From the Journal of Thomas Riley — July 10, 20—

Doctor Peters suggested I write things down, my daily happenings, feelings, the events that run wild in my life, and depress me. I figured it couldn’t hurt. That’s the reason for this book, journal, dear diary, and all that bullshit. He doesn’t say it, not in so many words, but he’s worried I’ll act out some of the fantasies I have told him. He told me to write those dark thoughts and fantasies out as well, give them a form to get them out of mind.

As I sit here writing this, I watch the sun coming up through the open door. It’s peeking up over the flat horizon casting its yellow morning light over fields to the east. I light a joint, thinking about what I’ve done. Knowing, I must rush back into town and get myself to church. Nevertheless, I took in the splendor of nature. I’m rejuvenated and want to get this down while it’s all fresh in my mind.

The Doc thinks I hate women. Let me make this clear, for whoever reads this, which I hope is no one, I don’t hate women. I know what they are, though, liars, cheats, self-indulgent, manipulative, backstabbers, who would use any man and discard him like toilet paper. I could go on about women, in general, or my mother as a specific example of the unfairer sex. After all, she put my father in an early grave.

My father, a weak-minded fool who’d do anything for that bitch. All his hard work, accepting her harsh criticisms, cruel put-downs, and her cheating. And for what, short moments of tenderness from a laying, self-indulgent, adulterous cunt. I couldn’t stand her touch, her voice, or her cruelty, not to him, and certainly not that which was directed at me. I hope she dies soon and in prolonged, terrible, agony from a terrible disease. Hopefully, cancer, maybe flesh-eating bacteria that consumes her over many months, while I feed her just enough nourishment, for it to take a long, long time for her to die.

I have this tension; it builds in me, eating away at my soul: deep, dark desires to do things, terrible — evil deeds. The Doctor, in his infinite wisdom, wants me to write all this down as a record. So, what we have here ... is an effort to communicate with me, from me. It isn’t quite what the doctor ordered, he wanted my fantasies. I’ve decided to turn fantasy into reality.

It was Friday, and I had gotten off work at the usual time. I left my cubical and headed to the time clock, accompanied by the taunts and jibs, from my new boss on my apparent inadequacies. I wanted to turn and slug her in the jaw.

I have this vision of hitting that bitch right in her kisser. In it, I see her knees buckle at the second my hand hits those well-formed, full lips. Her eyes roll back in her head as her upper body starts a slow, methodical backward motion. The toes of her spiked high heels come off the ground, as her big teats heave upward. She lands on her lovely round ass, then her back. Dead to the world, or at least unconscious.

The problem was that it was only in my head. What, in fact, happened, I told her, in as polite a tone as possible, “I’ll try to do better next week,” and left the bullpen headed to the time clock and then to Mike’s Place. I drowned my sorrows at the local watering hole, giving Sam, the bartender, an earful of work woes.

Leaving the joint and feeling somewhat better, at 10:30 — too fucking early, to call it quits, on a Friday night. Getting in my car, I started the engine, slipped it into gear, and wondered what I could do for fun. Driving around for some time, I saw the Park, damn that’s an idea. Lincoln Park, two square miles with playgrounds, benches, fountains, and wooded areas with a meandering jogging path running through it.

That’s when one of those fantasies exploded in my mind. I thought, ‘why the fuck not?’

Finding me a secluded spot, on the far east end of the park, I hid the pickup in a grove of trees not far from where the jogging tack passed through the thicket.

‘I don’t have to do anything,’ I told myself. ‘I can just watch the bitches pass by and dream of what I’d do to them.’ I don’t think it was a lie, but I also knew I could do what I wanted if I’m willing to bear the consequences.

Everyone always went the same direction on the track, I think it’s because of the sign near the entrance that says jogging track, start here. I concealed myself near the start of a long straightaway. Beyond that, were some twisting turns through the woods. If I wanted to take one of them, that first hairpin turn was a good spot. It was near the truck, where the brush is thick. After you get them off into that part, man alive, do you have privacy.

I’d needed the privacy that those thick woods would give me! The first bitch came bounding down the trail, on the long 200-yard curve, huffing and puffing, chunky, disgusting layers of fat jiggling, like some alien gelatinous life form. Sweat rolled off her face, her spandex was soaked through with her copious body secretions. I could just about smell the stench of the porker’s burning fat. The next one, a bodybuilding superwoman, a big muscle-bound physique, bounded toward me. That stupid manhater would be a battle, wasn’t ready for that, not yet, but I marked her in mind for future reference. The next one was scrawny. In fact, for two hours, I wasn’t happy with any of them, or I couldn’t work up the nerve.

It was after midnight, I hadn’t seen any cunt pass by for over 30 minutes. I had just decided to go home and whack off, or maybe hire a guttersnipe. I decided that I’d have me one more smoke and then head out of here. I pulled the pack, packed it down, again, and took a smoke out and lit it. Dragging the noxious fumes deep into my lungs. I held it there, deep inside me a second or four, letting the nicotine do its thing. As I began to exhale, looking down the track, a woman came around the bend, she was still on the curve, a good 200-yards away from me. She had big tits, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing as she jogged. The bitches, big double C’s, swayed side to side, and they bobbled, up and down, in a way that said, “Were firm. Care for a squeeze?”

The closer she got, the more you could see her tight, fit body, a dancer’s physique. This Trixie had pride, I hate proud, haughty cunts. Her pink running outfit showed as plain as if spotlighted in the scattered, overhead illumination of the jogging path. Her hair was pulled tight on her head; doubtless, she had it in a ponytail. I could see she had a full figure but not a flabby part on her. A thin waist, I could imagine a round ass, but not fat. Damn, that felines hot as hell. And of course, the slut knew she was hot and used it to full advantage. I imagined dozens of men like me in her wake, the confidence shattered the pocketbooks drained, their balls hanging as trophies over her mantel. Whatever I did to her, she’d earned it a thousand times over the years.

I pulled in a last lungful of smoke, holding it inside a second before exhaling the fumes. I moved closer to the track, crouching only a few feet away, behind a bush, and waited for her to pass me. Every nerve in my body came alive, my hearing focused on her footfalls on the path. My mind raced with a plan. I pulled my buck knife from its sheath, flipped it open as the sound of her stride became louder. She passed me, the race was on, I leaped to my feet and ran after her. I felt — alive.

She heard me. My hard shoes slapping the paved running lane a dead giveaway someone was behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw me, knife in hand, chasing her. Not panicking, not yet at least, she changed from a jog to a run. But I’m a good runner, I bounded to within inches of her. We were on the curves, her head swiveled around, looking over one shoulder and then twisting her head, gazing over the other, checking on me. She dug in hard, speeding up, running with a frenzy.

Ah, there is it is, panic, that wild-eyed desperate gaze over her shoulder, as she tried to shake me. I imagined I could smell her fear, maybe I did, or perhaps I sensed it. Could be, she was one of the sick-o’s that loved the thought of being molested, and I smelled her thick lube building between her legs, getting her cunt ready for a hard-slamming. Oh, god, I hoped that wasn’t the odor. I don’t want the trollop to enjoy one moment of what happened.

No, it was fear, it hung thick inside her brain. Terror drove her to run harder and faster. I just dogged her, running right behind the bitch, brandishing my knife. The whore can see me catching her. I closed the distance, inching closer. I’m like a madman in a movie, I use less effort and still close the gap. She stays just out of reach but knows, I’ll get her. The dread overwhelms her. The sweaty fear radiates from her, like a nasty invitation to me to destroy the whore.

I waited for the hard turn at the end of the twisting part. Letting the snobby rich bitch think there was a hope, however small, that she’d get away from me. I even fell back just a tad, for a moment or two, then rushed closer to her. We neared that hard turn, she’d have to have to slow down there. I put my hand out to her, snatched a handful of her ponytail. At that moment, the split-tail started her turn. I dug my feet into the track, sliding to stop, and yanked back hard.

You know those cartoons, the ones where the guy’s feet run ahead of him? That’s what happened to her. The vixen’s feet kept going forward while her upward body jerked backward. She hung in the air for a second, legs running in the air. Well, it seemed that way, then the witch crashed to the ground. You could hear the impact, even hear the rush of air out of her lungs. She rolled over on her belly. Sucking wind, that awful wheezing, when one’s lugs can’t quite get a breath. It thrilled me when that sound came from the stuck-up beaver.

The look on her face, a pleasant mixture of fear, pain, and panic, caused my cock to leap in my jeans. She rolled onto her belly. Put her hands to the ground. I tit kicked her hard, and she again collapsed in a heap. Getting on top of her. I rolled her over and gave her kisser a blow that KO’d the bitch, her eyelids fluttered, her pupils went up, showing only the whites. The bitch was in La La Land.

God, I had a hardon now. My cock ached for a tight fit in a sweet, unwilling hole. Closing the knife, I put it back on my belt. I looked around, took a good firm hold of that ponytail, and drug her behind me. I was the caveman. She was the fuck for the night. But not here, not in the park ... as hyped up as I was, and I was so incredibly high just from her capture, I needed to really fuck her up good. That notwithstanding, I knew that I needed more privacy than this place allowed, more time for the pleasure of her pain. If I just fucked her once, these trees would do, but to abuse her right, I needed time and freedom from any possible prying eyes.

At the pickup, I pulled out a roll of duct tape, covered her mouth, bound her hands together behind her back, and her legs above the knees, and at her dainty ankles. Picking her up, I realized she was light, 100 to 110 pounds of pure, USDA grade-A ... fuck meat. Putting the bitch on the floorboard of the backseat of my truck, I covered the slut with a blanket.

Treating myself to another smoke. I sat on the back seat. My conquest lay on the floor below me, my feet resting on the whore’s shapely, small ass. Mumbling, fearful pleas filled the air. She wiggled and contorted her body, with a pleasing, pointless attempt to free herself. An old collapsible shovel sat on the seat. I grabbed it and opened it, it was a short one, I took hold of it just above the top of the blade, bent down, raised it over her head and neck and smashed the handle down, just hard enough to get her attention.

“Be still, bitch, shut the fuck up, or I’ll hurt you bad.”

The cunt shut her flapping potato-trap. I don’t know if I had put the bitch under again or not. Maybe I put the fear of God in her, perhaps she went lights-out nighty-night. I didn’t care which, as longs as the nag wasn’t flapping her flytrap. I’d have plenty of time to revel in her fear, later, once we reached our destination. I covered her up once more. Tossed my smoke away and got in the front seat. I started the engine and headed away from the park. Turning east on Country Club Lane, I drove out of the city, crowed with cunts and studs, into the country. I had a special place to take my prize, a big sandpit, a barn, even a pond on the little patch of land. It’s all surround by a big fence, a locked gate, and room to do what you want to a tramp. I have the key, it’s my uncle’s place, he wouldn’t mind me using it. Well, at least if he didn’t know about it, he would not frit over its use. After all, his house is a mile from the sandpit and barn.

I needed some jack-me-up to keep going. I had a stash of pot to smoke at the barn, but beer would be a good as well. Turning off the road, I pulled into an all-night convenience store and parking at the pump, I fed it my card and started the tank filling. I walked into the joint, caught sight of a lovely little Latina bitch working the cash register. She smiled and nodded at me. I smiled back, thinking, ‘I’d sure like to hurt that little ho.’

I wanted to fuck something it prayed on my mind, wanted it bad. Looking at my watch, 1:30 in the morning, I dug a case of beer out of the cooler. I looked at the bitch at the counter again, and again she flashed me a friendly smile. She worked me, a whore for sure. Get off with a quicky now, last longer the first time with Miss Cunt later.

A quick glance around the store, no security cameras, perfect. Yeah, I could get me some nice head, and no one, but the whore, is the wiser. Putting the beer on the counter...

“How much,” I asked.

The cashier told me and indicated I would pay with the card. I shoved it into the slot and entered my code. All the time, the whore just smiled at me, moving her head to some music only she heard. Licking her lips, flashing me knowing looks and nods.

I returned the card to my wallet and fished out a 20-dollar bill. I smiled at her. She smiled back, running her tongue over teeth and ruby red lips.

“Anything else I can get you?” she said. Her voice had a seductive tone, enhanced by her thick Spanish accent. She dripped the fuck me attitude so prevalent in the women of the mongrel races.

“I want to poke your throat.”

“Double that, and you got a deal,” she said.

“No,” I told her. “You do it for this, or I’ll load up and go.”

“I usually get at least 30 for a blow job,” she said, turning away from me she walked to the back of the little booth. Acting disinterested, trying to drive the price up, she started putting cigarette packs into the display.