But I don't want it to be over yet.
When I wrap my hand around her throat and drag her out of the water, she's already still. I let it go too far, and now all I can do is try to undo the damage. I haven't been CPR certified for years, but my summer as a lifeguard isn't going to fail me now.
I drag her with me over the side of the tub, insulating her head as I drop her flat to the ground. I stack my hands between her breasts, positioned just above her sternum. But I don’t begin compressions. I don’t do anything to save her.
If she dies, I get to do this all over again, and that thought is pretty fucking enticing. The thought of another girl in another box, another toy just for me. It has me hesitating, studying her face.
I want to let her go and bring her back in equal measure.
I wonder what it's like for her, wherever she is right now. It's somewhere between life and death, in a place even more removed from consciousness than her drugged state.
If she's lucky, there's nothing after this... no pain, no pleasure. It means there's no need for anyone to give her the former to get the latter.
Compassion isn't the reason I watch death slip over her.
I'm merciful to let her die like this, but it's not because I believe myself to be a merciful man. I just can't stop it.
It's not simply a need to spill blood or to cause pain, for me. I'm not a psycho-sadist. My sexual desires may lean a little toward the dark side, but it's not out of some sick fascination with blood. I just like the control I glean in those few rare moments where my heart beats while someone else's stops. Having control over death is the ultimate high;Iam the one who invited him here tonight.
With a few pumps to her chest and short breaths to her lungs, I could stave him off.
I could save her.
But I'm not a fucking savior.
And I'm not in this for anything other than quieting the static in my head.
So, I grip the knife I abandoned next to the tub and glance over it once, judging whether it's sharp enough to do what I need it to.
I'm hard again when I straddle her waist and look at her serene face. She's a beautiful doll, dead for all intents and purposes. Her identity has long been erased, separated from her before I ever even laid eyes on her.
Now all that's left to do is to make it official.
Her skin is smooth beneath me as I sink inside of her. She’s not as tight as she was while she was fighting for her life. Now that she’s given up, a sort of peace has come over her. But I haven’t been sated yet—the beast is desperate, and I’m still throbbing with a need that nothing can quench. Not even slipping inside of her tight, warm pussy can stave off the absolute fucking carnal desire I’m gripped with.
Her lips are parted as I know her lungs are still full of water, but I don’t kiss them. Whatever they drugged her with, it's effective. Her survival instincts have been entirely shut off now, leaving her to be the perfect prey.
I place the tip of the blade between her breasts, and my breath grows heavy with the excitement as I slide it slowly left, feeling for the space between her ribs. She's thin, making it easy work to locate a soft spot... a spot that I drive the blade through with enough pressure to feel the resistance, the crunch as I snag bone, and then the ease as I drive it straight through her heart.
Blood floods out of her chest, red and beautiful. I can appreciate what it means and enjoy the sight of it when it's incidental to killing. Just like I can appreciate the way she gasps a little bit, the sound turning to a gurgle around the water in her lungs as the last of the air she'll ever breathe floods into the space between us.
I don't twist the knife, don't pull it out, don't do anything other than bury my face in her hair and breathe her in, my cock desperate for the warmth of herbody—warmth that is surely evaporating. I am inside of her when I kill her, and there’s no power more intoxicating than this.
It's a pleasure I've always denied myself... a pleasure I no longer fight. I can't help myself; she's just so perfect.
Perfect and ruined and dead.
I don't let myself think of the mess or how I'll clean it up. I focus on nothing other than my motions, rocking my hips forward, angling myself so I can bury myself as deeply as I can inside her.
The blood is messy, and the warmth fades fast. I'm covered in sweat, wearing my frustration like a cloak by the time I'm digging my fingers into the ground, desperate for release.
I'm so close, but something is holding me back.
The reality of fucking a dead girl is a lot less enticing than the fantasy.
I have to close my eyes and imagine her the way she was before I wrecked her, before I feel my balls tighten with impending release. By then, I grit my teeth and screw my eyes shut, desperate to be done with her. The only movements of her body are the ones caused by me, her neck arching off the ground with each shuddering thrust as I drive into her.
When I spill inside her, the relief is more potent than the orgasm. My sweat drips onto her pale face as I collapse on top of her, immediately snared by the regret for what I've done.
