Page 86 of My Girl
The drunk bitch grimaces, and the head of my cock stings. Her warm cunt wraps around me, brutal and raw. Ishouldbe using a condom—not to protect her, but to prevent my piercing from getting infected.
But I don’t care about an infection. I want to feel her pain.
“Ow. Shit. That hurts. Hey?—”
She tries to turn over, but I dig my nails into her waist.
“Condom!” she shouts. “Condom!”
I hit the back of her head, stunning her. Her jaw drops open, and she lies against the mattress. Like a dumb little lamb, she stays silent. It feels good to invade her like this. To rip a woman’s sense of autonomy apart.
Bent over a bed.
Over a rock.
Stabbing her from the inside.
Cutting off her head.
In my mind, Mrs. Galloway cries. My cock burns. The bitch squeezes around me. A woman’s head—I don’t know if it’s Mrs. Galloway’s or the bitch I’m fucking right now—drops.
I squirt my load inside of her.
I sigh. My dick squishes out of her. Her juices and my cum cover the head of my dick, but with a good rinse and some antiseptic, the piercing should be fine. And if not, I’ll have the piercer look at it.
The drunk bitch cries into a pillow. It’s irritating.
“Who are you?” she sobs.
Tears glisten on her cheeks. I could make up an excuse about my change in behavior, but her tears irritate me. Why cry when she knows it won’t change anything? It’s her fault for inviting me in here, and it’ll be her fault even if she tells the cops. She should’ve known better than to invite a stranger into her hotel room.
Besides, I didn’t kill her. I wanted to, but I’m not a killer. Not anymore.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she cries, her voice cracking.
I snicker, then look down my nose at her.
“What?” I ask. “You think this is about you?” I get in her face. “You’re not special.”
Her eyes shut. I sigh. I’m bored of her already. I need something more, and the drunk girl can’t give it to me. I let myself out of the hotel room.
Months pass. More drunk girls. More nights where I’m good. I take what I want, but I don’t take itall.I spare their lives. And that means I’m good.Normal.
But no matter how much I use them, it doesn’t change how I feel when I park outside of my childhood home. The lights inside of the Galloway House are bright, almost as if there was never any darkness or violence inside of those walls. The married couple—Michael and Miranda Hall—live their lives as if that’s exactly what they deserve.
I want to see them suffer. And I can’t let it go.
Maybe I am a killer.
There’s only one way to find out.
When the Halls are out for work, I put sedatives in all of their drinks. Then I wait in the basement for the night to come.
Once they’re both passed out, I string the wife’s neck into a proper noose, keeping her lying asleep in the bed for as long as I can. When I’m sure that the noose is the right length, I pull her off of the bed, letting it tighten around her neck. Hanging from the rafters, she wakes and begins to struggle. I plunge my dick inside of her as she twitches around. There isn’t much texture with this oversized condom—the only rubber strong enough for my piercings—but she’s a rag doll, slinging around, and her cunt has a literal death grip on my shaft.
It’s a mistake to fuck her with a cock piercing. She’ll bruise.
I’ll use a knife later, I decide. Make it look like her husband got vicious there.
