Page 2 of Deranged and Obsessed Omnibus: Vol 1

I moved closer, and the motion of the bed shifting caused her to stir slightly in her sleep. I couldn’t define why she—this moment—felt different. And I hated it. I hated that she had this power over me… that she made me feel anything at all. But I loved it as well.

I lay beside her, listening to the rhythm of her breathing and watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. She stirred and rolled onto her back. The sheets slipped down to just barely concealing her breasts. She was topless, her tits perky and lifting the material, as her nipples were rock-hard.

I didn’t stop myself as I gently cupped a mound and ran my thumb over the peak, watching in dark arousal as it hardened further. My cock throbbed incessantly, and while I cupped her perfect tit with one hand and thumbed her nipple, I used my other hand to grab my thick cock through my jeans.

Rubbing myself wasn’t enough, so I popped the button on my jeans and pulled the zipper down, being slow and quiet. She was out as she slept on, and I felt adrenaline move through me as I pulled my dick free and started jerking off.

I let go of her breast, grabbed the edge of the sheet, and pulled it downward until her chest was revealed. She hummed softly, and I stilled, watching her face to see if she’d wake up. Herbreathing was still even, so I started jerking off again as I cupped her bare breasts.

God, she looked good, unaware I was touching her and masturbating right next to her. Before I woke her up, I slipped out of the bed, cock still in hand, and moved around the mattress so I could jerk off right over her.

While staring at her tits and pert nipples, I ran my palm up and down my shaft, feeling my balls draw up tight as my orgasm rose to the surface. My breathing hitched for a moment before I controlled it and held in my groan as my climax claimed me, and I began to ejaculate.

I angled my cock at her tits and let my orgasm paint her in milky jets. Thick white ropes shot out of my cock slit and covered the mounds. And God, she was so perfect, because she slept on while I defiled her.

I shook my shaft, making sure all the cum dripped out of the crown, and tucked myself back in. And then I stood there and just admired how good she looked, painted up like my whore.

With one last look at her face, I turned and left. But I knew this wasn’t the end. I’d be back. I’d be stalking her until the moment was right and I took her life.

I now knew killing her would give me the most intense high I’d ever experienced.

I wanted her to be my ultimate prey.

And this was an obsession I couldn’t control.

Chapter One

Roman

My cock was hard, and it was because I was about to feed my dark beast yet another life.

A therapist might say I got sexual gratification from stalking and hunting. And I supposed I did, to an extent. I was sure there were plenty of psychological reasons why I acted the way I did, why my body always reacted in this way when I was murdering someone.

But I didn’t care about the why or how of what I did. I just cared about how the need and urges grew with each passing day and that, until I acted on them and fed my monster, it would gradually consume me.

Heavy breathing. Rush of adrenaline. Stiff cock. Sweat beading my brow.

I had all those symptoms right now from my illness as I kept to the shadows and stalked the man I’d be killing tonight.

I curled my hands into tight fists, then relaxed them. I did this repeatedly as I moved closer to him, a piss-drunk motherfucker who I’d been watching for weeks now.

My mind whirled with thoughts of why I was doing this… again. It was the psychologists and psychiatrists I’d been forced to see as a child to blame for me even thinking about anything but bloodlust at this moment.

Make no mistake—I had no fucking conscience.

I was made to see the professionals after being caught trying to cut off the hands of one of the older boys in my foster home. I’d been put through the ringer, each of them trying to find out why an innocent six-year-old would do such a heinous act.

I never told them I caught the fucker trying to hurt the foster family’s beloved pets.

With my past a mystery, seeing as they found me—three years old at the time—wandering the streets at night, covered in blood, and wearing nothing but some dirty shorts, I was a puzzle to them.

I’d been told I must have dealt with severe physical, emotional, or sexual abuse during my childhood. But with a past as unknown as mine, they were only able to speculate.

My deep psychological scars no doubt led to my lack of empathy and difficulty forming healthy relationships.

My childhood trauma—because surely being found covered in blood and wandering at night had to mean trauma was involved—could manifest in violent tendencies to regain control or cope with unresolved pain.

As a teenager, they said I exhibited traits of psychopathy, that I viewed others as objects to manipulate or harm without emotional consequences.

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