Bill despised his replacement arm, it was no secret; he'd told Dr. Webb to go fuck herself, that's how much he loathed it. It had practically driven him into insanity. A killer's arm, and that's what it had turned him into, a killer, and even so, at least he used it for the right reasons. He'd narrowly escaped being killed himself, or at least from being maimed. He didn't understand why that had frightened him, after already wanting the limb removed; it must have been in his bloodstream, an innate desire to keep it.
After all the drama, the terror, the fighting against himself, he was finally back home. Karen had come to accept it was the arm driving him to commit violent acts, the punching of his son, the fact that he strangled her, but that didn't mean she felt safe. Bill understood, of course, he'd be an asshole to ignore it, and that's why he happily took to sleeping on the couch.
So there he lay, staring up at the ceiling in the near darkness, his right hand resting on his chest. It should have made him nervous, and it did, the extremity rising and falling with his deliberate slow, deep breathing. He couldn't sleep, his eyes wide and unblinking, his thoughts on why this had to happen to him; in truth, he would have preferred he had no arm at all.
Of their own accord, his fingers clenched and unclenched, itching for movement. Bill didn't think much of it, simply ignoring it, but then the desire for movement grew and he closed his eyes as his hand inched slowly upward, his lips pressing together and his brows furrowing in a pained expression. He jolted, a shiver of fear wracking through his body as his hand crawled slowly, yet ever so deftly, up along his chest. He knew what was coming.
Suddenly the hand was at his throat, squeezing, a taste of what he'd done to his wife. His eyebrows shot upward, his mouth opening wide in an attempt to suck in the air of which he was being deprived, the fear of killing himself overwhelming. His left hand shot up a moment later, taking hold of the other in an effort to pull it away, but the right only tightened its grip further. He thrashed, almost trying to call out for help. And just when he was about to pass out, the hand released and he sucked in a deep breath before panting.
Regaining control of his hand, he placed it to his cheek, still reeling from the assault. He thought it was over, but then his hand moved again, his fingers sliding slowly down his cheek, his lips parted and his jaw slack, until his pinky finger found his bottom lip, the pad gliding along it almost seductively, back and forth. His brows furrowed in confusion. Then his other fingers moved over his mouth, his thumb grazing his upper lip, until his hand was resting on his opposite cheek.
Just as suddenly as his hand shooting to his throat, his fingernails dug into his skin, raking along his cheek toward his mouth, the scratch deep and stinging. His mouth opened and his brows furrowed further in pain, then his nails moved to the area beneath his opposite eye, raking down his other cheek, and he winced as he once again thrashed his head in an attempt to avoid the abuse. The scratching continued as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, wanting to escape to the void of his mind, to will his arm to stop, to be his own. Then the images came, flashes, vivid and red with blood. The killer's memories, brutal and wicked, the nightmares that plagued his sleep.
It happened quickly, the killer's blood that resided in him rushing to his groin, engorging his member. It had never occurred to him that the killer eroticized his evil deeds.
The flashes stoped suddenly, as well as the scratches, and he found himself hard and panting. His hand was hanging in the air, moving downward, and he fought against it, the extremity wavering and tense. His tongue swiped at his upper lip in his determination. At first it seemed like will won out, but he wasn't strong enough, his hand falling to the hem of his pants, his fingers crawling inside.
All he could do was watch in horror as his hand wrapped around the base his manhood, gripping tighter than he normally would. Too tight. He winced as it gave an agonizing stroke upward along his shaft; the strength of his arm was astounding. The stroke downward wasn't any less intense, and he shut his eyes in pain, turning his head away as if he didn't want to witness the horrid abuse to his member, feeling shame despite his unwillingness.
The strokes continued, evenly paced and deliberate, his hand pumping him cruelly. And just as he had done with his hand around his throat, his left hand went to try and release him from the unrelenting right. But his efforts bought him no relief, his hand only intensifying the pace. He grunted in pain and frustration, bordering on a whimper, his eyes brimming with tears that threatened to fall; he wasn't going to cry, it was simply his body's reaction to the stress he was enduring.
The images came again and he felt himself growing harder within his hand, already pulsing with the need for release. His eyes flashed open and, unable to bear the pain of his tight grip, he doubled over the side of the couch, his left arm supporting his upper body, his failed attempt to run away from what was happening. With wide eyes he continued to whimper, and then he chanced a glance down at the compromising sight, at his hand wringing his erection as if it were trying to squeeze the life out of it. A sob wracked his body as he leaked onto the carpet. The pain was unbearable, yet somehow it felt so good on his engorged member, the friction bringing him to a frightening peak he tried to resist.
Throbbing within his hand, his breathing grew labored as he neared orgasm, his resistance somehow heightening the sensation. He didn't want to come. He didn't want to be sick. This wasn't his doing, it was his damned arm. It was as though a stranger were forcing himself upon him.
Giving up on escape, his upper body fell back onto the couch, his hips bucking in an ecstasy that wasn't his. He let out a loud grunt as he began to tense, and then suddenly he was coming, his hand milking him harshly through his orgasm.
It seemed to last forever, and even when he was finally empty his hand continued to torment him, as if making sure he was spent.
And just like that, his hand released him.
His breathing was heavy as he lay there, slack jawed and wide eyed, once again staring at the ceiling. Needless to say, it was a sleepless night.