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“Like this?” she questioned, wiggling her ass.
“Just like that.”
Gripping the scarf tightly in one hand, I settled myself on the bed so that I was straddling her without crushing her.
For a second, I found myself wondering what it would be like to place the stiletto between each ridge of her spine, but that would take more time than I cared to spend.
She giggled when I grabbed her hands. “Kinky?” she hummed, completely complacent as I bound her wrists together.
“You have no idea,” I professed, reaching behind me to retrieve my stiletto. There was a Springfield hidden in a holster on my waistband, but that wouldn’t give me half the satisfaction.
“Are you still there?” Blondie asked, starting to turn her head to see what I was doing.
My hand shot out to slam her face into the pillow; the other wrapped around the handle of my stiletto. She tried to dislodge me, but I was twice her size and, since she’d so kindly let me restrain her wrists, all she could really do was kick her legs and yell into the pillowcase.
I could be wrong, but I think she was finally realizing that this may not have been the best decision. “Shhh.” I engaged my blade.
With my hand firmly knotted in her hair, I stared at the back of her head. It didn’t matter that the room was nearly pitch black; I thrived in darkness. It soothed me in ways the light never had.
I shut my eyes as my mind began to create an illusion I longed to make a reality. Wavy ash blonde hair, freckled skin, and a tiny frame—the blonde beneath me went from a stranger to the woman who’d betrayed me and my family.
I opened my eyes and shoved the knife into her flesh, just beneath her right shoulder blade, at an angle I knew would disturb the bone.
She squealed like a fucking pig and a crimson river began to flow. My senses heightened and adrenaline pumped through my veins. I pulled the blade out just to push it right back in, twisting the handle so she’d scream a little louder.
Damn, she sounded so much like Gwen. Even their attitudes aligned—they were both stuck up bitches who raised their noses at people like me. Unless they wanted something from us.
In that case, there were multiple debts needing to be repaid. Each one was worse than the last, and I had a million ways I would make her reimburse me for all of them.
I jerked the blade to the left, splitting flesh as I dragged it from the wound and straight down Gwen’s back.
She thought I was nothing. She’d told me I was only good for a dick to sit on. How many times did she throw all the reasons my mother never wanted me in my face?
I’d chalked it up to her saying stupid shit because we were arguing. She had simply lashed out, trying to hurt me, and it worked because now I knew this stupid cunt had meant every word.
Shoving the blade into the upper globe of her ass, I pushed her face deeper into the pillow to muffle her screech. The bed squeaked non-stop beneath us, but I wasn’t worried. Anyone passing by would naturally assume we were fucking.
Of course, Gwen only gave me pussy when she wasn’t getting any dick from Butcher. I knew that now, too. She’d always been a bit of a slut, but I’d never considered myself an idiot.
Until fucking now.
Until she made a fool of me, played me, and got my little brother taken.
Pulling the stiletto from the top of her rounded globe, I readjusted my grip, fingers now slick with blood, and slid it between both ass cheeks.
“You want something inside you?” I flipped the knife around and began to force the handle into her asshole, tearing right through the pink muscled barrier.
She’d been searching for this. To be fucked hard. It was only right that I made sure she got exactly what she wanted.
Her blood had the consistency of water. It saturated the bedspread, the wall, me.
With the bathroom light on, I had a clear visual of what I’d done.
The blonde’s brutalized hole gaped at me through bloodied ass cheeks like a third eye, judging me for the carnage I had created. Wounds of different sizes covered her from nearly head to toe.
The room smelled of iron, piss, and shit. I couldn’t remember when she’d lost control of her bowels. I never recalled much of my process after a certain point.
I didn’t know how to explain it, but it started weeks ago. I knew what I’d done was wrong, that I should have been consumed by guilt for this sick fucking habit of mine, but all I could feel was self-loathing for what I’d become. It was everything my mother hated and I couldn’t stand that her opinion still mattered to me.
