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Ormond Resort. You feel the cold before you see the snow. Through hazy eyes, you study the blurry shape of the lodge before you. A blizzard rages on, and without adequate protection, it tears at your skin and starts to sap away whatever strength you have left. The temptation to just lay down in a snow drift and let the cold take you away is an uncomfortably strong force, but step by step, you trudge towards the whining wood.
The creaky door slams shut behind you and you take a second to catch your breath before wiping all the melting snow off of your tense shoulders. It’s impossible to get used to the various volatile climates of the Entity’s realms, seeing as a suffocatingly hot swamp and a frigid Canadian storm hit you back to back. Perhaps that’s the most tiring part of all these trials. There’s never a comfortable moment, no sense of stability. Everything comes and goes. You can’t even depend on seeing the same faces at the campfire. Sometimes people show up once and then you never see them again.
But you can always depend on seeing the same killer. Frank Morrison. One of the few killers that you know the name of, since you once found a discarded sports jersey with his name on it. It smelled like body spray and teen spirit. Of course, you didn’t tell anybody that you smelled it, but you shared that actually important piece of info with the others. Behind that mask, what does he look like? The Legion members are one of the most human killers in the realm, the least corrupt and the least monstrous. They like to talk, make jokes at your expense while hunting you down, but of course, it’s impossible to hold a conversation of any substance. Nobody can befriend a killer, but becoming friends isn’t your intention.
With nothing else to do, you walk over to the gen and kneel down on the cold floor. Icy gales blow in from the open windows and send shivers down your spine, but you force yourself to focus on twisting wires around and putting parts where they belong. It’s easy to ignore how cold you are when you’re lost in the mundane haze of repetitive routine. Fixing generators is so second nature now that you don’t even have to process what you’re doing. A couple minutes and then it’s up and running, that’s it.
You never get to finish the gen, though, as your heart starts pounding in your eyes for no discernable reason. It’s a supernatural warning, a sixth sense to fuck off and hide. He’s getting close. You look around for any hint of him and strain your ears to listen out for any footsteps, but the blaring blizzard blocks out any clues as to where he might be coming from. Running out into the storm is just asking to get killed, so you clamber up the nearby stairs and slink into a barren bedroom. The only good hiding spot is an old closet, so you slip inside and hold your breath. The howl of the wind is only barely audible over your heartbeat.
Footsteps echoing, approaching. They stop by the door. The floorboards creak under his weight as he steps into the bedroom and looks around. He checks under the busted-up bed frame first, and in that split second, you get the urge to jump out and run. He’s faster than you, for sure, but maybe that tiny head start would be enough to get somewhere safer. You hesitate, though, and the moment slips away. He’s standing in front of your hiding spot now. His heavy breath is audible behind his mask. Then he laughs.
“Found you.” He growls, ripping open the doors of the closet. That blood-stained mask stares down at you, a twisted grin painted on it. A scream builds up inside of you, but it never comes out. The blade of his knife plants into the wood beside your head. His hand closes around your throat. Your voice is stuck, a suffocating bubble of air in your lungs. Your vision, too, is stuck. You can’t look away from him, not even when everything starts getting blurry.
This is your favorite part.
But this time, he doesn’t rip you out and hook you. Instead, his grip slackens and he lets out a sickening laugh, one reminiscent of a hyena. “Fuckin’ freak. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” His hand falls down and squeezes your crotch. A blush rushes to your cheeks as he raises his fingers to his face and observes the tiny bit of liquid on his skin. “You’re already leaking through your pants just from that? How pathetic can you get?”
Your lungs heave for air and you can’t find your voice. What would you even say, though? This situation is so improbable that you never bothered to think past this point, never stopped to consider the implications of this scenario, but then he starts rubbing your groin again and all of a sudden you stop worrying. A soft moan escapes your lips and he chuckles again.
“There’s something real wrong with you, you know that?” Frank dips his fingers beneath your waistband and grazes the sensitive skin over and over again. It’s infuriating, but you can’t help but enjoy it. “Makes me wonder what kinda shit happened to you to make you actually WANT to get raped.” He twists his knife around and presses it up against your skin to emphasize his point. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the way you shake under the blade. Not out of fear, but out of arousal. This is better than every fantasy you’ve ever masturbated to.
“Know what I did to my foster dad when he tried to fuck me? Stabbed him a couple times. Slit his throat for good measure. Police let me go since I was just a kid. Felt bad for me, I guess.” Frank grabs you by the scruff of your hair and twists you around. Splinters of rotten wood stab into your face as he talks with a gravelly growl. “Same thing probably happened to you, huh? Daddy pushed you down and fucked you just like this.” His hand finds your ass and gives it a good slap. The shock of pain twists into pleasure somewhere deep inside your sick brain. “You probably didn’t struggle. Didn’t do anything. Just let it happen. I bet you enjoyed it, you fucking freak. No wonder there’s so many rapists in this world. They think nobody will fight back ‘cuz of pervs like you.” The bulge of his erect cock grinds against your ass. He tears your pants down and presses his fingers in. It’s rough and quick, causing stings of pain to shoot through your flesh, but you still moan out in ecstasy. You paw at yourself desperately, playing with your front as he plays with your back. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
Once he’s gotten you nice and ready, he pulls his fingers out and starts working his cock in. The friction of his cock grinding inside of you is far from pleasant, but his warmth overwhelms the pain. His dick is decently long and lithe, just as you expected. He presses deep into your guts without any lube and you can’t stop yourself from moaning out his name. “Harder,” you grunt, and then he slams hilt-deep into you. His hand is still tangled in your hair. His body presses into yours and you’re digging your fingers into the wall. Bits of rotten pulp get stuck under your fingernails as he continues thrusting as hard as he can.
“You like that, you fuckin’ bitch?” Frank grabs you by your chin and twists your neck to the side, just far enough so that you can look at him. His mask has fallen to the side and you can see his grinning mug. Not a particularly attractive guy, but the feral look in his eyes almost makes you cum there and then. He laughs right in your face as you tense up with pleasure. It’s impossible to hide your orgasm from him. “I hope you learn something from this, you creepy fucker. Maybe keep your mouth shut about how you fetishize rape for once. I bet all the other survivors can’t stand being around someone like you. You must have brain worms or some shit.” His voice is low and labored as he continues pounding your ass. “Should I kill you after this, or would you just get off on that too?”
His harsh words only stop when his hips slow down and he shoots his load inside of you. The gush of heat sends you over the edge as well. Your body quivers and shakes. Your legs buckle underneath you and you’re only held up by the force of Frank’s cock pinning you against the wall. Warm liquid drips down your bare thighs, an electric sensation in the freezing cold room, but then Frank pulls out and you’re left colder than ever. You reach out for his body as you slip down and slump down at the bottom of the closet with a puddle of cum pooling beneath you. Luckily, though, Frank digs his fingers into your mouth before you can say anything and makes room for his still hard cock. He thrusts deep into your throat, his hands splayed on the wall for balance as he fucks your mouth.
“I know you took my shirt.” He grunts out between gasps for air. Your throat throbs with pain as he jabs his dick in and out, but in tandem with fingering yourself, it makes you feel even better than the anal. The way he keeps berating you makes you wetter than ever. The shame burns your skin, a bright red blush on your face, and that keeps Frank going. “You were just constantly asking for it. Wasn’t hard to notice the way you look at me. You never run and scream like the others. Like a normal person. Fuck, you feel so good.” One of his hands drop down to grab at your hair again. He pulls you close to his cock, so close that your nose is buried in his pubes, and then he cums into your mouth. Several spurts shoot down your throat, but the rest just spills out from between your lips. Once he has emptied himself again, Frank pries your mouth off of his cock and he takes a step back to observe his handiwork.
Cum is splattered all over your face and legs. It stains your clothes, though it’s hard to notice due to all the blood stains already ruining your shirt. Your pants are dropped down around your ankles, a truly pathetic sight. Just a used and abused body in the corner of a sex-soaked closet. Frank lets out another hyena laugh as he kneels down and presses the tip of his knife into your cheek. Even if you wanted to run, your legs are too weak to even stand up. “Next time I see you around here, I’m gonna gut you like a fish, got that?”
“And if you ever steal my shit again…” He digs the blade into your flesh until a thick line of blood forms. “I’ll make you wish you could kill yourself.”