Battle of the Killers

97 | Titties, Electricity & Harvard

POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL. I grinned down at my disorientated prey who struggled against the leather bounds, whimpering like a wounded bird.

I licked my lips, totally ready.

Gmie trembled, knocking her back against the wheel. "Help me, guys. Help me." Her piercing cries recoiled off the tiles, feeding the dangerous bloodlust shifting through me.

It called to me like a siren, ordering me to get blood and flesh and spread it all over my skin like lotion. I shivered, biting my lip.

She kept calling for help, which made me laugh, head swinging back and forth as I took the hunting knife from my pocket. "Help. Oh, help. Oh, help me," I mocked in a whiny tone. "You're too funny, Gmie."

"Fuck you," she said, looking at the ceiling, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"You really believe someone's gonna come save you," I said, pointing to the cameras. "Everyone's watching, girlie, and no one likes you. That's what happens when you treat people like shit. Your only true ally has one eye and a missing finger."

Scrunching her face up, she lowered her eyes to slits, lips thinning. "I have more allies than that," she hissed in a harsh tone while trying to throw her body off the wheel. "I have deals with people in high places. I'm not gonna die. They promised."

"You really believe in promises, girlie?" I cocked my head to the side, thumping my knife in my palm. "Your mother promised to always love you when she gave birth to you, but what did she do? Get drunk and fuck the pool boy on her precious yacht while you sat at home, crying because the only thing you had to keep you company were your thousands of shoes and paid servants?"

Her face hardened, as she pulled at her tights cuffs. "You don't know anything about me. I grew up in lush and lavish while you were probably getting fingered by grown men in foster care."

"Whoa, you know how to hit below the belt, dontcha?" I sauntered around the wheel. "But I wouldn't expect anything less from a spoiled little bitch whose highest accomplishment is keeping her hymn intact." I sliced the back of her thigh and she gasped. "And you were wrong. I wasn't raised in foster care. But that's okay."

Kicking the wheel to make it flat, she squeaked when it landed downward, and the blade of the knife tapped her smooth stomach, softly breaking skin. She shuddered as I trailed upwards, stopping between her tits. "We're gonna get to know each other real well tonight. I'm gonna know you inside and out and wear you like a thong."

The blade dove from her chest to the side of her thigh, making a large slice first and then digging in deep. Jerking, annoying sobs left her mouth as thick liquid seeped from the large wound, dribbling onto the floor.

My index and middle finger lunged into the dripping gash with a loud squelch, wiggling. "So tight and warm," I whispered, loving the velvety feel of her flesh on my skin. "And such a pretty color too."