“No.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“It’s better than a pony.” Aww, why did I go and say that?
“Tanner, nothing is better than a pony!” She’s pouting and it makes me grin, missing teeth and all.
“It’s better because I made it for you.” That shuts her up. “You ready?”
“Yes!” She’s squealing again, bouncing up and down like she’s got ants in her pants.
I rip the bandana off her eyes and grin. “Ta-da!”
She looks around, getting her bearings and looking for my gift. I know exactly the moment she sees it because her entire face lights up like the fireworks from last month’s Fourth of July downtown.
“Oh, Tanner! Oh my goodness!” She turns, her arms wrapping around my neck as she squeezes. I don’t move, I’m frozen and uncomfortable for just a second until I realize this is Berkleigh. She’s safe. She’s my best friend.
We’re both eight years old, practically adults, and I built her a tire swing over the pool in the river. Nothing can beat this moment.
“You’re right, Tanner. This is so much better than a pony. Thank you!”
Decent.
Who the fuck am I kidding? Seeing her bleed for me feeds that psychotic part of my brain. Most days, I’m fully capable of keeping it under wraps, hidden from the normality of the world around me. I’ve trained myself to act a certain way, talk a certain way…be what society expects of me. Observing and mimicking behavior is what got me through my teen years when my urges were the strongest, the most unhinged and unpredictable.
Yet, instead of being the outcast in high school, I was the popular football player.
Although Coach wanted me to take on the quarterback position, I refused, because being protected at all costs didn’t do shit for me. I needed violence, still do, and playing defense as a cornerback was the perfect cover. Using both my mental and physical strengths was enough to keep my beast at bay. After all, men like me make up less than one percent of the population, yet we commit up to fifty percent of all serious crimes. Imagine what would happen if we didn’t have an outlet.
As I look down between Berkleigh’s legs, my eyes soak in the sight of her blood, the very essence of her, the female body’s way of renewing, cleansing, rejecting. I forget all my training. I ignore all the signs that usually have my peers running for safety.
Without a second thought or a single worry about how deranged it might seem to Berkleigh, I run my index finger from back to front between her pussy lips and paint the tip of my cock with her blood.
Something primal beats inside my chest, my pulse quickening much in the same way as when I’m on the verge of a kill. So I repeat the move. Again and again. Then once more for good measure.
“Wh-What are you doing?” I ignore her question, too fascinated by the fundamental part of her body that’s making my cock harder than it should be considering I’m slathering it with her menstrual blood. Not to mention I just came harder than ever inside the woman I’ve been obsessing over for the better part of my life.
The reason behind my fascination doesn’t matter to me but I’m sure it must to her. Problem is, I don’t have the mental capacity to explain this, and instead of trying, I spread her legs wider and place the tip of my cock at her entrance. I already knew it wouldn’t be a river of gushing blood in the way a deep slice through a carotid would be, still, I’m a little disappointed.
I want my dick to bathe in her blood. I want to feel the warmth of her coating every inch of me as I slide into her opening with a slow, deliberate push.
“Tanner?” My name out of her kiss-swollen lips is a question, but mostly it’s a moan and, fuck me, it only makes me harder.
With my hands planted on the outside of her thighs, I pull her toward me, which forces my cock so deep into her I hope I can get as much of her blood on me as I possibly can.
Fuck, just the mental image of it has my skin prickling with awareness and destructive thoughts.
“You bleeding all over me is the highlight of my fucking life.” With those words that I’m sure will send her running for the hills and seeking help to keep me away from her, I begin to pummelher cunt. I fuck her so hard and so fast, it’s a wonder she doesn’t beat the shit out of me or try to stop me.
Instead, my little Sweet Bee digs her nails into my biceps and chants the word “yes” over and over again, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. The more she repeats herself, the faster I fuck her. The deeper her nails dig, the harder I punish her pussy.
Thank fuck she doesn’t try to put an end to this because I don’t think I could at this point.
“Kiss me.” Fuck, why does she keep saying those two words? Does she know what they do to me?
In my fucked up brain, they’re permission to destroy her. Taking a simple and innocent form of intimacy and turning it into a violent declaration of lust and death. Kissing her lips, the very same that destroyed me as a child with a handful of words, is like drinking poison and convincing yourself you’ll survive it.
With a fierce need brewing between us, our mouths connect and our bodies jolt from the electric spark it creates. There’s nothing innocent or simple about the way we’re devouring each other. Nothing pure about the way I’m using my entire body to assault her in all the best ways possible.
