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You don’t hear it when the man breaks into your master’s house. Cleaning the dining room downstairs, you barely notice the tinkle of the chandelier when the body hits the floor. You are leaving the room by that point anyway, going to see if your master requires anything before you go to bed. By the time you come to him in the library, he is far past any help you could have given him.
Your breath hitches and you let out a short yelp as you round the corner and look into the library. The first thing your eyes land on is your master – no, his corpse, lying broken on the thick burgundy carpet, his eyes glassy and terrible where they stare out towards you. The second thing is the man standing over him, holding a bloody knife in one hand and wearing a small smile on his pretty face. His eyes, when they lift from the body to fix on you, are far more terrible than the dead eyes of the corpse on the floor. Even from where you stand you can make out that one of his eyes appears to be glass, while the other, assumedly the human one, has a tiny pinprick for a pupil, which seems to stare right into your soul.
Sure, you live in Ankh-Morpork, but you had always hoped that occupational hazards such as assassins would give you a wide berth. It was enough work to be employed as a servant without having to worry about murderers coming down the chimney.
The man standing in your master’s library is unlike the criminals you’ve brushed paths with before, the rough, hardened types with their crude weapons and rude words. He’s unlike the few assassins you’ve glimpsed either, the old, serious looking men wearing black.
There’s an eagerness about him, almost a hunger. His gaze is acute where it locks with yours, and there’s an intensity to him that almost crackles in the air.
With a sick, sick jolt in the pit of your stomach, you notice a hardness straining against the crotch of his trousers, and there’s really nothing that could have inspired it aside from the body on the carpet and the act of plunging that knife into its chest.
You’re frozen in fear. A man like this would have no qualms with killing a pretty girl like you.
“Hello,” he says, and you’re snapped out of your terrified reverie. His smile grows. In any other situation it might be described as friendly. “My name’s Teatime. Jonathan Teatime. What’s yours?”
You don’t say a thing, mind in overdrive, until he cocks an eyebrow and you choke out your name.
He smiles and nods. “I’m sorry, I feel as though we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, my killing the master of this house and all. I’m sure we can move past that though. I’d like nothing more than for us to be friends.”
He begins strolling towards you, and you finally come to your senses and turn to run. But as soon as you turn your back on him you feel a hand on your shoulder, and he pulls you back against him. You feel, at the same time, the knife against your throat and his hot breath against the nape of your neck and the slight pressure of his hard cock against your body.
His smile is audible as he whispers, right into your ear, “How are we to be friends if you run away from me? Don’t be scared. I really don’t want to hurt you.” The knife presses harder against your neck and you stop breathing altogether. “Although I might be forced to, if you disobey me.”
You really don’t know what else to do but let him do what he wants. Abruptly he takes you by the upper arm and drags you back into the library, where he pushes you up against a wall. He studies your face, no doubt excited by the fear he can see displayed there. As he does so you look into that glass eye of his, seeing how the dull red of the inside of his head colours the grey of the glass slightly. The other eye, aside from the fathomless depth of that pupil, is off-white and sickly yellow.
As he leans in to kiss you, softly at first and then hungrily devouring, your eyes fall again on the body on the floor, the blood staining the white shirt where the knife now against your neck was thrust into the chest cavity. You sag against the wall, against Teatime’s hands and lips. He kisses like he’s not used to anyone kissing back.
Your eyes stay locked on the bloody wound of the corpse as his kisses move from your lips to your jaw to your neck. As he sucks there, bites lightly, you’re horrified to discover you’re beginning to feel aroused. He must notice your breath becoming heavy, because he leans back and looks at you, and although there’s still that expression of hunger on his face, there’s something of a naiveté there too.
The knife is tucked somewhere in the folds of his clothing, and he takes you in both arms (one at the base of your head, the other at your back), somewhat like a real lover might. He lowers you to the ground and snatches a cushion from a nearby armchair to place under your head.
His air is that of cheerfulness diluted by concentration and curiosity as he runs his hands over your chest, before undoing your shirt. He cocks his head to the side as he appraises your chest, and then pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and twists so hard you cry out. He laughs in reaction, and he appears truly delighted, the peals of his laughter as high and clear as bells.
Despite the pain, or because of it, your arousal increases, and you’re sure you must be quite wet by now. He continues to pinch and flick at your nipples, which harden in response to him and the cold air of the library.
You feel cold dread as he moves from your chest and feels for the hem of your dress.
“No,” you murmur as he pushes your skirts up, and he pauses with them just past your knees, consternation in his eyes.
“Come now,” he says, and then he says your name softly. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t oppose me. I might have to do something terrible if you do, and I would never wish that on a friend.”
He hasn’t brought the knife out again, but he doesn’t have to.
He pushes your skirts up all the way, revealing your undergarments. As he lifts you slightly to pull them down, the thought enters your head that Teatime’s almost treating you like a doll, manipulating you without necessarily wanting you to respond.
Like a doll, perhaps, yes.
Or like a corpse.
At that thought, you’re glad that he seems to enjoy your (very much living) reactions.
He thrusts three fingers into your cunt without any kind of warning, and he smiles as you whimper and as he feels how wet you are. Laughing, he fucks his fingers into you violently, his eyes glittering as he draws simultaneously pained and aroused sounds out of you. He stops just as suddenly as he started, and thumbs sloppily at your clit for a second, causing you to writhe and moan under him.
Grinning, Teatime pulls back, kneels up, and finally undoes his trousers and brings his hard cock out. It’s been weeping against the inside of his pants, and you can’t help noticing how pretty and pink it is, just like the rest of him.
He pulls you up off the ground then, and drags you around so that you’re on your knees in front of him. As he forces his cock into your mouth, you realise with horror that he’s positioned the two of you so that he can look at the corpse on the floor as he fucks your face.
He’s almost silent as he fucks you: the only sounds are cut off exhales, stark and loud, the only things you can hear aside from your breathing and the obscene sound of his cock in your mouth. Your nipples chafe against the rough fabric of his trousers, and your hands clutch desperately at the material of your skirt. You’re already being raped on the floor by a freak who gets off on killing people, you can’t let yourself masturbate to it.
His grip on your head is vicelike, and he thrusts hard and fast into your mouth as though you’re just a thing for him to use. A doll, a corpse, a thing.
Your will breaks quickly, and your hands fumble pathetically to pull up your skirts and rub at your cunt. You come almost immediately, hips bucking up, neck straining against Teatime’s hands. He follows soon after, pressing your face into the blond hair at the base of his cock as he comes down your throat. There’s no indication from him that he’s come aside from a slightly louder exhale than before.
He pulls you off him, sighs as he lets you fall to the ground. Exhaustedly you look up at him as he tucks himself away and does up his trousers. In a moment he is perfectly composed, if a little pink in the face.
His expression when he looks down at you one last time isn’t disdainful, but it’s not satisfied exactly, either.
He gives you one last boyish grin and is gone, leaving you half-naked on the floor next to the bloody corpse of your master.