Journals of a Psychopath.



Clarkson my psychopath, the brutal and cruel one, find him in my novel.


Her silvery-blonde hair a reason connected to the penalty and her skin was thin, Leanne’s body was good, chiefly her mammary glands. In Leanne’s chastisement, I would receive some relief. I delayed until she came out to the trashcan. Grabbing Leanne and the garbage scattered on the blacktop.

The Purifiers and the Archangel

Sitting and mulling about the surrender, the Trees and the Darkest-One bent respectfully, it was their turn to disburse homage. Thrusting her feet, she squawked. Pulling Leanne to the Tree, I chained her to the Purifier. The gore pumped rapidly around my body and my organs of hearing whooshed. I pondered in connection to the Lady Flarice, I bestowed my manhood to her, and she withheld her heart. The Lady Flarice would undergo much pain, because of the game with me, and I engaged in the ultimate contest, death the conclusion. Sleeping and the swishing from the Trees woke me. Kneeling in reverence, the expression of the Purifiers and the Darkest-One, assumed an air relevant to benevolence. She scrunched her face, as I beamed the flashlight into her flesh-orbs, and she flinched. Kindling, the firestorm, the orange hue, reflected from the flares bounced against my naked body, it assumed a tawny glow. Crackling the conflagration curled. Striking, a match to the torches, the flames flared, added to the dynamics of the scene, she screeched and I thumped her.
      “That kind of violence is not welcome, you must curb your frustration,” the Speaker said.
      “Once again I have erred and I am uncomfortable when I displease you.”

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