I've Heard Stories About You... (REPOST)

For some reason, she felt victory...and disappointment at the same time. Not the reaction she had been working for, but definitely a reaction all the same. But, what exactly had it been, that drove him to that particular choice of reaction? Any other man would have allowed it to continue into whatever it would've become. Any man with baser sexual instincts anyway. Maybe Voorhees didn't have any sexual instincts? That wouldn't be possible...would it? Suddenly, the pieces on her imaginary game board moved themselves around into another attack formation. A different game was afoot. A different goal to be had. She had nothing to lose. Her innocence had been stolen from her, years ago. She'd never been in love. Never even had the chance to know what it was. Her father had stolen all of that from her along with the hope for anything in the future. She was broken. Broken and vengeful. Like Jason, himself was. Lives ripped away before they'd even had the chance to discover what they could have been. Before either of them had had the chance to even know they could've been anything.

As the anxiety melted away, it gave way to something more primal. The air around her, in the dark, seemed a lot colder than it had been only moments ago. The endorphins had kicked in and made her feel light headed and extra sensitive all at the same time.The roughness of the old sheets beneath her and the sound of her own breathing...all of it seemed to culminate in the pit of her belly. She rested a still lightly trembling hand on her stomach. What, exactly, would she have done if he had succumbed to what she was shooting for? She wasn't even sure. He was probably the biggest man she'd ever come across. He could crush her under his mere weight, of that she had no doubt. He wasn't fat by any means, a pure wall of primal muscle. But the thought of all of that hardness and muscle pressed against her own smaller frame, sent a shiver down her spine, adding to the tightness in her lower belly.

In the next room, Jason flung his machete at the wood-paneled wall. It struck with enough force to keep it lodged in the wood. What was the girl playing at? He was used to seeing the same actions and tones in words from the ones he'd killed before. When they were playing in the woods, thinking there wasn't anyone to see them. The ones that Mother was determined to have him kill. The bad ones. But, this girl wasn't with someone else. She was with him. Her tone had changed for him and she had reached out to touch him. He didn't know what to make of it. Maybe Mother didn't know what to make of it either, the reason for her silence. If the touch was truly bad, Mother would have made her demands upon him. So, the touch wasn't a bad thing? Or, was it and Mother wasn't sure what to make of it? What if...what if Mother wanted this for him? What if this girl was Mother's gift to him? But, what use was a girl? She didn't look strong. She looked fierce a few times, when angered. But what skills could she possibly have, coming from somewhere other than here? Hunting? Helping to kill the bad people? She had killed, before. Cleaning wasn't exactly something Jason had ever put much stock in, so that would be a useless contribution on her part.

What would Mother say if he were to accidentally shove his machete or some other sharp object directly into the girl's throat? As the thought crossed his mind, he reached for the weapon and pulled it, roughly, free from the wood. As he did so, a sound from the next room caught his attention. A noise between a whimper and a moan. Maybe the girl had found a way to kill herself? Mother couldn't blame him for that, could she? He leaned the machete against the wall, to keep himself from using it on her.

Without a sound, he leaned against the door frame and peered in to the darkened room. Another moan greeted him from the makeshift bed. With his one good eye, he could make out the silhouette of the girl in the darkness. Her knees were bent and spread apart. The tiny bit of light allowed in through her small window, reflected off the tops of her thigh and her forearms, which seemed to reach toward the apex of her legs. Her head was tilted back and her body squirmed amongst the old sheets.He narrowed his eye. The movements became familiar, as did the sounds. However, there was no boy with her. She was alone, aside from him watching her from the doorway. It was the one thing unfamiliar about it. Another whimpering moan escaped her lips and he pressed himself against the hard wood even more. The noise was more enchanting to him than with the usual accompaniment of a boy, without the voice of Mother in his head and without the girl's fearless attitude. Enchanted him in the way the contrasting water drops on her skin had been, just a mere hour or so earlier.

He watched and listened intently, paying special attention to the bits of light playing over her skin as she moved. A hitch in her breath caused him to press even closer to the door frame, actually feeling the pressure of it, now. Feeling the pressure of the thin line of wood down his chest and between his legs, causing a friction that he suddenly needed. Causing a friction he'd never needed before. Ever. He didn't move, except to press himself harder against the wood, aligning it just right to the spot requiring attention, between his legs. There was a distant memory of the same sort of reaction in the days before he'd drowned. It was random, showing up in the morning as he woke up or at night, just before he'd fall asleep. He wasn't quite sure what to do with it then, either. Right now, though, the only thing that felt right was the friction and pressure against his hard cock, not that he understood it any better now.

Her breathing became more laboured and her squirming all the more enticing. He had the urge to bite those legs til they bled, til they were marked by him and him alone. Those legs with their strange contrasting light called to him, but he didn't obey it. He remained where he was. Suddenly, her back arched and the only sound he could make out was a whispered 'oh my God!' before his own body began to throb and quiver with the need to release. He pressed himself against the wood one last time and he finally came. Not one sound escaped him as the hot, sticky fluid spewed from him, and eventually made it down to his thigh. The feeling was exquisite. Almost as exquisite as the look of terror in a victim's eyes, or the feeling of the machete slicing through flesh and bone.

He silently gulped down a breath, before lifting himself, silently, from the door frame and caught his breath. Whatever just happened, he wanted it, again.