3. Saxon

3

SAXON

My feet are itching inside my trusty old Docs, and it has nothing to do with the wool socks I have tucked into them. From the moment Brendon and I stepped into the woods, my senses have been on high alert. Those woods have been our playground for our entire lives, there was no need for a flashlight or a phone screen to guide us from our little suburban neighborhood to illuminate the trail. We know the path like the back of our hands, the light of the moon was more than enough to guide us to the McMann's property.

It also served double time as the perfect, shadowy backdrop to the illicit fantasy I've spent a week prepping myself for. My brain knows that it's not happening tonight, that I was only walking a path I've walked thousands of times with Brendon.

But my body? That horny little slut was ready to run, to hide, to be wrestled to the ground. Brendon wasn't doing anything out of the usual. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, something he's done more times than I can count. He pulled my body into his side, a place I fit so comfortably it's like there's a Saxon shaped divot made just for me on his hip. He chatted and made jokes and tried his best to get me out of the funk he could obviously tell I've been in.

It didn't matter. Every cell in my body hummed. They're still going. With every gust of cold autumn air, my heart beats a little faster. The scent of Brendon— like fresh hay and woody cologne— has my nipples puckered into tight little peaks under my dress. That mask covering the lower half of his face is like a page ripped straight out of my dirtiest fantasy. A masked man, one I could identify only by his eyes, overpowering me. Taking me. Making me his. As we draw nearer to the haunted kink house, my stomach coils into knots and every brush of my stockings against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs sent a rush of arousal right between my legs.

Now, as we stand in front of the bouncer, holding our wrists out to receive our bracelets— the general admission, red striped ‘no hot kinky play for you' variety— I'm on fire. I see a couple ahead of us entering the house, their bracelets a bright green color that I so desperately wanted for myself tonight, and I whimper under my breath out of frustration. My skin is crawling, my pussy is wet and aching, and I'm so goddamn disappointed to be missing out.

And Brendon has no fucking idea.

The music is loud, a haunting melody of minor chords overlaid with classic Halloween-esque contemporary music. Right now, a slowed down rendition of "Living Dead Girl" by Rob Zombie flows through the speakers as various sound effects clang around us. The whirring chainsaws and cracking thunder provide the perfect cover for the sounds of hedonistic pleasure occurring behind closed doors. As we pass the bouncer and near the threshold, Brendon takes hold of my hand. I know it must feel clammy, given the adrenaline swirling around with my own repressed sexual tension in my veins, but if he notices, he doesn't care. He gives me a squeeze and leans down to speak directly into my ear.

"You ready to do this, bunny?" He exhales against my skin, causing goosebumps to erupt under the long sleeves of my leather jacket. I nod, not because I'm thrilled to wander the halls of the house, but because I'm ready to get this night over with. I'm wound up tight, and my body is begging for release. I think back to this morning and hope like hell I remembered to plug in my clit stimulator, because she will be getting a workout tonight.

We cross over the entryway, past a creaky metal door, and darkness encapsulates us. The only light in the room is the glow in the dark strip on our bracelets, so that even in the dark, others know that— much to my chagrin— we are not here to play. Brendon squeezes my hand again as he starts to move, and I follow closely behind him. I love spooky season. To me, it's the most wonderful time of the year, so I've been to my fair share of haunted houses, hayrides, ghost tours, you name it. But the anticipation of being scared at any given moment mixed with the heady scent of Brendon's skin so near my nose has me shivering.

We take slow steps until we reach the first real room of the house, a kitchen set up to look like a crime scene. An actor in a bloody chef's coat pops out from behind the counter, and Brendon and I both shriek, then laugh as we baby step through the pools of fake blood and gore on the ground. Next is a children's playroom. I stare at a doll propped on the shelf, admiring the emptiness behind its glass eyes before it jumps, scaring the life out of me. I shriek, falling backwards into Brendon's hard body. He steadies me with a hand around my waist as I hold my chest and try to catch my breath .

Okay, so the creepy, dead eyed doll is a creepy, dead eyed actor. The effects in this place are insane, and with each jump scare, Brendon and I find ourselves closer and closer. Blood roars louder in my ears and arousal pools low in my belly.

"I've got you, bunny rabbit." Brendon's voice is hardly more than a muffled sound amongst the noise, but it sparks my anger anyway. I wish he didn't have me. I wish he'd let me go so I could lean into what I wanted to come here for. But I can't say that to him, so I lean into him instead and follow him to the next room.