| Silent Hill 2 | Chapter 6 - Drown By Temptations

The warmth of his spent seed chilled against his skin, a sticky, unwelcome testament to her violation. Phantom contractions, a mocking echo of pleasure, pulsed in his groin. Had he truly seen the predatory gleam in her empty sockets? She remained atop him, her weight a chilling dominance, corrupted flesh imprinted against his. His own climax, a fleeting spark, was extinguished by a surge of adrenaline, a desperate craving to reclaim something stolen. A dark hunger gnawed at him.

Seizing the sliver of opportunity during her briefest stillness, the almost imperceptible shift as she recovered, he bucked against her, sending her reeling. The slick heat of their mingled fluids, momentarily exposed to the cool air, broke the chilling contact of their thighs. With brutal efficiency, he rolled her over, reversing their positions.

The grotesque topography of her body shifted beneath him, the tattered remnants of her nurse's uniform twisting into new obscenities. His fingers dug into her clammy shoulders, the veins beneath throbbing a frantic counterpoint to his own racing heart. Control wouldn't be relinquished.

Now he was the dominant one, his weight pressing her down against the torn fabric, the reek of decay rising to mingle with the metallic tang of his arousal. She's watching me, the thought slithered through his mind, a cold finger tracing his spine. The prickling on his neck intensified.

Gazing down at her, those vacant sockets seemed to pierce him. A perverse need, a dark hunger, stirred within, a monstrous counterpoint to the revulsion that clawed at his throat. Denial was impossible. He craved this. Needed to possess, to consume, to defile.

Forcing her legs wider, the tattered uniform ripped further, revealing the grotesque parody of her sex. Her flesh, clammy and cold beneath his touch, was a stark, chilling contrast to the burning heat coalescing in his groin. He hesitated, the memory of her predatory gaze, real or imagined, flashing before his eyes. But the raw, animal lust, a raging inferno, consumed his doubt.

Lowering himself, his cock pressed against the slick, morbidly inviting entrance. The juxtaposition was jarring – the icy chill of death enveloping his burning arousal. He pushed forward, slowly at first, savoring the resistance, then with increasing force, breaching the unyielding passage. A soft, wet slurp echoed from within, a sound that sent a shiver of both terror and exhilaration down his spine. The ancient wooden bed groaned beneath their combined weight.

He began to fuck her, his movements a tempest of lust and terror. Each thrust was a violation, fueled by a desperate need for release. The cloying sweetness of decay clung to the air, a phantom perfume mingling with the metallic tang of his arousal. It coated his tongue, a taste he couldn't quite place, yet one that strangely amplified the feverish heat between his legs.

His fingers tightened on her shoulders, then slid down, closing over her breasts through the torn fabric. The thin material of her bra offered little resistance. The cold, almost rubbery feel of her flesh beneath his fingers sent a fresh wave of revulsion and excitement through him. He kneaded her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples, which, despite the surrounding decay, were surprisingly erect.

God, they feel… good. A flicker of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through him, a stark contrast to the horror of the situation. How can I feel this? The thought was fleeting, quickly swallowed by the rising tide of lust and self-loathing. He kneaded harder, seeking to recapture that brief spark of sensation, the incongruity of it only fueling his perverse desire. He pounded into her with savage abandon.

A low moan, both repulsive and intoxicating, escaped her lips. God, it feels good. The rhythmic slurp and squelch marked his progress, the creaking of the bed now a constant, macabre rhythm. His own lust was his master, the memory of his own violation receding into a distant echo.

Reaching his climax, his seed erupted within her, a final act of… surrender to his desire. The warmth pulsed against the cold, unyielding walls of her… thing, a stark and disturbing contrast. As the last shudder subsided, a new, darker impulse took hold. He withdrew slightly, the mingled fluids, slick and glistening, momentarily exposed.

Then, with grim determination, driven by the insistent throb in his cock, he shifted, his cock now pressing against her cold anus.

Forcing his entry. The passage resisted, then yielded with a sickening pop and a wet, sucking sound. Her insides were not soft and yielding, but strangely firm, almost rubbery, like some unnatural organ. The sensation was profoundly disturbing, yet it stoked his perverse desire.

He began to fuck her again, his movements now a storm of lust. The unnatural tightness was a perverse pleasure. Another moan, higher this time, vibrated from her throat. Unbelievable. She's moaning. It's driving me crazy. Each thrust was a violation, driven by an almost unbearable craving.

The scent of decay and his arousal mingled into a sickeningly intoxicating perfume, the rubbery texture against his engorged cock a maddening counterpoint to the coldness of her flesh. The bed groaned under the renewed assault. Gripping her shoulders, he pounded into her with increasing ferocity.

The rhythmic pop and squelch were his only companions in this grotesque dance, the creaking of the bed now a frantic, desperate rhythm. His own insatiable lust was now in control. It was wrong, terribly wrong, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. He was lost in a maelstrom of fear, lust, and the desperate need for release, even if it meant violating something monstrous and unholy.

He continued to fuck her. The sounds echoed through the room, amplified by the stillness, each thrust a percussive beat in a macabre symphony. The old bed groaned and creaked beneath their combined weight. The rhythm was relentless, hypnotic, filling the room with a sense of dread.

It was a sound that spoke of desperation, of violation, of a hunger that could never be satiated. The sounds echoed on, a testament to his descent, a soundtrack to the hell he had created, a hell from which, for now, there was no escape.