I love this time of night; mothers become women, fathers become men, people become sinners, and children become saints. When that clock strikes twelve, we can finally become who we want to be, finally let our cravings come to light, devour and satisfy our needs. It's as if we are mice at dusk, scavenging for what's left in this world, for the pleasures and passions we could never pursue, eating its remains until we're full. Nothing holds us back.
So when I walk down these streets in the darkness of beautiful sinners, they are known to step aside, to feed in the other direction and dare not taste the devil in disguise. I'm what you call a "vixen", or so they say around here, with no means to an end. I walk in red-bottom heels, and wear satin dresses for comfort. My lips are always painted red, thick in color, tempting all of those that dare walk in my path. All these men fall under my spell without hesitation, get on their knees for me when I need to be tended to. I charm my way into their strong, muscular, useless arms, making them do everything I want them to do.
You see, I have secrets, secrets I cannot tell to just any stranger walking along these alleyways. There's this darkness inside of me, a black, humanless pit that consumes all the edges of my soul, starving to embrace another male victim, to prey on the weak. Some of them (those who survive, of course), say I'm quite manipulative, devious, controlling...unprecedented. I seem to have a vendetta against men who dare speak of my actions and go against the morals of humanity, of what it means to be a man. Sometimes, they say I'm kind of...more or less insane, a little sadistic. I mean, if I have to be honest with you, I may...carry some strong hate for the living, have ruthless anger, a lustful rage that only true men get to see. And if you are wondering, yes, I always have my way. I always get what I want, what I need, and what I always crave.
So when I see a man being unfaithful to his wife, I have to, of course, teach him a special lesson.
Take Mr. Jacobson, for example. Oh, he was so handsome! Look at him at the charity event with that expensive suit and tie, the rolled-up cuff links, his gentle eyes, those strong, broad shoulders, a mouth too thick and delicious...fuck, I wanted to make him do things to me that might seem unprofessional, or is it? He was known as a bachelor around here, a very smooth charmer, a man who seduces women by only expressing a look of desire, needing to be caressed and touched by a young woman's lips at all times.
But failure was not on his resume or current to-do list, so he got off on wearing his wedding ring during a long rendezvous with the adorable woman next door who was, of course, half his age...a little young for my taste if you ask me. Certainly, he planned on keeping this little hobby on the side just until his wife ended up pregnant with their first child, or so, that's what he told his associates during a Sunday night of poker. Oh, and did I mention he's a Christian man? Yes, every Sunday morning he goes to church with his wife, praising dearly to the Lord before fucking Ms. Costa in the bathroom at the end of service. Sadly, Mrs. Jacobson is quite clueless, believing every lie he told and every apology he made.
So it must not be a surprise that I decided to take him under my wing and teach him some manners. I seduced him during a club event that him and his friends attended one night. It wasn't that difficult, of course, as all men are quite easily persuaded by women with desperate intentions. I wore an auburn satin dress for him, let my hair flow down the midst of my back, lips deeply coated red, heels tightly strapped. I used what God gave me, what drives men incredibly wild, practically kiss my damn feet; my body. I lured him in by the sway of my hips, feeling the rhythm of the music in the heat of the crowd, using my seductive eyes to draw him in. Of course, he did what he was told. He danced with me, touched me, kissed me, and I laughed at all his compliments, teasing him with my lips as they scrape along his neck and nibble on his earlobe, practically begging him to do what he thinks he does best.
It didn't take long for him to follow me into a private room I bought in the club, wanting him all to myself with no witnesses to watch what he thought would be me riding his face. When I mentioned this act, he loved the idea so much he was suddenly a little boy in a candy shop, seeing his favorite chocolate bar as if for the first time in a decade. How pathetic!
Once we entered the room and I discreetly locked the door behind me, I sat him down on the chair against the wall, one that's firmly planted on the floor for what I call "safety purposes," giving a little playful innocent shove. I observed what he was wearing, tilting my head to admire his white bottom-up shirt with black pants and dress shoes, staring at his defined scruff and messy hair. He looked manly…and yet shitty for someone who believes he's going to get fucked. I do love the manly ones, the ones who are so dominant and possessive, those who believe they have all the control in every situation they partake in. It's funny how they actually believe that! We all know women are really the ones in control. We just make them think they hold all the power. It's one of our many gifts.
I smile at him before straddling his wide hips, knees on either side of him as I feel him shift his pants in arousal, his bulge growing from beneath me. And I have to say, he's surprisingly thick. I honestly don't blame Ms. Costa...or even his wife. Hm, maybe I should castrate him! Ha, that would be interesting, a wonderful sight to see. But that would be too messy for me to clean up. The last time took a few days. No, no, that won't do. Besides, he's not that terrible.
There are cuffs placed underneath both arms of the chair. I retrieve them by pulling against the tape, and revealing the black, Velcro cuffs with metal straps. I attempt not to smirk when he willingly places his wrists inside of them. Of course, he is biting his bottom lip right now. I do the same, but for other reasons, tightening cuffs so they were locked in place. I move my hips against his, hearing him moan against the pressure.
"Oh, Mr. Jacobson," I grin, "I have a question for you before we get started. You wouldn't mind now, would you…sir?"
He shakes his head like a guilty boy trying to prove his innocence, and leans in to kiss and lick my neck. But I shove him back against the chair with a wink.
"Just tell me sir, would you? Just tell me why," I grip the back of his head, "Why the fuck do you cheat on your wife, huh?! Why do you fuck the girl next door after your wife goes to work? Why do you fuck Ms. Costa from behind when your wife is not looking?!" His fearful eyes widen and he shifts in the chair, moves his legs under me, wanting to escape, "Please, enlightened me. I want to hear what you have to say for yourself. Let's hear all those fucked up excuses and fucked up apologies!"
"What is this? What are you doing?! Who are you?!" he panics in fear, in anger, in surprise. There he is. That's what I wanted to see.
He's trying to break out of the cuffs, kicking and squirming like a little schoolgirl. I tightened my legs around him, holding him in place. He's probably surprised of how strong I am. Ha! He has no fucking idea. I then grip his throat with my hand, and slide the satin dress further up with the other, taking a small knife out of the garment wrapped around my inner thigh. He gasps and groans, frightened. He looks like he wants to scream for help. I attempt not to laugh. No one would hear him even if he did! This is my private room, completely sound proof. I mean it was cheaper if I got the whole package, and my God has it been quite a blessing.
"Wrong answer, Mr. Jacobson," I laugh. "God, look at you. All helpless and defeated. So fuckin weak! Didn't daddy ever tell you crying is for little girls?! Oh, wait…did your daddy cheat on mommy? Is he that much of a whore that you became one too?! It sucks that he's dead. It would have been fun seducing both of you."
"Who the fuck are you?! Let go of me! What the fuck is this?!" he roars or at least, tries too, ignoring all of my questions.
Wow, he's a talker! A loud one too! He's probably the screamer in bed. I should probably ask one of his associates later. He heard that day when Mr. Jacobson fucked Mrs.Torres at that children's party. Oh wait...I know he's a screamer. I heard them too!
I grip his throat tighter, digging my nails into his skin so that he's practically choking, unable to talk, "Mr. Jacobson, you need to calm down. I'm only doing what is necessary. I'm doing every woman a favor. You came to me, didn't you?! You wanted me! You see, I am someone you don't want to mess with. I am someone you go to when someone needs to be…more or less taken care of. And If I see something wrong, I fix it."
He's shaking his head, pulling against the restraints again, continuously twisting under me and kicking nothing but air. He's starting to annoy me! Why can't he just sit still? I roll my eyes and jam the blade into his left upper thigh, his eyes almost bulging out of its sockets, attempting to groan in pain. Blood oozes out of the wound and coats his pants, spreading along the material like a painting.
"Look, I had to get you to stop squirming," I smile. "Now, will you please tell me what I want to know? Because I just really want to know, you know? Before I murder you and all. It's really not that hard. Why are you, I don't know, a piece of shit?! What is it about Ms. Costa that makes you feel like a man?"
I release my grip from his throat, just a little so I can hear him speak. But of course, he doesn't give me the satisfaction. Instead, he spits on my face and calls me a bitch. I shake my head and laugh, wiping away the saliva from my nose. I really try to give these men a chance to speak up for themselves. It's not my fault they don't cooperate with my methods.
I sigh, strengthening my hold around his precious little neck, "Oh, Mr. Jacobson. You know, I kind of thought you would be different. Though I have to say this was quite fun! We could of fucked if you just answered me correctly. Anyway, Mr. Jacobson, you can go fuck yourself and oh, I'm really not sorry about this."
I take out the knife from his thigh, and watch his blood squirt out from the infliction, painting our clothes and bare skin while I let go of his neck. He roars out in pain, unable to sustain his reaction as signals surge through his body with agony. I then grip the strands of his hair, and pull his head back so the length and curve of his delicious neck is exposed. Before he can plead me to spare his pathetic life, I slice through his flesh with the sharp blade, thick, dark blood instantly gushing out of his neck like a musical performance, splashing its beauty against my face. He's choking on the fluid, wanting to grasp his throat but can't, blood seeping through his button-up and dripping down his hairy chest, unable to speak or breathe, even move a tiny muscle. He just looks at me with horrified eyes, tears filling the rims as I ravish this moment, biting my bottom lip in pleasure. I await his death, wait until his hazel eyes are lifeless, his warm body is limp, and I can no longer hear his wonderful choking sounds echo these red walls.
I smooth back his hair in amazement and smear away the blood on his cheeks, "If only you knew who I was, this would never have happened, baby. I hope you like what I did. Isn't it beautiful?"
I look over at the time, and realize my night is almost up. Sinners must be hidden in the day, they say, and should only come out and play at night. I sigh and look at the delicious mess I made, hands and dress covered in his blood.
I tap his nose and shrug, "And next time, sweetheart, just answer my fucking questions."