Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Monster ❯ Chapter 4 ( Chapter 4 )

Aw, but I've scared you haven't I? I've gone and done it now. Sometimes I doubt my own sanity when I relive this story to others, or more privately to myself. It's hard to say, why I did the things I did, why things happened the way they did. I think it's stupid to believe that everything occurs for a reason because it doesn't. Or perhaps I should say, it shouldn't.

Enough of this, let me continue.

After that, for many nights I dreamt only of The Pizza Man, becoming his companion, his consort, more privately, his lover. We shared a sort of love affair with death, our emotions running rampant within us as blood spilled. It was like we were addicts together and only we could understand the need each other had for the drug. Some days we would put it off, merely staring into children's windows as they slept, our fingers on the glass plane as we traced their faces with shadows, wondering what it'd feel like to cut that soft flesh with a razor blade and hear the shriek of metal against the bones in their cheeks. We wanted to know what a baby looked like with no eyes, or no nose, or no ears.

Sometimes we would leave them alive, taking our gory little souvenir along in our pocket, so tempted to stay and see how the mother would react when little precious awakened her, screaming with no tongue. There is a saying that goes, "there can only be one Picasso", and we were the Picasso of homicide. News reporters would vomit on air when they saw the remains of bodies being taken out in little plastic containers, as we rarely left anything more than the size of a grapefruit intact.

But you must think that I loved this abhorring dream. You must really think I'm sick don't you? Well, its not like I've given you much else to go by, but bare me no ill will. Listen instead, with an open mind and more important, an open heart. I need this. I need this confession, this admittance. This absolution. Maybe it's selfish of me but please believe I don't look for justification or forgiveness. Just an amount of understanding.

As I said, you must think that I loved the dream and perhaps you're correct. But mostly, you're wrong. I hated the dream. I hated the feeling of detachment when I took lives, knowing somewhere within myself that, while this wasn't truly me, this was happening and there was virtually nothing I could do to stop it. And the worst part? I hated that I enjoyed it so much. That it became a sort of art for me. To feel nothing in my sleep and experience no amount of guilt when I awoke to find that everything in the dream had truly occurred.

Soon enough, the dreams began to expand to other monsters besides the Pizza Man. Sometimes I was with a young woman, stalking men or even seducing them in late night bars and clubs, feeling the emotions of a woman, the arousal of a woman. I would touch myself, my new host, my new body, moving my hands over the curvature in my chest and hips, touching my inner thighs to feel all the dainty, odd little parts of a woman. I would know I was a man, but I had the thoughts and reactions of a woman, my eyes finding my victims and my skirt suddenly hiking its way up just a little higher, my slit just a little longer, my movements just a little smoother. I would strain my neck, touching my collarbone suggestively, crossing my legs and paying no attention to that naughty little garter belt that somehow ALWAYS introduced itself.

And sure enough, he was mine. Oh, the very idea of being a woman and having a man like that on top of you. To have that amount of vulnerability, to spread your legs apart and let someone shove a foreign, hideously ugly object inside of you that, for God knows whatever reason, reminds you of ALF's nose. And there's pain isn't there? Always pain and always a strange feeling of being dirty afterwards. Feeling promiscuous or cheap. But maybe I don't know.

I know that I would take them back to my apartment, whichever one I had chosen for that night, as I seemed to be a rather wealthy woman. I would take them down on the bed, unzipping their pants and giving them an oral job that always made me gag. I don't know why we did it. But we always did. I think it was important to us to make them happy. To please them before pleasuring ourselves with what THEIR body could give. And we would let them pin us down to the bed, put their fingers into our underwear, get us all good and wet down there before moving the irritating clothing to the side and driving into us painfully.

And we would go along, letting them lose their little inhibitions, letting them move our little folds apart, throw our legs over their shoulders and smack their bodies into ours. We would moan and bite our lips as they asked us for "doggy" and assorted our body onto all fours, moving our cheeks apart and banging us. We would scream obscenities and sick little scenarios as they pulled our hair back so hard that we nearly buckled in pain, loving it, hating it.

And when they finished, hot cream spurting onto our back, as they squeezed our breasts one more time for emphasis, we would smile because play time had just begun. Oh, but men do get SO tired afterwards, trusting us as we lay together in the dark, our legs entangled, bare flesh against bare flesh. They didn't even notice when we would tie their arms and legs to the bed, staring at their strange, naked bodies as the light from the moon would create them in it's own mold. And so would we.

We became the all powerful Goddess, deforming the beautiful into the grotesque, making the pretty lips so twisted, the sharp noses so mutated, and the catching eyes so repulsive. We had the control suddenly and the night was ours. We would teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget. Never in their lives. And we let them live too. That was the beauty of "Satin" as they named us in the papers, remarking that we always wore red satin and left a piece of the dress over the victim's face. Satin loved beauty because she had it. She had control in beauty and control was what she wanted. Take away beauty, and you haven't got control.

And that's what she did. Sometimes we were kind about it, touching the face of the victim as we straddled them nakedly, letting them once more put themselves up inside of our bodies before unleashing our…….. wilder side. Some men loved being tied up, awakening to find a beautiful woman atop them, touching herself in expectation of what was to come. But they didn't love what came next, as we would bend down for a kiss, and come back up with a mouthful of bleeding flesh from their cheek. Aw, but the screams could excite her, an orgasm quaking her insides as they threw their heads from side to side, seeing her scalpel and all the other tools, as valuable to us as a paintbrush to an artist.

We would create for hours, long after they'd gone unconscious from the pain, long after they'd gone limp inside of us. We would cut deeper and deeper, until the white bones would show underneath, the skull smiling at us the way only skulls can. Sometimes we'd leave the eyes to dangle out at the sides. Other times, we'd take them with us, to be devoured along with any extra skin lying around with no other use. We weren't a cannibal! Oh, some might have called us that. But to us, in our mind, we were merely savoring our fun. And life was fun as we would leave, our purse containing our bloody scalpel and all sorts of toys, our high heels clicking on the pavement and a piece of our red satin dress left over our newest work of art.

But Satin got sick. She'd been sick for a while though hadn't she? Maybe that was why she hated men. A man made her sick, took away her fun. Plus, she hated her father. Funny how I knew her as I know myself. I knew her memories, as she had tried to run away when she'd been six, being found in the corn field by her daddy. And he loved it when she called him daddy too. He taught her all she knew now, all she did to make a man swoon. She learned her lessons very well and very young. But she'd also practiced her special, secret little art on her daddy when she'd gotten old enough.

"Wear the red satin." He'd told her, his hand already down into his jeans, stretching himself out on his dirty blue recliner. "Your momma ain't comin' home for another hour and you know I love the red satin, sugar pussy." She liked it when he called her sugar pussy. She knew she'd get something special when he said that. Something that didn't hurt, that wasn't violent, that he didn't enjoy so much when she screamed and cried.

And when he hadn't given that to her, he took away her fun, made her feel ugly. And that took away any idea of control that she'd had. Satin didn't like that did she? And as she had that familiar hunk of hard meat in her mouth, gagging it down into her throat, tasting the sickening flavor, she realized just how hungry she was.

And I guess daddy didn't like that. So she decided to show him her new found talent to make it up to him. And what a talent it was. He was speechless as she cut his teeth out of his mouth, one by one, shoving the blade up into one of his nostrils and finding out what a human looked like when you distorted them into your own creation. He must have been so proud, as he yanked a piece of her red satin dress off into his hand, still holding the fragile material between his fingers when the police had found his body three days later, as momma somehow found a kitchen knife around her throat when she'd walked in a little too early, interrupting little Satin's lesson.

But Satin got away and continued her hobby, letting daddy do his thing, making daddy proud, and then showing daddy how much she had improved. Only, one of her daddy's got her sick with HIV and full blown AIDS at the age of 25 just wasn't so fun anymore. So she left her victims alive with a permanently mutilated face and AIDS. But what consolation prize after showing them her talent that people only saw once!

Eventually, they found Satin. They found us, though I wasn't with her when they did. Satin was dying and Satin was pregnant. And Satin finally learned to love something. She learned what real control was. That it wasn't causing pain, but by living your life for someone else because YOU wanted to. That's right. Satin would stand in the mirror, touching her swollen belly, smiling in the jail cell, knowing that even if she was in here forever, little precious wasn't. Maybe little precious wouldn't have it so bad as she had. Maybe little precious wouldn't be beaten and raped by father. Maybe little precious would be held and always protected by mother.

Happy Satin, safe in her cell with all the hope she could need and a love that she'd never known. And little precious, her only companion besides me as we all slept together in one big hug on that tiny bed, wrapped in each other's arms.

That night we died, too early for little precious to know what that "maybe" life could have been. But for once, Satin didn't go out at night alone.

I knew the monsters in my dreams as I knew myself. I knew little Charlie, the nine year old with a sudden impulse to burn his father and mother alive in their sleep. I knew Greg Hinningway, the nurse in the old folk's home who could hardly resist the feel of wrinkled skin between his hands. I knew Band aid, the suicidal, illogical mess that had the oddest habit of leaving massive amounts of Band Aids on his victims. I knew of the nameless creature who had an obsession with the eyes of children, wanting to see the innocence in them as he kept little boys locked down in a cellar, waking them only to tear their eyes out of the sockets. I knew Satin and little precious. And so many others. But I never knew Pizza Man.

Maybe because there wasn't much to know. No history. No care. No reason or self justification. Just that gorgeous lust that far exceeded the infatuation of everyone else.

And when these crimes would strike, scaring the populace, impressing even Vegeta, everyone else would gasp, shaking their heads in disgust that human creatures could ever conceive of something so terrifying. Sin had not only effected the world by taking random cities in one big gulp, but also infecting the minds of already sick creatures and giving them the strength and the impulse to do whatever it was they'd always longed to do.

Sometimes, when Sin would attack cities, I would fly there as fast as I could, nearly colliding with Vegeta as we both rushed to the scene. And we would find nothing, just as we were finding nothing now as we looked across the desolate waste land that had been Charleston City, our eyes giving us no reason or clue as to what had happened.

"A drink?" I said in disgust, my nose wrinkling as I tried to fathom how someone could even say something so detestable in the face of all this carnage. "Doesn't this sicken you completely?"

A stunningly handsome smirk crossed his features, brightening his dark eyes, making his attractive attributes stand out in the sunlight. He moved closer to me, staring at me in the same way that always created in me a sort of discomfort and even a bit of desire, though I wouldn't have admitted it at the time.

"I'll tell you what it does." He smiled, coming too close to me, his mouth too close to my ear as he touched my arm, whispering words that made me sick.

"It makes me entirely, and perfectly horny."

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Again, I hope no one was offended by the content in this chapter, but if you were, make sure to go tell someone who gives a shit ok? Hahaha. For right now, thank you for all of the well wishes. I'm recovering, although I lost my car (a Camaro if you'd believe that) and that's something I'm having a hard time dealing with right now.

Also, my site has been updated (as I've had nothing better to do lately) and I've added more KIND reviews (haha) plus a Flame Insurance group for any out there who are sick of being pussies and are ready to fight back. If you're interested, go to my site or contact me at HellsKiss@hotmail.com

Love always,

Camaro