the car in motion.
“Derrick is nothing more than a dick,” I say as she lays her head against my chest, in a state of contentment.
“He’s more like a…” She pauses. “How did you know his name’s Derrick?” She tenses and pulls away from me, scooting toward the end of the bench seat.
I remain quiet, letting Asia’s mind go wherever it wants to.
The seconds pass.
They turn into long, drawn-out minutes.
I breathe in and smell it. That deep aroma, the one that betrays the heart pounding in their chests.
I watch as her eyes dilate, and can only image the knot forming in her stomach. Her pulse must be racing through her veins, coursing with an intense punch that swirls around, spreading a magnificent spark of doubt within her mind.
Her face morphs from uncertainty, into the thing I love most when they realize they willingly got into a car with a beast like me.
Fear.
Yes, she’ll fit in quite well to my collection.
Her bed is already prepared, not long vacated by the last tenant in my dungeon.
It’s harder than you could ever imagine.
Sitting here and watching him, knowing I can never have him. Every day he comes home from work, dressed in his expensive suit, silk tie, and designer shoes and kisses her on the mouth with the same words.
“How was your day?” he asks her. Every single day I see it, and every fucking day I want it.
I want what he gives her. I want what she takes. I want him. Simple as that. He shouldn’t be with her. It’s not like she’s not beautiful, or even lovely. She is. She’s the perfect wife who stays home and looks after the kids. She cooks and cleans and is an amazing person.
She’s the definition of the dictionary word “flawless”.
Her long, golden hair is always immaculately styled, her makeup always so pristine. Her clothes never have a damned wrinkle in them. She’s the exceptional woman every girl wishes she could grow up to be.
I want to be her because I want to feel him.
He’s tall, with broad shoulders, a body he works hard on, and eyes that pin you with one simple gaze. I’ve wanted him ever since my hormones kicked in and I saw him for who he really was.
Sexy, compassionate…a man who takes care of his responsibilities; a man you can rely on. And powerful, so damned powerful.
Simply put, he’s fucking sexy.
“Good. How was work?” she usually replies, making him a drink the moment he steps through the front door.
Who the hell does shit like that? Meet their spouse with a drink, waiting on them hand and foot?
I know I would. I’d do anything for him. If he wanted a Stepford wife, I’d be happy to oblige.
But right now, all I can do is imagine him.
Fantasize that he’s in here with me, gently stroking his long, warm fingers up and down my thighs. A silent promise that soon he’ll do what he wants with me. Take me from behind, or maybe he’ll let me ride him. Or maybe, if I’m lucky enough, he’ll allow me to fall to my knees and worship him with my mouth.
Surrender. I want that with him. I want him to take my pain, my mind, my body and grant me the gift of forgetfulness.
I hate being so vulnerable to my mind, allowing it to control how I feel. The darkness inside me is so scary, it screams words that cut and taunt me.
“End it all,” it yells. The cruelty and hatred is never too far away.
It’s always there, tormenting, taunting, pushing me to the edge of my sanity.
When I wake in the morning it’s already alive and planning its next carefully constructed sentence, ready to wound me.
“Make it hurt,” the voice says.
The scariest part isn’t what the demon’s voice says as it tries to make me angry; the most frightening is the sinful, low whispers it forces me to listen to.
There are some mornings that the voice is so malicious and sadistic, the only way I can survive it is to take matters into my own hands.
I go into my bathroom with my small tool kit, carefully remove my clothes and slice my skin to let the devil
“Derrick is nothing more than a dick,” I say as she lays her head against my chest, in a state of contentment.
“He’s more like a…” She pauses. “How did you know his name’s Derrick?” She tenses and pulls away from me, scooting toward the end of the bench seat.
I remain quiet, letting Asia’s mind go wherever it wants to.
The seconds pass.
They turn into long, drawn-out minutes.
I breathe in and smell it. That deep aroma, the one that betrays the heart pounding in their chests.
I watch as her eyes dilate, and can only image the knot forming in her stomach. Her pulse must be racing through her veins, coursing with an intense punch that swirls around, spreading a magnificent spark of doubt within her mind.
Her face morphs from uncertainty, into the thing I love most when they realize they willingly got into a car with a beast like me.
Fear.
Yes, she’ll fit in quite well to my collection.
Her bed is already prepared, not long vacated by the last tenant in my dungeon.
It’s harder than you could ever imagine.
Sitting here and watching him, knowing I can never have him. Every day he comes home from work, dressed in his expensive suit, silk tie, and designer shoes and kisses her on the mouth with the same words.
“How was your day?” he asks her. Every single day I see it, and every fucking day I want it.
I want what he gives her. I want what she takes. I want him. Simple as that. He shouldn’t be with her. It’s not like she’s not beautiful, or even lovely. She is. She’s the perfect wife who stays home and looks after the kids. She cooks and cleans and is an amazing person.
She’s the definition of the dictionary word “flawless”.
Her long, golden hair is always immaculately styled, her makeup always so pristine. Her clothes never have a damned wrinkle in them. She’s the exceptional woman every girl wishes she could grow up to be.
I want to be her because I want to feel him.
He’s tall, with broad shoulders, a body he works hard on, and eyes that pin you with one simple gaze. I’ve wanted him ever since my hormones kicked in and I saw him for who he really was.
Sexy, compassionate…a man who takes care of his responsibilities; a man you can rely on. And powerful, so damned powerful.
Simply put, he’s fucking sexy.
“Good. How was work?” she usually replies, making him a drink the moment he steps through the front door.
Who the hell does shit like that? Meet their spouse with a drink, waiting on them hand and foot?
I know I would. I’d do anything for him. If he wanted a Stepford wife, I’d be happy to oblige.
But right now, all I can do is imagine him.
Fantasize that he’s in here with me, gently stroking his long, warm fingers up and down my thighs. A silent promise that soon he’ll do what he wants with me. Take me from behind, or maybe he’ll let me ride him. Or maybe, if I’m lucky enough, he’ll allow me to fall to my knees and worship him with my mouth.
Surrender. I want that with him. I want him to take my pain, my mind, my body and grant me the gift of forgetfulness.
I hate being so vulnerable to my mind, allowing it to control how I feel. The darkness inside me is so scary, it screams words that cut and taunt me.
“End it all,” it yells. The cruelty and hatred is never too far away.
It’s always there, tormenting, taunting, pushing me to the edge of my sanity.
When I wake in the morning it’s already alive and planning its next carefully constructed sentence, ready to wound me.
“Make it hurt,” the voice says.
The scariest part isn’t what the demon’s voice says as it tries to make me angry; the most frightening is the sinful, low whispers it forces me to listen to.
There are some mornings that the voice is so malicious and sadistic, the only way I can survive it is to take matters into my own hands.
I go into my bathroom with my small tool kit, carefully remove my clothes and slice my skin to let the devil
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