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I was staring at four dead bodies suspended upside down by meat hooks.
Stalkers weren’t supposed to accidentally stalk serial killers; they definitely weren’t supposed to sneak into their obsession’s house then wonder if they were ever getting back out; and unquestionably, stalkers weren’t supposed to abruptly realize they weren’t the craziest one in their obsessive relationship. Guess this was just yet another thing I didn’t do quite right.
Today I was just one big scoop of what the fuck.
Right now, it really seemed my therapist was a murderer.
I’d considered murder as much as the next not quite sane person but I’d never really thought about things like bone saws and whatever the hell else everything here might be.
That for the last few years, when the news came out to talk about the Bloodless Butcher, that they were whispering the secrets of my Orson.
Fight it because once I took that first little taste I was crossing a line I could never come back from. Seems like he spoke from experience.
I had a feeling the “good reason” for all this was that Doctor Orson was fucking insane. Funny, since he was my therapist. My perfect therapist.
Orson might see me and not understand that this is fine. That I'd keep his secrets. That he and I were meant to be together.
Also, I really didn’t want him to realize I’d been seriously stalking him for the past couple of months and completely obsessed with him for the past three years.
He stepped in the room looking like an assassin porn star.
My mouth dropped open as I watched his sinister tongue and I tried not to push my fingers into my panties and seek some relief from the tension his show was giving me.
I’d see his solid jaw, his violet eyes framed by elegantly long lashes, and his tan skin so many shades darker than mine. Combined with those wicked eyes he looked barely human.
He was elegant and taunting. A gentleman with eyes that held secrets and mirth he never shared with me. Raw sexuality he stuffed inside expensive, designer suits. There was no one like him.
This man before me now was sinister, fucked up, and wicked. He’d been fooling everyone, even me, and for some reason, the duplicity of his character made me so excited I thought I’d burst.
How could a girl obsessed with blood end up with a therapist who collected it in buckets? That was a coincidence I couldn’t accept. Had he sought me out? Did he hope to show me this side of him one day? Did he want me to join him?
The wall between us was crumbling to the ground right this minute and I was finally able to admit I was in love. Desperately, obsessively, dangerously. Oh, to be in love was so very thrilling. And now my obsessive love didn’t have to be a fantasy because I could see it clear as day now. Doctor Orson was my soulmate.
That I hadn’t just freaking whined in want about blood when I was hiding from a serial killer. My serial killer.
Tears from bleach fumes and emotions spilled from my eyes, likely destroying up my makeup. It was a weird thing to be concerned about but, if I was going to be killed by my soulmate I wanted to look good while it happened.
Maybe he was the type of man that liked seeing running mascara and tears. Maybe he’d push his cock in my mouth roughly, just to see my eyes tear up and my makeup get all dirty.
A tortured man full of rage and passion all aimed at me.
I licked my lips, envisioning him flipping me around, yanking down my leggings, and plunging his psycho dick in my wet crazy-girl pussy, taking me right here against the wall of his murder cooler, the bodies cooling behind me as he kept plunging deeper and deeper.
It was totally inappropriate to be horny after witnessing the man I was stalking murder someone. I knew that. I wasn’t a very appropriate type of girl though. My panties were soaking wet as he pushed against me, wearing the scent of blood.
What was a normal reaction here? What would Doctor Orson tell me is the appropriate response? Actually, I should probably stop taking my social cues from a serial killer.
I loved his hands on me. I loved his vibrant eyes boring into me, demanding answers. I loved how powerful he was.
“You’re mine now, Bree. Forever,” he said with a sinister smile and deranged eyes.
I’d sweep his serial killing hobby under the rug. I mean who doesn’t have some bad habits?
A laugh burst from my mouth. He said I was his forever? Oh, he had no idea what he’d just chained himself to.
I wanted to lick all that shiny butter and bury my sharp teeth in the soft texture of Bree Hamilton.
Day walking. Bree Hamilton was half-vampire, more precisely a dhamphyr, and she had no idea.
Plus, the process was calming. A monster like me could only be calm if he had some good hobbies to put his energy into.
now I was ready for her to be my personal blood slave, filled with all that special day walking blood.
He was just like me--fucked in the head, obsessed with blood, and dead in the eyes. He was perfectly wrong. My blood-drenched angel of death. My serial killer. My Orson. Perfect, strong, deadly.
Would he drive by and pick me up? Take me back to his house and lay me down on his bed? Would he peel open my legs and fuck me within an inch of my life while wearing those dangerous, blood-soaked gloves?
When I’d walked in his office for the first time it felt like Cupid had stabbed me, making a gory mess of my chest.
I was wearing nothing but tight boxer briefs as I swung Frank around in my room, a smooth dance between friends--nothing gay.
This habit of talking to corpses was like smoking--I could stop at any time but I just didn’t want to. That’s how smoking worked, right?
Slow was still deadly and I wanted to squeeze one of these guy’s brains out of their ass like toothpaste.
I wondered if I looked like a sexy crazy person in a straightjacket or a gross crazy person.
“Look, I don’t normally like to swing my big dick around,” the guy said and my head jerked back around because fuck it, he was now speaking my language. Instead of looking at his Venom mask I eyed his crotch and tried to guess which line was fabric wrinkles and which line was dick imprint.
Great. When psychos were in good shape it just made them all the worst. I always imagined them doing pushups with a smile, thinking about how many more people they could strangle with some added muscle.
“That’s me, Mister Sensitive. I’m like the head of a dick,”
I felt like I needed her in here every day, spread out on my desk with her plump lips taunting me. I wanted to sneak into her patient room every night and stretch her out with my cock as I tasted her over and over.
Bree would be the thing that unraveled me. She would be my undoing. I had to keep her under control. I had to taste her again. I had to bury my cock inside her needy center and own her.
Each and every day my eyes slipped to Orson’s next patient standing dutifully in the hall with his face a masked mystery--Baz. I wanted to know what he thought. My masked villain.
He reached out one of his massive hands and wrapped his meaty fingers around my throat, immediately squeezing hard. He was going to give me some strange kink at this point.
Would he fuck me or would he kill me? Or maybe just fuck me to death.
"That’s good, Bree. Right in front of everyone, rubbing the masked psycho's dick,"
“If beauty is on the inside, I’m fucked,”
Look at me, I thought, collecting serial killers and masked psychos. I liked my little collection too. I wondered if it would feel more complete with a big beasty man. I thought it probably would feel perfect that way.
