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I follow my instinct, and I can’t shake off the putrid paranoia that I’m about to encounter death.
My steps are calculated and quiet, my movements phantom-like. To anyone without a trained ear, I’m not even here.
Unfortunately, I am.
When I reach my destination, I stop dead in my tracks. I cover my mouth to numb the inevitable gasp of horror.
It’s dark, and I can’t be seen. Lying on the grass by a well-lit statue of a stupid Katantian legend, a couple grinds and groans. I’m not a stranger to public sex. I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing it myself.
But this…
Fuck Katantia.
I step closer, clinging to the syringe in my fingers. Now that I can detect the man’s face from the side, I realize that I’ve seen him before. He’s not Katantian. He’s a guest from South America, a man Big Daddy has been longing to mess with for years now.
He’s pounding into his partner, or whatever she is. He’s doped up. That much I can tell.
When I headed this way, I’d expected to encounter death. Whatever he’s doing to this woman underneath him, it hurts. He shows no remorse, not a single ounce of empathy.
“I can feel you bleed, cunt. I’m ripping you apart. Can you remember who owns you now? Or do you need Gio to remind you? I can have the Katantian guards run a train on your open pussy wounds. You’ll be on drugs for another month because of it.”
His words wound me, and I’m not even the one on the receiving end.
Katantia’s a hot place, but suddenly, the temperature has dropped to a freezing cold. I don’t feel my limbs.
He’s fucking a dead woman. There’s no way she’s alive. I can’t sense her. Whoever’s underneath him has given up.
I debate whether I should look at her or not. Deep breaths don’t help my rising panic.
My relapse has ruined all of my plans. Under normal circumstances, I’d leave this couple to their business. I shouldn’t intervene in situations that don’t concern me. That’s Big Daddy’s thing to do.
I shiver, losing my trail of thought.
It’s decided. I lift my gaze, meeting the woman underneath this horrible man.
First, I’m filled with relief that she isn’t indeed dead. She’s very much alive. Her platinum hair is tainted with mud and dirt, a messy crown on her head.
She’s not wearing any clothes, but I can’t bring myself to look at her body. It’s an invasion of privacy that I can’t bear.
Her face is a dreadful artwork of bruises and cuts, but her most alarming attribute are her eyes.
When I said she wasn’t dead, I lied.
I meet her eyes, and they don’t feel real. She looks back at me, but she can’t see me. She doesn’t see the tears that I can’t shake. I’m unable to move, stunned by her pain.
The syringe drops to the ground. I’ve forgotten whatever job I came here to do.
I forget to breathe.
This woman possesses the sweetest pair of eyes, worthy of a thousand kingdoms of love. I’m lost in her, and I don’t even know her name.
Her ordeal overwhelms me, sending my senses into overload. I haven’t taken anything. I’m sober as fuck, but she’s the sweetest high. I’m floating a puffy cloud of agony, unable to find solid ground.
She cries, and all I can do is share her tears.
I’m lost.
I step out of the lavishing suite’s walk-in closet, fixing my tie. Mipreciosaloves buttoning my shirts, tying my ties and shoelaces. She takes care of her man. Her fingers are always up to no good whenever they’re close to my skin. Five years ago, when the insides of her pussy died, she cried, thinking that her hormones would dissolve.
