I stride over to her and slap my hand hard down on her thigh. The blood rushes to the surface making a pink outline of my handprint. Her little squeak and jump make me want to gag her.
“You have been there,” she taunts.
I pull the sheet covering the couch into my hand and rip a segment off, bunching it up.
“Been where?” I ask, irritated by her still talking.
“Club Nine,” she says, widening her eyes a fraction as if to say, duh!
I shove the material into her mouth and let the images flood my mind of the whores from Club Nine. The memory of the night I sliced them and Clive up plays like a movie in my mind, so vivid I can almost touch them.
“Trey, you can go now.”
He halts his steps, furrowing his brow. I feel the energy surging inside my veins, searching for an outlet. I’m going to come undone tonight and I don’t want more than I can handle. Trey is a big guy; him combined with Clive and the two whores might leave me at a disadvantage if my urges take over. ‘You want them to take over,’ my true self whispers.
“Aww, Trey. I’ll suck your dick when I get back to the club,” Monica croons. Little does she know she’s never getting back to the club.
I gesture to my room.
“Layla, go show Clive all the degrading shit his Daddy likes.”
She pushes Clive into my room before he can respond. Monica starts to follow but I stop her with a firm grip on her wrist. “Shower.”
Biting her lip seductively she bounds into the bathroom, turning on the spray and getting beneath it. There is no water that could clean this bitch. She is so young yet already aging up close. I step into the water.
“Being a whore takes its toll,” I murmur, stroking the pad of my thumb over the fine lines around her green eyes.
“Why do you have to be an asshole?”
I treat these women like I see them, as the worthless trash they are. Wasting their lives being fucked by perverts and depraved sadistic men like me. How can I see any worth in them when they see none in themselves? Who am I kidding, she could be Saint Mary and I’d still only see a hole to fuck, heart to break, soul to play with. A genetic makeup of cells and bone to watch bleed.
Music suddenly blares through the house from my room.
“Can we go play with the other two?”
I narrow my eyes on hers. “My company not good enough for you?”
I fist her hair in my palm, tilting her head back and wrapping my other hand neatly around her throat. Her pulse thuds wildly against my fingertips. I lean forward and suck her bottom lip into my mouth. I bite down until the skin pops and breaks from the pressure. She flinches, groaning against my lips from the pain. Her naked, wet body writhes, her palms pushing at my shoulders with little effect.
I release her lip and watch the blood dribble down her chin. Her hands pat at it, and tears swim in her eyes. No fucking pain threshold, a crier, and I savor the sight of her tears.
“You bastard!” she screeches. “I’m not into pain.”
She rears her hand back and slaps me, connecting with my wet cheek, making heat explode there. What a fucking cunt. How dare she hit me? I can see it in her eyes . . . fear.
I backhand her across the cheek with such force it takes her off her feet. She flies backwards out of the shower through the glass door. She screams, grasping for something to hold onto, only finding air and shards of glass. She crashes to the floor with a bone-breaking thud, her lungs emptying with an exhale so audible it nearly eclipses the sound of her head hitting the floor and recoiling with a snap.
Silence.
I look down at her lying completely still on the tiled floor like time froze her, preserving her from growing any more lines around her eyes. She looks younger laid there with glass splintered all around her body, cuts bleeding her life from her at a fast rate. The blood pooling under her head reminds me of the blood from Melody’s parents. Crimson and warm, flowing out like the tide. So much blood. How easy we are to break.
I step from the blast of the shower raining over me, leaning over to lift her head. Her blood is hot and sticky, like warm frosting on a freshly made cupcake. It coats my hands like paint. I didn’t mean to kill her, but either way, she is very much dead. I pick her up and put her over my shoulder. The glass cuts into the soles of my feet. I like the pain.
They don’t even notice me enter the room. Layla is riding Clive’s cock like the pro she is. I drop Monica’s body to the floor and climb on the bed, pushing Layla’s back forward so her tits push against Clive’s chest and her ass tilts in the air. I line my cock up to her hole and thrust hard past the muscles trying to reject my entry. She whimpers into his shoulder. It hurts like a motherfucker being ass fucked with no preparation. She knows I take pain and give it, and like the good whore she’s trained to be, she lets me do what the hell I want.