Beneath The Dirt : A Psychological Erotic Horror Story by N.J. Weeks

Author:N.J. Weeks [Weeks, N.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-10-08T00:00:00+00:00

Twelve

The next day…

“Stay still, you fucking bitch!” The harsh cement floor digs into my knees, scratching at my flattened palms as I flatten my back. Remaining still like a fucking dog or in this case a human ash tray. “Just like that.”

Despite wanting to spring up and stab the motherfucker with the knife I brought with me, I flatten my back and hold still. Not out of respect or fear, but out of convenience. If I obey by playing along one last time, he’ll be convinced that it’s because I’ve finally conceded. He’ll never see what I have planned for him the second my opportunity strikes.

Smoke coils around me, notes of tobacco and menthol drench the air. The smell turns my stomach, but it’s the motivator I need. The reminder of why I’m here and what I need and will do this time.

“You burn like a sinner,” the delusional man observes, digging the tip of his cigarette into the nape of my neck.

A shiver runs down my spine. It hurts, but not as much as the knife I tucked in my boot. It’s in there loosely so I can gain easy access to it when needed, but its positioning by my Achilles and is close to slicing it if I don’t hurry the fuck up.

“You hear me, pecadora?”

Sinner.

I mumble a half-assed ‘yes’ but the questions continue. I tune them out. My focus glued to the sliver of steel beckoning me to grab the handle and end this.

“I wonder if I can fuck the sinner out of you?”

The ‘again’ part is left out. It always is. Delusional fuck. Every time I’m down here, it’s under the guise of it being the first time. Every time it’s the same. The same torture, the same pain, always the fucking same. What won’t be the same this time is what I do next.

“Stand up!”

My heart rate elevates, driving my pulse to my ears. I ignore the command. Adrenaline taking over every cell as I rehearse the scene in my head of what I’m about to do.

“You’re going to pay for the lies you’ve spread, you whore. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.” Another set of hollow words do little to affect me. I wait until the belt buckle jingles and it's tossed on the floor for me to make my move. Time slows as I spring up, retrieving the knife.

“Fuck you,” I spew, charging the monster dressed in human flesh. With a clenched fist and my eye on the prize, I break the barrier of skin concealing his vital artery. Blood spills down his neck, slowly. Too slow for my liking. I need more. I need him to suffer more. I tear the blade from inside him and stab again…and again…and again. With every strike, I scream ‘fuck you’ louder and angrier. Reveling in the blood splatter painting my skin, the floor, and most importantly—him. To my surprise, he doesn’t put up a fight. Then again, when the first place you’ve stabbed is the carotid, the brain connection starts to get a bit fuzzy.

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