This is a guest post by the beautiful psychopath, Jessica Summer: Jessica’s Seduction: Horror Story of Passion–a terrifying vision of sex, murder, love and disgust. Warning: This story is extremely graphic and offensively morbid.
Eleven asymmetrical thoughts churned, fondling cerebral membranes–coagulated, shattered prisms separated by mastery–unseen by eyeless heads, forgotten by the unborn and those long dead. Insanity is an offensive word I choose not. An unclean twitch wormed betwixt my mind; silent tornadoes screaming extinction within my vacuum–my chamber of mangled blood-knot cognition. Killing is so unsatisfying. The screams of a victim facing my blade have faded in dust sheathed boredom.
Standing at the jewelry counter in the Gucci shoppe, my appearance controlled: half slut with unquenchable blistering itch, dying for sex; half uptown, upscale, high maintenance goddess. Every man passing had to look a dozen times or more, the desire for me unbearable–they could almost taste me. I thought of my last victim, Heather Cox: best friend, mother, drop dead blond with two children whom I pretended to love. I made her strip naked before her children–her blood drenched husband Jake quivering on the icy floor–slicing her from sternum to crotch–my initials JLS tattooed above her hairless snatch–with my razored EGM Tanto blade (handcrafted by Master Eldeguado Giovanni Menguadatucci featuring an eleven inch blade, 1/4 inch spine and human bone handle). I screamed boo and her innards began to ooze. I snatched up little Timmy, holding my fun-blade against the nape of tender Adam’s apple, threatening his sister Ashley, “Pull her guts out or I kill Timmy . . . now you little bitch! Grab the wound’s lip with your twiggy little fingers and spread the blood-cleft . . . now!”
She remained catatonic, her delicate little body shivering. I tossed Timmy down, still alive–rolling my eyes in boredom–killing just wasn’t fun anymore. All theatrics shriveled into the mundane. The jolt of pleasure was gone. After Heather collapsed dead, I couldn’t bring myself to wring her intestines and sweet breads by stomp-walk-squeezing with bare feet as I would normally do. The idea of mentally scarred children living a life sodden in twisted mind-fucked labyrinths couldn’t even moisten my vaginal fissure–not a single drop of sexual humidity. To leave no witness, I shaved their bodies into blood-gristle–cleaving the children into meat-mist with a shotgun. But for what? Killing’s reason had escaped me. Master Eldeguado foretold of this–a necessity to achieve the next level–some kind of murderous hierarchy: a spiritual revelation of killing only achieved by few . . . known only by masters of death.
The man behind the counter said, “Can I help you miss? If you don’t mind me saying, you are so beautiful.”
“I know. Look,” I say opening my blouse showing him my nipples, “I like these barbell nipple rings . . . but I want a set in platinum.”
He stood petrified and turned on–onlookers gawking, phrases whispered from wives to husbands . . . all jealous, wishing they could love me. “Ma’am, it is highly inappropriate to disrobe in public.”
“Oh piss off you fucking little punk . . . I would cut your throat and eat your vocal cords, but killing doesn’t get me hot anymore.”
The pretty young woman behind him sporting a manager badge raped my every inch with her probing eyes–studying, discerning and judging. I wore an electric pink top with no bra–Japanese silk from Neiman Marcus with subtle floral print meticulously woven in the blouse itself–skin tight Jordache jeans, faded and snug–Victoria’s Secret thongs beneath in jet black. She compared herself to me, I could see it in her eyes. She placed her hand on her coworker’s shoulder and I read his desire, mentally telling himself oh my God . . . she touched me . . . imagining himself making love to her as he does every night, at home by himself while masturbating. She said, “I’ll handle this Paul,” with confidence–an erection protruding through his slacks.
“I’m Carmen the manager. How may I help you Miss?”
“My name is Jessica, please say my name.”
“Say it softer like you mean it,” I reached out and took her silken hand, tickling her palm with my lime-green nails.”
“Oh Jessica . . . mmm.”
She actually had me aroused, dripping in my panties, studying her lips and dark brown eyes–wide and moist. I said, “I like that Carmen, I need more than your help.”
“Jessica . . . but I’m not . . . ”
I pulled her close nuzzling her face into my throat, “Do you like my scent Carmen?”
Her lips squished against my earlobe, heated breath wafting through my canal, molesting my eardrum. I was shivering in excitement, though this innocent thing could never know why–what made me who I am. She wanted to resist but was mesmerized. I glossed my tongue down her neck–she tasted of ripe melon–a crimson splotch arose where my lips had been–she was turned on. She said, “Jessica, I’m not gay. I’m engaged to a man.”
I sweetly smiled, disarming her frail psyche . . . luring her in. I repeated, “Do you like my scent?”
Her face flushed crimson, juices excreted, hormones extravasated, “Yes . . . it is lovely. What is it?”
“It’s a handmade variation of Clive Christian No.1 perfume. He created it only for his daughter Victoria . . . and me. It is delicious isn’t it? When are you getting married?”
“March 1st 2009. His name is Damien, the love of my life. Do you really know Clive Christian?”
“Yes, but that’s irrelevant. Let’s you and I go out tonight . . . you can even bring your friend Paul . . . hi Paul, please come along. I have a very special treat for you,” I said pouting my lips to excite him. “You both get off in six minutes, this store closes at nine. I know . . . I am friends with the owner.”
The Parking Lot
The parking lot was devoid of light, my sweet little Bobby had done his job as expected on cue and without hesitation. I crawled inside the Toyota Forerunner, my seat heated, Bobby driving. I refer to Bobby Revell–author of this blog and my well trained sex/murder slave. I have rewarded him well for all he does for me. I appreciate him allowing me to write this story.
He said, “You weren’t inside long . . did you get your new platinum barbells?”
“No. Something much, much better. Two beautiful young clerks: a girl named Carmen and boy named Paul–both probably twenty-two or so. I talked them into joining you and I for fun.”
“Fun? What kind of fun? Why are you bringing a guy? I fucking hate men . . . you know that.”
“Oh don’t get your silk boxers in a bunch Bob. It’s not what you think. They’ll be out in a second.”
There they were, walking with a brisk step–probably scared from the darkness. I hopped out and loudly whispered, “Carmen, Paul . . . over here.”
“Hi Jessica,” she said tugging trembling Paul along, holding his hand. “Something is wrong with the lights out here and I don’t see the security guard.”
The security guard was cut in fourths, strewn across all four corners of the lot. I leaned in the window, “Bobby, get out and open the back–fold the back seat down so we can all sit in here facing one another.”
“Jessica, Paul . . . this is Bobby, my dear friend.”
Carmen asked, “Is Bobby your boyfriend?”
“Sometimes. He is many things to me. Yes, we have a sexual relationship but we are not together, as in a couple . . . you know what I mean. Now, lets climb in and get high.”
Bobby got in first, then me, then Carmen and Paul. I took my blouse off as I want to be examined by all. Paul tried not to look so I ask, “Shy Paul? Like my nipples?” I grab his hand and fondle my breast with his sweaty hand. “Massage my nipples Paul,” and he did. Bobby became jealous, playing into my plan like a hungry, stupid puppy dying for a treat. He scowled at Paul and I said, “Bobby, prepare the pipe.”
He stuffed the huge crack nugget–probably weighing a gram–into the Pyrex crack pipe. Carmen was shivering in fear as I orchestrated my symphony of disgust–my masterpiece of hatred.
Carmen asked, “You guys smoke crack? I’m not gonna do that.”
“You’re not? Well . . . my sugary little bitch, Paul gets first hit. Take a hit Paul.”
Bobby held the loaded pipe close to him and said, “Take it boy. Take a hit . . . now.”
Paul’s hand jittery, spasmodic–his eyes opened full hilt–skin flushed–wanting to call his mommy. He took the pipe, his free hand playing with my nipples–oh my fucking God, men are so easy. He placed it to his lips as Bob clicked the lighter.
“Inhale easy Paul,” said Bobby, “Hit it hard and I will blow your head off.”
Flame kissed crack, smoke billowed through the glass tube infiltrating virgin lungs. I say, “Keep going . . . fill them lungs,” a dense smoke slithered inside burrowing into alveoli then to bloodstream, “Hold it in Paul . . . don’t exhale until I tell you.”
A massive head-rush sucked his brain dry–he began convulsing, twitching in satanic madness. He clutched his heart with both hands–finally giving up on my nipples (which didn’t excite me in the least–his hands cold and wet with nervousness).
Carmen began flipping out, “Paul . . . somebody do something, he’s having a heart attack.”
Paul went limp and seemingly dead. I reached down, feeling for a pulse on his jugular. As my warm fingers groped his flesh, he vomited on my tits–half digested chili-dogs, tater-tots and vanilla shake. I became ferocious, “You stupid fucking punk, Carmen, open the door.”
I exploded forth, chunks of puked onion, machine strewn hotdog meat and chili caked on my breasts–steam fumes erupting in iced winter air–tentacles of smoke fingered forth as I held my shoulder’s back–proud and still sexy–even shellacked in puke. I hand Carmen a shotgun saying, “It’s loaded and cocked. Now kill this piece of shit.”
“I can’t . . . I can’t kill him.”
“Kill him. Kill him now you pungent little whore . . . KILL HIM!”
She collapsed on frigid pavement, her body palpitating, heart fluttering–dying beneath my stampede of terror. I start giggling and say, “Oh my God . . . this is so boring.”
Bobby is pale white, frightened and horny–I stomp kick him in the testicles, yet he remains upright, eyes forward. He can barely groan, “What are we doing Jessica? What’s wrong with you?”
“You didn’t collapse–I have trained you well my little slave. It’s just that . . . you know . . . I go in the Gucci shoppe, lure the hottest clerks into the parking lot for sex and drugs–easily, effortlessly, masterfully as expected–and this stupid punk retches chili dogs and onions all over my chest. I just wanted to have a little fun. I wanted to get high and have sex with you and Carmen. I planned to skin Paul alive and have all three of us make love in his blood drenched entrails–but now it’s ruined. All this work for nothing.”
“I’m sorry honey,” Bobby said, hugging me, trying to avoid getting vomitous expulsion on his Pierre Cardin button up in midnight blue.
I grab the shotgun and point it at Paul. Carmen holding him closely, stroking his scalp like a newborn infant: loving, caring, nurturing. “Well, isn’t this sweet. Let go of him Carmen, or I will kill you . . . I mean it. Now come here.”
Carmen leaves him on the ground, unsure if he’s dead or not. But dead he is. The crack was freebase strychnine in smokable form–he inhaled enough to kill six morbidly obese men. Carmen confused, in catatonic stupor came to me wrapping her arms around my naked belly. I ask, “Hungry Carmen? Eat the puke off my chest.”
She began licking and suckling my flesh–with fervent passion–her hands kneading my ass. She snugged her porcelain-white incisors on a chunk of meat stuck in my nipple ring and tucked it in her mouth with sticky purple tongue. I say, “Don’t swallow Carmen, keep the cold meat in your mouth. Bobby, French kiss Carmen and eat the love-food.”
Bobby quickly obliged–they licked and sucked one another’s orifices–swallowing puke gristle–his hands exploring every crevasse on Carmen’s body–her hands kneading every part of his. “I want you two to fuck, right now.” I open the Forerunner and they climb inside. They strip bare and make love–explosively with fired lubrication. I lean down to the dead Paul and cut his shirt off with my EGM Tanto blade–Bobby and Carmen in heavenly bliss. I felt peaceful and fulfilled–serene and majestic. I slice his throat open, peeling back the flesh, exposing his bone-white windpipe. I meticulously gnaw his lymphatic glands loose and chew them–tasting his weak immune system–he had chicken pox as a child–I can tell by the flavor. I ate all three sets of superficial cervical glands, gently tearing them away, caressing his lifeless tissues tasting him in the most intimate way. I respect the dead. I love the dead. Earlier, I craved raw vocal cord, but his body was getting cold, rigor mortis was setting in early and I only eat warm cord.
The scene windless, the moon black, love was in the air, my breasts licked clean. I felt refreshed, newly born and alive. I felt invigorated and fresh. I left the love birds in passion and closed the back–dragging Paul’s partially eaten body into the brush. Instead of killing them both, I give them passion and love–I feel so giving today. I got in and put on The Nutcracker by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky performed by Mikhail Pletnev–a solo piano variation–my personal favorite–driving off into the blackened pool of night. Moans of ecstasy slithered across my flesh–massaging my soul, quelling my itch. For the first time in ages, I felt complete.
We are now a triad of terror: Bobby, Carmen and me . . . Jessica Lenora Summer.