Journals of a Psychopath



Smithson and Clarkson the brutal and cruel ones.

The Segregation Cell

      “Sir Clarkson my cunt hurts.”
      “I do not appreciate your term of phrase refrain from using inappropriate words. In future you will name it your honeyed-part.”
Smoothing the layers of Lady Flarice’s gown and I unchained her.
      “Sir Clarkson my honeyed-part is bleeding I need a dressing.”
      “The gore ought to flow let it be a lesson you have fallen short in the behavior I expect. Your female-place will be sore for a few days and it is a rebuke for your misbehavior. We want some dinner.”
Shambling to the kitchen and the Lady Flarice removed the meat from the frozen-cabinet. Dozing, when we roused, the dinner was not cooked, Smithson and I tramped to Lady Flarice.
      “What are you doing?” He asked.
The meat was still on the counter and collapsing against the unit when she saw me, she was fearful.
      “What happened to dinner?” I asked.


      “Rheanna traipsed to my house and ranted that Jolenson will die before she is born, I am worried Rhea stood in front of the house, and waved a bottle of whiskey.”
Rheanna stumbled into the work-zone and teetered to us.
      “What were you thinking?”
Rhea looked blasé.
      “If you must persist in harassing Elaina we are done.”
Rheanna skulked from the workshop, I longed to be with the Lady Flarice, and the shift crawled by. Rheanna came back into the workshop she wobbled and nearly fell over, but I caught her.
      “You cannot hassle Elaina, because she is with my child you must behave.”

The Isolation Chamber

I cogitated in connection to the Lady Flarice's stupidity she should have defrosted the meat. Snatching her and I propelled Lady Flarice to the microwave.
      “What is this?”
      “It is a microwave Sir Clarkson.”
      “What does it say on this dial?”
I indicated the knob in question.
      “It says defrost.”
      “You misbehaved and you must be reprimanded for this.”
Reading the book, the content was relevant to blood and body parts, Smithson glanced at us.
      “I am repentant,” Lady Flarice said.
She looked downward and pushing her into the chamber, I chained Lady Flarice to the four-poster. I produced a whip, an expression of glee flitted over Smithson's face. Vibrating and the primary crack of the whip licked Lady Flarice’s back, the welts formed on her skin, and she sobbed with each stroke. I gloated in the punishment and slathered with the intoxication. Smithson absorbed the atmosphere and he cartwheeled in front of her, she whimpered. He tilted her skull and Lady Flarice obediently scrutinized him dance, as I whipped her, she screeched it was surreal.

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