A Serial Killer's Desire

“ANTONE, yes.” Her pathetic whimper floats through the room as her sweet little body stretches so tightly it grips my dick with relentless pressure. “My love…”
Oh yes. Say my name and forget your fucking head. Forget what forces you down and makes you cry. This is what you want now, though you didn’t know it at first. I jerk her to her knees and run my hand under her sparkling red dress. My fingers dig into her back and I imagine her when we first met: walking down the dark highway, a drunk skeleton with undeniable beauty beneath the pain. Beneath the abuse of those who paid her to endure it for their pleasure. She took my hand so easily, got into my car so willingly.
My stupid little whore.
Her raw utterances sound beautiful against a background of waves hitting the shore and the gentle flow as they recede. With unrestrained aggression I slip into her dripping haven and she buckles against her leather-tied wrists. Her hair cascades down her back like streams of melted chocolate and tangled in my grip, her head jerks back with a crack. I like the way she screams.
And she knows it.
Her body trembles, her insides gripping around me, and her nails claw into the black marble floor. These things along with her desperate voice, make me want to spill inside her so badly.
“Tell me you love me.”
“Yes,” she whispers sharply and my hands find her throat. Muffled sobs fill my ears as the tenderness reblooms from the days before.
“Say it.” I squeeze and slam into her.
“I love you. So much.” Her voice rough and clouded with desire, I can taste it. Her delicious pheromones and endorphins a palatable treat swimming in the air around us.