Men like Brant— and I use the term man loosely— who have everything handed to them, often get used to taking what they want, simply because they can.
Well, I want something, too. I want to see him choke.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? You sick fucking bitch!"
"What's wrong with me?" I chuckle. "Where the hell do we even begin?"
Seriously, where do we begin? Death is freedom from the cage of life and humanity. It unlocks everything when your soul is set free— even things you wish it would have kept locked away. Memories I would have preferred to never revisit, that go back far longer than the time since I've known Brant.
"I'm dead, for starters... and what's awful is that it might be the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Admitting that feels like a betrayal to the people I still love… my mom, the twins, Cici, Alice and Peanut...
But it also feels like acceptance, like letting go of the tiniest bit of rage.
"You're fucking cracked." Brant snarls. "Let me go."
"No." I laugh. "I'm not thanking you, and I'm sure as hell not about to fucking forgive you. But I am going to repay the favor..."
His eyes narrow on me. "You can't fucking kill me. Look around, bitch. This place is covered in cameras."
"Look around, asshole. You fucking killed me. You think I'm worried about getting arrested?" I laugh, catching Noah's eye as he comes around to join me on the other side of the island.
Now that he's in front of him, Brant recognizes him, and his eyes grow wider. "You? You're—"
"Dead." Noah agrees. "Are you noticing the theme?"
"You will be, too." I assure him. "But first, it's time for your last meal."
"Last meal?" Brant growls.
"Open up." I demand, tapping the underside of his jaw to indicate exactly what I want from him.
He only glares at me as he clenches his jaw tighter, the muscle bulging on one side as he tries to bar me entry. As if I'm going to let that stop me.
"You're being so immature." I tell him, stalking around to the front side of the cabinets and opening a drawer, searching the contents for a second before slamming it shut and opening another.
It's the third drawer that houses the knives, and I select one, slipping the cover off to check the point on it.
"You gonna kill me with a paring knife?" Brant taunts, laughing now.
"No. I'm gonna kill you with this one." I lift the chef's knife out of the drawer and admire the glint of the Christmas lights that I'm using as his bondage as it's reflected back at me.
He sobers as I walk back to him with both knives in hand. I set the larger of the two behind me, just out of reach in case he were to somehow slip out of his restraints. He watches, wary, as I lift Cole's severed cock and spear it with the paring knife. He cringes at the faint squelch, shaking his head in horror. He's usually pretty dense, but I get the sense he knows where I'm going with this.
"Open for the airplane?" I tease, jabbing him against the lips with his best friend's cock.
He doesn't dare open his mouth; I didn't expect him to make it easy on me. I mean, he had to drug me to make it easy on him, otherwise I would have fought harder, too.
"Think of it like a popsicle." I say. "You were so worried I was going to turn into one."
Noah wraps the lights in his fist, tightening the cord and effectively turning it into a leash that he uses to drag Brant's head back. Still, he has his jaw wired, refusing to allow me entry.
"You don't want your last meal to be your best friend's dick?" Noah muses.
"I'll let you choose." I say, stepping back after a minute of rubbing the impaled organ against his mouth. Brant takes advantage of my distance, ducking his head to cough and gag, spitting to try and rid himself of the feeling. "Your last meal can be my pie, or Cole."
Brant glares at me through watery eyes from the force of his gagging. "Go to hell, cunt."
