To fear is to die every minute—EM Cioran
In the early morning I wake up with a cock that is so hard the motherfucker hurts.
This is around 5am.
I drop thin cotton sweats on the tile floor on the walk to my crate. I turn the key in the dark—not a movement from inside. I lock us in and set my shirt on the workbench.
Anna's body is bathed in the floodlight halogens—bruised, too skinny, parts swollen.
She sleeps with her mouth open, head turned to one side.
I crawl on top of her and use my fingers to drag some wetness from deep inside her vagina to its surface, then rub some on the head of my cock.
I push it in, and I'm ten strokes along before Anna wakes. She doesn't say anything, just turns her head back to the side. She keeps her eyes open, staring at my workbench, and just takes it.
I feel the joy of waking up to my dick inside a 24 year old. She's tight, she's soft, she's wet, and she's my slave—everything down to the neck clamp.
She doesn't struggle in the restraints.
In fact she widens her legs at the knees to let me get further in.
She knows the faster this goes, the sooner her job will be done.
I don't know what it is I'm getting out of you. All of this is about me trying to get something out of you. Something that I lack. Something that I want. And it isn't a piece of pussy. Not only that, but it's something that cannot be gotten from you, hence the fact that after you there will be another, and another. I'm embarrassed to say it mirrors addiction—or is addiction—using the wrong tool for the job and becoming addicted to the tool itself..then losing touch with the problem you're trying to solve..getting lost in the world of the addiction, the killing..so that I forget what I was trying to fix about myself in the first place, and it never gets fixed.
I'm like that stupid boy at the beginning of KIDS who likes to fuck virgins. His name is Telly. He says: "Virgins. I love 'em. No diseases, no loose-as-a-goose pussy, no skank. No nothin'. Just pure pleasure." But that's not it. That's Telly on the surface, when he's narrating to the camera. When he's with his friend Casper, he goes deeper into his own nascent psychology. He says: "But like, if you deflower a girl man, man, you're the man. No one can ever do that again. You're the only one. No one—no one—has the power to do that again."
And I hate to be comparing my compulsion for killing girls to some virginity addict from KIDS, but Telly got it right when he started talking about power and no one—no one—being able to do that again.
I looked at Anna and thought about taking the life out of her. I would be the only one who would ever end her journey from Lehighton, PA to Pain, South Dakota. I'll always be her psychopomp—remember? The deity whose job is to safely escort the dead to the afterlife? I'll always be the one who held her hand when she died. And Telly has something—it's true that taking a girl's virginity is special. But taking a girl's life is—in my way of thinking—the adult version of that fantasy.
Anna's body bumped up and down in the gyno chair.
Every bolt was solid—nothing about the chair moved.
It was one unified piece; the only thing moving was my cock, and her cunt, and all the residual movements of her body including her breasts bouncing every time I stuck my dick as deep as I could into her. As the day approached, my morning woods became more frequent, and harder. I would wake up rock hard and have to pee so I'd stand at and angle so I could get my piss in the toilet before I went to fuck Anna. Sometimes I peed in the shower.
And then she took my dick. She took the thrusts of a man who is trying to get himself off as quickly as possible. Anna's vagina was so tight I could get off in as little as twenty thrusts. Some mornings took longer, but if it took too long I just looked at her face and thought about what was mine—or else I imagined her as a little girl taking it for the first time, lying in the grass, and me and Telly had our fun together.
When I thought of her as a little girl somewhere between eight and 11, I came instantly, squirted off deep inside her body and hoped she could feel the heat of my cum, and relished the fact that it would be dripping out of her body for the next 20 minutes.
Anna was silent as I came.
I grunted. I exhaled. I grabbed her hips.
I held my cock so deep inside her and let it pump the cum..
..as I felt..
..ecstasy.
Some days we never spoke a word. I just fucked her six, seven times. Enjoyed my catch.
We were close enough at this point that words meant nothing.
I mean—really—what is there to say when you're clamped with heavyweight steel to a gyno chair being raped by your future murderer? The situation pretty much contains itself without words.
I wanted to unlock her, take a shower with her, make her kneel under the spray of water and suck my cock. I'm sure she knew that she disarmed me with her conversation, and I imagined her as something of a wife—though I only ever had one wife and I'll only ever have one. But if the situation was different, I'd take Anna as my wife. I caught myself thinking this type of thought often—and it was a dangerous thought. It weakened me. And I couldn't afford that.
A 24-year-old woman is a strong human being. And one runner—one woman who got away—would be the end of my little playtime here in Pain. Human beings are smart. They have an extremely strong survival instinct. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to keep an above-average intelligence person captive for a month or more. They get desperate—and desperation is your enemy. They become more and more willing to risk their life to get out—because they accept, more and more, the idea that if they do nothing, their life is over. I've had to shoot women in the back as they ran down Blythe Road, naked—and I don't relish shooting a person in the back, let me tell you.
"Can you feel my cum?"
"Yes, I can feel your cum."
She said it with no irony. She said it how she knew it would make me hot—she knew that would be less trouble for her in the long run.
"Can you feel how hot that fucking cum is?"
"It's fucking hot."
"That's how much I wanted you when I woke up. I woke up needing your pussy, Anna. I fucking love this one—you got a good pussy on ya."
"That's how you talk about a horse."
I slap her on the thigh.
"You are a fucking horse. You're my horse!! Hey, horse: did you expect to eat breakfast 'cause now you're gonna have to make me cum again before you get any breakfast. I'll be back in a minute when I'm ready to go again. Why don't you work on your appetite."
I left her in the crate—locked her in—and let her think about what happens to bad horses when they fucking get sarcastic.
I sat down with my tablet. It was already set to look at Anna.
I had cameras everywhere—I could see her lip move when she made a certain facial expression while she thought whatever she was thinking at this particular moment.
I looked from overhead at her body and I coveted it—I wanted to own her forever, not just for a month this time. I knew it wasn't possible because eventually she'd outsmart me but I wanted to anyway. I spun through all the possible ways I could keep her but they all came up null—I was going to have to kill that girl.
After breakfast I would shave her pussy and her armpits (just to make her comfortable).
Then I'd show her end-of-life videos of other girls while I fucked her. I loved to see Anna close her eyes when a little girl got shot, and I loved to see her fascination at the murder foreplay I always went through with these little women—leaving the absoluteness of their death as a surprise to them as long as possible..even though the older ones saw it coming.
I liked to notice—and I never mentioned it—but I liked to notice how Anna lubricated herself especially much when I was playing games with a girl and could convince her she wasn't going to get killed. She liked it—and it's human nature. We like to see dramatic irony: when the audience knows more than the character? It's hilarious in comedy, riveting in thrillers, and it's fucking hot in a real-life murder scene. Anna knew I knew these scenes excited her—she's not stupid, she knows I can feel her pussy get wet—but we never talked about it. She just looked at the TV and quietly let her pussy contract at 0.8-second intervals for 10, sometimes 15 seconds.
And her cheeks flushed.
And I loved that.
And then the girl on the screen would die and Anna would close her eyes and I wouldn't know if I was fucking an oven or a young woman's pussy, that shit got so hot.