Belle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humiliation Sex  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by VanillaEssence

Play with Belle?
Why not?

She felt perfect. At one with herself: body, soul, and mind. The camera zoomed in on her. A full body shot of her, standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling moving montage of death:

A wailing mother holding the bloodied body of her dead child. The shell of a burning school, target of a direct strike. Angry men screaming hatred, firing AK-47s into a smoke-filled sky. The occasional moans of the wounded, the dying, the grieving.

Conflict: when would it ever end?

The night was hot, humid, stultifying outside. She had come to work wearing little more than an airy leaf print dress, bared arms, and legs. Huge sunglasses covered half her face. Silver bangles mustered on her right wrist. Jessica Cleft didn’t just read the news. These days, Jessica was the news. Her move into advertising health spas, bubbling hot tubs, full body massage, medicinal baths, showers, skimpy bikinis, and sexy lingerie, had brought her legions of adoring fans: midults, women, bisexual, transgender, gay, men of all ages, the lecherous grey pound. Her no-holds-barred Saturday night radio show on Flex: Strong Women Speak! had inspired disillusioned women to be liberal, to have fun, to achieve personal fulfilment, to take pride in being a strong woman, just like her. Her Sunday adult show, starting half an hour after the end of Flex TV News: Play with Jess!, she did strictly for laughs, for her personal self-gratification.

Jessica Cleft was a living controversy, a legend, an enigma, who no-one really knew. A secretive woman with a public face, private face, and an emotionally disturbed dark side.

The camera zoomed in on her body. She looked great! In her hands she clutched a sheaf, notes she didn’t need. The cameraman focused on her perfect face. Jessica began to read,

‘In today’s other news, Police investigating the disappearance of schoolgirls Kaitlyn Hart and Madison Hendricks, 18 and certified by child psychiatrists as emotionally vulnerable, have extended the search area to include Holly Lakes, Deep Lake, Aisling Brook, and the dewponds of Chipping Forest. The girls, described as inseparable by schoolfriends, have not been seen since the morning of Friday 14th May. Police have issued a fresh description together with a recent photograph of the two girls.

They are appealing for anyone with knowledge of their whereabouts to come forward in strict confidence with information, however trivial it may seem. This evening, the girls’ distraught parents made an emotional appeal for their safe return…’

The playroom door swung open and she was there for him, effortless yet elegant Belle, his adorable wife. Slim, supple, lightly tanned, with a smattering of freckles on her chest, shocks of auburn café crème hair slung off her face, cascading onto her pert breasts. Her face creased in a broad, dimpled, smile. She raised her eyebrows - her surprised look - scratched her shoulder (the mosquitoes always bit her skin in the garden), and said,

‘Think we should get changed, honey, don’t you? Hot tubs bubbling. Pink gins are on the side. Ready for our wild night in!’

Marc Pritchard switched off the wall-sized plasma screen with the remote and appraised his soulmate. She always looked immaculate for him no matter how busy or tired she was, with Sienna, running the home, cooking the meals - when he wasn’t away on business. Tonight, she was flattering him, wearing her tropical, feminine, botanical, lustrous top, freckled arms bare, silhouette sage green, slim leg jeans, glam shimmering rose belt, bare feet. She had started to undress already for the tub. God, he loved this woman,

‘You’re the best, sweetheart. Best mother, best wife, best lover I could ever wish for. You and Sienna make my life.’

She scratched her shoulder, and spoke, Deep South, Florida, ‘Why, thank you, sugar. You’re not so bad yourself! Now get your ass off my couch. Need to get changed for that hot tub. Don’t want to miss the show, do we?’

Marc buttoned up his stoneground shorts at the hip not the waist. His waistline had gotten too fat for shorts. Too many late nights, junk food at the office, on the job. His Vietnamese red silk shirt still fitted, just, the one with the dragon emblazon, the distinctive logo which translated as Same, Same, But Different, tight around his right man boob. His left chest was shallow, his nipple missing, sutured, stitched, sewn as best the surgeon could, severed in a knife attack. He stood up, scratching the six-inch scar where his left breast used to be - before the bastards lopped it off. The scarring made his skin itch, hurt his mind, made him bitter, angry, always,

‘How’s my little girl?’

Belle beamed with pride. Sienna, her bundle of joy, cute, sweet as nectar, sharp as the knife that cut a twenty-centimetre wound in her when her baby girl was born by Caesarean section. His brave woman showed it off: her pride, shaved herself bare: her love, no pubic hair to cover her daughter’s scar line. No way! Belle wore her scar with pride, for them,

‘She’s bouncing on the trampoline.’ Before he could protest she added, ‘I’ll put my baby girl to bed before the show starts, won’t I? She’ll be all sleepy head, ready for bed…’

‘…by the time you kiss your darling heart goodnight.’

Marc tried to hug the love of his life, to kiss her on the lips. She shook him off, her radiant smile unsmeared,

‘Later, honey, later! Now, go and get changed.’

Belle went to her boudoir to prepare herself. Marc went to his walk-in wardrobe to find some trunks. They chatted through the plastered wall, planning ahead as they undressed,

‘Belle?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you plug in the radio?’

‘Marc Pritchard! What do you take me for, stupid?’

‘No, I take you to the hot tub, we down some gins, we do the show, then, I take you!’

‘Maybe,’ she said, smiling smugly to herself, ‘Maybe I’ll take you!’

He put on his tightest thong. She dressed in her tiniest bikini.

Happy, in love, so excited, they made their way down to the garden, to their bubbling tub.

*****  

‘Watch me do a forward roll, Daddy!’

‘I’m watching! I’m watching!’

Marc relaxed in the hot tub and watched his sweet Sienna bounce higher and higher on her trampoline. She flipped over headfirst, head-over-heels, landing with a firm thump at the centre of the mat. He breathed a sigh of relief: no bones broken, no twisted neck. He dreaded to think what he would do, how he would cope, if his little Goldilocks fell on her face, broke her neck, or swallowed her tongue. Sienna’s daring exploits on the bouncy netted turret were one of the few risks he permitted himself in his private life.

The greatest risk, he kept secret.

The proud father closed his eyes, rested his strong arms on the rim of the tub, then opened his hairy thighs, thrilling to the forceful sensation of bubbles frothing in his crotch. He took a sip of pink gin, refreshing his palate, licking his lips at the notion of Belle preparing herself for him. Her sexy musk, that carnal link between her smell, her body’s odour, and his seduction, his nasal-oral-optical-tactile-stimulation, his arousal, by her.

He checked his sub aqua diver’s watch, moving the phone in closer to him. The jacuzzi extension was his idea - purely for personal pleasure. He opened his eyes, staring at the night sky, the thick blanket of black clouds obscuring all but a thin smattering of stars, a faded crescent moon,

Where is she? We’re due to perform.

Sienna, tomboy in a pink dragon t-shirt and floppy red shorts, sat cross-legged on the mat watching him,

‘What is it, Daddy?’

It had been a tough week of constant interruptions, late calls, false leads, restless nights. He blinked open his weary eyes, ‘Just dreaming.’

‘Happy dreams?’

 Marc wasn’t paying attention. His mind was elsewhere. In the forest. By a muddy pond.

‘Sorry?’

The girl sucked her withered thumb and looked at him, ‘Are you having happy dreams?’

‘Yes, happy dreams.’

He thought of the two girls, still missing, the hell their parents must be going through, thankful it wasn’t his treasured daughter the team of frogmen were searching for, smiling,

‘Show me another forward roll.’

The girl stood, wobbled a bit on the trampoline, then started to bounce, higher and higher.

No traces or clues. That’s what he didn’t understand. Despite endless appeals, house-to-house interviews, pulling in the usual scumbag of suspects: perverts, stalkers, prowlers, paedophiles, trolls, voyeurs, for questioning; the investigation had yet to yield a lead. Add to that the fact that Madison Hendricks was baby-cute, emotionally regressive, bordering on a child, mentally, and it was difficult to imagine how the girls could have survived in the forest undetected. The weather, when they went missing, was atrocious - endless rain, an occasional heavy shower, thunderstorms. Yet there had been no sightings. No-one had come forward since the girls were seen, by a passing motorist, entering the forest.

The team had begun the gruesome task of dredging the dozens of dewponds scattered around the forest, diving into lakes, searching for bodies. Pritchard was in no doubt that this was where the search would end: in the discovery of two drowned girls. Pressure was building from on high, the girl’s distressed parents, the media, to find the girls, to achieve some kind of closure. Marc struggled to cope. The notion of having the blood of two dead girls on his hands was too much to bear, tearing at his insides.

He needed a break, and he needed relief. He shook himself awake, increasingly impatient, concerned at the risk he was taking with her, in the tub tonight,

Come on, Belle.

He heard his daughter giggle. Sienna climbed off the trampoline and ran to be with him. He felt her soft little fingers tickle his shoulder,

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, precious.’

‘Will you and Mummy be handsome in the tub tonight?’

Handsome! Her favourite word! Who did she learn that word from? Mummy? Had to be!

‘I hope so,’ he replied, grinning from ear to ear, ‘I really hope so.’

The little girl clapped her hands with glee,

‘Good! I like it when you and Mummy are handsome. Handsome as the day I was born!’

Marc took a large swig of gin, swallowing hard: the thought of his adorable, beautiful wife, running his fingers along her scar,

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, Sienna?’

‘Do you love Mummy?’

‘I…’

‘Come along, young lady,’ Belle interrupted, ‘Think it’s bedtime, don’t you? Let’s get you to bed.’

Marc couldn’t bear to watch her, not in front of Sienna. His blush, his embarrassment, the pole-like swelling propping up his thong, her feline display, her beautiful face, her body, her musk, was too much for him to bear in front of their child.

She smelled of vanilla.

Long touted as an aphrodisiac, the scent of vanilla causes arousal and stimulation in men. Vanilla may be soft, almost sweet, but it has a strong, intense, aroma, an animalistic effect.

Sienna, just five, starting school next term, was bright, smart, too smart for her own good sometimes. She would notice them, make one of her smart childish comments, tell all her friends at their birthday parties, in the park, on the slide, the swings. Tell their mummies all about them, the strange games they played, handsome, in the steamy, bubbly, tub,

‘Must we, Mummy?’

‘We must. Say goodnight to Daddy.’

Marc felt Sienna’s small lips kiss his shoulder, the faintest touch, heard her tiny whisper,

‘Night, night, Daddy.’

‘Night, Sienna. See you.’

He had no idea when he would see his precious girl again. Her voice faded as she was led away to clean her pearly teeth, comb her golden hair, say ‘Night, Mummy, love you, lots’, read her story - about the little girl who lost her name…

The telephone rang.

Marc swivelled at the hips and reached for the phone, tearing the receiver from its cradle, pressing speaker to high with his index finger. He downed his third pink gin, relaxed, and sank into the tub, his heart pumping hard in his butchered chest. The twinge made him wince. When he finally took the call, his speech was slurred. Wearily, drowsily, he spoke,

‘Yeah? Hello?’

‘Mr Pritchard? Mr Marc Pritchard?’ a young female voice said warily, at the other end of the line.

‘Who’s that?’

The voice calmed, ‘Hello Mr Pritchard, this is Celine from Flex Radio.’

‘Marc,’ he insisted, ‘Call me Marc.’

‘Ha! Hi! You’re live on air with Play with Jess in ten minutes. Is Mrs Pritchard with you?’

He looked around. Where was she? They were due to perform tonight. Human sealions!!

‘No, but she will be.’

‘Can I just check a few details with you then, for Ms Cleft?’

Ms Cleft. Of course, she’d be a Ms! Cleft, what a name!

Marc felt as if his thong might tear open, revealing his swollen appendage, any time now. First, Belle, playing easy to love, horny as hell. Now, the girl-on-the-phone, her posh, dulcet tone. She sounded nervy, young, 18? 19? 20? Her first assignment on radio? Play with Jess. The pleasure inside him, the intense emotional stress, played with his heart. His heart felt like bursting out of his chest. Hurt? Would it hurt him when it did? Hurt. Meal Scene. Crew. Nostromo. The Alien. Bursting out of his chest. How much more of these women could he take? He grabbed another pink gin, his fourth. Bitter, it tasted bitter. He panicked, more sweating, more palpitations, more heartburn.

So, babe, he asked himself, what have you spiked my gin with this time? Panex ginseng? Maca? Tongkat Ali?

He grinned. Spanish Fly was his trusted ingredient for Belle’s libido enhancement. Not that she needed any encouragement tonight.

His mind drifted into erotic-half sleep mode. Marc slept for what seemed like 5 minutes.

‘Marc. Marc? Marc!’ shouted Celine, ‘Are you still there? You’re live on air in five!’

The midult shook himself awake, ‘Yeah? What?’

Celine bombarded him with questions, ‘Your wife’s name’s Belle, right?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

Angostura bitters! Why didn’t I think of that? Pink Gin! Angostura turns gin pink. Sorry Belle, I trust you, babe, I trust you…

‘You have a daughter, Sienna, right? She’s five, off to school to next term? Marc?’

‘Yeah, sorry Celine, my little girl.’

‘You live in Aigburth?’

Where’s that for chrisake?

‘By the forest. In Essex.’

‘Essex. How lovely.’

‘Last question. Do you have your absolutely right word ready for Jess tonight?’

‘Yes,’ he gasped, ‘We have it ready.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pritchard. Enjoy the show!’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Celine looked up at the studio clock, then glanced at Cleft, ‘You’re live in two minutes.’

The clouds parted overhead. The night sky bristled with stars, twinkling in their blackened canvas. Marc thought of all the insignificant lives before him, those lives yet to come. He swigged his gin. His heart pumped with irregular beats in his strained chest. He needed a break, a holiday, needed relief. He felt Belle’s soft warm hands on his shoulders, felt her slide her palms over his chest, her fingertips stroking his livid scar, felt happier than he’d ever felt in his life. Fame beckoned! Tonight, they would perform for an audience, live on air, human sealions in their bubbling hot tub. He savoured his woman’s marine animal scent, her husky, sexy voice, murmuring in his ear,

‘Take off your thong, honey.’

Heart pounding like a steam hammer, wincing with the muscle stretch in his torn breast, the pleasure pain of his woman, he wriggled out of his thong, leaving it lying limp on the rim of the frothing tub. Belle climbed the non-slip steps into the spa pool, facing her man, and took off her teeny-weeny bikini top. She stood between his thighs, letting him untie her miniscule g-string, so that it hung, like a ribbon, out of her crotch. Marc ripped it off. She sat in his lap, straddling him, kissing him. His face turned puce. Her breath aroused him. Sharp teeth nipped his earlobes. Soft puffy lips mouthed in his ear,

‘Shall we perform?’

His heart skipped a big beat. Listen to the beat of his straining heart. She plied him with gin, pink gin, bitter gin. He burped wind. It was wind, all the time! Belle sat in his lap. They performed naked as the day they were born, human sealions in a bubbling hot tub.

‘You’re about to go live on air,’ Celine informed them in the background, ‘Ready?’

‘Yes!’ Belle hissed.

‘Okay then, on the count of ten…

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…’

‘And our next loving couple are Belle and Marc from Essex,’ Jessica announced, ‘Are you there, guys?’

*****

Belle felt between her thighs, caressing her husband’s scrotal sac, swollen with semen, ripe with sperm to create her second baby, fondling his rigid, turgid, throbbing gland, then pleasured herself on him. Marc groaned as she used her vice-like muscles, clenching him, squeezing him to bursting point. He heard her murmurs,

‘Yes, we’re here. This is Belle.’

‘Hello Belle, where are you speaking from?’

Marc opened his mouth to speak, his attempt to communicate thwarted by a deep kiss, by his wife. Belle broke off, panting, immersed in the throes of her exertion, pelvic gyrations,

‘We’re, we’re, we’re, sitting in the hot tub downing pink gins, aren’t we, Marc?’

Her husband’s heart weakened: the combined effect of the gin, the heat, the sex, the bitter tasting compound stirred into his drink by the love of his life. His heart was giving out.

Marc just managed to say, ‘Yeah, gins-in-the-tub.’

Belle bore down on him, bouncing in his lap, gripping his shaft with her birth muscle, thrusting her rosy-pink nipples in his face, his mouth. Her face suffused with blush.

Cleft contemplated the couple, merry if not drunk, frolicking in the bubbly, hot, tub. There was no doubt in her mind, judging by the ecstasy, the fervour, laced molten honey in the sensual woman’s voice, her man’s exhausted submission. The two of them were having sex in the tub. Having sex in a hot tub, live on air! Making passionate love on her show. Playing with Jess! She tried to stay calm, tried to keep her cool. It wasn’t easy, given that:

Cleft’s mind strayed to the two girls: Kaitlyn and Maddie. She had watched them making love in the summerhouse, hidden in the forest. She recalled the flooded cellar in the secret garden. Young, virile, beautiful Kait swimming naked in the crystal-clear water. Sexy Madison, sitting naked on the natural swimming pool steps, fretting, worrying, about her. How she had slammed the stable door, locked the girls inside the summerhouse, taken all of their clothing and buried it under a heavy log in a muddy woodland pond. Jessica began to feel aroused,

‘Well, this is a first! I’ve never interviewed anyone in a hot tub before! Are you ready to Play with Jess?’

Belle quickly stuffed her g-string and bikini top into her man’s mouth, holding them there, making him gag, making it impossible for him to breathe. She felt him claw her buttocks, felt him spurt his semen out inside her, his final, prolonged, deep, pelvic thrust, the limp, shrivelled retraction. Spent, shattered, stuffed, suffocated, subdued, he died inside her, of a massive heart attack. The soluble aphrodisiac having served her well, she replied,

‘Yes, Jess, I’m ready.’

I’m ready?

‘Do you have your absolutely right word for me tonight?’

‘Yes, Jess,’ Belle gasped, coming back down to earth, ‘My five-year-old daughter Sienna came out with the word when she saw us playing naked in the tub together under the moonlight.’

Playing naked in the tub together?

There was no-one watching in the studio. Jessica lifted the hem of her airy leaf print dress, massaged the soft inside of her smooth, paleskin bare thigh, and slipped her fingers inside her panties,

‘You play with each other, naked, in the hot tub, Belle?’

‘Yes, Jess.’

‘You moon in the moonlight?

‘Yep.’

Jessica closed her eyes and dreamed, imagining the couple making love in the bubbly hot tub, two girls making love in the summerhouse before she left them to die. She murmured,

‘What does Sienna say when she sees her mum and dad naked, playing in the tub at night?’

Belle dismounted her dead husband, went, and sat on the rim of the tub, waggling her toes in the warm water, a tangled ivy tattoo shining on her slender back, mischief in her mad grey eyes, the blood of her dead husband on her hands. She lifted the receiver, set the speaker to silent, and uttered Sienna’s magic word,

‘Handsome, Jess. She calls us handsome.’

‘Belle, that word is so absolutely right?

Jessica’s fingers were sticky. She pulled them out of her panties, took out her hands, and pressed the airy leaf print dress against her thighs. The interview was over,

‘Belle, look, it’s been lovely speaking to you. Would you like to say any dedications?’

‘Yes please, I’d like to dedicate tonight to my lovely daughter Sienna, Marc my handsome husband, to all of my family and friends who are listening, and, especially, to you Jessica.’

Cleft thought of Kaitlyn Hart and Madison Hendricks, their feeble, whimpering screams,

How close had Pritchard come to finding the two girls? The lonely forest path. The muddy woodland pond. Her secret garden. The flooded cellar. Her summerhouse. Before Belle called her husband telling him to come home, quickly, to take Sienna to hospital? Sienna, his treasured little girl who sprained her ankle when she tumbled off the trampoline? How close had Pritchard come - to finding her?

Cleft thanked Belle for her lovely word, for handsome, for Sienna. Then she cut the call,

‘That was Belle and Marc from Essex having fun, playing, mooning, in their bubbly hot tub with a pink gin or three,’ she announced, ‘Handsome. Like that word, don’t you? This is Night Fever by The Bee Gees…’

Jessica Cleft left the studio at midnight. Outside, on her way to Oxford Circus tube station, she found a shady shop entrance, and rang the private Essex number. Belle answered her call immediately,

‘Thank you, my sweet lover,’ the killer said, ‘For your dedication to me.’

Pritchard’s naked body was where she left it, floating, tossing about in the frothy hot tub. She really ought to call an ambulance, the Police. Well maybe not the Police, not just yet.

After all, accidents happen during violent sex, don’t they?

Belle recalled the tangled ivy tattoo on Jessica’s slender back when they met at the health spa. How they had agreed to meet again. How Belle had the same leafy motif tattooed on her back, to demonstrate her dedication, her love, and affection for Jessica. Cleft’s deadly secret,

‘Your secret’s safe with me, honey,’ she soothed, dipping her feet into the frothy jacuzzi, kicking her husband’s corpse, ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

Cleft cut the call.

The woman stretched out over the rim of her bubbly hot tub and gazed into the night sky. The clouds obscuring her heaven parted revealing a galaxy of stars. Bathed in their lustre, her rose-red blush illuminated by moonlight, she posed with an arm held over her head, her hand gently brushing her auburn café crème hair, the other hand cupped, holding her full breast.

He adjusted his focus. He played with her. The woman’s face and body were full of blush. She’d just enjoyed a strenuous bout of rampant sex. He begin with her head. Her café crème auburn hair was blackened dark coffee at the tips. Wet from perspiration, frolicking in the tub. He liked what he saw. Her stumpy arm was folded at a right-angle above her head, no hairs on her satin smooth skin, no curls, or knots of hair under her armpits. Just skin. The stubby fingers on her left-hand bore neatly filed nails, no lurid nail varnish.

She was pure, clean, free from taint in every conceivable way.

She stared wide-eyed at the night sky, her grey eyes fixed, unmoving, her eyebrows wide with surprise.

What are you staring at, my beautiful, blushing woman? Show me what you’re staring at.

He scanned the void above her head: nothing unusual, just the faintest flickering of red?

There were shadows of tired under her eyes. Her child who couldn’t sleep. Her insatiable man. There were so many questions he wanted, needed, to ask her when they met. And they would meet, after dark. He’d see to that.

Not that she was perfect. Her left ear was deformed, partly eaten, bitten by a dog, a man?

She’s dog-eared. She has a puppy ear. I don’t mind. Show’s me, she’s vulnerable. I want her to be vulnerable.

There was nothing wrong with her exposed widow’s peak, her round, puffy-blushing cheeks, her chin.

It’s her baby-cute snub nose, I most want to touch, her faded lips, I want to kiss. Deeply, I want to kiss her deeply, throatily, like lovers do. I want to taste her saliva. I want her mouth, for my own intimate gratification.

Slightly uncomfortable, she bent her legs at the knees, arching her body upward for him, shifting her body for him, giving him a far better view. Her right hand, he saw, remained where it was, covering her full right breast. He adjusted his sight, focusing his lens on her left breast. She had a beautiful pale left breast crowned with a dusky rose nipple, a corky teat, a press-me button kind of teat. He wanted to press her teat, to see if she responded to him, wanted to suck her teats, see if she got aroused by him. She inhaled, her rib cage showed, fully, creating a furrow, a raised ridged valley underneath her incredible breasts.

She curled the toes on her right foot.

He entered no man’s land, dwelling on her shallow navel, imagining his tongue, licking out her salt, her saline belly liquor, his woman’s brine. Studying her intently, her fanatic, his woman’s greatest fan, he found her scar. The livid red weal which stretched from just below her navel, down her slightly rounded belly, into her most intimate place. He traced her scar, in a cleft-cut, knife-hewn line. Her Caesarean.

She opened her slender thighs showing herself to him, showing him how far the surgeon cut her. The blushing woman showed him her cleft. She had the most beautiful cleft he’d ever seen, long n flappy, well vented: a largish vent, a cloacal slit, an unforgettable orifice. Her right hand slid over her body, revealing the fullness of her breasts, her concave belly. Steaming up his lens. He wiped his lens dry with soft gauze. He adjusted his focus. His beautiful, blushing woman played with herself.

She saw her star at once, her new red star, her red dwarf. Her star moved in closer to her, dipping on the umbrageous horizon. An astral entity tumbling thru night sky, plummeting incrementally towards her until it hang suspended in mid-air over her head.

Her red glowing orb, her dying microcosmic sun,

Why are you here, honey? What do you mean to me?

It moved.

His blushing woman turned her head to face it, mesmerized by the constantly changing patterns on its fiery surface. The orb hypnotized her into watching it glide over her skin. She understood exactly what she had to do,

You’re a portent, aren’t you? They sent you here to play with me.

She sat up, swung her legs over the spa, inhaled, exhaled, then sank into the frothy tub.

He watched her.

She moved quickly, wading over to her man, holding his blued head still while she pulled her bikini top and g-string bottom out of his stuffed, asphyxiated mouth. She murmured,

‘How does that feel, honey, better?’

He didn’t reply, just gazed up at the man in the moon with those bulging eyeballs of his.

‘I’ll always love you,’ she smiled, ‘for giving me my baby. Think it’s time for you to go.’

She wondered if he saw her having rough sex with him in the tub, saw her slaughter him, induce his heart attack, killing him softly with her sex.

She looked up at him, and waved,

‘Hi, honey, like to come and play with me now?’

Play with Belle?

Her next victim.

Why not?

*****

Cleft:


Submitted: October 04, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Harriet-Jacqui's Hormones. All rights reserved.

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Comments

VanillaEssence

Exquisite brutality.

Tue, October 5th, 2021 1:06am

Author
Reply

Thank you so much, Vanilla!
HJx

Tue, October 5th, 2021 2:49pm

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