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Illustration by Rowanne Dean

Obviously you want to ask me about Jay. Tell me, how many sessions have you had with him?

Has he told you I’m a monster yet? My guess is he spent the entire session either defaming my character, or gushing about his inexhaustible capacity for love.

For once in his moronic existence, he’d be right—I am a monster. You know, Freud said we’re all so neurotic, because we allow society to repress our true natures. Most people are just socialized monsters, made weak by their dependence on others. Not me. I am the Übermensch. A role “for everyone and no one,” Nietzsche said. Well. I am everyone. And I am no one. Anyway, that’s beside the point. The point is: I meticulously planned every move that led to Jay’s implosion. We did go a bit off-book for the finale, I’ll admit, but everything worked out all right. The stabbing incident was unfortunate, but hey, ‘even the best-laid plans,’ right?

I was bored of the day-to-day. Same game, interchangeable players, never a challenge. Totally anesthetizing. Meeting Jay was a perfect accident. I saw him blushing like an idiot in class—so much potential just waiting to be exploited. Before Jay, every day was the same: wake up, work out, shower, eat breakfast, do a few lines, go to class, come home, eat lunch, a couple more lines, another class, dinner, change of clothes, more lines, go out to a bar, kill someone.

Sometimes more than one someone, if I was feeling ambitious.

Well, if it was a particularly slow week, I’d probably kill three people, otherwise it could be upwards of 10. If we settle on an average of 6.5 people a week, then, I’d say ... 338. No one ever suspects foul play. Killing this way is the perfect crime—get the target to play some music on his laptop to set the mood; then, when it’s done, shut down Spotify, load up some porn, stage the scene a little. So few people are immune, and this whole not-being-able-to-come thing really screws with people’s heads. It makes them do reckless things, like spend what they thought would be a few harmless minutes watching porn. Case closed.

Do you want to hear about my favorite? I’d love to tell you about him. I found him at a bar—Death & Co., because I’m witty like that. I was wearing gold-plated handcuffs from Kiki de Montparnasse on my right wrist, and the tiny matching key on a black silk ribbon tied around my left. It took surprisingly little work to get him to take me to his hotel room, and even less to get him on top of me on the bed, pulling off my panties with his teeth after practically ripping his own clothes off.

“Roll over,” I told him. “I want your dick in my mouth.”

He obliged, and I straddled his thighs. I kissed his mouth, taking his lower lip between my teeth and pulling gently, releasing slowly. I pushed his face abruptly to the side with two fingers and kissed his jaw, down the side of his neck, pausing to gently bite the skin—right where your pulse is currently throbbing, actually. I stopped at his nipple to trace it, round and round, first slower, then faster, with the very tip of my tongue. I was very precise; if I did the same thing to you right now I’d leave a thin ring of saliva on your shirt pocket, as if my tongue were a medium-width Sharpie.

My lips moved down the side of his body, kissing hard, licking, biting. I reached his hip bone and stopped. I licked my lips, then traced them, soft and yielding, around and over his hip bone and into the crease of his hip, his muscles tightening. I licked my lips again when they dried out and resumed, dragging them over his lower belly, brushing the hair I found there, blowing hot breath onto him in heavy exhales. He pushed his cock against my cheek. I looked up, grinning, and moved immediately back to his neck, biting a little harder than before. He groaned and I made a tsk, tsk sound.

“No cheating.”

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” My mouth roved down his taut body again, waiting longer at the crease of the hip, my lips parted, my tongue flicking lightly back and forth, tickling his skin. I pulled back, and just as he let out a serious noise, I grasped the base of his cock and took the entirety of him into my mouth. He moaned. I could simultaneously feel his dick at the back of my throat and my lips at his base, and I loved it.

I roughly dragged my tongue over the head of his cock, over and over, and then I took him in my mouth again, all the way down to the base of his erection. His dick strained against me, and he gripped my head as he began to thrust upward into my strokes, faster and faster. Eventually his hands moved from the back of my head to my shoulders, and he said, “I’m too close. You have to stop.”

I increased my suction and speed. His hands started to push at my shoulders, building to a desperate scrabble.

“Stop, stop, I’m gonna come, stop—”  With the telltale trembling, I knew my work was done—well, almost. I pulled back and tugged the black ribbon from my left wrist, shaking the tiny golden key off and onto the floor at my side. As he ejaculated, I wrapped the ribbon around the base of his penis, pulled as tightly as I could, and tied it in a double knot, leaving the ends loose. He screamed so loudly I had to clamp my hand over his mouth until he stopped breathing.

My little experiment with the ribbon paid off. I had seen quite a few cases of priapism in my previous targets, but I didn’t feel like leaving it up to fate this time. His cock stayed engorged and firm for as long as I kept the ribbon tied. I fucked him hard for a solid two hours. In the end, I only stopped because his skin felt too cold.

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