Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I’m realizing I might have shot myself in the foot with this whole seduction idea. If he was an ogre with warts on his face, I’d have no trouble separating myself from what we’re doing. But he’s not. He’s young, handsome, smells so fresh, and after what I’ve been through, his warm body is soothing rather than repulsive. I want the hug. I need the comfort of his arms.
I, Blake, wouldn’t have given in to his deluded idea of romance in his basement, but because it was ‘just acting’, I let myself touch him. Let him touch me. And now I’m in over my head.
Nico murmurs against my neck and gives my cock a squeeze. “I can’t wait to see it.”
In a moment of absolute abandon, I pull on his shoulders, signaling for him to kneel, and while I’m mortified as soon as that happens, he offers me a wide grin and… scoots down.
I’m embarrassed when it occurs to me that I haven’t yet showered, but then my gaze returns to the ceramic cup, and I’m reminded of my real goal. Nico isn’t yet fully down when I grab the mug and slam it down on his head as hard as I can.
It feels like trying to hammer a thick nail into a stone wall.
The handle stays in my hand while the rest of the mug falls off and collapses alongside Nico, who rolls to the floor at my feet, clutching at his head. A part of me is already regretful and wants to help, but that would be suicide, so I leap over him as if I were training for the Olympic long jump.
His groans resonate in my ears as I flee the bathroom and dart for the narrow stairs.
I’m not a cryer, but my eyes sting from the nerves of it all. The world is a blur as I dash up the steps, and an unholy mix of images rattles in my head.
Nico sawing into a man’s neck. Nico on his knees about to press his handsome face against my cock. Nico in the creepy balaclava with cute round ears. Nico presenting me with the ugliest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen.
A part of me expects a locked door, and for my plan to be easily thwarted. I knew I needed to try something to free myself, but deep down, I didn’t believe I’d manage. But I find the door easy to open, and I’m faced with… coats. I’m at the back of a wardrobe, as if the cellar is his personal fucking Narnia.
The muscles of my throat are so tight I can barely breathe, but I won’t have another chance to flee, so I dash between a collection of old bicycles, boxes, and furniture. I hit the light switch I vaguely see in the dark.
Colors gleam ahead as strings of Christmas lights come to life on the ceiling and walls of the next room. They flash in different rhythms, giving life to a crowd of figures gathered all too close for my liking. There’s the popular image of the Christmas Killer, based on a witness testimony that was clearly inaccurate, as the figure has a pot belly and a white beard. Next to it stands Krampus, an ancient witch, a monster with a horse skull head, and even some zombie elves. I stumble when the red and green flickering tricks me into thinking one of the life-sized statues moved, reaching its bony hand for me.
Where am I even? The room is stacked floor to ceiling with rows of shelving units filled with boxes and Christmas decor. Everywhere I look it’s red, green, and gold.
A sob rises in my throat, but I manage to hold it in as I make my way through the winding maze of festive crap. He’s mad. He’s absolutely mad, and I don’t even want to know why he might need so many different types of nutcrackers in the form of painted soldiers. Their eyes follow me as the colorful glow reflects on their faces, constantly altering their expressions.
The warehouse is massive and seems to contain everything from fake Victorian street lamps to large rolls of gift wrap. There’s a door on its other end, so I dash down the lane left empty in the middle, only pausing when I remember that it’s December. There could be a snow storm outside, and I’m wearing stockings and shorts. One of the massive steel shelving units arranged in neat rows to my left is filled with clothes, so I grab the first coat I can find and unfold it, revealing itself as a red bath robe with a fur trim.
Good enough.
Somewhere behind me, feet stomp over a hard floor, and I freeze, only to dash across the warehouse, already putting on the robe. I’m not dying here, not at eighteen, before I even got to start living!