Michael Myers is Mine

Editor's Note: this submission contains tropes and scenes common to horror movies.

*

Even with those glasses perched over that ridiculous sheet, I can tell it's not Tom under there. The figure is much too tall. Shoulders too broad. The presence too... intentional.

The "ghost" stands motionless outside the bedroom, rimmed by the moonlight beaming through the skylight behind him.

No, that's not Tom. That's Michael Myers. Which means: Tom is dead.

Poor Tom. He was fun at first. Then that got old. Suck my dick baby. Yeah. Oh yeah. Like that. Suck it. And then unh, unh, unh, unh! Now he must be lying downstairs somewhere, bloody and wretched, mouth twisted in shocked disbelief. Not that I would wish him any harm, but y'know. Better him than me.

Tom thinks -- Tom thought -- that Laurie would be the last. The so-called final girl. Because she's a virgin. And a prude. As if that's some kind of defense against a cold steel blade slid deep between the ribs, in and out and in and out.

I may be "the promiscuous one," but I'm no fool. I've prepared for this. I'll play my part, don't you worry about that.

I slide from the bed and stand. The button-down flannel nightshirt I'm wearing falls open, revealing the inside curve of my breasts. I put some swing in my step as I walk toward him, my panties flashing white, silken. The autumn breeze from the bedroom window drifts up under my shirt, its cool fingers grazing my nipples, which grow harder with every swish of the fabric.

I stop an arm's length away from his imposing bulk. I put my weight on my right leg and point my left foot forward just so, my knee slightly bent. When I move my hands to my hips, I gather the tails of my shirt and casually pin them behind me, just like I practiced. My tits are on full display.

Can he see anything through those glasses, that sheet, that mask underneath?

I imagine his eyes beneath all those layers, half-lidded, soulless -- yet not without a certain, specific, appetite. He's hungry for my body in a way no other man ever has been. All those years in the psycho ward, doing what needed to be done to become the inhuman brute that stands before me. I imagine his arms, ropy with lean muscle from bouncing off walls; thrashing against leather restraints, veins fit to burst; smashing the faces of determined yet hopeless orderlies. When he comes for me, will it be sudden and swift, like a steel trap slamming shut? Or slow... and... methodical, like the inexorable crush of a vise?

This line of thinking has got my heart rate up. I'm feeling it now. I knew I would. I'm walking the knife edge.

I flash him my widest and wickedest smile. The one that says, "Bring it, cowboy." The one that says, "Do it. I dare you."

In other words, I just gave Michael fucking Myers my enthusiastic consent to do... whatever it was he was going to do. To take his pleasure. Because I knew sure as shit I'd be taking mine. We are willing participants in this game. Now it's time to play.

I turn away from him with a quick spin, knowing my scent will find its way. The scent of prey.

I walk slowly back into the room, toward the table on the far side of the bed. I can feel my panties wedged up high between my cheeks, the globes of my ass quivering with every strategically placed step. My footfalls are light. Three... two... one.

I pick up the phone.

I can feel the heat down there between my thighs. My blood is really moving. It's gonna get rough. But it's too late to turn back now. My stomach drops, tightens.

I dial Laurie's number and bring the phone to my ear. It rings once. I look down at my chest and bring my left hand up to palm my right tit, fingering the nipple and hardening the dimpled skin even further. The phone rings again. I close my eyes. Swift and sudden? Or slow... and... methodical...?

Laurie answers and I start to speak.

He closes the space between us in three strides. He's playing his part to the letter, and I'm playing mine. But does he know I'm flipping the script? Am I flipping the script?

I take a deep breath, swallowing the last gulp of air I may ever get as he flings the phone cord around my neck and yanks me backward. The receiver flies from my hand and swings down, banging into my knee. He pulls hard on the cord, tightening the makeshift noose.

I arch my back and drive my ass into his crotch. His cock is already stiff with the anticipation of this violation. I grind hard into it, struggling against the noose. My ass works him up and down and side to side as we sway and lurch, our mutual fantasy perfectly synchronized. At least for now.

My breathing turns ragged. Black spots swirl in my periphery. I read about this effect. I know I don't have much time.

I manage to wriggle two fingers of my left hand under the cord digging into my neck. I shift my hips slightly to the left and swing my right arm down and behind.

The sheet he's wearing has risen up over his hips in the struggle. The snaps of his coveralls pop easily when I tug, and his cock surges into my hand. It's thick and filthy. I just know it's filthy. I can feel the sweaty grime that's built up over the years into a greasy sheen, the cheese beneath the glans, the rush of blood pulsing through ridged veins, purpling the underbelly of his clammy, unkempt shaft.

It's the perfect counterpart to my trimmed and perfumed cunt. A swollen cunt that's begging to be spoiled. It's begging so bad I can smell it -- and so can he.

In a flurry of movement, he twists both ends of the cord at the back of my neck into his left hand. With his right hand now free, he slaps me away from his cock. No distractions, he's telling me. But who's the boss here?

He re-centers his hips behind me and his exposed cock thrusts straight up the cleft of my ass, squashed now against his stomach. He reaches around my head, his fingers crawling their way across my cheek, under my nose, into my mouth. I feel the slickness and smell the acrid tang of blood. Tom's blood. He fingers my bulging tongue.

With only one hand on the cord he's got no leverage to tighten the noose any further. He can still end me like this, it's just going to take longer for the blackness to shut me down. Which means I still have time.

While he's having his way with my face, my right hand flails forward until it finds the phone table in front of me. I grip the table's edge and push myself to the tips of my toes, rolling my ass another two inches higher and angling it just so. His cock flips down between my thighs.

I quickly release the table and reach down between my legs, pulling his shaft up tight against me as I settle my weight lower, leaning back into him. I push and roll my hips, little jackrabbit thrusts, faster and faster, pinning his cock to my sopping, silk-covered mound. If my panties were off he'd slip right in, my skin stretching to accommodate his killer's girth. The fit would be oh-so-snug.

I keep working his cock, faster, wetter, wiggling my middle finger hard against myself. I can feel my clit throbbing as I press him tight against me. My pussy wants to slurp him right up inside me and clamp tight around him while he stuffs me full of his murderous filth.

But that's not how this game goes.

My vision has narrowed to nothing more than the pinprick yellow blaze from the streetlight outside the window. My final intake of oxygen curls around the fat, greasy fingers filling my mouth and dribbles down into my lungs. I can make it last, you watch.

Everything in me that was at the height of tension and resistance and counterforce and friction starts to melt. I let my left arm relax, my fingers still pinned to my neck inside the cord. I slow my hip roll, then stop altogether. I let my right arm droop down from between my thighs, limp. My head lolls. Finally, I let my legs drain down into the floor and slump forward.

I'm dead. ish.

He pulls his hand from my mouth and grabs me around the waist to keep me upright, an easy feat for him. I would never have thought his cock could find room for even one more drop of blood, but it does. He's so hard now it's curving up like a sickle, puckering my panties right into me. He starts pumping his hips faster, his cock slicing forward and back between my slack thighs with renewed intensity. Faster, faster. Furious.

Now that I'm dead, he's on the brink. This is his thing, after all. His purpose. He pulls me in tight, and I can feel the quivering tension in every muscle of his body as cum spews from between my legs and onto the table in front of us. He shoots and shoots again, and again, the last drops and strands gooping down my thigh.

He lowers my limp body to the floor in a heap, not ungently, and stands over me. In all this time he has not uttered the slightest grunt.

I am so, so still. The breathing exercises I've been doing, the auto-asphyxiation -- it's all coming into play. He walks out of the room, down the stairs, and through the front door. Creak, click, gone.

My chest heaves and rips and tears with my first burning gasp of air. I cough with explosive force, red-faced and drooling. I massage my tender throat. That'll leave a mark.

I stretch my legs and assume a more comfortable prone position while I get my breathing under control. The ceiling fan turns, slow and steady. From the edge of the phone table hangs a single bead of snot-yellow cum, dangling by a delicate thread.

I'm suddenly aware of the tiny, tin-can sound of the phone's busy signal, the receiver abandoned by my side. I wonder how much of that frenzy Laurie heard.

I reach down between my legs and feel a crackle of electricity. I taste myself on my fingertips. That's something else to add to the list of things I've never done before. But I'm going to do them again. And again. And again.

I draw figure eights around my glistening tits with the phone receiver, then drag it down the length of my quivering belly. I shove my panties down my hips and press the phone where it needs to go. The ceramic is cool and smooth. I curl around it with a groan. Not a groan. A moan.

Outside, from across the yard, comes the first real scream of the night.

Fuck you Laurie Strode. I'm the final girl now. This is my story. And it's just getting started.
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Michael Myers is Mine

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