Journals of a Psychopath.

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Never trust a man with waist length silver blonde hair, you can find him in my novel.

Yvette frothed at the mouth and the foam spattered onto my ensemble. Dancing manically and rotating around my favorite Tree, I raised my arms, the euphoria rose. Cutting, Yvette’s clothes with the sword, my attention riveted to silvery-blonde haired Yvette. Her nipples were rigid with cold and pointed in my direction, I bit one, she screamed. She was stiff and I unhurriedly touched the smooth silk of the robe. She entreated for leniency, I squealed in a moment of success. Icicles clung to the altar and the Trees danced. Yvette saw me in the pure white silk garment and her yowls reached fever pitch. Yvette contemplated my sinister attire. I worshiped the Trees and her yelps delighted me. Sleeping, the flutter of the birds infiltrated my sleep.
      “Remove the chains,” the Narrator said.
Stroking Yvette’s clitoris and she came splendidly. Severing it, I endeavored to eat the flesh, but it was gristly, and tasted foul, I spat it out. Picking up the sword, I sliced into Yvette’s mammary gland, the flesh eased from her body. Tossing it over my shoulder and she bled freely, she squirmed in agony. Burrowing into Yvette's stomach and it provided enjoyment I forced the blade for maximum pain the sword remained in her belly. Saturated in the gore the sinister patterns ingrained into the fabric, the red-fluid once soothing was now cold. Sticking to me the garb was covered in blood and the gore was mixed with my man-fluid.

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