But the thought of her in pain, hurt, suffering so badly she had to learn to project her mind somewhere different than her body? That very much concerns me.
Ignoring the urge in my bladder, I stew, imagining hunting down the men who hurt her. I know that how she came to me was probably a great source of pain, and we've already agreed to take out men like that.
Amber thinks we can tame my beast by being strategic with my need to kill. It’s why she has convinced me to offer herself up as bait, a trap to lure vile men to their deaths. Any man who would pay to fuck an unconscious woman deserves to be removed from the face of the earth. But using her for this? Watching another man touch her while I wait for him to be distracted enough to kill them?
It's unfathomable.
Mercenary killings, she called them, because eliminating them will be a mercy to their victims.
I know, realistically, that there isn't that much that separates me from the monsters who hurt her. I know that I am the villain in someone else's story—I’m the person who ended the life of a woman just like my little doll.
That guilt eats me alive in the small spaces where I'm not possessed by the need to continue hunting, hurting, and killing.
No matter how many therapists I saw when I thought I could be fixed, none of them ever seemed to understand when I said that it sometimes feels like static in my brain. It's so prevalent that I forget it's there most of the time, droning in the background.
And then other times, it's like someone's turned up the volume and everything becomes too much, and I can barely breathe because I canfeelthe sweat on the back of my neck, worsened by the compulsion I learned to silence through sex... and murder.
I stumbled upon my vice for murder by accident, but I don't think it makes me any better than the people who do it because they enjoy it. No matter how much I despise them, it doesn't make me superior in any way.
And that's a hard truth to sit with when I'm holding her, knowing I'm one of the monsters of her nightmares.
There's no nightmare now. She sleeps peacefully, deeply, as I lie trapped beneath her.
I need to move, but there's no chance I'll wake her up before she's ready.
I don't know how much time passes before I feel her lashes flutter against my skin, drawing me out of my thoughts of exactly how I'm going to murder everyone who's ever hurt my little doll.
There's a moment of stillness as her eyes open, but she doesn't move, trying to remember what happened. And then her eyes find mine. By the way her lips curve, I can tell she's embarrassed.
“I fell asleep on you.” She says, like it's something she needs to apologize for. When she pulls her face away from my chest, her skin is red, and her hair is matted with drool and sweat. When she wipes her chin, she realizes exactly what it was, but she doesn't mention it, so I don't either.
I'd prefer her drooling on my cock, but she looked far more peaceful doing it on my stomach, so who am I to argue?
“I fell asleepinyou.” I smirk. “Take that as a compliment. You were fucking magnificent.”
She laughs, and it causes her muscles to squeeze my cock, which had finally deflated after cycling through erections, leaving me trapped inside her and testing my will to not wake her up and make her ride me again.
She seems to realize I wasn't lying, that we're still connected. I haven't exactly been able to move, and she slept hard enough I'd worry she was unwell if it hadn't been for the fact I know she was fine just before this.
When her eyes return to me, she looks even more embarrassed.
“I... you're still... hard?”
“Notstill.” I laugh, and the motion makes her jolt, squeezing me tighter so that I groan.
I've needed to piss for hours, and I've managed to ignore it. But now that she's awake, looking so innocent and making me laugh, I can't stand it much longer.
“Hardagain. I went soft a few times, but every time you moved, my dick thought you were ready for round two and got a little ahead of himself.”
She stares at me for a moment like she's trying to understand that. “How long was I asleep?”
“It's been a few hours.” I lie.
It's definitely been more than a few.
I'm starving, have to piss, and my back is killing me from not moving all night. But I'm more at peace than I think I've been in my whole life, and I'm reluctant to leave the bed even after she lets me free.
Which reminds me that now is probably a good time to tell her…
