She lies on my bed, motionless. Stark naked, with each limb strapped to a bed post, she is completely powerless, vulnerable and exposed. More important than that, she's mine. I stand over her, watching, taking in her beauty, waiting for her drug-induced slumber to wear off so she can finally meet the man she's going to spend her final day with. As she begins to move, I contemplate inducing consciousness with a hard smack to the cheek, but I decide I would rather let her body itself decided when it wants to rejoin the world of the living. I'm worried that if I wake her up prematurely her mind might still be in an altered state, and when she wakes up I want her to fully comprehend the bleakness of her situation. Although she is not yet awake, her body appears to know that something isn't right as her hands and feet struggle to break free of their bonds. Finally her eyes open, appearing groggy and dazed. Seconds later our eyes meet, and grim reality rushes into her as she bellows out tormented screams of anguish. I generally have that affect on girls. She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a garbled mess of sounds. I tell her to calm down as I place my hand on her head and stroke her soft pink hair. She pulls at her chains in a seemingly instinctive attempt to swipe my hand away, yelping in pain as the strong metallic bonds keep her tightly in place. I know we're going to have a good time.
I crawl into bed next to her, stroking her skin, kissing her neck. She's in survival mode now; she no longer struggles, no longer screams, she merely sobs quietly with her face bunched into a familiar look of disgust. With every warm puff of air I breathe onto her neck, her repulsion grows. I can see that she's choking back the vomit. She thinks that this is agony. I'll show her agony.
I get up from the bed and retrieve a pair of needle-nosed pliers from the closet. Her eyes grow wide with terror as she begs and pleads with me for mercy. I just smile. I put the pliers over her delicate red nipples and just let the cold metal touch her skin. This is what I like: Not physical torture, where her nerve endings overwhelm her brain until she loses grip with reality; instead I enjoy mental anguish, where she's excruciatingly conscious and every second feels like an eternity while she agonizes over what I'm going to do next. Fully aroused now, I crawl on top of her, penetrating her velvet walls with a violent thrust. My hands wrap around her neck as I stare deeply into her eyes.
Some people may think I'm a sociopath. "How can anyone torment such a beautiful, innocent girl for no reason?" Well, I'm not a sociopath. I have a reason to do this, and, in my mind, she's far from innocent. In my mind she's personally responsible for all the loneliness, humiliation, and misery I've ever felt in my life. In my mind she's already rejected me, and gone to laugh with her friends about what a pathetic, creepy loser I was for even trying to speak to a girl like her.
I'm fueled by anger and bitterness, and I want to punish her for all the things she's done to me. Out there she's a goddess, making mortal men tremble at her mere sight. Out there she wouldn't even speak to me if I were dying in the street. In here I have total power, and even the most sick, depraved fantasy of my twisted mind can become reality with the snap of my fingers. This goddess has been transformed to a simple toy for my amusement. In here, I'm a god.
With each thrust of my hips the pressure around her neck increases. She begins to thrash around like a fish out of water, desperately gasping in a vain attempt for air. She wants nothing more than to close her eyes and wake up, realising that this is nothing more than the worst nightmare she's ever experienced. But this isn't a nightmare, this is cold, hard reality. In a few moments, everything she's ever known, everyone she's ever loved will be gone. Her entire world will cease to exist. I'm not just killing this one poor girl, I'm destroying an entire universe, and that makes me feel more powerful than I've ever felt in my 17 years of miserable existence. Her once vibrant face, bright red from sobbing, now turns to a lush maroon. In one last desperate attempt for survival her eyes beg me to stop, her pupils showing immeasurable fear, torment, and sadness. They reach out inside of me, hoping to grab on to the last sliver of humanity and mercy I have left. She's about 17 years too late.
As we lock eyes for the final time, I reach my peak, flooding her insides with pent up rage. Her once sparkling eyes roll back into her head, and her delicate body, seemingly accepting its grim fate, goes limp. I gently stroke the hair of my fallen angel. I think about what we could have been if things had been different, if God hadn't made me the grotesque, impotent creature I stand today. But I feel no remorse. We are selfish creatures, and I have been spit on, stepped on, and shunned far too many times for me to be restrained by this empty construct of human morality.
Did reality live up to the fantasy? Probably not, but I wasn't really expecting it to. Reality has never been kind to me before, so I don't know why I would expect anything to change now. I feel hollow, and having fulfilled the fantasy that's brewed inside of me for 17 years, there's really nothing left. I knew I could never go on after this, the constant fear and paranoia of getting caught and having to pay for my actions would drive any man insane. Luckily, I've prepared.
I go to the closet and retrieve a black .45 caliber handgun. Gun in hand, I go back over to my beautiful bounty and lay by her side for the last time. The anger I felt only minutes ago has subsided, and now all I feel is a grudging acceptance of my fate. In the most intimate moment of my wretched life I run my finger down the sleek body of my lifeless treasure, and gently give her a soft peck on the cheek. It didn't have to be this way, but it was. The barrel of the gun enters my mouth, and I pull the trigger.