Turns out, fucking a dead girl doesn't do for me what I thought it would. I've just broken my toy by playing with it too hard. And to make matters worse, her body eases and her jaw slackens at the same time that her eyes roll open. They're sightless, fixed on the ceiling, but they feel full of accusation, too.
I scramble away from her and rake my hands through my hair, wishing that my sickness was something simpler... something normal. I'd settle for a fucking foot fetish if it would keep me from having to kill them.
She was someone's daughter. A sister. Maybe even a mother.
My eyes fix on the blade sticking out of her chest, which I stare at accusingly.
I know the knife didn't make me kill her... I was going to watch her drown peacefully on my bathroom floor. I just couldn't resist the escalation.
My demon is sated, but I feel sick, full of hatred of myself.
I'm disgusted as I rake my hand through my hair, staring at the dead body splayed out beneath me.
I killed her.
I bought a girl to kill her, to fuck her and then erase her as if she never existed.
I did exactly what I knew I was going to all along, but it doesn’t feel right. This feels like a Band-Aid on a bullet hole.
Next to me, one of the snakes slithers against the shower door, desperately seeking an escape.
I turn to watch him crawl up the glass, his white belly flattening against it like he’s seeking an escape from his new prison.
Me too, buddy.
7
Cal
Killing her was always the plan, but the way it happened last time definitely wasn't.
That's why when I get the'out for delivery' notification this time, I don't drug myself with a pill. I don't need it to make me insatiable... I already am. It's been months since the last time, and those months have been the longest of my life. I had to figure out how to dispose of a body without enlisting my best friend's help, and I had to practice self-control. It feels like I share my body with a murder-y toddler some days, when I find myself acting on a whim instead of being careful.
I've spent all that time honing my ability to focus, training my mind to resist the impulse to make snap decisions, and being methodical. It's why I'm better prepared this time, why I don't act on the need to shove my dick into one of her holes the minute I've secured the snakes inside their terrarium. I've grown fond of them, amazingly. I built them an entire little kingdom in the dungeon, the length of one wall. The lights inside cast shadows across the room as they tangle over one another.
I leave the light on as I move back up the stairs to open my present, excitement pulling at the restraint I've worked so hard for. When I lift the false bottom out of the box and reveal the present, everything inside of me clenches, like my heartbeat is skipping.
I think I even forget to breathe in my excitement.
She'sdivine.
I reach in to pull her out with shaking arms, barely able to contain my excitement as I prepare to meet my new toy. It's not just the idea of having a newplaything that's got me unable to contain myself, but the thrill of having chosen her completely blind adds an extra element of need to the moment when I lay her out on the floor and sweep the hair from her face to get an unobstructed view of who I was sent.
Just like last time, there was no name on the listing.
This time, though, I opted to go about it differently. I paid a premium for a curated service, assured that I wouldn't be receiving someone else's leftovers in the place where I was supposed to get a shiny new toy. I was explicit in my instruction that I wanted her untouched this time; I couldn't care less if they gave me a church mouse or a whore, but I was very intentional when I said I don't want her to show evidence of her abuse.
And, to my utter astonishment, they listened.
She's small, probably because they only choose girls who are tiny enough to be shipped in a crate, but she's well-developed. Her tits will undoubtedly overflow my palms, and her thighs and stomach have just enough cushion to make cuddling her body plusher. The last girl that was delivered to me was already on death's door, her skin wrapped tightly over her bones. But this slice of heaven is perfect.
Despite being clean, bits of straw hang in her hair, and the aroma of the shipping crate and the wood chips in the box clings to her.
“What a beautiful mess.” I murmur, stroking her cheek. I'm surprised by her warmth, the texture of her skin.
They knew what they were doing, not ruining her face. It's impeccable. She's like an angel, her soft lips so kissable. They feel like velvet when I run my fingers over them, imagining them wrapped around my cock. I don't know how long I'll keep her or if I'll get around to doing more than fucking her cunt, but I add it to the list of things I want to do to her.
Her hair is dark, and I can tell it's been washed recently. It slips through my fingers, silky to the touch, soft, and betraying a hint of burgundy beneath what I thought was simply dark brown.
