Journals of a Psychopath

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The Lady Flarice's life is will become hell.

The Manor House

Expecting sex Jessie the tutor for Smithson was frustrated my man-weapon was much too sore to engage.
      “What happened to your dick?”
      “I told Smithson to sew silver stars on it.”
Jessie surveyed me as if I was bonkers.
      “You need a drink,” she said.
      “Yeah, I want a large bourbon.”
Padding from the room she was barefoot Jessie's shiny negligee swished.
The screams began to resonate from the dining room and the noise of glass shattering. I sped down the stairway into the room.
      “See what I have here,” Rhea said.
She gripped Jessie by her hair. The flowers in the vase had compacted in the scuffle. Among the shards, a lamp was overturned.
      “Your vixen is not so perky now.”
In Rhea’s other hand, she clasped a sliver of glass, and striving to pull herself away, Jessie struggled. However, Rhea summoned super strength, and she gripped her hair tighter.
      “Baby let Jessie go,” Caldwell said.
      “Why do you want to screw her too?”
      “You must put the glass down, if you injure Jessie you will wind up in trouble,” Smithson said.
Rheanna released Jessie and Caldwell sprinted to her.
      “It is ok,” he crooned.
He led Rhea from us.
      “She needs help,” Jessie said.
“I must talk with Caldwell.”
I found Caldwell in the study.
      “We ought to do something about Rhea if we do not she could injure herself or someone else.”
Caldwell considered the suggestion.
      “Yes, I concur with you for once Rheanna needs help.”
Traipsing back to Jessie, she was still worried.
      “I am fearful she will come to my room in the middle of the night, who knows what she could do,” Jessie said.
      “Rhea is locked in and Caldwell is dialing a few places to get Rhea help so you can be easy.”
Jesse patted my arm with gratitude.
      “Thank you,” she replied.
      “She is going to a clinic it is not a private one and I hope she sees how bad it can get,” Caldwell said when he entered.
I was pleased and hoped she would not recover.

The Segregation Cell

Smithson was rightfully impressed, when he came in, and the unfinished wedding gown was draped across my knees. Whizzing, the needle of the sewing-contraption invigorated, and I hummed, the garment confirmation of my tailoring skills.
      “The Lady Flarice and her imprisonment,” Smithson said.
      “We must wait for the time and then she will know torment more than she could ever think of.”
Smithson frolicked around the isolation chamber and I inspected my son with pride.

The Purifiers and the Archangel

Presenting the gown to the Woodlander Warriors and the Archangel, they were flattered. Drawing the Purifiers in from the inception, they granted us undivided attention. Worship spilled from my lips. Shambling close, the Trees and the Archangel nurtured us. Winging in the sky and the black-angels zoomed.
      “The gown is unrivaled,” the Orator said.
      “We are delighted,” the Trees replied.
      “Smithson and I were enchanted with the calling.”
      “Very soon your desires will be met,” the Speaker said.

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