6 - Young prostitute

 "Who exactly is the monster Elisa is calling out to? Is it the person who made her pregnant? Is this man her husband or not?"

   What did the "monster" do to Hermosa to make a child who was just learning to speak call him a monster?"

  Hermosa looked so young, had the man taken her when she was a minor ......

   After exiting Elisa's bedroom, these jumbled thoughts haunted Brent's mind like a nightmare. He closed his eyes and his mind wandered uncontrollably back to scenes of Hermosa drinking with different men and walking with them into hotels plastered with small advertisements. He swallowed two sleeping pills to stop himself from thinking about it, but the drugs didn't work this time, and he had the dream again.

   And he was awake enough to know he was dreaming.

   Since it began almost one years ago, it has been like a lingering spell. It haunted Brent, sporadically at first, and after the accident, it began to appear all night long, switching between periods of deep sleep and rapid eye movement, as if to mock Brent's crippling deficit.

   The content of the dreams was always changing, sometimes he dreamed of that hotel room so extravagant as to be obscene, sometimes he dreamed of his office, sometimes even in his basement, where everything seemed to be wrapped in dark velvet.

   What didn't change was that dreams were always about the same person.

  Brent couldn't see her face, but he could clearly touch the touch of her skin, feel his own hand resting on her soft skin, and smell the lustful scent of the air, mixed with aphrodisiac water. He grasped the fleshy ass, already covered with finger marks and glowing a pathetic bright red like a peach that would ooze a hand full of sweet juices at the first poke, and he plunged into the sodden slit, then withdrew it and slammed it brutally into the deepest part again. Each time he did so, the soft flesh at the base of the woman's legs would shudder in spasms and a huge gush of lustful fluid would gush from her flesh, unashamedly wetting the sheets beneath her.

   The woman was obviously a slut, but was as tight as a virgin. The soft walls of her flesh sucked Brent's erection like a tiny mouth that never knew satisfaction, wet, hot and tight. She knelt obediently on the bed, never moaning loudly, only a few whimpers squeezing out of her throat when Brent pressed hard enough. She whimpered, her voice tinged with sobs, "Sir, Haah... Uugh.. Aaah...ooh!"

   The look reminded Brent again of the rabbit he had dissected.

   The rabbit. The anesthetized rabbit was quiet, lying limply on the cold table as he stroked its tiny, creamy white fur, and its young, warm body, plucked the fur from its soft belly, located the fresh blood vessel and injected air into its circulation with a syringe.

   Before it dies, it struggles instinctively, jerking and stirring its

  Brent has a sudden, dark urge to do something wrong. He did not want to repeat the same old dream, the primitive mating activity, an orgasm he could not feel, ejaculation, and then wake up.

   He knew he could manipulate everything in the dream world, just like

cutting up that rabbit with a knife on the lab bench. He wanted to destroy everything, to kill the nightmare that haunted him, over and over again, a pain that was not worth a millionth of what he had endured.

   Brent stopped violently and roughly flipped the shivering woman over, his cock still lodged in her juicy hole, still unable to see her face, only her criminally inviting lips, bright red and lined with teeth marks from her own bite, just to keep from screaming.

   What a good girl, Brent thought, but it was a pity it was all so monstrous and should never have existed in the first place. 

  "What happened to ......, sir?" The young prostitute asked timidly, "It's my fault for doing-uh!"

   Brent strangled her neck with both hands. In comparison to Brent's hands, her neck was thin and soft, as though a single hand might easily crush it. Brent could still plainly feel the pulse of her carotid artery, pouring upwards in desperate oxygen, as if he were cruelly squeezing a well-behaved rabbit whose youthful, the healthy heart was still beating.

  "Sir ...... me ......."

   She didn't even dare to struggle, just weakly put her hand on Brent's like a silent plea.

   Her cheekbones began to stain an unnatural halo of red, like a goldfish that a child had cruelly caught and thrown to the ground. She opened her mouth and breathed heavily and desperately, her tongue spitting out and fluid dripping down her unclosed jaws like both a near-death struggle and a blistering orgasm.

   "I'll die ...... please ......," she said with a broken cry in her voice.

   Then die, there's nothing in this world that isn't a death wish. 

   Brent thought, feeling her life force draining away bit by bit, right under his hand, in her soft flesh that kept twitching. In her dying instincts, she even still squeezed his flesh, his inner walls wrapping spasmodically around Brent's cock, wet and soft and hot. It was ironic that Brent was doing something that would send him to hell, but his lower half was in heaven.

   "Oooh ...Gnghnaaaaaaa... ," she gagged with difficulty.

   Brent felt a hot stream blot the sheets and he looked down to find the fledgling incontinent. And she cried out in shame over the incident.

   It was a typical physiological response of the body, and as they neared death, their biological functions were depleted to the breaking point, with their heart rate lowering, blood pressure dropping, pupils dilation, hands and feet freezing, and inability to manage their excretory system.

It was in the last seconds of the dream that Brent met the woman's eyes, wet and red at the corners, black pupils clear and bright, like a young deer that had not yet grown all its fluff, defencelessly exposed to the horror of a world he knew nothing about.

   Brent jerked awake from his sleep.

   It was Hermosa's eyes.

   In the last second, before he woke up, he saw Hermosa.

   What did it mean?

   He looked down and slowly stroked his senseless legs, half shuddering and half fearing as they touched upwards to his cock. It was unbearably swollen and painful, but still not erect. It was the closest he had come to that feeling, and most of the time all he could feel was numbness. First, it was numb, then it was twisted.

   Brent suddenly grabbed the short knife on the bedside table, military stuff, small, but sharp and functional. He threw the knife forward with a jerk, the tip plunging straight into the target hanging on the wall.

   Ten rings, right on the bull's eye.

   He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.