Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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The other thing.

The monster who gets hard from killing.

Who comes harder from violence than from her sweet wet pussy.

My cock throbs in my hand and I hate myself for it.

But do I stop jerking on it?

Do I even attempt to control myself?

No.

Why should I?

Isn't this the whole point?

Isn't embracing my nature the entire fucking point?

I want to be who I am.

I want to kill motherfuckers who deserve it.

I want to balance the scales.

I want to watch the faces of these monsters, see that moment of terror that flashes across their eyes when they realize it's over.

Coming on them is just… what they deserve.

It's justice.

I stroke myself harder, chasing the edge.

Is it fucked up that killing gets me off?

Yes.

Obviously.

But I've built a world where it makes sense. Where the violence has purpose. Direction. Intent.

I kill men who traffic children. Men who rape. Men who destroy lives and walk away clean because they have money, connections, lawyers who know which judges to buy.

The system fails.

I don't.

So what if my cock gets hard when I pull the trigger? So what if I come when they bleed out? At least I'm pointing this sickness at the right targets.

At least I understand that the innocent are not commodities to be bought and sold.

Women. Children. The vulnerable.

They're not products.

The auction is different.

The auction is fantasy. Controlled. Negotiated. A contract between two consenting adults who both walk away satisfied.

Is it weird?

Maybe.

But isn't everything about this world weird?

People get off on power dynamics. Surrender. Control. The illusion of danger wrapped in absolute safety.

It's an excuse to do things without guilt. To explore the darker edges of desire in a contained environment where nobody gets actually hurt.

Scarletta wanted it.

She checked the boxes herself. TPE. Forced confession. Psychological dominance. She gave me permission to weaponize her own writing against her.

She wrote the maze.

I just built it.

If she didn't want to be hunted by monsters, why did she spend forty-two thousand words describing exactly how it should feel?

The logic holds.

I stroke myself faster, chasing the edge. My other hand braces against my thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks.

Heat floods my abdomen. My balls draw up tight. Every muscle in my core tightens, coiling.

I see Volk's face. The moment he realized. The exact second understanding hit—that I wasn't going to let him walk away. That money, and connections, and diplomatic immunity meant nothing here.

That terror.

That absolute helplessness.

My cock pulses in my hand.

I see the knife cutting through his Achilles tendons. The way his legs spasmed. The scream that tore out of him when he understood what came next.

My breathing goes ragged.

I see myself circling him. Naked. Hard. Deliberate.

He knew what I was.

He knew exactly what kind of monster stood in front of him.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

My hand moves faster, rougher. I don't bother with finesse. I'm not performing for anyone. This is just me and what I am.

I see the blood spraying across my chest. My stomach. My cock.

The way Volk's body jerked and thrashed while he bled out.

The way I kept stroking myself, matching my rhythm to his dying heartbeat.

"Fuck," I grind out. My voice sounds wrecked.

Pressure builds at the base of my spine. My thighs shake.

I see Scarletta's face. Her eyes wide. Watching me come on a corpse.

Watching me become exactly what I am.

The image pushes me over.

I bend forward, groaning as my orgasm slams through me. Come shoots across the hardwood floor in thick ropes. My cock jerks in my fist, spilling everywhere—the floor, my hand, my thigh.

I don't stop stroking. I milk every pulse, every aftershock, my whole body shuddering through it.

When it finally passes, I'm bent over, panting.

Come pools on the floor beneath me.

I don't feel ashamed.

I just breathe.

This is managed.

I know what I am. I know what arouses me.

I know the sickness lives inside me

I understand I can't kill it.

But I can point it at the right targets.

I can make it serve justice instead of chaos.

I can control when, and where, and how it manifests.

That's the difference between me and the men I kill.

They hurt the innocent.

I don't.

So… the logic holds.

It has to hold.

Because if it doesn't—if the auction wasn't consent, if the maze wasn't her fantasy, if I'm not the controlled dominant who gives her what she needs⁠—

Then what the fuck am I?

I stand in the kitchen of the log mansion, coffee steeping inside the French press as I stare at the three monitors mounted above the breakfast bar.

It's been six months since Scarletta got out of my limo on Valentine's Day.

Six months is plenty of time to process.

Plenty of time to recover.

The perfect distance to understand what we are.

What she needs.

The doubts from earlier are gone now. My orgasm cleared them out like smoke through an open window. My head is sharp again. Sharp and focused.

I know what I'm doing.


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