A Beautiful Mess

*Warning: for matured audiences only. This is a complete work of FICTION.

I watch him intently as I lick and suck on my lollipop, waiting for him to acknowledge my work.

He loosens his tie when he walks in, wiping his tainted fingers in a handkerchief I bought from Sally’s. I cross my bare legs when he stands in front of the hotel’s coffee table, taking off his rings, rolling his neck, sighing into fresh, decadent air.

His presence makes my stomach churn, my spine quiver, the hairs on the back of my neck stand. His voice, rough and husky, commands you to kneel, always halting your steps, moving your body, vibrating your soul. It’s hard to resist a man with a back tattoo, who collects horrors and desires for living, who caresses your sins, revels your madness. He’s brooding and coarse, dominant and sexy, stroking your fears while sucking your flesh. And he always makes my legs tremble in the best possible way, always has me fed, never starving for his meat.

We met when I was nothing, when I was just a throw rug in a basement, a despicable artifact in a museum no child would adore. He noticed my weaknesses, my strengths, my desire to be owned and cared for by those who dared. I wasn’t waiting for him, of course. I wasn’t some little girl sitting on the curb, looking for a man to come save me. I had no intention of letting a man seek my soul and have it be ripped from underneath me. Instead, he sought out my presence at a bar, recognized a damaged woman drowning herself in cheap tequila shots and beer, with covered bruises on her arm from her father and black scars on her back. I can’t say that he didn’t take advantage of my vulnerability, but he definitely charmed me into his arms and white satin sheets, taking me in, feeding me, caring for me, comforting me—training me to essentially be his and his alone. He witnessed my potential, saw what others couldn’t see; a darkness no mother or father accepted, no child would understand—a craving for blood, for butchered flesh. I was a perfect asset, you see, and he knew I would fully swallow his pride if he asked me to.

I look at him through the mirror, and it’s no secret that he has been staring at me. He raises his chin when his dark eyes scan my freshly showered body, realizing that only a silk robe hangs on my shoulders, one completely loose and untied, barely covering my nipples and full breasts. I take the red lollipop out of my mouth and uncross my legs, needing him to see what his presence does to me. I watch his jaw tense, his nose flare, tugging on his bottom lip as if he’s starving for his meal. He looks hungrily into my eyes, and then his posture changes, tenses, suddenly asserting a mastered dominance, a need for control in the room. It only takes one nod from him for me to immediately stand. And that’s what I do.

He turns around to look at me, and then walks over to my work on the bed.

He observes my art, the victims, as they lie there still and damaged from my doing. I look over to watch him admire the brutal destruction of their bodies, their slaughtered, beautiful flesh. Pools of delicious blood soaked the bed sheets and splattered creamed walls, dripping down the edges of the bed frame. Guts kissed their cheeks, organs pus with plea, and I can just hear their alluring screams and chokes when I sliced through their beings with my blade, loving the way blood spilled out their mouths and coated my pink panties. I thirsted for their pulses to weaken, for their bodies to die, to see pale, rugged bones and lifeless eyes stare directly into mine with horror, utter defeat. If I was passionate enough and the man was well deserved, he wouldn’t keep that one organ that truly makes him a man. Surely, women have seen enough of his small ego.

“Did they struggle?” he roughly asks, quite assertively.

“Yes,” I raise my chin, bite my bottom lip. “You know I love it when they do.”

He touches Mr. Willington’s wet cheek with the back of his knuckles, eyes Mrs. Willington’s corpse, “Good.”

I grin. It pleases him.

“You like it?” I ask innocently.

I stick the lollipop back in my mouth, sucking profusely, swirling my tongue around the edges. He notices from the corner of his eye, licks his lips while he gazes at Mr. Willington’s missing ring finger. I take out the sucker for a moment.

“He wouldn’t give it up. I had to do something,” I shrug, sticking the candy back in my mouth. I gesture towards the nightstand near Mrs. Willington’s body. He follows my gaze and looks over to see Mr. Willington’s detached finger resting next to the Bible, his $80,000 emerald ring shining along with it, almost beckoning you to come seek its power. I may not know what business men dabble in, but I always research their most prized possessions.

He smirks, looks at me, and walks towards me without skipping a beat. He stands only inches away, and my body tenses as he studies it, as if he can’t get enough, lingering at my sex that was just openly displayed before him. He looks at the white stick hanging out of my mouth, and takes hold of it. I watch him as he slowly pulls the lollipop out, letting me savor the taste and suck it back in before dragging my lips along the body. I let it go with a loud pop and lap the wetness along my lips, aching for another suck. He replaces it with his mouth, kissing me, devouring me, licking, sucking, caressing me with his tongue so he too can taste the cherry, eat away the flavor. I moan as he bites on my bottom lip, practically at his will when he grips my chin for my submission.

“You’re such a good fuckin’ girl,” he says against my lips, kissing me with purpose. “I love it, my dear. It’s a beautiful mess. And you know I love messy.” He puts the sticky lollipop up against my lips, demanding me to open my mouth, “Suck.”

I do as I’m told.

He lets go of it and kneels down before me, kissing down the length of my torso, running his tongue along my curves. I gasp when he nibbles on my inner thighs, roughly tastes the skin. He looks up at me, slowly dragging his soft, thick lips to the sweet center between my legs. I close my eyes for a brief moment, save my breath for that ecstasy I need to feel. But I quickly open them when his hot breath no longer lingers near that swollen ache, wrapping his hand around my throat with intent instead.

“You always do such a good job, even when I said I wanted you to be discreet,” he loosens his grip, takes the lollipop out of my mouth, and throws it against the desk. I swallow at the sound, feel his hand between my legs. “I have a job for you.”

I raise my brows, my eyes growing dark, cold, hungry. I moan to his movements below and find it difficult to concentrate when his tongue strokes mine, “You see, Mrs. Willington had a lover, a young man in his twenties, tearing their marriage apart. I saved him, just for you.” He tightens his grip around my throat, “There will be a knock on the door. You’ll answer it. Do what you do best, my baby girl. I’ll give you your reward.”

One of his fingers inches deeply inside of me when he lets me go, and I throw my arms around his neck, holding on to him as he pleasures my sex with another. How could I ever disobey? His rough touches, his erotic words, his thick mouth swallowing mine—all I want to do is kneel, to be filled, to cave in and let him take me and take me against the window with my breasts pressed up against the glass.

But a knock sounds at the door, and I groan when he pulls both his fingers out of me.

“Go on. Open it,” he says. “I’ll watch.” He takes a seat behind me, sitting in the chair I once occupied.

Something takes over me as I take my first step to open the door. My pupils darken, my cheeks flush, and a thick, thunderous cloud suddenly envelopes my soul, soaking the crevices of my bones, the cracks of my skin, lusting for cultivated bodies and inundations of blood. My body convulses at the sight of this young man who stands at my height, and I instantly become possessed. Demons whimper at my feet and I wonder what it would feel like to sink my nails into his pale, crimson flesh, to feel his blood paint across my chest, stain my sex.

The young man awes at my nakedness, the stark complexion of my breasts, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth. I pull him closer to me, kiss his neck— that succulent vein— as I close the door behind him and lock it.

It didn’t take long before he stepped forward and witnessed the tragic deaths of his lover, and his lover’s husband. That’s when I took the knife from the table and slit open his throat from behind, completely blindsiding the beautiful moment of his death. He chokes and bleeds, taking a hold of his throat as if covering the wound would save his life.

I stared into the lewd eyes of the man sitting in his throne, completely entranced by the art I’m beginning to make on the carpet. He told me to be discreet, yes, but he knows that’s not what I do best, that’s not how I murder. I’m wild and passionate with my pieces, never failing the test, always pleasing and arousing my king.

We fucked against the window when I was done, looking out into the city while the bodies bled behind us, begging him not to stop.

He then took the emerald ring from Mr. Willington’s finger and gifted it to me.

My very own reward.  

Orgininally published under my pen name Celena Woods https://celenawoods.wixsite.com/mypersonalescape

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