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There’s a knife, cold, at your throat, and everything else falls away.
“You’re the, the Canary Killer.” Your voice shakes like your insides.
The figure in front of you cocks their head, face indiscernible under their hood, and then steps forward, forcing you to step back to keep from being cut. One step, another, and you feel brick scrape against your bare shoulders. The figure takes another step, into your space, and there’s no escape.
“Please.” You try to keep your voice steady, maintain your dignity, but it’s a whimper at best. “Please let me go.”
The knife presses closer—a clear threat.
“Please,” you gasp, tears brimming.
A beat of stillness. Your heart pounds in the silence; you’re sure they can hear it.
“…A deal,” he murmurs, and you can feel his breath warm against your cheek.
Relief is a shock down your spine. “Anything,” you promise shakily. The knife presses closer again, and you fall silent.
“I won’t kill you.” He tilts his head and leans closer, positioning his lips right by your ear so you can hear every syllable as he finishes in a husky whisper: “…As long as you don’t fight me.”
“Fight…?” He draws away for but a moment, and then his lips are on yours.
“Mmph!” Reflexively you press your hands against his chest to shove him away, but his fingers wrap around your wrists in turn and slam them back against the wall by your head. He doesn’t even break the kiss; in fact, he takes advantage of your pained gasp to lick into your mouth and scrape the back of your teeth with his tongue. You shudder and your first instinct is to bite down, but—
“As long as you don’t fight me.”
You’ve lost track of the knife, but its threat looms as much as this man does, two heads taller than you and hands easily dwarfing yours.
A tear runs down your cheek, as you allow him to brush his tongue over yours.
You feel his lips twitch up into a smile as he hums in satisfaction, deepening the kiss for one long, unbearable moment before drawing reluctantly away and condescendingly pecking the tear away. “Good choice.” The rumble of his voice sends a spark right down to your core, making you twitch involuntarily.
His hands drop from your wrists and gently cup your face, but when you try to move your hands, you still feel the pressure keeping them in place. You jerk your head, attempting to look and see what’s holding you, but his grip tightens, fingertips digging into your cheeks.
“No,” he murmurs, soft and deceptively gentle. “No, you’re going to look at me, and you’re not going to look away. Do you understand?”
You swallow, tears brimming again. “I—“
Something touches you under your dress.
You break off with a gasp, hips jerking to get away from whatever it was that had brushed your thigh, and once again his bruising grip keeps you from looking.
“I asked you a question,” he murmurs.
You still can’t see his face, but you guess where his eyes are and try to keep your voice from trembling. “I un—“
Something prods under your underwear.
You break off with a whine, again trying to contort to avoid the touch. This time it follows you, gripping the hem of your panties and dragging them slowly down your legs. Both his hands are still on your face. Both your hands are still immobilized by your head.
“What is this?” you cry, trying to shake your head out of his hands. “What are you?!”
Suddenly, a hand at your throat, pressing down; you choke and whine.
You’ve crossed a line.
“Are you choosing to fight?” he whispers.
You can’t answer; you can’t breathe.
“Well?”
The world is closing in. You mouth silently, “No,” over and over, tears streaming freely down your cheeks now.
His voice is a growl: “I. Can’t. Hear. You.” And yet his grip tightens.
“N……n….o,” you choke, fighting for each unrecognizably hoarse syllable.
He lets you struggle for an extra beat before releasing his grip and watching you slump in front of him, dangling from your still-immobilized wrists and hacking. He slides his hands into his pockets, looking completely casual as you fight for breath.
Even once you’ve caught it, you don’t look up at your wrists. You don’t look down at your underwear, now stretched around your ankles. You look at him, blinking away your tears, terrified to look away.
“Good girl,” he purrs, and the sound sends something terrible and electric down your spine.
And the pressure is back.
It feels like…a finger, or two, tracing lightly along your panty line, under your dress. You suck in a breath, almost choking on it as the finger dips teasingly lower and lower, just light enough to leave tingles in its wake. You can’t help but squirm when it finally reaches the folds of your labia, tapping almost thoughtfully at the dip. But you maintain eye contact.
“Very good girl.”
Suddenly, the invisible finger shoves itself between your folds, crooking and pushing under the hood of your clit. You instinctively whine and press your thighs together, but, as he just huffs an amused breath and tilts his head, invisible hands suddenly press against the insides of your knees and jerk them apart, almost unbalancing you with the suddenness of the movement. Undeterred, the fingers continue to press and push, almost searchingly. You struggle to brace your feet against the ground with the new pressure keeping your thighs apart.
And the fingers find their target.
You gasp and jerk as they prod at your clit. They pause, giving you a moment to truly understand what’s about to happen, and then they push.
They push and they vibrate and they squeeze. Your legs shake under you; your hips move, trying to escape, but the invisible fingers follow expertly, giving no relief from their onslaught. Your neck muscles strain with the effort of continuing to look at the man while the rest of your body twists and shakes. You bite your lip hard enough to break the skin.
“Stop,” you gasp, breathless. “Sto—St—Sto-o-o-o-p—!”
He shrugs innocently. “Stop what?” he asks playfully. “I’m just standing here.”
As if to contradict him, you feel a new hand slide, warm and gentle, under your neckline and cup one of your breasts. You twist your shoulders away with a shuddering whine and the fingernails dig in and scrape up until they’re toying with your nipple.
All the while, the other fingers continue to play with your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Electricity moves up and down your legs, sparking and shuddering. Your feet skitter out from under you, you drop to hang from your wrists, and this time, instead of giving you a moment to stand up again, the man just jerks his chin and you feel hands grip your hips, lift them up, and slam them against the wall, while the fingers play with your clit uninterrupted. The hands stay there, an inescapable pressure keeping you upright as your legs shudder helplessly beneath you. You lean forward, gasping for breath and letting yourself dangle from your wrists for a moment—still not breaking eye contact—and so you see it when the man jerks his chin again and your wrists are drawn up high enough to stretch you out against the wall, leaving no room for squirming or leaning. You twitch helplessly, and it’s all you can do.
The fingers circle and tug and vibrate, and your thighs jump uselessly against the hands at your knees, and your toes curl in your sandals. “Nnnnn,” you groan, involuntarily squeezing your eyes shut, and the man withdraws a hand from a pocket to snap in your face. At the same time, another pair of fingers appears to drag down the length of your vulva. You gasp and try to buck away, but the hands don’t give an inch.
“Nnno,” you shudder, “nononono—“
The fingers swirl around in your slick, mocking you with how much there is, how easy it is to wiggle between your folds.
“Shhh,” the man murmurs, sounding almost sympathetic.
And they slide in.
The electricity sputters and fizzes under your skin, unbearable now as the intensity of the fingers at your clit seems to increase. The fingers at your nipple pinch and twist. The fingers inside you pump in and out, in and out, like a machine—were there always three? They crook and you spasm at the sensation. The only sounds in the alley are your uneven breaths and the wet squelch of the fingers moving in and out, in-and-out inandout inanout in’n’out—
You sob and clench. Everything whites out; you’re not looking at the man anymore, but he doesn’t seem to mind watching your eyes roll back into your head. Warmth drips down your legs. The fingers retreat from your clit, from your breast, and from inside you.
But you don’t get a moment to breathe.
The hands at your knees move suddenly to grip under your thighs and lift them up, startling you. Your skirt flips up easily, baring you to the world, and your protest disappears under his lips as he presses first against you, and then into you.
His lips muffle your whine of pain and protest, and you can’t tell if the hands on your butt are his real hands or more of the invisible hands that have been torturing you. They hold you steady as he works himself carefully further and further into you—further than you’ve ever had anything inside you. He sucks your tongue into his mouth and swallows every gasp, every whimper, every tiny mewl of pain or pleasure. And when you try to withdraw, try to shake your head, he bites down—not too hard, but just enough to keep you still.
When your hips are flush—you gasping unevenly through your nose to handle the pain without breaking the kiss—he tilts his head for one last lick into your mouth and then pulls away slowly and takes a moment just to look at you. Just that tiny motion has you involuntarily moaning and shuddering as it jostles the thing inside you.
“Beautiful,” he pronounces, and you sob.
Then he recaptures your mouth just in time to muffle the wanton wail you release when he begins to thrust.
As he casually zips up, you dangle limply against the wall, head hanging, dress torn. He takes a moment to just…appreciate you.
Your hair is a mess, from your tossing and his hands. You have tear tracks dried down your reddened cheeks. There’s just a little bit of blood dotting your kiss-swollen lips and bruises forming along your chin and across the column of your throat. Your dress has a new neckline, torn down the front to bare one of your breasts to the night; unable to resist, he reaches out to tweak the pert nipple and laughs when you twitch.
You still hang in his grip—wrists stretched above your head, back against the bricks, knees up and spread wide, feet dangling limply. His cum drips sluggishly from between your legs, onto the alley floor. You’re missing a shoe.
He graciously finds the shoe and puts it back on your foot, shaking his head when you don’t thank him. Then he slides an arm around your back, tucks the other up under your knees, and lets you drop into his embrace.
You seem to come back to yourself. “Wh-wha—“
“Shh,” he soothes, bringing up an invisible hand to press your head to his shoulder. Only, he doesn’t let up when you fight it, only tightening his grip on your body and starting to walk away from the scene of the crime.
“Where are you—what—but you said—“ You’re crying again, neck straining. “You said you’d let me go—“
He summons another hand to cover your mouth, ignoring your whimpering. “I said I wouldn’t kill you,” he mutters unsympathetically, not looking at you as he turns a corner and spots his car at the end of the street. “Didn’t say anything about letting you go.”
As an afterthought, he summons another hand to adjust your dress, covering your breast and hiding the tear. Wouldn’t want anyone seeing that out of context.
You flail your feet and try to hit his chest, but all it takes are a few more hands to hold you still. As he draws closer to the car, his buddy opens one of the doors and steps out.
“Took you longer than usual,” his buddy notes. You twitch. “Wait. Is she alive?”
“You up for some sloppy seconds?” he shoots back, bouncing you mockingly and ignoring the muffled, high-pitched sound you make.
“…You crazy son of a bitch. Put her in the back seat for me, will you? ”