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One of the most difficult choices to make every recurring year is your outfit for Halloween. Too basic? Boring. Too extravagant? Stares—not in a good way, as you figured a few years ago when you let your friends pick for you. They sure had their fun, but you didn’t.
This year, in a hassle with work and moving to a calmer area on the outskirts of your city, you decide to be rather boring for once. After all, your outfit from three years ago still fits like a glove, and if you add an accessory or two and put your slightly enhanced makeup skills since then to use, it could theoretically work as a new look.
“You have worn this before,” your boyfriend remarks, casually sitting on the bed behind you as you look at yourself in the mirror of your wardrobe. Your eyes meet his in the reflection, a rather disapproving expression painted on his face.
You sigh deeply. “Yes, I have. If you didn’t decide to be busy tonight and leave me to go by myself, we could’ve worn that matching set I got us. Your fault, really.”
“Next year, then.” he replies, flipping through the pages of the newspaper he retrieved from your nightstand—stopping briefly at the main article of the day.
“Serial killer still at large as investigators celebrate their first breakthrough in the case—public urged to stay alert and lock doors.”
He reads out loud, his eyes flicking back to you, currently doing your makeup for the night.
You nod absentmindedly at the information, continuing with your eyeliner. “I have heard they caught a few seconds of video material of him with a security camera. Dark hair, tall. Unbothered by the blood on his hands.”
Your boyfriend then shuts the paper with a disapproving huff, tossing it in the trash. “I should be home when the party ends. Give me a call, and I will pick you up.”
“Are you afraid he might get me next?” You laugh half-heartedly, briefly turning to look at him. “I don’t think his main target are young women—like me.”
He merely scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “You never know.”
You just smile, discarding the thought as quickly as it came.
“He should be a bit more careful next time if he doesn’t wish to be caught anyway, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps he should.”
・・・・・
Getting to the party is not the issue. Your friends pick you up, already handing you a warm-up cocktail before you even step out of your front door. The sun has already set, darkness enveloping you save for the flickering street light your city’s road workers have not yet fixed—children a few houses further trick or treating.
A shiver runs down your spine when a cool breeze sweeps past you, revealing your costume—and of course it catches your friends’ attention, disapproving looks coming your way as they scold you for wearing the same outfit again. Which you, already more tired than you’d like to admit, can’t quite bring yourself to care about.
When you arrive at the club, you walk past a huge flickering neon ghost at the entrance, the arrow next to it pointing to the party room. It’s themed accordingly with carved pumpkins, plastic skeletons hung from the ceiling, smoke machines, and other decorations you don’t really pay attention to—too focused on the booming seasonal music and the possibly a few too manydrinks your girls hand during the course of the night.
And although you’re enjoying yourself, you grow exhausted quicker than you’d like—clearing the haze around your thoughts with two full glasses of water as you sit down at the bar, checking the time on your phone.
Twenty minutes past one in the morning.
You don’t know the last time you stayed up this late, but with your tight schedule, it must have been weeks ago.
Turning your head to scan the area for your friends, you think you see something—a tall shadow lurking in the corner of the room—but when your eyes return, it’s gone.
Weird, you think to yourself. Maybe you aren’t as sober as you believe to be.
So, you ask the bartender for another glass of water.
But your vision didn’t betray you.
The shadow you saw is real. And not just a shadow at all.
It’s him.
The person you convinced yourself you aren’t afraid of, who would never choose you as his next victim.
Though that is not your decision to make—his eyes, tinted in a dark shade of red, something near crimson, have been locked onto your figure ever since you entered the building that night.
Every step you take, every sway of your hips—every gentle smile you offer the bartender.
In reality, you have long been chosen.
Thirty minutes later, with still no sight of your friends, you withdraw your phone from your purse and check your notifications. Your boyfriend has not yet seen the message you sent around an hour ago.
You sigh in defeat, sinking back against the barstool, realising you will be here for a while longer.
・・・・・
“Yeah? Can you pick me up? I am like halfway home already.”
“Halfway home? As in—you walked all this way?” The voice coming from your speakers questions, laced with irritation.
“Nobody answered my calls, the club closed an hour ago. I didn’t have another choice.” You counter, annoyed at the pressure of your heels on your sore feet, which has blisters form on your skin. Nearly tripping over a loose cobblestone on the sidewalk does not ease your irritation, silently cursing your new mayor who cut the budget for road maintenance.
“I will be there in a bit. Don’t move.” Your boyfriend says, hurried footsteps accompanying his words. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes,” you huff when you end the call just a second later. It’s freezing outside, and the last thing you need along your stress is a cold.
Your battery is at 2%, and just when you try to send him your location, your phone dies. Well, just great.
With an exasperated sigh, you shove it back inside your handbag, annoyed with yourself for leaving your powerbank at home and forgetting to properly charge your phone in the first place.
Figuring he’ll approach from the opposite direction anyway, you continue walking—as fast as you can with your aching legs.
It’s entirely dark now, only the bright full moon’s glow lighting your way. The next residential area is around half a kilometre away, and what you’re about to pass seems to be a small forest, trees shielding from the outside view.
You don’t think much of it.
The air around you is thick with humidity as it has rained the past few days, the biting cold weather of this late-October night slowly creeping up your thighs, making your muscles stiff and tingly. A shiver runs down your spine, and you clutch your purse just a little tighter.
Your outfit is cute, you know that, but a mini skirt in combination with a low cut crop top surely is not the ideal clothing to be wandering around in outside in the depths of the night.
The ten minutes he promised have long passed when you reach the part where the narrow street stretches through the woods, and for a moment—just briefly—doubt rises in your chest, an insistent pressure that thrums lowly against your ribcage.
An instinct, perhaps.
Suddenly, you remember your boyfriend’s words when he read the newspaper earlier today—serial killer, near your town, still out there.
He should have long been here by now.
No, you whisper to yourself. It’s pathetic to even think about this.
So, picking up your pace, you enter the shielded area, glancing around as you do.
Nothing. No sound, no light, no unusual movement.
You knew it.
Sighing in relief, you hurry on, cursing your damned heels for being this uncomfortable—though a screeching crow momentarily freezes you in place, eyes focusing on the spooked bird fleeing from the scene with thrashing wings.
Hm.
It’s okay, you reassure yourself, nearly having reached the other end—nothing is going to happen.
He is going to be here soon.
It’s all going to be—
“You are brave,” a voice from just a few metres away remarks, a branch snapping as footsteps near you. “Walking around at night with a serial killer in town. Aren’t you scared?”
Your entire body jolts when the raspy voice cuts through the dark, tranquil night, head snapping around to the source.
“What— who are you?” you whisper, instinctively taking a step backwards as you watch the figure coming closer.
Tom huffs a laugh, the corner of his lips lifting into a subtle smirk. “That I am afraid I cannot tell you, sweetheart.”
“I have to go my— uhh— boyfriend. He’ll be here soon,” you excuse yourself, adrenaline freely rushing through your body as you begin to run—or, in your heels, stumble—towards the next streetlight just outside the forest.
But Tom, he just watches in amusement. No one has ever—and no one will ever—escape his grasp before he decides he is done with them. And most people, well, they don’t escape at all—if you think you’re an exception, you are gravely mistaken.
He closes the distance to you in just three long strides.
“You needn’t worry about him, my love. He isn’t coming for you.”
“No, that’s not—“ you stutter, both because of the cold and the growing fear in the pits of your stomach. You should have listened not to walk home. “He’ll be there any second now I—“
A large, leather-clad hand clasps over your mouth and stops the words from spilling over your lips.
“Enough of this. I am done playing around.”
His second arm wraps around your waist, and with one smooth motion, he hauls you against him, dragging you back into the woods and hiding you from any possible distraction behind thick stems of fir trees.
You scream, you thrash, you claw at his skin and kick his shins. But his grip—his grip is iron. And in no way escapable.
“Please,” you gasp when he suddenly lets go of you, and you drop to your knees onto the muddy forest floor, the damp soil uncomfortably moist on your legs. “Please let me go!”
He scoffs, and only from the corner of your vision do you catch a knife’s handle poking from his pocket, a smooth metallic material catching in the blueish glow of the night.
Realisation dawns upon you.
Dark hair peeking from underneath the hood of his coat, eyes reflecting the moonlight—not silver, but crimson red.
It’s him.
You try your best to convince him to spare you once more, heart pumping wildly against your ribcage, mind blurry with fear coursing through your veins. “I have money, I can give you anything you want, I—“
“Useless.” Tom interrupts you, unaffected and uninterested in your offer. “Useless, when all I desire is kneeling right before me in this very moment.”
You shake your head frantically, scrambling backwards, away from him. “No, no— no, please!”
Tom loves it. Loves taking a step closer for every few centimetres you manage to increase the distance between you two. Adores how gorgeous you look with tears stinging at your waterline, a most frightened expression carved into your features.
He wishes to make it permanent. His to keep. Forever.
He stops when he stands right before you, the moon’s dim light disappearing behind his tall, dark figure, and you instantly feel a chilly breeze replacing the last hope you’ve tried clinging on to.
“Why are you shaking? I haven’t even properly touched you yet.”
Yet?
You don’t get to question his words and their intention any further—because just a moment later, he lowers himself to level your face, the knife you spotted earlier in one of his hands, inching closer to you.
Whimpering, you draw back—but his hand strikes forward, tangling in your hair and tugging on your roots so harshly, you wince sharply.
This sound and the sight of your first tear of the night running down your cheek have his trousers tightening over his quickly hardening length. “You’re even prettier when in pain. Knew you were a good catch.”
“Let— let me go!” you sob, pleading eyes meeting his—fully glowing red now.
“Let you go?” Tom repeats mockingly, flipping his knife so the sharp edge presses onto your pulse point. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
With a quick twist of his wrist, the tip breaches your skin just a little—though still enough to draw a drop of blood, which he brings to your face, smearing it along your quivering lips.
“I have a proposal,” he drawls then, blade slicing the fabric of your crop top open. “You let me have you—in any way I please—and I’ll let you live.”
You want to scream, cry, tell him he’s delusional if he really believes you’ll ever let him do that—but your will to survive outweighs what you have left of your dignity by far.
“A-anything.”
You catch the fiery glint in his eyes before he lets go of you—and you gasp as he stabs the knife into the soil, just a breath away from your thigh.
“Strip and ride it.”
You swallow in disbelief. “What?”
Smack!
His clothed palm collides with your left cheek with a loud crack, knocking the air from your lungs and leaving a hot, tingly feeling behind as your head snaps to the side.
“Do as I say. A dirty knife won’t cut as well, just so you know.”
Oh.
You quickly scramble to your feet, shaky fingers tugging your skirt and panties down your legs, ripped shirt already dangling off your side. You shiver against the cold—and yet, you don’t feel it. Don’t feel the chilly breezes brushing past you, because all you can focus on is him.
Tom watches intently, his own hand reaching for the zipper of his trousers—letting them slip just far enough to reveal his aching cock, thick and heavy, leaking at the tip.
You haven’t caught on just yet—only when you, sobbing, lower yourself to your knees, the knife’s handle between your thighs prodding at your entrance, do you see it.
Alert eyes scanning him up and down, gulping down your thoughts when you realise his plan.
“You’re wasting my time here. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
You are quick to shake your head. “No, no, I don’t— I—“
“Speed the fuck up then, slut.” he growls, hand fisting in your hair again, making you sink down on the smooth handle.
Although it’s not of a relevant size, it still burns.
You don’t get to waste another thought on it, though. The glistening head of his cock drags over your lips, mixing your dried-up blood with his pearly white arousal, glowing eyes staring down at you.
“You know what happens when you use your teeth, I presume?”
You nod, biting back a sob.
“Good. Now open your mouth and suck. And you better do it with passion.”
As soon as you part your trembling lips, reluctantly so, he shoves himself inside—no break, no adjusting, doesn’t even wait for you to fully open your jaw for him.
You choke as soon as your nose is flush with his abdomen, throat constricting violently around him. But Tom, he only seems to grow more eager at that, holding you there until tears fall freely and you shake your head frantically.
“Just like that—that’s how I want it,” he rasps, hand dropping to his side. “Now, continue.”
Sniffling, you take him back into your mouth—gagging at merely the salty taste of him on your tongue. Your lips stretch taut around his cock, and you struggle to even take him halfway—but the fear helps.
“All the way down. Good girl, you can listen after all.”
This continues for God knows how long. Each time you aren’t able to take him wholly, he does it for you—hitting the back of your throat, burying himself to the hilt inside your warm mouth.
You wince at the stabbing pain in your jaw, tears spilling over your cheeks, mixing with your drool and making a mess on your tits—but to Tom, this is only encouraging.
“Can’t— please, I can’t,” you try, shaking your head, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his flushed tip.
“In that case,” he scoffs, fingers tugging at your roots as he shoves you down on him again. “Let me be of assistance.”
Now, it’s him who sets the rhythm.
And it’s much worse than just moments ago. Each time he pushes inside you, he lifts you off the handle a few inches and makes you sink back down once he’s nestled inside all the way.
At this point, you don’t know what’s worse—the stabbing pain against your cervix, or the slick sounds of him hitting the back of your throat, echoing into the forest and coming back at you almost mockingly.
Weakly, you tap his thigh repeatedly—pleading for a break, for oxygen—anything. But Tom doesn’t listen to anyone’s pleas, and definitely not yours—not when you feel so good.
“Hmph— stop, can’t—“ you squeal, muffled by his cock. However, his hold doesn’t allow you to move a single inch. Instead, he makes you stay right there—until spit combined with his precum dribbles down your chin and you choke violently, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
Tom loves it. Adores how tight you get when you’re running out of breath, how you’re shivering in the cold, knelt on wet leaves, branches scratching against your skin.
He loves it so much, he only lets you off once he feels your body go limp.
Pulling you off him with his hand still in your hair, he slaps you across your face again, hard. And as soon as your eyes regain their spark, blinking a few times—he pushes you forward onto your stomach, shoving your face into the damp soil.
“You better stay with me. The best part is about to begin, sweetheart.”
But you are too slow to catch on. Too slow to realise what he’s about to do until the silence is disrupted by a harsh slap on your exposed pussy, and he’s holding your legs down with his weight.
“No— my boyfriend, he—“ you cry, wriggling away from him—though you don’t make it far until he’s leaning over you, hot breath ghosting over your ear.
He hums. Low. Dangerous. It’s as though you can feel the smirk on his lips. “Your boyfriend would love watching me take you like this. Like a dirty whore.”
“You’re wrong, you’re— fuck, no!” Your protest is cut short by the sudden stretch of him entering you, forcing himself deeper even as you clench your thighs together.
It hurts. A blinding, white, hot ache between your thighs that sears through your nerves like wildfire and has a sharp screech tear from your throat—though, mumbled by the dirty black leather of his gloves, it rather resembles a tiny mouse than an honest scream for help.
He smirks.
At what, you don’t know exactly.
Maybe at your futile attempt to make noise, try to get someone to help.
Perhaps because you still believe that there is a way out—even when he’s already halfway inside of you, tearing and stabbing at your walls to push himself deeper.
Most likely though, you assume, at the fear in your eyes and the hurt etched into your features.
And you would be right.
“Stop! Please, it— it hurts!” you stumble over your words, hiccuping. Dragging your body away inch by inch over the filthy ground, only for him to pull you back onto his thick length.
The knife he’s withdrawn from the ground is back at your neck again, pressing more forcefully against the bare skin as a warning, just shy of cutting into your flesh.
“Oh, but baby, your pussy is practically begging me to go deeper, deeper, deeper.” Each time he says it, he rolls his hips into yours—pushing deeper inch, by inch, by inch.
A tear rolls down your cheek. And Tom—he dips his head to trace the wet path with his tongue, licking them away.
It’s only briefly that his eyes drop where you’re connected—though immediately, satisfaction courses through him.
“Blood is my favourite lube, sweetheart. Good job.”
Fucking sick bastard.
He takes and he takes and he takes—until you’re reduced to nothing but a sobbing, trembling mess beneath him. Speared open on his thick cock, too weak to fight back.
The sound of his hips snapping against your own splits the stillness of the night, accompanied by your stifled sobs that he’s long told you to quit.
In reality, they push him to the edge faster than he wants.
“Sweet pussy getting so wet. Dirty girl.” Tom purrs, biting down at the side of your neck, thrusts growing rougher. “Going to leave her dripping with me, yeah?”
Your blood turns ice at his tone, feeling him pulse inside of you—eyes opening wide as you claw at his hand. “Mmph— don’t! fuck, don’t— please,”
Tom withdraws just a few inches then, and for a moment, you think he may listen to you, may have mercy—only for him to push back inside at once, the swollen head of his cock nudging painfully at your cervix.
“Look, she’s sucking me right back in. You can say stop all you want, I am not going to when your cunt is nearly begging me for it.”
You can’t do more than plead with him once more when he’s about to spill himself inside of you. Beg him to spare you, beg him to stop.
But you’re a fool to think he will.
Fresh tears spill over your waterline, your entire body trembling when you feel his warmth spill inside of you, painting your sore walls white with his release—his final thrust sharp, so deep it hurts.
He pulls out at once then, admiring the view. Spreading you apart when you weakly fight against his hands, two fingers pushing his cum back inside of you, even when you whimper in protest.
“Good girl, keep it in. All inside.”
Only with your last strength do you hear the faint sound of him getting dressed, quick footsteps carrying him away from the scene and leaving you by yourself.
Leaving with a memory that will forever be engraved in his brain.
A memory of you, wet and soaked in filth, spit and tears dribbling down your chin while his cum mixes with your blood between your thighs.
And oh, how Tom wishes he took a camera with him—it’s almost too bad you won’t remember much of this in the morning.
・・・・・
You wake, half an hour later perhaps. Tired eyes slowly blinking open, muscles burning excruciatingly as you try to lift yourself from the ground.
But you’re alive. Breathing, moving.
Alive.
Scrambling to your legs, you don’t take the time to check yourself for injuries—drowsily stumbling home, first, weak sun rays already splitting the dark night sky when you leave the dark forest for good.
It’s not far, a kilometre perhaps—and yet, every step you take is pure agony.
Hot tears streak your cheeks as you sink into your soft mattress, drifting off to deep sleep just a moment later.
The next morning, or rather afternoon, when your eyes flutter open and your whole body aches, you curse yourself for not listening to your boyfriend. He always knows what is best for you, after all.
Taking in your roughed-up body in the bathroom mirror, you spot something unusual.
You think it’s a cross at first. A Christian cross, carved on the swell of your left breast—right above your heart. It thrums softly beneath the inflamed wound when you wipe the dried-up blood from your skin, and you wince in pain.
A cruel reminder of last night.
Soon, though, you figure it’s a T instead.
You know it’s a sign. A sign that you—and your heart—belong to him. To T. That he’ll come back one day to claim what is his. Your heart.
In what way—you aren’t sure you want to know.
── .✦ BONUS ENDING:
The door to your bathroom creaks open with a soft hum, and just a moment later, your boyfriend steps inside—circling his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.
He looks at the both of you in the reflection of the mirror, a sly smirk playing on his lips as he studies your marks, some of them bruises, some of them cuts—and you return a soft smile when he places a kiss on the top of your head, caressing his hand along your slightly swollen cheek.
“Were you still successful last night, Tommy?” You ask, not having to turn as you meet his satisfied gaze in the mirror.
He hums lowly, trailing kisses down your neck from behind, brushing his lips over the bite mark he left behind. “More than. Look at you.”