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Your heart pounds, your lungs screaming for you to stop running; but you couldn't. You can't stop running. Or you would die.
The pounding of your heart against your ribcage, your feet trampling the concrete as you ran for your life were the only sounds in the night air.
You looked over your shoulder briefly, spotting the masked figure chasing after you with his curved knife; Ghostface.
Rounding a corner, you ran down a dark alleyway, coming out on the other side.
You bumped into someone's chest.
It was Ghostface. How did he get there so fast? It's not possible.
"Looks like you can't run or hide," he said, his voice low, menacing, and mocking as he grabbed you by the nape of your neck, turning you so your back was against his chest, the curved knife pressing against your throat.
"You're not as smart as I thought," he rumbled into your ear, the knife pressed against your neck sending a shiver down your spine. Or maybe it was the deep rasp of his voice. No. No, it's not that.
You reach behind you, your hand blinding finding the mask, ripping it off. It's not like you can see who it is. He has you turned the opposite way. It's moreso the fact that he simply allowed you to do it.
"Looks like you've unmasked the villain," he whispers. The voice was different now. It was as deep and as raspy. It was nicer. Gentler. Well, as gentle as a voice could get when someone's about to kill you.
The tip of the knife presses down onto your Adam's apple, making you swallow harshly, feeling the movement cause a small cut on your neck.
You can feel tiny droplets of blood leaking from the thin cut.
Ghostface's low and quiet chuckle rumbles through your core.
It makes places you wish weren't even being considered in this situation vibrate in anticipation.
You feel the front of your pants beginning to get tighter.
You swallow again, your tongue feeling heavy and your saliva feeling too thick.
"Calm down there, pretty boy, I just want to ask you a few questions."
Your heart beat faster than you could've ever imagined. You weren't sure if it was the fact that he could slit your throat at any moment, or the way he called you 'pretty boy.'
"What questions?" You managed to choke out. Why would this psychopath hold a knife up to your throat and tell you to calm down? Like that was even remotely possible.
"Some basic trivia. I'd like to get to know you," Ghostface says, his voice almost a low purr.
How you wished you could turn around in his grasp to look at his face, wanting to match that voice to something.
Then his words process.
He wants to get to know you? While he has a knife against you? What a joke.
He speaks before you can.
"Do you like scary movies?" He says slowly, making sure you hear each syllable of each word he says.
You'd always loved scary movies. Horror was your favorite genre.
Maybe not after tonight.
You nod, your eyebrows furrowing.
"What's your favorite scary movie?" He whispers, his breath fanning across the back of your neck, tickling your earlobe.
You bite your lower lip, trying to think, but unable to with the current situation.
Not only were your thoughts muddled by fear, but also arousal by how his body was pressing up against yours, the excitement of knowing that with just a flick of his wrist, he could slit your throat, killing you. Also, his fucking voice.
"It's not that hard of a question, is it?" He whispers once more in your ear, your teeth biting down harder on your bottom lip. You can feel your canines breaching the skin, the stinging sensation hurting so good.
"I don't-" the knife pressed harder against your throat, like he thought you were going to dismiss his question.
Your cock throbbed. You gasped.
"I don't know," you breathed out. The knife lightened a bit and you could hear his smirk when he next spoke.
"You don't know what your favorite horror movie is?" He asked in an almost mocking voice.
Then, in a flash, he growled and shoved you down. He forced your face to press into the concrete below you, the knife pressed against your Adam's apple a constant weight, a constant remind of how sick you are to feel aroused in this situation.
Luckily, Ghostface didn't seem to pick up on your hard-on, mostly because your hips are pressed onto the ground.
You resist a hiss when your erection grows at the added friction of your jeans rubbing against the ground. It was painful, but that made it feel even better.
"How is it that you don't know your own favorite horror movie?" He asks, his voice a low, threatening whisper.
You gulp, trying to ignore the feeling of pre leaking from your tip.
"I don't know," you whisper.
Ghostface shoves your left shoulder harder, relishing in the pained gasp you let out as you feel your bones bruising from how harsh he's being.
"Give me a horror movie. Any horror movie," he demands.
You think for a moment before you clear your throat, your voice a meek whisper. "Nightmare on Elm Street."
Ghostface hums, a raspy sound from deep in his chest. "A good choice."
Your body thrums from the situation. Or maybe it was the slight praise you'd just received from a man that's about to kill you. It's definitely the former, right?..
"What year was the first Nightmare on Elm Street set in?" Ghostface asks.
Your thoughts scramble for an answer.
You don't even remember what happened in the first movie, it's been so long since you watched it.
You take a random guess. "Uh... 19....1975?"
Ghostface tuts and makes a disapproving sound. "So, so close. That's a bit disappointing. The correct answer is 1981."
How in the hell were you supposed to know that?
Ghostface gives you the next question. "Who is the main character of the third Nightmare on Elm street?"
"....Nancy?" You ask, wincing. You don't know if that's the right answer.
"What's her last name?" Ghostface asks.
Your eyes widen. You know this one.
"Thompson," You say.
"Wonderful. That's correct."
Your chest warms at the feeling you get from his praise. Or maybe it's blood soaking into your shirt from the shallow cut on your neck. You don't know, and you don't care. You're so hard it damn near hurts.
You can't let him know that, though.
"Next question: how did Freddy Krueger die?" He whispers.
You know this one. It's easy.
"He burned alive," you answer.
"Who started the fire?"
"What?" You ask, your thoughts halting. You don't remember who started the fire. How were you supposed to remember that?
"Who started the fire?" He repeats, his voice more threatening and low now.
It makes your cock twitch.
You take too long to answer, the knife digs in further, threatening.
"Who started the fire?" He growls, his lips right next to your ear, his breath fanning hot against the skin.
"I... I don't know!" You whisper, desperate for any remorse.
He gives you none.
Moving the knife from your neck to behind your ear, he digs the tip of the knife in, cutting an intricate pattern. Is what you assume.
"It was the Parents of Elm street," Ghostface tells you.
You cry out as he digs the knife into the back of your neck, your cock twitching obscenely, leaking pre.
"What's that?" Ghostface asks. You can hear the smirk he has just from the way he stretches those words out. "Was that a moan?"
He sounds like he already knows the answer, so you decide not to answer that. It seemed more rhetorical regardless.
"It's always the pretty boys that are fucked up, huh?" Ghostface chuckles, bringing the knife to your cheek, smearing the blood over your cheek. You let out a shaky breath.
"Don't tell me you're into this..." Ghostface taunts, chuckling lowly as he traces the tip of the knife across your lower lip, relishing in the full body shudder he receives from it.
"I'm not," you breath out, breath hitching as he digs the knife into your lower lip, cutting it and then pulling the knife away, trailing it down your neck to your collarbone.
"I think someone's a liar."
"I'm not!" You repeat, more desperate.
It's humiliating to know you enjoy this in the first place, but the person who's trying and will probably kill you to know that you enjoy it is even worse.
"Oh? Then what's this?" He asks with a smirk, his free hand going down to your pants, slipping around your hips and palming the tent in your pants.
You gasp, your hips immediately bucking forward into his hand.
"You seem to be very into this," Ghostface mocks, bringing his mouth closer to your ear to whisper; "what is it? Is it my sexy voice? Is it the knife? Is it the adrenaline?"
Why can't it be all three?
Your hands clench into fists, your fingernails digging into your palms, making the skin sting.
"I...I'm not," you say breathlessly, more desperate, trying to convince yourself more than him.
Not that he'd be convinced in the slightest from the way your hips are rolling onto his hand.
"Right, right, you're not into this... you're just hard because...... you're cold," Ghostface taunts, cupping your cock through your pants, squeezing to wrench a moan out of you.
And it does wrench a moan out of you. One that makes your voice break, one that is all too loud. One that makes humiliation and shame burn down your spine and right back up it.
Ghostface doesn't seem to care.
"You think you could get off just by humping my hand?" He wonders.
You know you could, but you want more. Not that you'd ask for more. You were already in over your head thinking he'd even let you come, but here he was, palming and squeezing your cock.
You wish this would stop. You wish he would just put you out of your misery.
But your hips seem to think otherwise.
They're rolling at a fast pace, a desperate and pathetic pace.
You know that if you don't come soon, he's going to stop touching you entirely.
So you grit your teeth and force your hips to move faster.
They rock in a jerky movement, your teeth biting your lower lip.
You can feel your orgasm building. You can feel it burning in your gut, like a spring pulled taut, waiting for release.
With one last squeeze of Ghostface's hand, the spring is released.
You feel the warm stickiness in your boxers. Your orgasm isn't satisfying at all. It's shameful and a bit painful with how you feel the cuts throb and sting from your sweat leaking into them.
But it's an orgasm no less.
Ghostface laughs tauntingly, pulling his hand and the knife away. You look back in confusion, seeing his face.
Your eyes widen as your eyes scan over his face. You know who this is. You go to school with him, but you don't remember his name...
He sits up and pulls the mask back on.
"You have homework. Study your scary movies. I'll be back for some more 'trivia,'" he says in that raspy, filtered voice.
Then he turns and leaves.