loser

It’s harder to stab someone than you thought it would be… you were getting cold feet. And now you’re just slamming the knife into their chest, but you’re weak, you’re nervous. Your hands are slipping. Are you even gonna be able to do this?

You’re panicking, the adrenaline is rushing through you, but you just can’t stop yourself from praising your screaming and sobbing victim who has only received gash after gash. You’re getting off to it, telling them how thick-skinned they must be to resist your love. Deep down, however, you’re just fucking terrified… You’ll be caught, you know it. How will you hide the body? Was this person important?

But you’re slipping from the panic as your eyes catch the blood oozing from their body. You had hoped to get a good stab through the chest — but their stomach. You could feel their heavy panting underneath you… god, it’s making you dizzy with an arousal you had never thought you would experience.

Fuck this.

And you can’t stop yourself, laying on the victim’s fading body as you start stabbing that pretty knife in and out of the fleshy side of their stomach, your hips thrusting instinctively with the rhythm of your knife. They have to be dead by now, but you weren’t really paying attention. It just felt so fucking good to grind yourself against the now limp body, a strangled moan leaving your lips as you sit up, finally slamming the knife into their chest as the pleasure explodes throughout your entire body.

Your breathing was heavy as you collapsed upon the corpse of your first ever victim, being certain to avoid the handle sticking out of their chest — a sense of disappointment washes over you as you realize you had barely even gotten a good taste of your victim and you were already a goddamn mess.

But… burying the body seemed pointless now as your eyes laid upon the wide-eyed stare of a perpetually terrified dead man.

No… you’ll keep him.