Page 11

Sundrop: June 2022

I swing the bat around and bring it down upon this fucker's head. The crack reverberates through my whole body and goes straight to my cunt. I keep wondering why I can't come with a partner and yet it’s because of this. I need violence, I only get turned on now by seeing someone in physical pain, specifically something fatal.

This was the blow that was fatal, causing the man, the rapist piece of trash to crumble where he had been sitting tied to a chair. His whole skull caved in as I had beaten him again and again across the head with the wooden baseball bat that I now slowly lowered to the ground. I pant both with the exhaustion of swinging the bat and crashing it down across his thick fucking head so many times. I’m also panting with a different need, one that always comes bouncing out from my core when I kill someone. Swapping one insatiable need for another. Rage or lust, it’s always one or the other, swinging violently back and forth in a dangerous equilibrium that is never at peace.

Panting, I reach my free hand down and inside my trousers. I touch myself then, looking at Robert’s dead body, the glorious sight of it turning me on so much I almost cry out when I touch my blood covered fingertips to my clit.

I’ve never considered necrophilia, well, I guess in a way this is necrophilia, but I haven’t fucked a corpse. Mainly I guess because I believe this man is an absolute piece of shit and is probably riddled with diseases I don’t want to catch. I have gloves on, the blood does act as an interesting lubrication, making my fingers slip and slide around the already wet folds of my labia.

Is it a blood kink or necrophilia? Maybe it is both. I don’t care right now because lust is a dangerous companion for me. It makes me lose my mind and all sense of practicality and self-preservation.

I love my body, I love my pussy, having spent so much time learning exactly how it works and what I like. It took a long time to be able to make myself orgasm properly and now I give myself every toy and fantasy I can because why not? I deserve it.

I rub my clit slowly, taking turns with my movements to go around in a circle before changing to rub back and forth, up and down. It feels good and my legs grow heavier as I touch myself, pressing harder and going a little faster. I don’t put anything inside me, I could, I’ve thought about it, but I don’t want anything of this man inside of me. I can use his blood, make myself wetter and hornier knowing my cunt is covered in blood.

I can’t help my obsession with blood, ever since I was a child I have always loved blood, craved it, wanted it, needed it. I’d cut myself not because I was sad or suicidal but because I wanted to see my blood. I’d stand and stare at the blood welling up from underneath my skin and spilling out over my arm, or thigh or chest. I loved getting my period and spent so much time with my fingers inside myself exploring and looking at whatever came out of me. I’d eagerly watch when getting blood taken, enraptured by the process. I was fascinated when others were horrified. I had wanted to be a doctor but despite being smart enough, I was never emotionally mature enough to commit to any real education and career. I also wanted to be a vampire, to live and survive by the death and blood of others.

Blood.

It’s everywhere for me.

It’s the beginning and end and everything in between. It rises and ebbs like the ocean, taking on a tidal wave of pressure and need; of lust and rage.

Rage and lust, the only two emotions I am convinced I have the capacity to feel. Sometimes disgust too. Right now, the blood is covering my cunt as I think about the dead body in front of me. I’m so happy this man is dead. I didn’t know him personally, but I followed the press, took an interest in his court dates and now that he is out, I followed him home.

The police will find him tomorrow and will not be able to link me to the crime.

I think about Cole and imagine him taking me in this blood. Fantasying about his hands being the one to touch me, him ramming his thick hard cock inside me and fucking me right here. I know he wouldn’t, he hates blood, gets wound up about periods and woozy over getting a papercut.

It’s not his fault; we all have our issues.

I giggle to myself at that, knowing that I have my issues as I feel him inside of me in a way I’ve yet to experience and know that he would fuck me so good. I want him to hear me beg for his cock. I’m desperate for him and he doesn’t want me like that, that’s how it feels.

I touch myself to his rejection and objectification of me, I know he wants me, but he just wants me sexually like everyone else seems to. No one ever wants anything deeper. Maybe they know there’s something wrong with me and stay away for their own sense of safety. I can’t blame them, not really. I am fucking demented after all.

I bite my lip the way I know he likes and watch the blood leak out of Robert’s head. It’s appalling and disgusting and I love it! His head is in pieces, and it’ll be hard to identify him. The thought makes my knees buckle and I can feel I’m going to come soon. It won’t take much. It never does when I can smell the blood, it’s thick and dark around him and me.

I think back to taking the baseball bat and crushing his skull, how wonderful it felt to end this rapist's life. He deserved it, I think. My fingers slippery against my pussy, pushing my fingers closely around and around my clit.

The sensation builds in me, and I moan “Cole” as I think of him fucking my pussy from behind. I can almost feel his hand against my throat, his other hand grabbing the tits he loves to look at but won’t touch. I pretend he is pulling at my nipple as he fucks me relentlessly.

It’s to that thought that I come, trying to keep my eyes open as I stare at the bloody mess of Robert’s head as I shake, my whole body bending over involuntarily, needing to catch myself before falling over. I manage to keep my balance, only barely.

I sigh loudly, laughing a little, feeling overwhelmed by the murder and the orgasm.

Taking off my glove for a moment, I take out my phone and see that Cole sent me a text about 20 minutes ago;

Cole: Do you want to go out for Frappuccino's on Saturday morning?

I smile, endeared but also a little confused. I thought he was giving up on me, pulling away… yet, he seems to be listening to what I said and trying to spend time with me. Not wanting to be over eager, I replied.

Me: Yeah, sounds great

Suddenly my whole world flips and I feel happy. I’d love to spend the morning with him. I can’t wait to see him; it’s been so long.

I slide my phone back in my pocket and I stare at the dead body in front of me, my tools lying around the room and the mess of blood. As hot and bothered as it initially makes me, now that those needs are taken care of another pushes for attention; survival. I live in a constant state of keeping myself safe from being discovered.

There is no rehabilitation that works, there is no punishment that is severe enough for me to learn not to do these things. It’s inherently ingrained in my core, my very being. This is my brain and who I am. I do not feel regret or remorse and if I’ve ever come across that I do, it’s because I literally rehearsed these emotions at home in front of a mirror.

I learned that a smile must reach the eyes for it to be considered genuine, so I spent hours staring in the mirror learning how to make my face move to be convincing. Practice, practice and more practice until I believed it was a good enough replication to pass as a regular person. I’ve had people tell me how empathetic I am, men especially seem to think I am full of empathy and yet, I’ve never experienced empathy.

Somewhere along the line, I developed an intellectual understanding of what empathy is so that again, I could convincingly display empathy because what I did learn was that it is a requirement of being around people.

Most people don’t know the difference between empathy and sympathy and when they demand empathy, it’s sympathy they want. That was confusing because after I believed I had perfected empathy, I realised I was being overly empathetic, and people didn’t like that either. Turns out being too empathetic is also a red flag.

So, I toned it down and it’s apparently quite convincing.

Only a few times has anyone seen how devoid of empathy and compassion I actually am. In moments where someone needed to be scared a little, I let the mask slip. Sometimes, sexually, it comes off a little unintentionally because I can’t help but act like the predator I am when passion comes out.

I think back to being on my knees in front of Nicholas in his living room. How he had pretended to be dominant and yet, my dominance came out as I know I let slip the look. That look of careful oblivion. That predatory entitlement, that quiet anger. I might have been on my knees for him, he was never in control. He knew it then.

Anger, lust and passion I have in abundance. They all swirl together violently and I believe I am a sadist. I like to hurt people; I enjoy it sexually. I enjoy that look of fear in someone’s eyes.

Maybe it’s my lack of tolerance, my aversion to patience; I’m starting to think I’d enjoy hurting Cole.