Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 2

2

Nellie

C urrer—no, Sweeney—follows me up the outside stairs to the attic room. I wonder whether I should have put him off while I tidied up, but it’s too late now.

I know what he’s looking for.

After he was deported, the bailiffs came and took everything he had down to his mirror and barber’s chair. I sneaked in that evening and sat on the floor, trying to feel his presence, with only the moonlight for company.

A bright shimmer near the window caught my eye; something bright was hidden inside the windowsill. I kicked it until it came loose, and when I finally got it open, I was astonished.

Sweeney pushes past me and pulls the windowsill loose. He looks inside and frowns, whipping his head to face me.

“Where are my fucking razors?” he asks.

I suppress an absurd hiccup of laughter. What an apt thing to call them!

“I found them,” I say. “I thought you’d?—”

He moves too quickly for me to react. His hand is cold and tight on my throat, and he walks me backward toward the wall, my feet skittering on the wooden floorboards as I try to keep my footing.

“You took my possessions?” he snarls, his breath on my face. “How dare you?”

My back thumps into the wall, and he pins me in place, his free hand roaming over my body. “That means you owe me.”

I’m panting. I can’t speak, not with Sweeney’s hand constricting my windpipe, but if I could, I’d explain that his precious razors are safe and sound. He sees I’m trying to get words out and releases me, tossing me aside as he storms away.

“Explain,” he says, his back to me. “If I don’t like the answer, I swear I’ll fuck you against the wall, and I won’t give a shit if it hurts you.”

I search my mind, desperate to say the wrongest thing possible. He won’t kill me, not when he’s freshly paroled, but I really want him to make good on his threat.

“I sold them,” I lie. “Not for much, if I’m honest. Were they real silver? The man at the jeweler said they were only plated.”

Sweeney turns to face me, his eyes churning with rage, and my pussy seizes with need. This shouldn’t be how it happens. What kind of girl keeps her honor, even through marriage, only to lose it to a brutal murderer?

There’s something seriously wrong with me. But as he clenches his solid jaw, ready to unleash his power, I cannot deny the flood of wetness in my panties.

I’ll tell him the truth afterward, but I’m ready to surrender. I’ve been ready for years.

Sweeney shrugs his suspenders off his shoulders and unbuttons his trousers. I stare, mesmerized, as his cock comes into view.

Even my fevered memory never got it right; it’s bigger than I remember, with turgid blue veins rippling over the length. The tip is a livid maroon color, and a droplet of clear liquid appears as he strokes his hand along his shaft.

“You are gonna take every inch, Nellie.” He pumps harder, his lips parting with a gasp of pleasure. “This is what you wanted, so you’re gonna get it. Don’t you think that’s kind of me?”

I shake my head. Of course, I want it, but I didn’t spend years honing a fantasy for nothing.

I don’t want to give; I want him to take . To make my body his plaything and my pussy his come-dump, now and whenever he likes. To say so aloud would spoil the carefully curated scene that runs in my mind every time I touch myself.

“It’s okay.” Sweeney closes the space between us and groups my chin, thrusting his thumb into my mouth. “I know exactly what you’re about. You want to be my whore, but it won’t do to say so. Luckily, I’m a man who loves a bit of resistance. Makes life more interesting.”

He pulls back his hand and slaps my cheek, not hard, but it catches me off guard and sends me spinning. I fall onto my knees, and he’s behind me, his hand on the small of my back.

“Stay there.” He rummages beneath my skirts, dragging them to my waist, and he tugs at my panties. “These are fucking sodden. You’ve missed cock that much?”

“I’ve never had one,” I gasp, wriggling as he leans his weight onto me.

“You’re joking.” He pulls my underwear down and lifts my knees so he can remove them. “This slutty pussy has never been fucked?”

I part my thighs slightly. “Never. Will it hurt?”

“Fuck yes.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “Although not as much as it would if you weren’t dripping wet. You like to play with your cunt?”

“Um…yes,” I say, shyness taking over. “I get, you know, restless.”

“Dirty little bitch.”

Sweeney grips my hair, yanking my head back as he drags me over his knee. His other hand comes down hard on my ass, the sound of flesh on flesh filling the room.

The pain is sharp and searing, and I cry out, my body jolting forward. But there’s something else there, too, something dark and twisted that makes my pulse race.

He spanks me again, harder this time, the air cracking with the sound of the impact. He’s not holding back, and it’s agony, but already my flesh is going numb.

“Stop!” I cry. “I don’t want this!”

“You’re full of shit, Mrs. Lovett.” He pauses, running a finger through my slit. “Needy cunts like yours don’t know how to lie.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation and arousal, and my ass cheeks are just as hot. I’m wet, soaking wet, and I can feel my juices dripping down my thighs. My clit throbs, begging for attention, and I squirm against the bed, desperate for release.

He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You like that, don’t you? You like being my dirty little slut.”

I whimper, unable to deny it.

I do like it. I like the way he takes control, the way he makes me feel small and vulnerable. And sick as it is, I love the pain; it makes me feel alive.

He spanks me again, and I cry out, my body writhing beneath him. I can feel his cock pressing against my thigh, hard and insistent. He wants me, and the knowledge makes me even more desperate.

“Like that, do you?” He toys again, his voice a seductive rumble against my ear. He presses two fingers deep inside me once more as his other hand resumes its torment - a slap, a squeeze, and another sharp spank.

Over and over again, he paints my backside with red hues of mounting desire. Each sting sharpens my senses; the rough texture of his pants against my knees, the chilling air brushing over my inflamed skin creating tiny goosebumps across my body, intensifying this perverse concoction of pleasure and pain.

Sweeney withdraws his fingers, and I gasp at the emptiness left behind. He doesn’t leave me neglected for long; he slides his fingers over my sensitive pussy lips, and I buck my hips, trying to feel more.

He slips one finger into my aching hole, and I squeeze my internal muscles, trying to hit all the spots that are desperate for sensation.

“You need my big cock in here,” he says. “Nothing else would do the trick, and you knew it. That’s why you waited.”

“No,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over my heart pounding.

Sweeney chuckles and presses another finger into me, stretching me in ways I’d only dreamed of. His touch is intoxicating, his attentions overwhelming. I’ve never felt so alive or so aroused, and a feral groan escapes my lips, surprising both of us.

This is wrong . I should try harder to fight back, but his grip is too tight, his strength overpowering mine. He chuckles, enjoying my struggle. The sound sends a shiver down my spine, but it’s not entirely unpleasant.

“You’re a tight little thing, aren’t you, treacle?” Sweeney says. His rough fingers dig deeper into my flesh, stretching and invading me without permission, the callouses on his skin catching on my most sensitive areas.

“Go to Hell,” I gasp, the words torn from my lips as he hits deep, sending electricity coursing through my body. He growls in response and thrusts his fingers deeper still, the rough pad of his thumb pressing against my clit, sending jolts of pleasure through my core even as I try to push him away.

“Where the fuck do you think I came from in the first place?” he asks. “I’m made of some bad shit, little girl. You wouldn’t have it any other way. Admit it.”

He’s relentless, his fingers curling and probing in an almost painful way. But there’s something about the roughness, the lack of tenderness, that makes it all the more arousing. My body responds despite myself, my hips bucking against his hand, and the sensation starts to peak.

Sweeney’s breath is hot against my neck as he leans in, his teeth grazing my earlobe. “You like that, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice low and dangerous. “Say it, and I’ll let you come.”

I try to deny it, to push him away, but my body betrays me. I can feel myself growing wetter, my muscles clenching around his fingers even as he slows down.

“I like it,” I gasp. “I’ll say whatever you want. But don’t stop.”

“Alright, treacle,” he says. “Let’s hear those sweet moans.”

His fingers move faster now, harder, and my orgasm ramps up, a surge of pleasure that threatens to overwhelm me. With a final, brutal thrust, he sends me over the edge, and I cry out, my body convulsing as the pleasure washes over me.

Sweeney doesn’t stop, though. He keeps going, his fingers still moving inside me as I ride out the waves of my release.

When it’s over, I collapse against him, my body spent and trembling. Sweeney pulls his fingers out, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Good girl,” he says, patting my head like a pet.

I should be disgusted, outraged. But instead, I feel a strange sense of satisfaction. I’ve never experienced anything like that before, and I want more.