16. The Devil Went Down On Georgia

There's a time in life when you know you've climbed as high as possible. The mountain's peak is within reach. However, when you look down, you're only a foot off the ground. Yep, there's always farther you could go. That's where I'm at as the formaldehyde runs through Johnny's veins and inflates his flaccid cock.

My muscles move on reflex, guiding my hands as they work. The process is like riding a bike. The only thing that's different about this time is the clear pump covering Johnny's dick. It helps to contain the solution in his shaft, much like forcing blood to the head of his dick. This allows me time to slip the ring around the hilt of his shaft and massage in the formula, keeping it erect. My hand trembles when I grasp Johnny's member to remove the pump and place the ring around it.

"Go on, wrap those pretty little hands around his cock and make him hard again. Show the devil what you do with idle hands."

There's a constant source of heat at my back as I work. He's hovering over me. It's invasive. An intrusion into something that's only been intimate between me and Johnny. He hasn't removed his mask yet, but I know who it is. What would happen if I just blurted it out? Would he be angry? Would he hurt me? These questions whirl in my mind at the what-ifs, so I'll keep this little secret until I feel it's time to use it.

"That's it, baby, stroke it like you mean it," Dr. King commands while his hand trails down my side until he's kneeling at my feet. The leather gloves are gone, so we are flesh to flesh. I take a moment to languish in the difference between his touch and his brother's. It's so different—as opposite as fire and ice. I strain my neck to peek over my shoulder at his kneeling form, curious as to his intentions. His gaze is on mine. The black mask only reveals his emerald depths that have been swallowed by lust. The same eyes that bore into my soul as he extracted my release on his exam table.

I must've slowed the pumping of my fist because there's a flash of teeth before he growls, "Don't. Stop."

My muscles shake, and my grasp on Johnny's cock tightens. I continue my ministrations. The formaldehyde only needs the smallest amount of massaging to trigger its chemical effect on the flesh and sinew before it hardens. I had made sure his jaw remained shut during this stage. His eyes were the only part I couldn't bring myself to mark off the checklist. I didn't want to sew them closed because then I wouldn't be able to see them one last time. They were the last thing I wanted to see before I said goodbye.

With each stroke, the ridges of Johnny's dick vibrate along my palm as Dr. King's touch lightly travels up my inner thigh. It's as if all my unspeakable fantasies that have driven my body wild are colliding in this room. At this moment. The man I can manipulate to my will lies on my table, and the one I can't control is at my feet, accepting all of my twisted and fucked up cravings.

He's not stopping me. No. He's encouraging it.

Dr. King's fingers make it to my bare pussy before roughly sinking in his digits to the hilt, causing a gasp to erupt from my lips. He pumps them in and out ever so slowly and deliberately. He's playing my sex like an instrument. Coaxing a song from my pleasure. His warm breath fans the back of my knee, causing goosebumps to rise along my legs. He removes his fingers, and my inner walls clench as they retreat, not wanting them to leave. But then, an odd sensation makes me still. What can only be his tongue takes a long, languid lick through my folds. Well, that's something I've never experienced. It's not like a dead man can give head. His tongue is relentless, and my knees are on the verge of giving out whenever he passes over my clit. I grind my teeth as I hyperextended my knees, trying to lock them in place. I don't want this to end.

There are a few more sublime seconds of his mouth on me before he stands abruptly, growling in my ear again. "When the devil went down on Georgia, I know he never tasted a peach pie more delectable than your cunt." I'm still shivering from the sensations his mouth inflicted upon me. I stare at the floor where he had been kneeling, forgetting about the task at hand.

It's then I notice the music playing from my surround sound speakers, and I'm pulled from the edge of bliss. A strong urge to correct him comes over me. A man like him probably hates being corrected, and I feel like poking the bear. Even the playing field a bit. Besides, how can he get the name of this song wrong?

"It's..." I clear my throat, finding my voice, "It's The Devil Went Down to Georgia."

He's stopped touching me. There's a heavy weight of worry on my shoulders that he might actually leave creeps into my system. This is what I was worried about… why I've kept my mouth shut. If I interrupted him, he would get angry and lash out. Surprisingly, I think I'd like that more than for him to stop touching me completely.

His chuckle is deep and raspy, melting me from the inside. "Not in my rendition."

"Are you friends with the devil?" I ask breathlessly, throwing away my previous fears, not expecting him to answer. But he does.

A chuckle as deep as a grave caresses my soul, "My little macabre mistress. Not even the devil wants me as a friend."

Johnny's shaft is hardened in an upright position. I could stop stroking. This process is complete, but my curiosity about what Dr. King has in store causes me to keep my mouth shut. I just need him to keep touching me.

"There's something else," he pauses. Is this where he leaves me, standing on the edge? Begging for more? "I know you won't object to anything I make you do, will you? You're fucking loving every minute of this." He pushes his nose into my hair, roughly inhaling me before he whispers, "You know how I can tell?" There's a long pause before he grips my jaw and forces me to look at him. "Your cunt is soaked for me, you filthy freak." Then he shoves his fingers back inside my pussy.

Filthy freak.

These words are pulled from my deep, dark memories of being bullied and being called names. Now they are being twisted into ones I … enjoy? Have they shaped me in a way that, when used in dirty talk, my response would be to want more?

My body says yes as my sex flutters around his digits. I'm getting wetter by the second from solely focusing on the way his voice vibrates when he speaks these awful things to me. Passion licks at my nerve endings, amplifying every sensation, and my grip slackens on Johnny's shaft.

If getting finger fucked by one brother while jacking off his dead brother makes me a filthy freak, then so be it.