Journals of a Psychopath.



Clarkson's obsession, the Lady Flarice does not have a clue that the psychopath has her life in his hands.

The Haven

     “Your hurt will be healed,” the Orator said.
My central organ was weighty and the angst wedged solid, I massaged my chest to help the heavy feeling. Lady Flarice’s lights drew me and the glow emanated onto the paved stones. I breathed short and fast, she was going out to dinner. As she readied for the jaunt, I prayed to the Darkest-One she would not meet anyone new. She looked lovelier than ever, her dress was tight, and the black stockings underneath sexy. She tripped down the path, as if she did not have a care in the world. I followed and it was innocent, just dinner with a female. When we returned, I dialed the Lady Flarice's fixed line, and it rang. She cracked open a bottle of wine and slowly traipsed to the sound. The amiable lilt of her voice enticed me so much I nearly forgot to speak.
      “How are you?” I asked.
The Lady Flarice's lips changed position.
      “I am well.”
Attentive to the mellow tone of her accent and aware of my organ, as she trailed her tongue across her lips, my man-milk shot over my lap.
      “Are you okay? You sound a bit strange,” the Lady Flarice said.
Putting the phone down and I gyrated. Observing her on the laptop, the Lady Flarice touched her clitoris, her rapture evident, as she pleasured herself, the Lady Flarice's face knotted, and I synchronized, came again. I lit the single candle. Dancing and I was exhausted, slowing down, I sat at the laptop. Experiencing some dizziness, I fell to the dirt, the flame from the wax block, the last item I saw, as I entered oblivion.

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