Mother wouldn't understand, no, she never understands. She's so overbearing and boring and ordinary that I want to just die.
Though there is one good thing, one damn good thing she's done for me in all my twenty two years, and that was bring me my muse, my inspiration—my twisted clown. Yes, she had no way of knowing, no no, she doesn't think much, mother. She barely can put two and two together, let alone the astounding one and one. And even if for some bizarre reason she learns, well she'll chalk it up to boredom, sheer, utter boredom, and never bring it up again. She's delusional that way—stupid. I loathe her and love her and I wish she'd just disappear.
Twisty never says anything to me, which is alright, because I'm quite the talker, and every word from my mouth brings gold to his poor hands. He can't say so, but he needs me. He doesn't need to say it, I know it, I know everything and I'm never wrong.
The look he's giving me right now, I don't know how to interpret, but I'm not going to waste my time. I don't need to know what he's thinking to feel it, churning, tangled like hot wires in my lower belly. He feels the same as me. We're the same, he and I. We belong together.
He's struggling a bit against the ropes that tie him to the chair, though I did a good job. I've surprised myself, honestly. I was never a boy scout, but I know a good knot when I tie it. The struggling, by the way, is definitely the most alluring thing I've witnessed in a long time, and my pants are tight like they were when I killed Mrs. Stauffer's kitty kitty, Petunia. That rancid, disgusting and perfect creature.
I slide into Twisty's lap, and he pulls away from me, but that just won't do. I always get what I want, always, always! And I grab his face with both hands and run my tongue up across that filthy mask, and the soft noises he's making sounding like fear, and I groan like the first time I touched myself. Twisty can't get free from me—I've made sure the ropes are tight, that the chair is nailed to the bus floor in such a way that even a good jolt shouldn't set him loose. I won't let him go. I told him we needed better confinement, and he listened, the good pup.
I move my hand down to touch myself through my slacks, groaning and playing with his tuffs of putrescent, beautiful hair, the sprigs of various colors. He's special and he's perfect and I want him all to myself. I won't let him kill again unless I pick who it is. Perhaps mother.
Yes, mother should come and play with us. Maybe then she wouldn't be so boring—
I reach into my pants, pulling my privates free and stroking furiously. The need is growing, and I know there was time for more fun later, so there is no need to go slow. Twisty is lurching under me, which only makes it more pleasurable when I rut against him. Yes, he knows what I like.
I come with such a glorious yell that I black out for a moment and lay against his heaving chest. The sheer panic in his eyes—it was just like that little girl's when I caught her for him. That cornered-animal look. I grin and nuzzle into him. My muse, my inspiration. My twisted clown.
No, I'll never be bored again.