I’m sitting on the couch with my legs spread wide open, arching my back, biting my lip, drawing his eyes to that area between my legs, the one he can’t resist. He bites down on his tongue from moaning, beads of sweat appearing just above his brow. I watch his Adam’s apple move as he gulps down a bit of air. My love is nervous, practically blushing.

He loves seeing me like this. It’s quite obvious, isn’t it?  He loves how high I adjusted my dress, dragging the silky material up to my thighs, exposing his favorite spot. He loves how slowly I slid my tights all the way down to my heels, ripped them by the seams, how he can almost see the perfect outline of my breasts, one thin strap now off my shoulder. The confidence I exude, the power I consume, the subtle manipulation used, he loves it all. It makes him hard.

His mouth waters to the thought of my sex, I see, running his tongue along his thick lips to moisten the cracks. He’s trying desperately to resist the temptation, looks away as if not wanting to cave into the pressure. He doesn’t want to be seen as the weak one, the one who used to weep at my bedside, begging to devour his meal. No, he can’t be seen as the weak one, even if his wrists are bounded by ropes, tightly tied around the armrests.

He flexes out his fingers and pulls them tight into fists, looking past me, ignoring my proposition.

I smile at the subtle gesture, and begin admiring his body myself. He sits there looking so helpless in the chair, half naked, beautifully sculpted, his manhood practically straining in his pants. He breathes quite heavily in the silence, and I watch the constant rise of his chest in awe, fascinated by his every breath and fearful sigh. His abs flex each time he inhales my scent, his muscle bulges to tease, taunting me, tempting me to lick. I remember running my hands down his perfected body in the shower once, water dripping down his smooth flesh as if the gods cried for joy, baptizing his body with mine. I remembered  the way he looked at me that day, warm, admirable, loving, and when we kissed, when he inhaled the scent of my being and devoured my mouth, when he roughly fucked me against the glass shower door until I…

“Stop this,” he spats.

Ugh! He interrupted my thoughts, again! You selfish mother…

Aw, but look at him! All angry and disturbed, brows furrowed and jaw ticked, my love no longer in control.

“You once told me that it’s not about being allowed to have control. Control isn’t given. You have to take it,'” I smile, spreading my legs even wider. “So, uh, who exactly has the control now?”

His nostrils flare like a beast ready to burst out of its cave, pulling against the restraints with attempts to loosen them somehow, to escape. I bounded his ankles too, if that helps, and I’m curious to know if he has developed rope burns yet, if he’s suffering through the stings.

“You love me this way though. You love when I have power over you.” I laugh, “In the bedroom at least. You really wish you could eat right now, don’t you?” I expose more of myself and he’s straining his neck not to take a peek.

He then stares deathly into my eyes, burning holes inside of my chest, “This isn’t funny.”

He’s no fun.

I close my legs and stand, picking up the knife that lay lazily on the coffee table next to me. I make my way to the kitchen counter, and pour myself a glass of red wine. I noticed him watching me as I take a sip, and then down the rest of the substance without hesitation. I had placed the knife down on the counter, and I suddenly notice my reflection through the blade. My mascara might be smeared, and I wipe away the smudges, but damn, I still look good; my red lips bold, my brown irises glow. Who would fuck this woman up? Who would rip her heart out and devour all the delicate blood within?

I slowly walk back over to him with glass in hand, “You know the saying ‘we could have had it all.’ You know ‘rolling in the deep. You had my heart inside of your hands.'” I smirk, “‘And you played it to the-“

“Who gives a fuck!” he roars, “what are you trying to say exactly? You really quoting a song that doesn’t-“

At impulse, I throw the wine glass across the room. It smashes against the window, shatters onto the floorboards. “My God! You interrupted me, AGAIN!”

His eyes widen, bewildered, terrified, and I’m so tempted to tie his mouth shut. I tighten my grip on the handle of the knife this time, my blood boiling, my ears fuming.

I used to say that there was a certain essence to his beauty. He was beautiful to me in more ways than one. But seeing him like this, sitting in front of me, tied to this chair against his will, weak and weeping, powerless, helpless, like how he hates to be, that’s beautiful, it’s fuckin’ beautiful. That’s what I like to see. You’re beautiful beneath me, my love, my sweet little…

I sigh, calming down my nerves, soothing the darkness within the pit I dabble in. “Sorry. I lost my temper,” I shake my head. I refocus and stare into his eyes of despair, “But I need you to understand something.” I walk behind him, dragging my fingertips along his collarbone as he tenses against my touch. “You read all my stories, correct? Most of them at least; the ones I showed you and had the decency to share. You know what they were about, you know how I feel about men who did what they did to me.”

He rolls his eyes, always got an attitude even if I could chop off his balls right now, “But I didn’t-“

I lean down to his ear to lick his earlobe and whisper, “You ever read ‘The Waiting Game’?”

“No, I,I think you sent me that. But I never read it.”

I graze both hands down his chest, feeling his warm, soft skin as I give him small kisses along the side of his neck. He pulls against the restraints once again, leaning away, incredibly disgusted. I smile, “It’s such a shame. It’s one of my favorite stories that I have ever written.” I stand in front of him, “Do you actually think you are the only one? I’ve had my pleasure of getting my revenge on others. Only the ones who have done me wrong. If you would have read ‘The Waiting Game,’ you would have found out how long I waited and waited and waited for him to come home. You would have found out what he had done. And how I handled it.”

His eyes bulge out of its sockets, “Wha…what did you-“

I smirk, “God! And his wife was so annoying about it though. Crying and screaming and shit. She knew what was coming to her once I waited for her to come home too. I didn’t waste any time.”

Aw, look at my baby, look at him. He’s all shook, disturbed, horrified. He begins to panic, like a little bitch that he is, and I ignore his pleas, his remarks, all his protests against why I shouldn’t stab him in the throat. I let him do what he needs to do, what all the men do, what all my victims do; beg.

I go to my phone on the coffee table and scroll through my playlist. I play “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele because ha, I’m a fuckin’ psychopath who needs to get in the mood.

I walk behind him once more, and grab a hold of his chin, arching back his neck to place the sharp knife against his lovely throat. I can just taste that jugular vein as it pops out from its core, so delicious in sight, I can almost taste it. “You know exactly what you did, my love. You are just like the others. Making me fall for you and rip the rug from underneath my feet. You think I wouldn’t find out that you fucked someone else? I might not be living with you, but I’m also not a dumbass bitch!”

“But I…I do love you. But I-“

“Bullshit!” I take the knife and quickly drag the blade across his bicep, deep enough for blood to spill and create a mess. I cover his mouth before he can moan in pain. I make him look up at me. I want him to see me, and remember me, as I will be the cause of his death, that I will be in charge of his corpse.

“Do me one favor?” I touch my lips with his, aching to taste what I once had, who I once loved. “Say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Moore for me.”

I press my mouth against his one last time, relishing his tongue against my own.

And then I press the knife into his flesh, and swiftly slice it across his throat.

His eyes burn into mine once the deed was done, and I back away when his body jerks.

I sit down on the couch in front of him, with crossed legs and focused eyes, quiet, smiling.

I then lit myself a cigarette and watch this time, utterly fascinated and entranced by my work, by his suffering, by his incredible bloody physique.

I just watch him, tilt my head, inhale the smoke, my second love choking on his own blood.

I just watch him, watch him die.

I hope this is the end of it, this game I like to play.

But who am I kidding?

There is always more blood to spare.

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