Journals of a Psychopath

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The man-woman's time is very near, how will Clarkson rid himself of her?

The Homestead

In the corral, Rhea was comfortable, the horses snorted. Accomplished in the equestrian art, she bent to the horses, and tended to their needs, Rhea’s pants clung to her legs.
      “It is a pleasure to see you,” Rhea said.
In the sunlight, the farmhouse windows gleamed, I knew Caldwell her father could afford to embed precious-gems into the glass. Pushing Rheanna to the ground, plunging inside Rhea’s woman-part, her sigh of ecstasy was released.
      “Do you want a cigarette?”
      “I have not smoked before.”
      “Try one.”
Rhea drew in the smoke and coughed the expression across her face not pleasant. Taking her to the barn, excited Rheanna’s pupils became larger. I reacted with my manhood, I screwed her Rheanna's face glowed with passion. When done, Rhea held her arms out, but I avoided her embrace, I dragged my pants on. Rheanna was not happy when I left her she angrily forked the hay.

 

 

 Chapter Three

The Lady Flarice’s home

Undulating in my body and the envy was prevalent. I vowed she would be cut asunder from her female partner. The murmurs of devotion I could hear enraged beyond reason. Dancing, a yowl of projection came from my lips, I would punish the man-woman connected to the crimes she committed, the main one her penchant for the Lady Flarice. I hated lesbians and the dyke’s ego would be stripped, I imagined the scene, I lifted my arms with the sensation that sources from victory over tribulation. I could not wait for the day Lady Flarice would be mine.
      “You must accomplish much work before that event,” the Orator said.
      “Why does it take so long?”
      “This is a longstanding task.”
      “Surely it can be accomplished sooner!”

The Isolation Chamber

Cutting scraps from the pure white silk roll, I created some aids. (An excellent needleman, I sewed my robes and the gowns for the Lady Flarice.)

The Man-Woman’s factory

Pushing the work across the conveyor belt and greatly grotesque she was in denial.
“How is your gorgeous woman?” her supervisor asked.
The dyke laughed, her horrible lean lips parted and paraded nicotine-stained teeth. Sam the bitch was a weak adversary, she was satisfied with her strength. However, it was not enough to match the vigour I owned.
      “The triumph is yours,” the Declarer said.
Swinging my body, euphoria cloaked, jostling through my veins and the sound relating to the blood defined me. In the sky, the black-angels sang the song connected to success, mighty, my electrical impulses very potent. The time to slay the man-woman was near and the thrill about the upcoming episode surged.
       “Make sure she endures extensive pain, the lesbian is an abomination, and she must be erased,” the Purifiers and the Darkest-One said.

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