**WARNING** For mature audiences only. This scene contains graphic violence.**
He admired the deep, burgundy streams across her skin, like some kind of living Rorschach test. Reaching up, he ran a finger along her midsection, smearing the blood as if it were fingerpaint. It was tacky, but still warm. Her body still thrumming with life.
He smiled and stepped away, reached for another knife from his collection. Testing the blade with his finger, he nodded with pleasure at its sharpness and glanced at his watch just to confirm how many hours he had left. He chuckled for he’d timed it perfectly. It was just past dinner time and that would give him several hours to finish his task, go to The Lair and then dispose of her body.
They’d be waiting for him, he knew, just as they had been at the club the night before. But they wouldn’t catch him. He’d driven past the spot in his laundry truck that morning on his way here with his victim. There hadn’t been a police car in sight. They’d made their area too small. Besides, tonight he’d use his own car, a small nondescript sedan. But first . . .
She was moaning, coming around finally. That was good. He stepped before her, ran the flat of the blade along her midsection and then up across the tips of her breasts. Her body jumped and she softly whispered, “Please. Let me go.”
He eased the knife down to his side, reached up and cupped her naked breast, rubbing the blood across the tip of it, tweaking the nipple until it beaded. “You want me to release you?”
“Please,” she keened as he started applying more pressure, squeezing it harder and harder until he was nearly crushing the sensitive tip beneath his fingers. She moaned and his body answered, his penis tightening between his legs. He looked up at her and dropped the knife, too far gone for the moment to realize her sound had been one of pain and not arousal.
Walking away out of the pool of light created by the lantern, he stripped down, carefully folded his clothes and laid them on a chair. It was important to be neat. Things needed to be kept in order. Immaculate. In control. His father had always stressed the need to be in charge and had kept everything just so.
Everything except his wife. A wife who had no control. Who let her desires and passions eat away at their carefully constructed life until she had destroyed it with her infidelity.
He looked back over his shoulder at her, hanging from the metal hook in the thick wooden beam of the warehouse. Her body ripe and lush, waiting for him the way his mother had waited for her lovers. His penis twitched, swelled more and he groaned, grabbed it tight. Stroked it with a combination of disgust and desire.
Turning, he walked toward her and she started to pull at the hook, struggling to get free. He smiled, kept on stroking, enjoying her fear. “You think I want to stick this in you, don’t you? And you want me to, don’t you, whore,” he spat out, pausing when he was barely inches from her.
“Oh, God,” she pleaded. “Please, don’t.”
The laugh erupted from him, cold and cruel and taunting. “You’re dirty. Used.” He stroked himself, rubbed the tip against her skin and she flinched. He liked that, the fear of her as it passed over her body. Stroking and rubbing, shifting against her, the blood slick and wet, adding to the sensation. Her moans and pleading familiar.
He closed his eyes. It made it easier to remember his mother. Remember her as she spread her legs for her lovers while he watched from the gap along one edge of the door frame. How he’d hated her and the men she’d entertained. Hated how his body responded. He tried to tame that monster. The one that had no control over its desires. Over its demands.
It was a losing battle as he came closer and closer to the edge until he finally gave in to the beast. Breathing heavily, his head resting in the bloodied gap between her breasts, he moaned softly, “Mommy. I love you, mommy.”
Her body jumped beneath his and he moved his head, began to taste her, drawing on the tip of her breast with his lips. The beast between his legs roared back to life and he groaned, hated himself for needing her so badly. Loathed the way the smell of her, musky and earthy, called to him. He reached down, fought her as she tried to keep her legs closed. With a sharp bite on her skin, he nudged his leg between hers.
He was lost then, any semblance of control gone. He despised the pleasure he was taking from the act. He would exact punishment for how she had tempted him. Make her suffer until she was repentant for her actions.
Breathing heavily, his body trembling and shaking from both rage and passion, he reached for another knife.