Journals of a Psychopath



Clarkson enters the Lady Flarice's house legitimately, this novel is packed with interesting scenes.

The Lady Flarice’s house

The dark- shade shrouded my body and it consoled. Lady Flarice’s warmth turned the day into the night, the sunshine of the nightfall, produced pure malice. Tapping on Lady Flarice’s door, she opened it the Lady Flarice seemed preoccupied.
      “Can you the fix the tub? It is leaking.”
      “It is probably the pipes.”
The washroom was on the ground floor and I scrutinised, as she paced the room sequestered an ornament, put it in the drawer and rearranged a cushion. Lady Flarice did not know anyone parallel to me and nervousness overcame her. I gleaned all the pieces of information possible to collect involving her. I remembered the Lady Flarice’s immorality and the sexual images flowed into my mind, it was enough to yield the swell. My manhood was ready to release the man-milk, an explosion was gathering.
      “Do you want coffee?”
Drinking the coffee, she removed the cup, her hands shook, and the Lady Flarice glanced then averted her eyes. She would accede to me Lady Flarice would be more than happy to do so. Closing the bathroom door, I browsed from the window, I saw a buzzard, the wings had expanded, I watched as it glided in the sky. A sense of doom caught me. However, I touched my male-weapon, an upsurge of man-cream jetted, waves of pleasure saturated me I was lost in the hedonism of obsessive compulsion. Swabbing the man-milk on the items, it enriched the places it touched. Recollecting the rise and fall of her rings of flesh, as she inhaled, I mused if Lady Flarice could be wet between her legs I rotated. Finishing the repair, the Lady Flarice researched, when I returned, a glass of wine was in her hand, totally out of her depth, she touched her hair.
      “Want one?”
The wine was strong and the warm tingle in my chest good, I stared at the Lady Flarice. She moved across the room to the mantel, fiddled with an ornament. She wanted me to leave, but I was enjoying the time in her house immensely.


Joining the queue for the bus, when the vehicle arrived, I bought a ticket. Boarding, I sat down and relaxed. An old woman sat in the seat across the aisle, her knitting needles clacked, as the wool unwound from the ball of yarn. Ahead a young girl studied her books, I spotted her, when I had trailed down the bus my attention was caught. Her hair was abundant silvery-blonde. Tinged with a rosy glow, Joria’s skin gave the impression of lustre. Her body was curvy.
      “You cannot sacrifice Joria, but you can take her life,” the Speaker said.
The sounds as the driver touched the gas- pedal soothed. Contemplating him, he was obese and the man just fitted into his seat. Hanging over his pants the skin sagged, an odour clung to him.
      “Will you pick the wool up?” the old crone asked.
I stretched and retrieved the errant fibre, I watched the girl. She coughed and paused from her revision.
Twisting her head and Joria’s eyes became animated when she saw me. I knew Joria would be mine.
      “I was young once,” the old woman said.
Closing her eyes, she went to sleep, and the half-knitted garment lay on her lap. She began to snore; it grated on my nerves. Leaving the seat to exit the bus, I stopped by Joria's chair.
      “Will you be in Crow Forks for long?” I asked.
      “I will be around all day.”
      “I will join you later where will you be hanging out?”
“There is only one decent diner it is on Main Street and I will be waiting, try not to take too long my impatience is rife.”
The journey to Twin Moon Forks buoyant, I focused on enacting the routine, I was obligated I had standards to maintain. The Trees and the Darkest-One were waiting for the customs. I gladly conducted the rituals. In my imagination, during the practices, the Lady Flarice was secured on the altar.

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