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You sat on the worn-out couch in your living room, the flickering TV screen casting a dull glow over the room. The local news droned on in the background, but you were too tired to pay attention to the mundane tales of small-town drama. You'd had a long day at work, and the last thing you wanted to do was engage with the world outside. A yawn cracked open your jaw, and you reached for the remote to switch off the TV. Just as you were about to press the button, a story about the infamous Jason Voorhees caught your eye. It was the same shit - a couple of teenagers had gone missing near Camp Crystal Lake, and the sheriff was warning folks to stay clears of the area.
The news anchor, a plump man with a comb-over, spoke in a somber tone. "We urge all residents to exercise caution and stay vigilant. The notorious killer is still at large, and we can't rule out the possibility that he's made his way into nearby towns." You rolled your eyes. You'd heard it all before. Jason was like a local legend, a boogeyman that parents used to scare their kids into behaving. But as far as you were concerned, he was just a figment of overactive imaginations and campfire stories. You lived too far from the lake for his brand of horror to reach you.
Muttering to yourself, "What a bunch of shit-for-brains. They think a guy in a mask with a machete is gonna show up at my doorstep?" You tossed the remote onto the coffee table and stood up, stretching your back with a satisfying crack. The room spun slightly from the sudden movement, and you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. "Fuck...I need to get some shut-eye," you thought, stumbling towards the couch.
With a heavy sigh, you flopped down onto the cushions, feeling tired. Your eyes drifted to the open window, and for a moment, the rustling of leaves in the night breeze made you pause. But it was just the wind playing tricks on you, right? You couldn't be that unlucky. You reached over to grab the half-empty bottle of beer on the floor, taking a long, cold gulp before setting it down with a thunk. The alcohol buzz was wearing off, but it was enough to lull you into a sense of false security.
As your eyes grew heavier, images of the hockey-masked monster danced in your mind. The ay he'd hack through teenagers like they were nothing more than overcooked hot dogs. You chuckled to yourself, the sound echoed in the empty room. "What a fuckin' joke," you murmured. But despite your bravado, you felt a shiver run down your spine, and you pulled the blanket up to your chin, tucking your legs in tight.
The TV's volume dropped to a murmur, the only sound now the occasional pop of the ancient AC unit. The cool air kissed your skin, and the soft whispers of the fabric lulled you into a gentle doze. Your mind wandered to a place where you were the hero, facing off against the silent killer. You's show him a thing or two about fear, you'd make him beg for mercy. But those thoughts grew fuzzy and distant as sleep claimed you, dragging you under like a riptide.
You weren't sure how much time had passed when a fainted creak from the floorboards jolted you awake. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you told yourself it was just the house settling. But then you heard it again, closer this time. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you strained to listen through the darkness. A shadow fell over you, and you realized with dawning horror that you hadn't locked the back door. Panic flooded your veins like ice water.
Before you could move, a heavy hand clamped over your mouth, the stench of decay and earth filling your nostrils. The TV flickered, casting shadows across the room, and you saw his silhouette loom over you. The gleaming blade of a machete reflected the light, and you realized with a sinking feeling that the legend had found its way to your doorstep after all. The hand was unyielding, cutting off any hope of a scream. Your eyes widened with terror as the cold metal of the weapon pressed against your throat, the weight of it a grim promise.
Your eyes darted around the room, searching for something anything, to use as a weapon. But your limbs were frozen, your mind racing a mile a minute but your body refusing to cooperate. You tried to push out a muffled cry, the sound strangled and pathetic against the palm of your attacker. But it was no use. The hand tightened, a grunt of annoyance escaping the shadowy figure. You felt the tip of the machete break the skin, a bead of blood trickled down your neck. The pain was sharp, a stark reminder that this was no dream.
The hand lifted slightly, and you felt the rough fabric of the mask brush against your cheek. You held your breath, waiting for the final blow. But instead, the grip on your jaw tightened, and the machete slid away. The figure leaned down, his breath hot and putrid against your ear. "Looks like l've got a live one..." a gruff male voice chuckled, the sound sending chills down your spine. It was Jason. You could feel the malice rolling off him in waves, like a living, breathing nightmare.
He grabbed you by the collar of your shirt, hauling you to your feet with surprising strength. You stumbled, your knees threatening to buckle. "W-What do you want?!" you managed to croak out, your voice trembling. But he didn't answer, just grunted in response, his grip on your shirt tightening.
With a rough shove, you found yourself stumbling backwards onto the couch. The cushions groaned under your weight, and the cold steel of the machete was still pressing into the soft flesh of your neck. You swallowed hard, trying not to gag on the fear that was rising like a bile in your throat. "Please..." you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips. But there was no mercy in the eyes that stared at you through the slits in the hockey mask.
Jason's gloved hand released your shirt, and he reached down his waist. You watched in horror as he slowly, deliberately, began to unbuckle his belt. The leather groaned in protest as he pulled it through the loops, and the sound echoed through the room like the toll of a funeral bell. Your eyes widened as he unzipped his pants, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent house. He didn't bother to remove the mask, the fabric stretching as he leaned back to expose himself to you.
The sight of his monstrous throbbing cock made your stomach lurch. It was a twisted, angry thing, a parody of human anatomy that had no place in the world on the living. You felt your bowels loosen, the cold steel of the machete still pressing into your vulnerability. Your mid raced, trying to come up with a plan, any plan, to escape this horror show, but all you could do was sit there, trembling.
"W-What the fuck are you going to do to me?!" you finally yelled out, the words tearing from your throat like a scream from a nightmare. The question hung in the air, a desperate plea for any answer, any clue as to what twisted game he was about to play. But Jason didn't speak. Instead, he just grunted, a low, animalistic sound that sent another shiver down your spine.
With a sudden, violent movement, Jason grabbed your head with both hands, his thick calloused fingers digging into your scalp. He jerked you closer to his groin, the head of his cock nudging against your cheek. You could feel the heat of him, the wetness of his pre-cum smearing onto your skin. You tried to pull away, but his grip was like a vice, unyielding and painful. You whimpered, feeling the first hot tears of fear and disgust prickled in your eyes.
"No! Please," you begged, your voice a hoarse whisper. "Please don't do this to me, please, please..." But Jason was unmoved by your pleas, his eyes gleamed with a sadistic excitement. He grunted again, more insistent this time, his cock pulsing with each grunt. You could feel his excitement building, could feel the anticipation in the way he held you. Your mind was racing, trying to find a way out, but you knew deep down that there was no escape from his clutches.
With a sudden jerk, he forced your head down, the tip of his cock brushing against your closed lips. The salty taste of him made you gag, but you knew that opening your mouth would only invite the rest of his monstrous length inside. You tried to keep your jaw clenched shut, but the pressure on the back of your head was unrelenting.
Jason's grunts grew louder, his breaths coming in harsh, excited pants. His grip on your hair tightened, and he began to push harder, the head of his cock sliding against your clenched teeth. You felt your eyes water with the pain and the sheer terror of what was happening. "Please..." you whimpered again, the word barely a breath.
With a final, brutal shove, he forced his way in, the head of his cock breaching your tightly sealed lips. You gagged, the taste of him flooding your mouth, a mix of sweat and something metallic, something wrong. His grip on your head didn't ease, and you had no choice but to open your mouth further, letting him invade you. The smell of his body, the scent of rotting flesh and stale water, filled your nostrils as you tried not to retch.
Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the saliva that was already pooling around his cock. You could feel your throat convulse, trying to reject the unnatural intrusion. His grunts grew more feral, his hips starting to buck, pushing his length deeper and deeper into your mouth. Each thrust sent a bolt of panic through you, but you knew better than to fight back. The machete at your throat was a constant reminder of the price of disobedience.
You gagged again, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You felt your body try to heave, to rid itself of the foulness that filled your mouth, but all it did was elicit a gruff laugh from Jason. His grip on your head didn't ease, and you could feel your eyes watering, your nose burning from the effort of not throwing up. You swallowed convulsively, trying to keep the bile at bay.
With trembling hands, you reached up to his wrists, trying to pry them away from your face. But his forearms were like steel bars, unyielding and powerful. Each time you thought you might have some leverage, he'd just push down harder, forcing you to take more of him. The salty taste o his precum coated your tongue, and you could feel the muscles in your throat clench, trying to keep the rest of him out.
Tears began to stream down your face, hot and wet, mingling with the cold sweat that had broken out across your forehead. You couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe that the legend of Camp Crystal Lake had found you in your own home. The sobs started in your chest, a quiet, pathetic sound that grew louder with each passing second.
But then, something changed. The pressure on the back of your head eased, and Jason's cock slid out of your mouth with an obscene wet pop. You gasped for air, your chest heaving as your eyes searched the room, desperate for any escape. But he didn't let you go, his grip still firm on your hair, keeping you in place. You could feel his gaze on you, a twisted mix of amusement and lust that made your skin crawl.
A flicker of defiance ignited in your chest, burning away the paralysis that had gripped you. "Help! Somebody help me, please!" you screamed, your voice hoarse from his brutal use. The sound echoed through the house, a desperate cry into the void of the night. The TV flickered, casting strobe lights across the room, and for a moment, it looked like Jason's grin grew wider beneath the mask.
But the sound of your desperate pleas was cut short as Jason's hand clamped over your mouth again, his grip like a vice. His other hand was already at your waist, tugging at the button of your jeans with surprising dexterity. The fabric strained against your hips before giving way with a soft rip, and you felt the cold air kiss your skin as your pants were yanked down to your ankles. You struggled, trying to kick free of the fabric, but his strength was overwhelming.
You felt his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "You're gonna like this, pretty boy. You're gonna beg for it." His voice was a harsh rasp, the words barely discernible through the fabric of the mask, but the meaning was clear. Your eyes widened with fear, and you tried to shake your head, to tell him no, but his grip was unyielding.
Jason's free hand released your hair, and you felt the cold, hard blade of the machete trace a line down your chest, the metal glinting in the TV's flickering light. He was playing with you, toying with you like a cat with a mouse. The knife hovered dangerously close to your skin, and you could feel the sharpness, the promise of pain.
A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead, stinging your eyes as it fell. The blade stopped just above your navel, the tip digging in slightly. You winced, your entire body tensing as he began to apply pressure, drawing a thin line of blood. The pain was a sharp contrast to the cold steel, and you couldn't help but whimper.
Jason's grin grew wider, his breath hot and foul against your ear. He was enjoying this, enjoying the power he held over you. The knife began to move again, tracing a pattern of fear across your bare skin. Each touch sent a shiver down your spine, each line of blood a silent scream. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe too loudly.
And then, without warning, the cold steel was gone, replaced by something far more terrifying. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your tight, unprepared hole, the slickness of your own fear mingling with the precum leaking from him. You tried to clench, to keep him out, but the pressure grew, and with a wet tear, he entered you. The pain was white-hot, a scream building in your throat that was immediately muffled by his hand.
Jason's hips began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grew faster with each passing moment. You could feel every inch of him, feel the way his cock stretched you, the way he filled you completely. The pain was unbearable, but you knew that if you didn't submit, if you didn't take him, the machete would replace his cock. So you took it, you took him, your eyes squeezed shut as you bit down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming.
But the pain didn't stop, it only grew, each thrust sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. You begged him to stop, your voice a hoarse whisper that grew louder and louder, until you were practically screaming into the night. "P-please! Stop, please! I can't, I can't..." But the only response was his grunts growing louder, his movements more frantic.
And then something strange happened. Amidst the pain, there was a spark of something else, something you didn't expect. It started as a small twitch, a betrayal of your own body, a response to the relentless pressure and friction. The moan that escaped your lips was low, almost imperceptible at first, but as Jason's rhythm grew more intense, it grew louder. You couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that amidst the horror, your body was responding to him.
Jason's grunts grew deeper, his breaths coming in short, harsh bursts as he pounded into you. The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room, punctuated by the occasional clink of the machete against the floor. Your eyes squeezed shut, you tried to focus on the pain, the fear, the anger, anything but the building pleasure that was threatening to overtake you. But it was no use. Your cock was hard, straining against the fabric of your boxers, and no amount of mental gymnastics could change that.
"Please," you choked out, "I'm not...I'm not gay." The words tasted like ash in your mouth, a pitiful attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity. But Jason didn't care about your sexual orientation, he cared about his own twisted desires, and right now, those desires centered around you.
He grunted in response, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. You could feel his excitement growing with each of your pleas, his cock swelling inside of you, filling you up in a way that was both terrifying and, to your own horror, arousing. "You don't have to be," he rasped, his voice low and guttural, a stark contrast to the silence that had previously filled the room. "You just need to take it."
You felt his hand move from your mouth to your throat, squeezing gently at first, but the pressure grew as he fucked you harder. It was a warning, a silent threat that sent a jolt of fear through your body, but also a strange thrill. You couldn't help but arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his, your body moving in a rhythm that felt so wrong but somehow, in that moment, so right. Your eyes snapped open, searching for something to focus on, anything to keep you from giving in completely.
The TV flickered, casting bizarre patterns of light across the room, and you saw your own reflection in the darkened screen. You looked like a rag doll, being used by some unseen force, your eyes wide with terror and something else, something you didn't want to acknowledge. But there it was, plain as day, the unmistakable look of arousal on your face. You bit your lip harder, trying to hold back the sounds that were building in your throat, the sounds that would give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd broken you.
But you couldn't. A strangled moan slipped out, a high-pitched keening that seemed to echo off the walls. Jason's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with victory. He picked up the pace, his cock slamming into you with brutal force, each thrust sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure through your body. You felt your own cock pulse, the fabric of your boxers growing damp with pre-cum. You hated yourself for it, hated that your body was responding to this monster's touch.
The hand on your throat tightened, the pressure increasing with each moan that escaped. Your vision swam, the edges of the room growing fuzzy. You wanted to hate it, wanted to fight back, but the feeling was too intense, too overwhelming. Your body was betraying you, writhing in ecstasy as he claimed you in the most primal way possible. The pain was a living, breathing thing, a second skin that wrapped around you, tight and unyielding, but beneath it, there was something else. Something that made your toes curl and your hips buck.
Jason's grip shifted, his hand moving from your throat to your jaw, forcing your mouth open. The stench of his breath washed over you as he leaned in, the head of his cock brushing against your tongue. You gagged, trying to pull away, but he held you firmly in place. "Taste yourself," he growled, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Taste what you're doing to me."
With a final, brutal thrust, he emptied himself into you, the sensation of his hot cum filling your mouth and throat making you gag. He held your head steady, his hips bucking as he came, the force of his orgasm making you choke. You swallowed convulsively, the taste of him vile and overpowering. And as he pulled out, you could feel his semen trickling down your chin, pooling in your lap.
Jason let out a satisfied grunt, his breathing heavy and labored. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. You sat there, panting, your body trembling with a mix of fear and unwanted arousal. You tried to push the thought of what had just happened away, but it clung to you like a wet cloth. The reality of the situation sunk in, and you felt a wave of despair wash over you.
He grabbed the machete, wiping it off on the couch cushion before sliding it back into the sheath on his hip. You watched him, numb, as he bent down and pulled your pants back up, his movements surprisingly gentle. He tucked your shirt back into the waistband, his touch almost tender. "Get some rest," he grunted, patting you on the shoulder. "You're gonna need it."
With that, he turned and strode out of the room, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. You heard the back door open and shut, and then there was silence. The TV was still on, the volume low, playing some late-night infomercial. The house was still, as if the world had moved on without noticing the horror that had just unfolded in your living room.
You slumped back onto the couch, your legs shaking uncontrollably. Your body felt like it didn't belong to you anymore, a used, soiled thing that had been discarded. You could still feel him inside of you, the warmth of his seed slowly cooling on your skin. You wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but sit there, but you were paralyzed by fear and revulsion.
The TV droned on in the background, the sound of some infomercial seller's voice a bizarre juxtaposition to the horror you'd just experienced. You stared at the screen, the images blurring together in a haze of despair. It was over. It was really over. The house was still standing, the night outside unchanged, but inside, everything had shifted. You were no longer the same person who had laughingly dismissed the news of Jason's escape.