Favourite Fantasy


I want to drink my beer, but can’t be bothered getting up off the floor. It’s not comfortable in any way, shape or form, but the misery in my bones keeps me low to the ground. Closing my eyes, I picture Meeko’s body in the shower. Nude and in a state of flux. Her sex in particular. It calls to me incessantly. Like death, it knows my name and never gets tired of whispering it from the break of dawn to the coming of night. Twitching my nose, I can smell its scent even through the closed door of the bathroom and the shampoo she’s using. Lavender shampoo, by the smell of it. In the bubbles of soap clinging to her flesh, a thousand miracles come and go without anyone knowing. In the light that shines upon her, I imagine her opening her mouth swallowing the beads of water falling from above. It’s the same mouth I’ve kissed ten thousand times. The same mouth I’ve shot my load into more than a gentleman ever should. She likes to keep my seed in her gob for as long as she can while maintaining eye contact with me as I shudder from the orgasm gripping my limbs. She gets me off using only her tongue. I have less words to give in return than I do when I’m at my most talkative.

I’m at my most talkative when discussing serial killers. We both like serial killers. It’s one of the first things we bonded over. Hers is Bundy. Mine Zodiac. Dahmer’s there too. We share him equally. There are others, but those are the main three. Sometimes, when we fuck, I tell her all the things I’m going to do to her as if I were a killer too. It’s pretty fucked. We’re fucked up people, though, so there you go. Her favourite fantasy is for me to be Zodiac and her to be Cecilia Shepherd—his victim at Lake Berryessa—the one he tied up and stabbed. In the same location—on the same day—my cock goes into her, and she imagines it to be his knife. The harder I go, the more it hurts, but the more it hurts, the less capacity she has to think about the stuff that doesn’t matter. I speak dirty to her. Tell her I’m gonna bury her in a shallow grave of sand. That they’ll never find her, and that even if they do, she’ll be so mutilated they won’t know if she’s a man or a woman. When we’re through being cruel, she makes me kiss her until we fall asleep spooning. One day, such moments will disappear. It’ll be as if they never existed. Yet as long as we stick around, these moments of madness tickle us in ways nothing else can.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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