Fading Darkness

“So,” Nesha asked calmly. “How does it feel to wake up and find yourself at the mercy of a mad man? Or shall I say mad woman.”

He said nothing.

Nesha frowned. “Wasn’t it nice the last time we were together? I promise it’ll be just as good now. Only this time you’ll be the recipient and I’ll be the administer. You’re going to feel precisely what I felt.” She began stroking his member tenderly.

Jerome’s eyes grew wide, realizing her intent. “Oh, God, no.” he begged “Please, no!”

Nesha continued caressing him. “I remember using those words once. They got me nowhere. How far do you think they’ll get you?” She held his penis up with her left hand, brought the knife to it, and sliced. The knife bit flesh and blood gushed, spilling down his shaft into his pubic hair, welling before flowing over, running down his hips in rivulets to form a bright pool of red on the marble floor. He bucked and let loose a scream, one that penetrated her defenses, touched the heart and demanded mercy. For a second she wavered, contemplated ending his misery with a bullet to the head. But the thought of his earlier ravishment successfully canceled that notion. She strengthened her resolve and continued.

The knife was sharp, capable of severing his member with one quick stroke. Even so, she sawed through his flesh slow and deliberate, making him feel every bit as bad as he’d done her. Blood was everywhere: her hands, the floor, her clothes, even on parts of the wall. This didn’t stop her though. She put down the knife, seized his half severed member in her hands and wrenched. There was a sickening sensation of flesh ripping , tearing under her grip. His cries became so petrifying she had to stuff his mouth with a rag in order to carry on.

With one last twist, pull, she stood up with more than half his penis clutched in her hand. Blood poured from the remaining stub like water rushing from an open faucet. In much the same way he’d thrown the bloody condom at her, she now tossed his severed member back at him. “That was rather nice, don’t you think?” Nesha said, staring him in the eye. “Sex is supposed to be an act of pleasure, not pain.” Those were the last words he heard before he lost consciousness, then after, his life.

Nesha looked at the ‘mess’ she’d created, and nausea swept her over. It took all her control not to spill her guts. Her intention had been to kill this guy. But not before showing him how it felt to be bound helpless, to have pain inflicted upon the organ meant to tranceive pleasure. And show him she did. Her agony, what she went through at his hands, paled in comparison to his experience before death. Now that it was done she felt bad about her excessiveness. Did he really have to die that way? She’d labeled him a monster and has now proven herself to be more savage than he. What did that make her?