Chapter 8

I’m dizzy.

I look up at him.

I think he’s crying?

The motel room swirls all around me.

Everything’s a blur.

I’m on top of him.

His massive cock is pushing inside me.

I’m riding him with wild abandon and he’s holding onto my hips for dear life.

We both scream as he cums inside of me.

I’ve never had an orgasm, but never needed one.

The feeling of a man’s cum – his love – inside me is more than enough.

I get no joy out of the sexual acts that I am endlessly engaging in. The cum going into my belly is all that I’m after. I guess that is almost orgasmic. The feeling of life inside me. The feeling of it coursing through my veins. Combined ice and fire flowing into every nerve of my body.

Electricity that numbs the pain of my existence.

I can feel it in my hair as my scalp tingles. Is this what humans feel like when they orgasm? Maybe. But I’ll never know. That privilege was taken from me years ago. I was torn from that life and thrown into this fucking hell by a man that had promised that I would enjoy it, but all he did was hurt me physically as well as emotionally.

That bastard promised me the world, and then took everything from me.

A blowjob is just a means to an end.

And fucking? I get a small amount of pleasure from that, but only when I’m still riding the cum high from a man.

Panting, I slump against him with my hands on his chest. Sweat drips off my face. It’s so hot. He looks at me and I know that he doesn’t see Celeste anymore. I can see it in his eyes. I don’t know what he sees now and I really don’t care. I slide off of him and stand up, smile down at his now-tortured soul, get dressed, and walk out the door. I’m going to grab something for dinner. There are a couple of good shows on TV tonight that I want to watch.

Three days later, still fully placated from Celeste’s boyfriend’s cum, I watch a story on the news. It’s about a young man who hung himself in the basement of his church. He was going to a great school, he was an altar boy, he worked at a local soup kitchen. I look at the picture of him smiling on the TV screen and my stomach lurches.

It’s the kid from the motel.

His name was Samuel.

Suicide at nineteen.

And no one knows why.

No one but me.

And it gets worse from there.

An elderly cleaning woman found him the next morning and had a heart attack trying to run up the stairs to call for help.

They both stayed in that basement for two days before they were found.

Apparently, my fucking reign of terror knows no boundaries.