"It's been too long, I'm glad to be back..." -AC/DC, "Back In Black"
I've missed you guys!
I haven't been on my blog for a while now- for Thursday's Children, or anything else. I've been *gasp* working. But that's not what I want to talk about.
I want to talk about villains.
I'm not the first person to post about them. I won't be the last. I wouldn't even be writing about this at all, except a strange, diabolical, magical thing happened to me recently.
My villain turned evil.
All on his own. When I wasn't even looking. I don't know how, when, or what happened. All I know is I was writing a scene for him (a late addition to the book), and suddenly, it hit me.
This is one creepy son of a bitch.
I don't know how else to explain it other than to share the scene. This is the first piece of this book I've made public, so I hope you guys enjoy it! It's a tad long, and I should probably warn you: it's not for the faint of heart.
***
It was
the red hair that made him hard.
He drew
the soft lace curtain closed over the window.
He loved the Bay Area. Lots of
redheads. Sure, there were redheads
other places, but not like here. They
were everywhere here. So many to choose
from. Pretty ones, ugly ones, thin ones,
fat ones. It didn't matter. As soon as
he saw the hair, it was all over.
For
them, anyway.
He
looked down at the knife, smoothed a cloth over the blade. Microfiber.
He'd discovered that by accident.
A happy accident, as it turned out.
Got rid of dust, dirt, skin cells, hair.
He paused. Maybe someday he'd get
to meet whoever invented microfiber. He
wouldn't mind shaking their hand.
Not
that he'd be able to tell them what he used it for.
He ran
the cloth down the blade one last time, admired the serrated edge, the
burnished handle. It had taken him a
long time to find it. He'd combed
through catalogues, visited department stores.
At Bed Bath and Beyond, he'd been helped by a redhead. A petite little thing, with an ass that made his
mouth water. She'd been so
friendly. So naive. She would have been easy.
But he
hadn't had the knife. The knife was
important. The knife was the key.
He got
a firm grip on the handle, and turned to the woman on the bed. She was blindfolded, but she must have been
able to feel his eyes on her, because she flinched. The white nylon rope that tied her wrists and
ankles to the bedposts seemed to glow in the darkness.
Bedposts. That was another thing. The bed always needed to have bedposts.
He
approached, not bothering to muffle his footsteps. He'd done this too many times to worry. Her mouth was duct-taped. She wouldn't make a sound. Even if she tried, no one would hear her.
He
trailed the tip of the knife gently down her cheek, lifted a red curl off her
forehead with the blade. She jerked.
Slowly,
reverently, he slipped the blade down the front of her nightshirt. It sliced through the fabric with scarcely
any effort. He drew it downward until
both sides were gaping open. She was
crying now, blind, mute, but crying; a soft, wuffling sound.
He
hardened still further. It was so much
better when they cried.
The
scent of her cunt flavored the air around them.
He inhaled deeply. That was the
beautiful thing about cunts. They were
greedy. Even when a woman didn't think
she wanted it, her cunt did. And unlike
women, cunts never lied.
He
would play with that in a minute. But
first, he had something to do.
The
knife was sharp and effective. Almost
too effective; the first cut was so clean, it took almost a minute to
bleed. But bleed it finally did. The woman thrashed. A panicked sound rose in her throat,
disappeared into the duct tape over her mouth.
He cut her again. Another sound.
This
was too good to waste. He slid his free
hand down the front of his pants and cut her again. And again.
And again.
He
stepped back and admired his handiwork. The
woman's belly and breasts were covered in neat, artistic gashes. The sheets on the bed were soaked red. Beautiful red. Why did it always come back to red?
He
crouched between her quivering legs. Unzipped
his fly and freed himself. Glanced down.
Good. He was still hard. After the first time, he'd had some...
concerns... over his performance. After
all his careful planning, to discover he was pushing rope wasn't just
frustrating. He'd gone there to offer
himself to her. To show her how much she
meant to him, how much she'd always meant to him.
Instead,
he'd been humiliated.
Fury
welled up in his chest. Underneath him,
the woman screamed, cried, fought to buck him off. Between the blindfold and the duct tape, she
was as good as faceless.
Which
was perfect. It meant his imagination
could give her the face of the woman he really wanted there.
Jak
O'Mara.
He settled in and
proceeded to punish her.
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