woman beneath
him.
He didn’t care about her; she was just
a whore and he didn’t care. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fucked her
harder, envisioning his foster mother, envisioning what she had
done to him and then…
Fuuuuuck. There it was, what he’d
needed. The image, the memory that would send him over the
edge.
Years later, after he’d finally gotten
his shit somewhat together, he’d gone back to New York City and
turned the tables on her.
His rich, bored, fucked-in-the head,
piece-of-shit foster mother.
She hadn’t even recognized him. He’d
been twenty-three years old, standing on her doorstep, and she’d
looked down on him like he wasn’t of importance, like he was
garbage. No, like he was worse than garbage, like he was
nothing.
“ What do you want?” she’d
asked, frowning as she looked him up and down.
He hadn’t answered, he couldn’t. His
head was spinning, his thoughts were clouding up, and his eyes
began to water. Directly behind her, the wallpaper, the carpeting,
the smell wafting into his nostrils, bourbon and Lysol, everything
was exactly the same. Even her. She was still beautiful, still so
regal, so put together.
And as she went to close the door in
his face, his leg had shot out, his boot had slammed into the door,
effectively throwing it wide open and catching the bitch off
balance, sending her stumbling backward and sprawling on her
backside. He’d stormed inside that house of horrors and the pain
those four walls still held within them radiated out and triggered
something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, something from deep
down, from his childhood. Helplessness. Confusion. Fright.
Anger.
All of those emotions, they had pulsed,
roared, screamed, and shouted; pushing, punching, clawing, and
digging their way out.
Before she could get to her feet, he
was on her, and she screamed as he straddled her, forced her legs
apart, and then pulled his piece and held his gun to her
head.
“ Shut up!” he roared and
her mouth snapped closed as she trembled beneath him.
“ Please,” she begged, her
voice wavering. “Please, I have money.”
He stroked her cheek with the cool
metal as he fumbled with the hem of her silky dress. “It’s okay,”
he whispered, unzipping himself. “You’re going to like it, I
promise you, I’m going to make you feel good.”
Her pretty hazel eyes went wide and her
glossy lips parted. “Michael,” she breathed.
“ Not anymore,” he hissed.
“You made sure of that.”
Feeling dizzy with adrenaline, drunk on
power, combined with the overwhelming need to make her hurt, he
shoved the barrel of his gun in her mouth and a mere heartbeat
later, his cock inside her.
And when he was done, he blew her
fucking brains out.
Now he was attempting to feed Ellie and
failing, when he heard her laughing. He stared at her, watched her
pretty face alight with humor, and something shifted inside of him.
It was such a pleasant sound, so light, so feminine, something he’d
heard before but never directed toward him, never because of him.
And…he liked it. It turned him on.
Being attracted to women for something
other than physical traits was something completely foreign to him.
He grew flustered and uncomfortable, his heart started pounding,
and he broke out into a cold sweat.
The bag of popcorn fell from his hand
and then he quickly crossed the living room, his jaw locked, his
fists clenched, refusing to look at Ellie, refusing to breathe
until he’d slammed the bathroom door behind him, locked it, and
sank down to the floor, his hands already fumbling with his jeans,
releasing himself.
With one arm slung across the closed
toilet lid, he bent his head down, resting it on his forearm as he
began to stroke himself. He focused on Ellie’s torn, bloodstained
clothing lying in a small pile in the corner of the bathroom, and
his cock surged forward.
Ellie’s sweet laughter echoed in his
head, even as he pictured her half-naked, bleeding in the alleyway,
and
him.
He didn’t care about her; she was just
a whore and he didn’t care. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fucked her
harder, envisioning his foster mother, envisioning what she had
done to him and then…
Fuuuuuck. There it was, what he’d
needed. The image, the memory that would send him over the
edge.
Years later, after he’d finally gotten
his shit somewhat together, he’d gone back to New York City and
turned the tables on her.
His rich, bored, fucked-in-the head,
piece-of-shit foster mother.
She hadn’t even recognized him. He’d
been twenty-three years old, standing on her doorstep, and she’d
looked down on him like he wasn’t of importance, like he was
garbage. No, like he was worse than garbage, like he was
nothing.
“ What do you want?” she’d
asked, frowning as she looked him up and down.
He hadn’t answered, he couldn’t. His
head was spinning, his thoughts were clouding up, and his eyes
began to water. Directly behind her, the wallpaper, the carpeting,
the smell wafting into his nostrils, bourbon and Lysol, everything
was exactly the same. Even her. She was still beautiful, still so
regal, so put together.
And as she went to close the door in
his face, his leg had shot out, his boot had slammed into the door,
effectively throwing it wide open and catching the bitch off
balance, sending her stumbling backward and sprawling on her
backside. He’d stormed inside that house of horrors and the pain
those four walls still held within them radiated out and triggered
something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, something from deep
down, from his childhood. Helplessness. Confusion. Fright.
Anger.
All of those emotions, they had pulsed,
roared, screamed, and shouted; pushing, punching, clawing, and
digging their way out.
Before she could get to her feet, he
was on her, and she screamed as he straddled her, forced her legs
apart, and then pulled his piece and held his gun to her
head.
“ Shut up!” he roared and
her mouth snapped closed as she trembled beneath him.
“ Please,” she begged, her
voice wavering. “Please, I have money.”
He stroked her cheek with the cool
metal as he fumbled with the hem of her silky dress. “It’s okay,”
he whispered, unzipping himself. “You’re going to like it, I
promise you, I’m going to make you feel good.”
Her pretty hazel eyes went wide and her
glossy lips parted. “Michael,” she breathed.
“ Not anymore,” he hissed.
“You made sure of that.”
Feeling dizzy with adrenaline, drunk on
power, combined with the overwhelming need to make her hurt, he
shoved the barrel of his gun in her mouth and a mere heartbeat
later, his cock inside her.
And when he was done, he blew her
fucking brains out.
Now he was attempting to feed Ellie and
failing, when he heard her laughing. He stared at her, watched her
pretty face alight with humor, and something shifted inside of him.
It was such a pleasant sound, so light, so feminine, something he’d
heard before but never directed toward him, never because of him.
And…he liked it. It turned him on.
Being attracted to women for something
other than physical traits was something completely foreign to him.
He grew flustered and uncomfortable, his heart started pounding,
and he broke out into a cold sweat.
The bag of popcorn fell from his hand
and then he quickly crossed the living room, his jaw locked, his
fists clenched, refusing to look at Ellie, refusing to breathe
until he’d slammed the bathroom door behind him, locked it, and
sank down to the floor, his hands already fumbling with his jeans,
releasing himself.
With one arm slung across the closed
toilet lid, he bent his head down, resting it on his forearm as he
began to stroke himself. He focused on Ellie’s torn, bloodstained
clothing lying in a small pile in the corner of the bathroom, and
his cock surged forward.
Ellie’s sweet laughter echoed in his
head, even as he pictured her half-naked, bleeding in the alleyway,
and
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