“Such a beautiful sight.”
I snarl, my upper lip twitching, but I won’t look at him. Won’t give him the satisfaction. My hands grip my thighs as I move up and down the length of the dildo mechanically, detached from myself.
“Ride it, Jasper. Ride it for them. For him.”
“Maybe I should stab you with the dildo, give them all quite a show.”
“Jasper—”
“Shut the fuck up, Adrian. You want a final performance, then just shut up.”
And he does. He remains quiet as I continue to work the toy filling my ass, and soon enough I’m riding it. My dick bobs asI bounce up and down, my breath coming faster, harder. My nails dig into my thighs, dragging up as I throw my head back, moaning.
The pleasure builds, a smoldering fire deep in my gut, and I hate myself for it. For the way my body betrays me.
A cold breeze whispers across my skin, and I pause.
“He’s here.”
I look out at the audience, but I can’t see it—not fully. Just an outline, a dark smear in the corner of my vision. The air around it warps, distorts, flickers like static on a broken screen. It has no defined shape, no clear form—just a mass of shifting shadows, as if darkness itself took on a physical form.
“Adrian,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“Keep going, Jasper. One last performance. Don’t stop.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Something in my body is different, like strings are being pulled by an invisible force, because now I’m driving myself down onto the dildo, fucking it as if my life depends on this moment.
And maybe it does. Maybe there’s more than just my freedom at stake here.
The entity looms closer, engulfing the space between us. Its breath—or something like breath—brushes against my neck, cold and wet, like a phantom tongue. My stomach knots. I want to flinch away, but instead, my body arches into the feeling.
“Well done, Jasper.” Adrian’s voice resonates from somewhere behind me, but it feels distant now, like it’s coming from beneath water or through thick fog. “Just a little more.”
My body rocks against the dildo, harder now, frantic. My nails dig deep into my thighs, drawing blood, as I chase after the pleasure. The thick silicone brushes against my prostate, lighting up every nerve in my body.
The entity’s hands—its real hands—descend on me, cold and rough, scratching against my skin.
No, not hands.
Claws.
They scrape down my back, digging into my flesh, leaving welts that sting and burn. Its fingers—long, thin, impossibly cold—wrap around my throat, squeezing lightly. My breath catches, my vision narrowing as I choke on the air, and my body jerks, forcing me to slam down harder on the dildo.
“Oh god.”
More hands—too many fucking hands—suddenly cover my body. They’re all over me, groping, stroking, scratching. My nipples are pulled, pinched, the sudden sharpness making me cry out. One of the hands slides between my legs, gripping my cock, stroking it with a rough, too-tight rhythm that has me gasping for breath.
I’m drowning but not in water.
The entity’s fingers—if I can even call them that—force their way into my mouth, cold and invasive, sliding over my tongue. I gag, but it doesn’t care. It keeps pushing, silencing me, filling my mouth until I can barely breathe.
My ass clenches around the dildo, my body shaking uncontrollably as I come so fucking close to the edge.
Then I’m floating into the air like I weigh nothing, the dildo slipping out of me with a wet pop. I hover above the stage, suspended by something unseen, and I can’t fucking move.
Something cold presses against my hole. It’s larger, thicker, its surface rough, like ice-covered stone. It pushes inside me, unrelenting, stretching me impossibly wide. I scream, or I try to, but the sound is muffled by the fingers still fucking my mouth.
Its hands are everywhere, pulling at me, scratching me, fucking owning me. One hand pumps my cock with rough, wet strokes, while its thick length slams into my prostate until my vision blurs.
