Post by Ivy O'Shea on Feb 5, 2012 20:11:21 GMT -6
Maybe I am, but that's just the way I roll
And when I got you, watch the whole world know
I am truly original.
WARNING: EXTREMELY GRAPHIC. BEWARE.
A crimson river trailed lazily down her arm and bright teal eyes followed it's movements happily. A droplet fell from the tip of her finger and landed on her tongue. It was rich and warm, like a fine tea and she purred at the flavor before sticking her coated finger in her mouth.
Fucking candy.
Exquisite.
A strangled cry and the rustling of sheets sounded from the bed and a frown graced her red, red lips. An interruption from her prey. It pissed her off. She pulled her finger from her mouth with an audible pop and dragged her hand down over her bare breasts, leaving behind a trail of crimson. It didn't matter to her as she would soon be covered in the substance.
She stared into the full-length mirror before her, marveling her mussed hair, pink-tinted cheeks, and snowy skin. Vain, she was not. Confident was the word for it. Very, very confident. She stood completely nude in the privacy of her bedroom, flushed from vigorous sex and the excitement of tonight's events. On her floor lay a man. A man with tanned skin, ruffled, dirty-blonde hair, and ropes around his wrists. Those ropes were attached to the foot of her bed, stilling his movements and preventing his escape.
His brown eyes became focused and he turned them to her. His expression was filled with obvious fear and it succeeded in making her purr and press her thighs together as a wave of pleasure rolled over her. He met her eyes in the mirror and she gave him a sweet, sexy smile in which he whimpered in response. Smart man. He knew he was going to die.
No spoiler about it. They always died.
She turned slowly, letting him marvel in the innocence of her body. She was a modern-day pin-up model – large, perky breasts, perfectly rounded hips, a teeny-tiny waist. A redheaded Monroe. The poor fool yanked him restraints as she began to stride over to him, walking gingerly on her toes; a feline grace. More blood ran down his arms, mingling with the slash across his chest. With a smooth move, she sat next to him, her sweet smile still upon her face.
”Don't fight, honey. The more you fight the worse it'll hurt.” Her words were tinted with an Irish accent, calming yet frightening. She winked and leaned forward to kiss his cheek, ”Don't be scared. I've done this before.”
Many, many times before.
Ivy scratched away at the dead man's forearm, her fingers slippery with his blood, but still she worked at it with her nails, clawing her way inside. She peeled back the pale leathery skin from wrist to elbow and dug her finger inside, moving aside tendons, muscle, and bone until she poked a hole out the back. Her expression was intense as she worked – snapping the radius and ulna and thumbing the tendons. Mother had taught her not to play with her food, but it was just so much fun. She just couldn't help herself.
Her fingers wound around a vein and she tugged on it gently, feeling it pull away from it's home. Her breathing slowed and her eyes focused as she pulled the tiny red tube from her prey's arm little by little. They were always so hard to keep intact, but the vein gave way and she lifted it away. She felt like God, deciding who lived and who died. The rolled the tube between her fingers for a brief moment before sticking the end of it in her mouth and chewing on it. It was her candy.
She was covered in blood. It dried under her nails and matted her hair and dripped into her eyes but she didn't care. She'd bought a hardwood floor house for a reason, after all. Humming an old Irish song, she reached across the corpse's naked body and lifted a large hunting knife hand, testing it's weight before slamming it hilt-deep into the soft belly. It cut through obstacles like butter and gave her plenty of space to work with.
She withdrew the knife and replaced it with her hand, digging around inside his still-warm organs until she was elbow-deep and her hand closed on what she was looking for – The heart. With a sharp yank, she had it free and the torso flooded with blood. It splashed all over her and the floors as she removed her prize and laid beside the man to play with it.
”Momma? Momma, I'm home.” A loud thump sounded from the hall and footsteps neared her door. But before the intruder could knock, she spoke up, ”Daniel, honey, Mommy's busy. Can you do your homework for me please?” Her adopted son, Daniel, was quiet for a moment and Ivy let her tongue glide over the muscle in her hands, a teaser to her senses.
”I'm hungry, though, Momma. I haven't eaten since breakfast. I didn't have money for lunch.” Shit. She knew she'd forgotten something this morning. But, damn, she was hungry too. She bit down on the heart and chewed gently while she thought, but she knew there was no way around this. ”Alright, baby. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll make you dinner. Alright?” There was a noise of confirmation from the other side of the door and Ivy placed the heart on the corpse's chest and stood up.
Fun's over for now, she guess as she trotted to the attached bathroom and jumped in the shower. But it wouldn't be long until she continue. And she could always make a fresh kill.
No, she wasn't crazy. Practical was the word for it. Very, very practical.
