The weight of her was impossible. Not heavy like a person—heavy like water, like something that had been at the bottom of a well so long it forgot it was ever supposed to float. She pressed down on me and I couldn't move my hips, couldn't even shift an inch, just lay there on the sticky carpet with the moonlight cutting across her shoulder blades and the laptop screen still rippling behind her like a pool that hadn't settled.
The mark on my belly burned where her palm ground against it. Not hot—that was the wrong word. It was cold the way deep water is cold, the kind of cold that gets into your bones and makes you forget there was ever warmth. But it burned anyway, a contradiction I couldn't parse, and every circle her palm made sent a jolt through my pelvis that I didn't want and couldn't stop.
"Please," I heard myself say. The word came out small, broken, barely a breath. "Please, I—I'm a virgin. I've never—"
Her cock slid against my inner thigh. Slick. Heavy. Thick as my wrist—I'd thought that before, when I first saw it, but I hadn't understood what it would feel like. The weight of it. The heat of it, which was wrong, because she was dead, she was supposed to be cold, but it was hot against my skin like a fever, like something infected. Pre-cum smeared across my thigh and I felt every centimeter of the trail it left.
I kicked. My legs moved—I felt them move, felt the muscles strain—but they didn't go anywhere. Her weight pinned them, not crushing but absolute, like trying to push against a wall that had always been there. My bare foot scraped against the carpet and found nothing to brace against, and my heel slipped on a wet spot I didn't want to think about.
"No," I sobbed. "No, no, no—"
She shifted her hips. It was a small movement, almost gentle, but I felt the head of her cock press against my entrance and my whole body seized up. My hands flew to her shoulders—I'd been pushing at them, I realized, pushing this whole time, my palms flat against that wet white skin—and I shoved with everything I had. She didn't move. She didn't even feel it. Her shoulder was cold and slick under my hands, like river-drowned flesh, like something that had been under water so long it had gone soft and firm at the same time.
Her palm ground harder on the mark. The cold burn spiked and I arched despite myself, my back bowing off the carpet, and in that moment of distraction she pressed forward.
Just the tip.
Just the tip and I felt myself stretch around it, felt the impossible width of it testing me, and a sound came out of me that I'd never made before—a high, thin whine that didn't sound human. My hands scrabbled at her shoulders, my nails digging into that dead-white skin, and I felt it give slightly, like wet paper, like something that shouldn't have been solid at all.
"Stop," I begged. "Please, stop, you're—you're too big, I can't—"
She didn't stop. She didn't even pause. Her hips shifted again, adjusting the angle, and I felt the head of her cock press deeper, stretching me past anything I'd ever imagined. I'd touched myself before—alone in my bed, fingers tentative, always stopping before it felt like too much. This was nothing like that. This was a hand grenade being forced into a keyhole, and I could feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch of what was pushing into me.
The mark flared. White-hot cold, a contradiction that made my vision swim. And I felt something else—something inside me responding to it, my body betraying me, my hips tilting up to meet her even as my hands pushed at her shoulders and my mouth formed the word no.
Her face was close to mine. Through the curtain of lank black hair I could see that single eye, wide and unblinking, watching me with a hunger that had nothing to do with killing.
"I'll bring you someone else," I gasped. "I will. I'll find another virgin, I'll—I'll make them watch the tape, I'll do anything, just please—"
Her breath washed over my face. Cold. Wet. It smelled like well water, like moss, like something that had been dead a very long time and was only now remembering what it was to be alive.
And then she pushed.
Just a little more. Just enough to make me feel the stretch become a burn, the burn become a tearing. I felt my body resist and then—horribly—felt it give. Felt myself open around her, felt the impossible width of her sink into me inch by inch, and I screamed.
The sound died in my throat. Choked off. Because the mark on my belly flared again, and this time I felt a pulse of something that wasn't pain—wasn't pleasure either, wasn't anything I had words for. It was like a current running through me, like she'd plugged something into my spine and was sending electricity through it, and my body arched again, my back bowing, my hips pressing up against her even as tears ran down my cheeks.
"No," I whispered. "No, please, I don't—I don't want this—"
But my body wanted it. That was the horror of it. My body was responding to her, opening for her, my cunt clenching around the head of her cock like it was trying to pull her deeper, and I couldn't stop it. I couldn't control any of it. The mark on my belly was pulsing in time with something I couldn't hear, and every pulse made me wetter, made the slide easier, made the stretch less like tearing and more like—
Like hunger.
Like my body had been starving for this without telling me.
Sadako's hand left the mark and found my hip. Her fingers were long, too long, and they wrapped around my hip bone like they were measuring me. Tilting me. Adjusting the angle so she could push deeper, and I felt the head of her cock press against something inside me that made my vision go white.
"Oh god," I heard myself say. "Oh god, oh god, oh—"
She pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to make me feel the drag of her against my inner walls, the ridges of her cock catching on me, and I sobbed with relief and terror at the same time because she was pulling out, she was leaving, maybe she would stop, maybe—
And then she drove forward.
The first full thrust buried her inside me to the root. I felt her pelvis press against mine, felt the impossible length of her filling me completely, and my scream cut off into a choked, wet gasp as I felt myself stretched around her, filled to the brim, the mark on my belly flaring white-hot as the world narrowed to that single invasive point.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but lie there with my legs pinned, my hands gripping her wet shoulders, my cunt clenching around a cock that was thicker than my wrist and buried so deep inside me I could feel it in my throat.
Her eye watched me. Unblinking. Hungry.
And behind her, the laptop screen still rippled, still stirred, as if more was still coming through. As if she wasn't done with me yet.
My fingers found carpet. That was the only thing that mattered now—the rough, sticky weave of it under my nails, the way individual fibers caught and clung. I dug in. I clawed. I dragged my upper body forward while my hips stayed pinned beneath her, and the movement was useless, pathetic, a worm trying to pull itself out from under a boot. But I did it anyway. I did it because it was the only thing my body knew to do.
My elbows dug into the floor. I pulled. One inch. Maybe less. The carpet burned my forearms, and I felt the drag of her inside me shift with every useless jerk of my spine—a reminder that she was still there, still buried to the root, still watching me with that single unblinking eye.
"Let me go," I gasped. The words came out wet, broken. "Please, please, I can't—I can't do this—"
Her hand tightened on my hip. That was her only answer. The long, too-long fingers pressed into my flesh, and I felt her nails—were those nails? They felt like something else, something sharper—dimple the skin as she held me in place. Not hard enough to break. Just hard enough to say: I heard you. I don't care.
I kept pulling. My shoulder blades bunched, my spine curved, and for one horrible, hopeful second I thought I was actually moving. That I was dragging myself free of her. My knees scraped against the carpet, my toes found a purchase on a discarded sock, and I managed to pull my hips up—just an inch—before the angle shifted and I felt her cock grind against something inside me that made my vision blur.
The sound I made wasn't a scream. It was something lower, something that came from the base of my throat and surprised me. My hands went slack. My elbows buckled. I collapsed back onto the carpet with my cheek pressed against a beer stain that smelled like someone else's Friday night, and I lay there, shaking, feeling her pulse inside me.
She was pulsing. I could feel it. The thick, veined length of her cock throbbing against my inner walls like a second heartbeat, and my body was answering it. I could feel myself clenching around her in rhythm, could feel the slick heat gathering where we joined, and I hated myself for it. I hated my body for betraying me like this, for turning a violation into something my cunt was greedily, hungrily gripping.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I whispered into the carpet. "I didn't—I never did anything to you. I just watched your stupid tape—"
She didn't answer. Of course she didn't. She couldn't. But I felt her shift above me, felt her weight settle differently, and then her free hand came down beside my head. The long white fingers pressed into the carpet, and I felt the vibration of her movement through the floor as she adjusted her position.
She was going to thrust again. I knew it before she did it—I could feel it in the way her hips pulled back, in the drag of her cock against my walls, in the empty, aching space she left behind for one terrible second.
"No—"
She drove forward.
The thrust buried her to the root again, and this time the angle was different. She'd shifted her weight, tilted my hips with that hand on my bone, and now she hit something that made my whole body seize. My back arched off the carpet. My mouth opened in a scream that wouldn't come out. My hands scrabbled at the floor, looking for something to hold onto, and found nothing but carpet fibers and dust.
"Oh god," I heard myself say. "Oh god, oh god—"
She did it again. Pulled back. Drove forward. The wet sound of it filled the room—that horrible, intimate sound of her sliding into me, of my body accepting her, of the slick mess we were making together on the floor of my dorm room. I felt tears running down my temples, into my hair, and I didn't have the strength to wipe them away.
I was crying. I was being fucked by a dead woman on my bedroom floor, and I was crying, and my body was responding to it in ways I couldn't control, my hips tilting up to meet her thrusts, my cunt clenching around her like it was trying to keep her inside.
"Please," I begged. "Please, I'll do anything. I'll—I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just—just not like this—"
Her hand left my hip. For a moment I thought she was listening, that she was going to stop, that my begging had finally gotten through to whatever was left of the woman she used to be. But then her fingers found my throat.
Not squeezing. Just resting there. Her cold, wet palm against my pulse point, her fingers spanning the width of my neck, and I felt my breath catch in my chest. I felt my heartbeat hammering against her palm. And I saw, through the curtain of her lank black hair, that single eye watching me with something that looked almost like satisfaction.
She wanted me to know she could kill me. That was what that hand on my throat meant. She could end me right now, squeeze the life out of me, add my ghost to whatever collection she kept at the bottom of that well. But she wasn't going to. She was going to do something worse.
She was going to make me live through this.
The hand on my throat pressed down. Just a little. Just enough to make my vision swim, to make the edges of the room go dark, to make me feel the pressure in my skull and the panic rising in my chest. And then she thrust again, deep and slow, and the combination of it—the lack of air, the fullness inside me, the cold weight of her body on mine—sent me somewhere I didn't have words for.
Not pleasure. Not pain. Something in between, something that had no name because no one had ever written about it, no one had ever survived long enough to describe it.
My hands came up. I didn't know what I was going to do with them—push her away, claw at her face, beat against her chest—but they found her shoulders instead, and I gripped that wet, white skin like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. I felt the give of it, the soft-firm texture of flesh that had been underwater too long, and I dug my nails in.
She didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound. She just kept thrusting into me, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world, like she was savoring every second of my terror and my helplessness and my body's traitorous response to her.
And the screen behind her still rippled.
I could see it over her shoulder. The laptop screen, glowing in the dark of my dorm room, still moving like water, still stirring like something was trying to push through. I didn't know what else was coming. I didn't want to know. I just wanted it to stop, wanted her to stop, wanted to wake up in my bed with the morning light coming through the blinds and the whole thing to be a nightmare.
But I wasn't going to wake up. I knew that now. I was going to lie here on this sticky carpet and let her do whatever she wanted to me, and there wasn't a single thing I could do to stop it.
My fingers found the edge of the carpet. There was something there—a seam, a loose floorboard, something I could grab onto. I gripped it. I held on. And I pulled.
My body slid forward. An inch. Maybe two. The drag of her cock inside me was agonizing—I felt every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch of her pulling against my inner walls—but I was moving. I was actually moving. I was going to get free.
Her hand closed around my ankle.
I felt it happen in slow motion. The cold press of her fingers against my skin. The grip tightening. The yank that came after, so sudden and so strong that I didn't have time to scream.
She pulled me back.
Flat.
The motion drove her cock deeper inside me—deeper than she'd been before, deeper than I thought was possible—and the impact forced a sound out of me that I'd never made before. A choked, wet gasp that was half scream and half sob, that came from somewhere deep in my chest and left my throat raw.
I felt her pelvis pressed against mine. Felt the impossible depth of her inside me, the way she'd bottomed out, the way my body had been forced to accept every last inch of her. My hands flew to my belly, pressing against the mark that was burning there, and I felt it through my skin—felt the shape of her, the outline of her cock pressing against my insides, the proof of how completely she'd taken me.
"Please," I whispered. My voice was gone. Broken. I didn't even recognize it anymore. "Please, it's too deep. You're too deep. I can't—"
Her hand on my ankle shifted. Her fingers slid up my calf, my knee, my thigh. And I felt her grip tighten again as she pulled my leg up, opening me wider, changing the angle so she could push even deeper.
I screamed. The sound tore out of me, raw and desperate, and I clawed at the carpet again, looking for that loose floorboard, looking for anything that would help me get away. But she was too strong. She was too much. She was a dead thing that had been waiting at the bottom of a well for decades, and I was just a girl in an oversized hoodie who'd watched the wrong tape.
Her hips began to move again. Slow. Deliberate. Each thrust pushed her deeper, each pull-back made me feel the drag of her, and I lay there beneath her, crying, begging, my body betraying me with every clench of my cunt around her cock.
The screen rippled behind her. Brighter now. More insistent.
And I realized, with a horror that went deeper than anything I'd felt before, that she wasn't done with me yet. That this—this violation, this invasion, this impossible stretching of my body around something that shouldn't exist—was only the beginning.
She was going to breed me.
The thought crystallized in my mind, sharp and terrible, and I felt my body go cold with understanding. She was going to fill me with her seed. She was going to make me carry her child. And there wasn't a single thing I could do to stop it.
"No," I sobbed. "No, please, I don't want—I can't—I'm not ready—"
Her eye watched me. Unblinking. Hungry.
And she thrust deeper.