Journals of a Psychopath



Never continue to see someone who is insane, my novel is full of the madness of Clarkson the Psychopath.

Karen’s House

The shiny doorknocker reflected the afternoon sun. Boldly passing through the door, after she opened it, the oak door was just sizeable enough to house my sturdy frame. Coming to me with respect in her eyes, Karen explained how I broke into her home. Festooned in a robe and a mask, my fake blue eyes were fanatical, and she did not have a clue it was me. Attacking, he raped her ass violently her muffled sobs could be heard.
“Revenge is sweet,” he said.
Pressing her throat with his thumbs, he deprived Karen of air. Performing a dance, he uplifted his arms, and shuffled.
“It is outrageous,” I said.
Appearing involved with Karen’s pain proved difficult, Karen presented as drawn and pale.
Chafing her face, she began to weep, throughout the tale the Narrator rasped. Karen drank steadily, I was confident in my mind, if Karen imbibed enough, she would allow me in her pants. In the soft bed, I tugged her nightdress, I was striving to feel Karen’s ass-hole, but she removed my hand.
“I need to see it!” I said.
“I do not want you to.”
I turned her over, powered the light, examining Karen’s rear, she protested, but I disparaged her objection, I gasped. Touching it with my fingertip, Karen moaned, the pressure in my manhood intense, I ejaculated, and I made her come.
“Stop it reminds me of him the rapist he did it the same as that.”
I climaxed.

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