I will come to them when they least expect it. Snug, warm, in their beds. Little heads peaking from beneath covers tucked tightly around them. Rosie cheeked, soft lipped fuck meat puppets are what they are. They just do not know it yet, but I do. All it takes is one unlocked window, one unlocked door, and I consider that my invitation in. You know, sometimes I do not even do anything. Sometimes just the fear of something is just as good as the act.
Last summer I was in Michigan. There was a cabin not far from the one I was staying at. I would see the family out on the lake. They would yell, scream, splash, they would have such a great time, like all cookie cutter douche bag families do. They had one young girl with them, who didn’t do any of that, she would just sit on the grass and watch. When they were outside cooking, she would sit at the picnic table and just stare out at the water. Since I am all tactful and shit, I went over there one day and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” The woman came rushing over and put her arms around her like I had the fucking plague or something. She goes, “Stay away from her, her sister drown last year and she is having a hard time.”
What…the…fuck?!? Who the hell takes someone to a place that would remind them of an event like that?…”Oh you just got out of rehab? Great! Glad you’re back, now let’s go buy some crack!” Jesus! Actually it made me laugh and think, ‘Why didn’t you think of that Raven.” That bit of information was all I needed to work out in my warped little brain how to make her vacation all the more special. I grabbed one of the other screaming things that had come out of the water to towel off and asked her what her sister’s name was. She told me that the girl wasn’t her sister, but her cousin, like I gave a fuck, I still wanted a name, and not just that name, but the name of the floater too.
For the next three nights, I waited until everyone was asleep, climbed up to where I had seen her at night, and found; luckily for me; no locked windows. I would climb in there, sit in this one corner, perched up on this low stool, and I would whisper her sister’s name, over and over again. She would wake up eventually, look into the corner, and I would just lean forward a bit so she could just see the lower part of my face, and say her sister’s name again. The chick would freak the fuck out! She would run out of that damn bedroom so fast. I would just go to the window, climb back out, and wait behind one of the trees. I bet she thought she was going crazy.
The last day I saw her, she was crying and looking upstairs. The adults had those worried “OMG, what are we going to do” looks on their face. As they pulled away in their stupid car, I waved and blew them a kiss. I always wonder if that crying girl remembers the voice in her bedroom, and the dark hooded figure with the alabaster skin, and blood red lips that whispered her dead sister’s name at the lake when she tries to sleep at night, and if she has to draw pictures of it for her Adolescent Psychiatrist.
I like to linger over my handy work. The way a small, frail body reacts to my touch excites me. With each and every slap, punch, slice, the skin reacts. I love welts. Those are my favorites. They remind me of the brush strokes that you can see on Oil Paintings. That is, after all what my work is, Art. The innocent perfection beneath the scars of pain. Pretty fucking brilliant if you ask me. I’m not the only one who stares in fascination at a piece of flesh that swells up, who watches as bruises appear with all their beautiful coloration. The younger the pet, the more shocking and eye catching this type of art work is. Perhaps I should open up My own Art Studio. Put My work on display. Watch as VIP guests catch their first glimpse of My Masterpieces. Of course I would have to make this an interactive Art Exhibit. I am sure a lot of hard cocks would like to come out and experience the heaven inside the outer coating of visual Hell that I created.
