**PART 1 OF GHOSTFACE EROTICA ON MY PROFILE.**
*Caitlyn*
“Oh, my God—Caitlyn!” Aimee shouted when she saw my thigh. I’d called out of work today; my thigh was still a bit tender, and I couldn’t put my normal tight jeans on over it, and those jeans were important for tips.
My perfect ass and thick thighs combined with having my cleavage on display paid my bills. And my jeans put them on display.
I had no doubt that Aimee was here because I’d called out. We worked together, and she knew I never missed a day of work.
“What in the hell did you do?” she demanded to know.
I sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Because I couldn’t come up with an excuse good enough for this. The cut went from the top of the inside of my thigh to right above my knee, and it was perfectly straight. Ghostface—whoever he really fucking was under that mask—had a steady hand and clean lines.
I bit back a snort at the direction my thoughts had taken. Look at me—dealing with trauma and the insanely hot, fucked-up night I’d had with a serial killer by basically comparing him to a fucking tattoo artist.
I’d seriously hit a new low.
Sighing, I stood up and limped into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. “What do you mean you don’t want to talk about it?” Aimee demanded. “What the hell happened after I left, Caitlyn? Did your stepdad come by here?”
I just shrugged again. She huffed. “Seriously, Caitlyn . . .”
I glanced at her. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why can’t you just fucking drop it?”
She clenched her jaw. “I’m trying to be a concerned friend,” she bit back.
I poured a hefty amount of wine into my glass, stopping right before it spilled over the rim. “Well, I don’t fucking need it right now, alright?” I knew I was being a bitch; it was my defense mechanism. And I knew it would drive Aimee out the door and she would leave me alone for the rest of the night until she thought I’d cooled down tomorrow.
“Whatever,” she snapped. “If you need me, call me.”
She slammed the front door shut behind her when she left, making my walls shake. I snorted and shook my head.
*Overdramatic, much?*
~*~*~
Something cold was sliding over my cheek. I groaned and swatted it away, my eyes still shut.
“My mark looks beautiful, little whore.”
I jerked my eyes open at the sound of that voice. Again, my power was off, the room already turning warm. Ghostface was leaning over me, his knife on my cheek. I swallowed thickly, fear lurching in my throat.
He cocked his head to the side the slightest bit. “I told you I’d be back, did I not?”
I slowly nodded my head, extra aware of that sharp, deadly object against my face. He slowly moved it down my neck. With a quick jerk of my arm, I was on my back, and he was pressing the tip of his blade beneath my chin, tilting my head back, exposing my throat to him.
It was an extremely vulnerable position.
He slowly trailed the blade down my throat. It was cold, and the tip pressed into my skin—the pressure right before the point of puncturing me.
“Such a pretty throat,” he hummed. Then, he was off me. “I don’t have all night to play with you. Strip,” he ordered.
I felt like I’d gotten whiplash. “Why are you doing this?” I whispered, hating that my voice was shaking.
“Are you going to do what I say, or do I just end this here?” he growled.
My heart lurched with fear. Not wanting to find out what he meant by end this here, I quickly pulled off my oversized t-shirt and my panties with trembling fingers. Once they were lying beside me, he nodded. “Good girl.” My pussy throbbed at his praise. “Turn your body so that pretty, pink pussy is bared to me.”
I bit down hard on my bottom lip and turned my body to face him. He leaned over me the slightest bit and flicked the tip of his blade on my clit. I whimpered, my legs spreading wider of their own accord.
“Still such a whore,” he growled. I nodded. I knew I was.
Was a trauma slut a thing? Because if it was, I was *definitely* a trauma slut.
He curled his fingers around my throat and flipped his knife around in his other hand before driving the hilt of his blade inside of me. I cried out, my back arching. It was a bit uncomfortable, but I was so wet that it slid in easily.
“Fuck yourself on it,” he ordered. I shook my head, trying to deny the urge in my body to do exactly as he said. He brushed his thumb along the column of my throat. “You know you want to,” he rumbled.
I whimpered, doing as he ordered. He tightened his hand around my throat, cutting off my air supply, twisting the hilt of his blade inside of me as I thrust my hips down on it.
“Good girl. Keep fucking it, little slut. Show me how greedy that pretty pussy is.” He groaned. “You’re so wet.”
Black spots danced on the edges of my vision. I tried drawing air into my lungs, but he just tightened his grip even more.
And I came undone, the lack of oxygen and the danger I was in sending me over the edge. He released my throat, and I screamed—neighbors probably thought I was being murdered—and came all over his knife and his glove. My entire body shook as my orgasm tore through my body, my pussy walls fluttering around nothing since he no longer had the hilt inside of me.
I sucked air into my lungs, whimpering when Ghostface smeared his wet hand over my face.
“Until next time,” he promised.
Then, he disappeared out my door, his steps completely silent in my otherwise empty apartment.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/www1sp/ghostface_erotica_part_2