the man’s slick face and arduous breaths corroborated.
Poor old man, you thought sardonically. Wants so badly to cum but his body just doesn’t have the energy.
This taunting tone left your mental voice the instant he took a hand from your neck to grip your left breast. He squeezed the soft tissue—stinging you only lightly, but kicking the reality of who you were dealing with back in all the same.
Oh God, oh God—I’m going to die, you would’ve thought; had adrenaline not been washing those and all related sentiments out.
He shut his eyes tight against the pleasure he was experiencing, and perched his head on the front of your tensing shoulder. As he ponderously fucked you, he huffed,
“Women can have thrice more orgasms than men can in a single go—they’re practically designed to be sex toys. Created by divine hands to go as long as the man wants them to, to be nymphomaniacal servants who take all they can receive! They’re bitches about it, irrefutably, but when they have chests so voluptuous, and cunts so slick, could any man resist?”
At these words, he peeked through his eyelids to regard you, assumedly for an answer.
Howbeit, you were too focused on how adorably shy he appeared then; head bowed down, eyes dimmed away from full intensity, features subtle and earnest, raw you dare say.
You shook your head, as well as you could with his hardly two inches away, and his hand held to your larynx.
Jack smiled, exhaling a laugh. His form rose a hint. After, he applied some pressure to thyroid cartilage, primarily with his thumb.
A weak peep sounded from your throat, seemingly the exact reaction he was jonesing for.
“They’re perfect…” He murmured, thrusts stuttering. He groaned, throwing his neck back,
“I’ll tell you, if he exists, God drew up the perfect outline; for women, for alcohol, for all the vices!”
You gasped, the weight to your windpipe synching in an expert fashion with the hit to your G-spot. The pleasure from the two points connected like a linked circuit to fire shots of dopamine straight to your careworn brain.
“And then he calls them all unholy, huh?” Sustained Jack, cadence effortlessly devilish.
“Some bullshit, I think.”
Pried from you were unapologetic choking keens ineluctable in your scenario, but which Jack found ever so amusing, and chuckled at anyhow.
“You agree, certainly. But, we can embrace all our sins in our Godless little place, can’t we?”
You nodded, breathless, at the precise moment when Jack’s climax came upon him—eyelids clamped shut, spine poking against curving skin, and entire musculature pulling tight as if drawn towards the same point. Any oxygen that could slip through your windpipe was barricaded now, and you were deeply, utterly helpless. Or, you were, until you picked up the utterances of your paramour—their pitch. Their key.
He sounded so… weak. Fragile. Human.
He was just a man experiencing a great high, beyond his senses and reserves, demonstrably deluged and vulnerable.
Had he not done this in a while? You wondered through your time in this vacuum.
Had his wife been neglecting him this doting, to where he’d lost all tolerance? Or maybe—is this simply him? Is he a susceptible body, interred under a fierce facade of bellicosity? One could theorize. Perhaps that was all his psychotic system desired; a healthy dosage of some good old TLC.
Typical man, strike three.
He pumped load after load into you as he came, his creaking groan of a sigh keeping up until the very last droplet left him. In essence, he was milked for all he had. As were you, as you too climaxed; a third and final (and most heavenly, eye-fluttering and stomach-flipping) time.
You croaked when his grip concurrently loosened and hurriedly gulped down air once released—until he cushioned his head against your collar, and you drew a cautious large breath of oxygen in.
You blinked down at him, waiting for his composure to resettle, and regarding his messy red-blond hair. His body felt heavy against yours when he lay atop, though the mass was comforting, contrary to what you’d expect, and comforting in concert; both somatically, and psychologically.
After all, here you were, lying with the enemy, the hunter, having duped him out of killing you—both your life, and the comfortable pressure surrounding you your reward.
You gave an airy sigh and brought a hand to rest on the man’s upper back, where you tentatively played with the knobs of his spine.
“I love you, Mr. Torrance.” You whispered, the exhaustion of three orgasms making your eyes droop.
Laughing a light laugh, Jack lifted his head to look at you.
“Jack, babe. You can call me Jack.” He returned, leaving a small kiss on the corner of your (now subtly smiling) lips.
“And I love you too.”
You reddened (as if you could any more), but knew better than to deny your previous claim as mindless pillow talk (if you would, anyhow).
After, Jack pulled out and got off you, earning from you a quiet, closed-mouth yelp. He fell back onto the space of mattress next to you, quickly pulling himself under the covers and regarding the lasting glimmer of your (presumably) amorous features. You breathed easier now that the weight of his body was removed and covered yourself with the bed’s offerings as well.
An odd sensation however caused you to look down, and make a sound of pondering.
“Um…” You started, meek,
“I can feel you… coming out of me, Jack.”
The man looked to the puddle of his spunk that had manifested once he’d pulled out, and barked a laugh.
“You’re gonna have to get used to it.” He spoke silkily, enfolding his arms around your torso to hold you close,
“Comes with the territory, you know? The messy, tawdry territory—but you’re my woman now. Aren’t you?”
You nodded sheepishly. His voice lowered; to something sultry yet baleful,
“And we’ll fuck whenever I want to. Whenever I want a meek little plaything to pump with sperm, or to warm me up in rain, sleet, or snow.”
Your body tingled at the atmosphere those fantasies left in the air. In the best fashion possible, of course. Maybe life had a purpose now—even one as ostensibly superficial as Jack Torrance’s pet.
Like that was a bad thing. Lord knew there were worse fates out there; one of which you nearly met tonight.
A love-drunk grin came upon your face as you nestled it against Jack’s hair.
“Goodnight honey.” You crooned vacuously, clutching onto his larger body.
You could still smell his sweat, some aromatic kind of product, and most of all the tantalizing stench of alcohol, ever a guilty draw to you.
He hummed back,
“Goodnight, fawn.”
And almost immediately drifted off to sleep.
You smiled, a monumental glow of hubris in your gut.
The predator let you live, as one of his own.