Journals of a Psychopath



A terrified bride to be, poor Lady Flarice.

The Segregation Cell

Drinking Smithson and I ogled Lady Flarice, as she wept into her pillow the chamber door was ajar. Tramping to Lady Flarice’s room with the bourbon, she peeked at the liquor, and she lifted her arms to grasp the glass.
      “Please let me have some?”
      “She needs liquor or else the tremors will accelerate,” Smithson said.
I held it out and she grabbed the bourbon.
      “It is for medicinal purposes only.”
The Lady Flarice swallowed the bourbon and her body seemed to settle.
      “Wash your ensemble you are supposed to wear clean gowns and your body must be cleansed often.”
Rinsing it in the bathtub, she was heavy-handed, and grasping the robe, I showed the Lady Flarice how to wash the garment. The crimson-solution from the gash marked the pure white silk and it was blessed with the blood. Smithson scanned Lady Flarice she cast her vision-spheres down and wailed. Hauling her to the tub, I forced the Lady Flarice into it. Washing her vagina slowly, my fingers slithered into the regions of her vulva, and the lily fragrance soap caressed Lady Flarice’s form, the wound yawned, the soap caused her labia to sting. Sluicing her hair with the lily-perfumed shampoo and Smithson towel dried it.

The Isolation Chamber

Smithson observed Lady Flarice on the screen she was in the four-poster alone and petrified.
      “This is better than I expected,” Smithson said.
He rubbed his hands. Accessing her penitentiary, the juice supply zapped, highlighted our shrouds, and her stricken face, the Lady Flarice stared she was grim, her eyes lifeless, and she was much thinner. Dancing in front of her bewildered face, Smithson joined he whirled around her and chanted with vim, the Lady Flarice could not believe what was happening to her.


Deeming on the early days when I dated Rheanna, her epidermis possessed a gleam her, eyes and hair were healthy, now her tissue was drab her, locks greasy and lank. Rousing and she promptly threw up, I hauled her, and she reeled. Rhea squirmed and I tugged the panties down she enjoyed the coupling and she became satiated.
      “That was wonderful,” Rhea said.
      “You stink and you disgust me.”
       “I do not care as long as you shag me.”

The Segregation Cell

      “We want our food.”
Awkwardly walking to the kitchen, Lady Flarice began dinner, and I sniffed the aroma, as the meat cooked. Lady Flarice came in and handed us the plates.
      “You are obliged to earn your food toss some of it in the trash.”
      “Yes, I deserve a trifling amount can I leave the table please?”
I was partly assuaged when I heard that. Stumbling out and she came back in, Lady Flarice's plate was half-full and she ate quickly.
      “How do I look?”
      “You are a vision of loveliness.”
Lady Flarice’s mouth was pinched and showed the severity relevant to her situation.
      “Sir Clarkson can I have a cigarette?”
      “You can if you are good.”
Blowing smoke in Lady Flarice’s face and she breathed in the fumes.
      “Clean up.”
Sir Clarkson's bride obeyed. Re-entering she was garbed in another gown. Detecting her robe was bunched at the top and Smithson untangled the hooks, his fingers skimmed the Lady Flarice’s flesh.
      “You must hide her in the false wall,” the Voice said.
Smithson queried the sense in that.
      “The Voice knows best something is about to happen.”
Smithson checked me skeptically. I deposited the gag in her mouth and tied Lady Flarice’s hands and feet. The wall slid back, we pushed her in, she fell against the other wall and her vision-disks were wide open.

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