Thursday's Children Blog Hop: Back In Black

"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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