I feel his fingers wrap around the base of my throat, devouring the redness of my lips as hunger and thirst courses through his body. His skin sticks to mine in desperation, craving for heat within these closed walls, never failing to whisper words too explicit to even repeat in the air between us. His touches are rough, his tongue continues to starve, and his eyes are entranced by the proposed sex he believes he will have. So as I frantically moan in response, inching my hips towards his, awing to his grip around my throat, panting to the torture grazes on my inner thigh, convulsing underneath his weight for submission, I'm thinking about how his organ will look in the palm of my hand as blood drips from my fingertips, how long it will take for him to breathe his last breath, whisper my name in my ears with hopes to save his dying soul, because his soul will never be saved, and his life will never be spared.
He feels women like they are creatures, bodies, waiting to be desired and touched, gripped, pulled...damaged and destroyed. He can't help but rip away all the strength they endure, all the innocence they convey, all the compassion they possess. He's pathetic, despicable, desperate, trying to be a man's man and be seen as a powerful dominant, a master, a boy who wants the world to know he can get what he wants and do whatever he desires.
We all know men like this, the ones that push a woman's limit, who devours fame and popularity, who wants all their friends to see how many women he can get to beg at his feet, like he should be worshiped and thirsted for. It's interesting how he believes such things when we all know he tricked us into thinking he was even worth a dime, that we would rather see his head on a stick than crawl on our knees. And he somehow thinks he can get away with all of this? Oh, Mr. Jones…
I've done many things in my life, but never something so vengeful and sinister, one that would undoubtedly bring me so much pleasure to my world. I can see why he's such a charmer, why women fall for his quiet eyes and sensible smile, relish such broad shoulders and strong arms, admire his smooth wit and adorable laugh. He's quite professional at seducing others, I'll give him that, but I'd say he's a fool in thinking that he can seduce me, that I would fall for all his physical features and find all his dry jokes funny. Does he not know I've met women he has purposely put in hospitals? Does he not think I know about his secret wife who he has disowned and neglected for years? I'm no scientist, but I think I know when a man is hiding a secret that can lead to his own demise.
So here I am, letting him touch me, grip me, and kiss me, letting him do what he believes he does best. If you think I'm enjoying the way he moves against me, I'm not. Frankly, I'm enjoying the way he thinks he intensifies my being, enjoying the anticipation of his death, the pleasure and satisfaction growing inside me as I find the right moment to cease his existence. So when we crash onto the bed straddling his monstrous body, when his fingers release from my throat to grip the very curves of my hips, when his mouth buries deep inside my cleavage to leave teeth marks on my skin, I push him down.
His eyes, of course, widen in response and I playfully laugh at my abruptness to cover up my apparent confidence. But then I place my hand around his throat, tightly griping the length, sinking my sharp nails into his flesh as I watch little trickles of blood travel down his neck. He begins to choke underneath me and tightens his hold on my waist, wishing to hurt me and loosen my grasp of what he assumes is my own sexual kink. I laugh at the gesture and tastefully, bite my bottom lip.
"Oh, Mr. Jones," I say, "don't play games with me, and don't act like you don't know what I'm doing. You think I don't know what you do to women? You think I actually fell for your pitiful ass?"
My grip tightens when I see him try to speak. I hush him before pulling up my dress to retrieve my weapon, "Please, spare your excuses and don't waste your breath. You knew this was coming. You know this is what I do. I've been with you for too long now and I'm getting awfully bored at the moment, aren't you?"
He takes a hold of my wrist clenching his throat, desiring to take a breath and have a say in his demise. I can't help but smile, "Sorry, that's not how this works," I slowly lean down to his ear, breathing against his skin, tugging his earlobe with my teeth as I lick his salty flesh, "now you listen to me and listen carefully. I want you to know that I'm doing everyone a favor right now, helping many women out there who are hurting because of you. Call this a…truce, yes? If you survive the afterlife, of course. Now, any last words?"
I release my hold just enough that his jaw begins to relax, giving him bits of oxygen to speak some words or at least, a couple of vowels. Yet, when I do this, he begins to reach for my neck with his other hand, believing he can kill me with all the power he believes he has as a man. I roll my eyes in disgust and shake my head, squeezing his neck so I can hear the pleasant sounds of choking, echoing in this quiet, abandoned room as I deeply dig my nails into his skin, admiring the thick streams of blood soaking my fingertips. Is it sadistic of me to adore how horribly he suffers, how he attempts to gather valuable air as if he hasn't intoxicated his lungs with foul actions for these past few years, as if he hasn't had enough to moan to the sounds of forced sex? I giggle to myself, wondering if he feels my thighs wonderfully tremble in delight to his current predicament.
I then tilt my head to the side in amusement as I look into his terrifying blue eyes, holding my weapon in place, ready to slaughter his flesh and let blood drown the crevices of the floors, sink into these white bed sheets, flood the edges of these pillows, splash against screaming walls and deadly stones, devour the end of life and my soaked, sticky hands, "No? Okay, perfect."