The monster who gets hard from killing.
Who comes harder from violence than from her sweet wet pussy.
My cock throbs in my hand and I hate myself for it.
But do I stop jerking on it?
Do I even attempt to control myself?
No.
Why should I?
Isn't this the whole point?
Isn't embracing my nature the entire fucking point?
I want to be who I am.
I want to kill motherfuckers who deserve it.
I want to balance the scales.
I want to watch the faces of these monsters, see that moment of terror that flashes across their eyes when they realize it's over.
Coming on them is just… what they deserve.
It's justice.
I stroke myself harder, chasing the edge.
Is it fucked up that killing gets me off?
Yes.
Obviously.
But I've built a world where it makes sense. Where the violence has purpose. Direction. Intent.
I kill men who traffic children. Men who rape. Men who destroy lives and walk away clean because they have money, connections, lawyers who know which judges to buy.
The system fails.
I don't.
So what if my cock gets hard when I pull the trigger? So what if I come when they bleed out? At least I'm pointing this sickness at the right targets.
At least I understand that the innocent are not commodities to be bought and sold.
Women. Children. The vulnerable.
They're not products.
The auction is different.
The auction is fantasy. Controlled. Negotiated. A contract between two consenting adults who both walk away satisfied.
Is it weird?
