Babysitting is not my thing. Killer phone sex is. However, if you combine the two, one could have a real fucking great time. When I was younger I would; on occasion; babysit the brats two streets over. I hated them. Their big eyes, their tiny bodies, their dimples, their high pitched little voices. All of that shit. I remember the female had these fluffy pink footie pajamas that I used to have to put on her after she took her bath. The male had fluffy blue ones. Why? Why do this? Stop dressing your vaginal discharges as fluffy things, fluffy things get eaten.
Once, their parents went out of town for three days. I had to be in that house with them. Sure the money was good, but having to deal with them and their happy selves was almost more than what I could bare. One night while I was giving Ginny her bath she slipped, banged her head on the faucet pretty hard, then slipped into the water. I had to grab her. She started to cry and bleed. Just a little cut on her forehead. Nothing major, but any cuts to the head area will bleed like a son of a bitch. I was mesmerized.
One tiny drop went into the water. It swirled around, grew tendrils, floated downward, then dissipated into the water. I still remember that. All of a sudden I had the urge to reach up, grab her Dad’s razor, slice her throat, lay her down in the tub and watch the dance of the blood mixing with the water. It made me feel calm. It made me feel horny. I imagined these huge billows of red blooming from the wound, turning the clear water into a red heaven. All the while she would be floating in it, her eyes wide open, her hair splayed out above her like a halo. Her soft, warm body turning paler, her lips becoming a perfect shade of bluish purple while her gaping neck wound continued to release the precious liquid that had kept her alive up until now.
Then I thought how nice it would be to grab her Brother only to do the same thing to him. Both of them, forever perfect, floating, their bodies bobbing in synchronization. Me getting into the tub with them after there was the barest sliver of life left, humming them a lullaby as they drifted off into the warm long sleep. I would sit and caress them, bathe myself in their bloody bath water, relishing every second of it. I would take my time, use their bodies to pleasure myself while they still twitched, barely alive, until they just stopped bleeding.
I didn’t do that of course, I mean I would of been caught pretty damn quickly. This is one of the defining moments that helped create my love of death, the love of hurting little things, and the love of killing.
Indigo
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