Oh, fuck, what a goddamn glorious morning this is. I'm sprawled out on my massive king-sized bed in this fortress of a villa out in the suburbs of North Gatter Lake City, sheets all tangled around my legs like some pathetic lover I just kicked aside. The sun's barely creeping through those bulletproof windows, but who gives a shit about the light when I've got my own heat building up? My hand's already down there, fingers slick and probing, because why the hell not start the day with a bang? I slide two fingers inside myself, slow at first, feeling that wet warmth clench around them, and goddamn, it's like my body's screaming for more. I rub my clit with my thumb, circles getting faster, harder, imagining some worthless fucker's face buried between my thighs, licking like his life depends on it—which, knowing me, it probably would. My hips buck up off the mattress, chasing that electric buzz, and I pinch my nipple with my free hand, twisting it until it hurts just right. "You dirty fucking whore," I mutter to myself, because yeah, that's what I am, and I love it. My breaths come in ragged gasps, pussy throbbing, and I shove a third finger in, stretching myself, pumping like a piston. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my gut, and I grind against my palm, slick sounds filling the room like some obscene symphony. Fuck, it's hitting me—waves crashing, body convulsing, juices soaking the sheets. I ride it out, cursing under my breath, "Shit, yes, you filthy cunt, come for me." Panting, I pull my fingers out, lick them clean because why waste it? Tastes like victory. Alright, enough of that bullshit. Time to drag my ass to work.
I haul myself up, still buzzing from that orgasm, and head to the bathroom. Quick wash, slap on some makeup—not the heavy shit yet, gotta keep it professional for those idiot clients. I slip into my daytime disguise: a simple blouse and skirt, nothing flashy, hiding the tattoos snaking up my arms and thighs. Underneath, though, I've got black silk stockings hugging my legs, just a little tease for myself. Grab my keys, hop into one of my sleek black sedans—nothing too ostentatious, don't want to draw eyes—and drive into the heart of North Gatter Lake City. The traffic's a clusterfuck as usual, horns blaring from all these moronic drivers who think they're kings of the road. I light up a cigarette while stuck at a light, inhaling deep, letting the smoke curl in my lungs like a lover's fingers. Feels good, that burn, reminds me I'm alive and in control.
Pull up to the clinic in the bustling downtown area, park in my spot, and stride in like I own the place—which, let's be real, I might as well. The receptionist's all smiles, "Good morning, Hailey!" and I flash her that sweet, understanding grin that fools everyone. "Morning, dear. Busy day ahead?" Bullshit small talk, but it keeps the facade up. My office is cozy, books on psychology lining the shelves, diplomas on the wall screaming "trust me." First client rolls in at 9:00 sharp—a sniveling little prick named Marcus, some mid-level exec whining about his anxiety. I nod sympathetically, jotting notes, but in my head, I'm already picking him apart. "Tell me more about that fear," I say, voice soft as silk, while imagining slicing into his chest, seeing what makes him tick. He spills his guts—family secrets, financial woes, the works. Idiot doesn't know I'm filing it all away for later. Maybe I'll swing by his place one night, relieve him of his valuables... and maybe more.
Session after session drags on: a weepy housewife, a stressed student, all these pathetic losers baring their souls to me. I play the part perfectly, offering advice that sounds profound but is really just recycled crap from textbooks. By noon, I'm starving, but not for the cafeteria slop. No, today's lunch is special. See, last night I snagged myself a real prize—a fat-cat businessman from the upscale part of town, the kind with more money than brains. I lured him in with a fake online profile, promised him a wild night, and the dumb fuck showed up at that abandoned warehouse near the docks in Sea River North District. He was all eager, pants already tenting, but I had other plans.
Flashback to that shitshow: I tied the bastard to a chair in the dim light, his eyes wide with confusion turning to terror when I pulled out my kit. "What the fuck is this, you crazy bitch?" he spat, struggling against the ropes. I laughed, low and throaty, slipping on my medical latex gloves—white ones this time, snapping them against my wrists for that satisfying pop. "Oh, honey, you're my new toy. And toys get played with hard." I started slow, because where's the fun in rushing? Grabbed a scalpel from my bag, traced it lightly over his chest, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. He screamed like a pussy, "Please, no! I'll pay you anything!" Pathetic. I slapped him hard across the face, leaving a red mark. "Shut your worthless mouth, you greedy pig. This is my show." I cut deeper, peeling back skin in strips, watching the blood well up, fascinated by the way his muscles twitched underneath. "Look at you, all exposed and helpless. Bet you never thought your fancy suits hid such ugly shit." I whispered insults in his ear, calling him every name under the sun—fucking parasite, money-grubbing asshole, limp-dicked failure—while I carved patterns into his arms, making him beg for mercy.
But abuse was just the appetizer. Time for the main event: vivisection. I injected him with a paralytic—some overseas shit I smuggled in—to keep him still but awake. His eyes bulged, full of silent horror as I made the first incision down his abdomen, Y-shaped like a proper autopsy. "Feel that, you scum? That's me opening you up like a Christmas present." Blood poured out, warm and sticky on my gloves, and I reached in, feeling around his guts. He was gurgling, trying to scream but couldn't. I pulled out his intestines inch by inch, coiling them on the floor like rope, explaining it all like a twisted lecture. "See this? Your small intestine—about 20 feet of useless tube. Bet it processed all that caviar you shoved down your throat." I snipped sections, careful not to rupture anything too messy yet. Then his liver—dark, spongy, perfect for later. "This bad boy filters all your toxins, but yours is probably pickled from all the booze you rich fucks drink." I sliced it free, bagged it. Kidneys next, bean-shaped and slick. "These clean your blood, but yours? Tainted with greed." Heart was the thrill—still beating faintly as I cut the vessels, holding it in my hand while it fluttered like a dying bird. "Your pathetic pump, full of nothing but selfishness."
And oh, the grand finale: his cock. The asshole was half-hard from fear or whatever twisted shit, but I didn't care. I gripped it, yanked it taut, and sliced it off at the base with one swift cut. Blood spurted, and his eyes rolled back, but he was still conscious enough to feel it. "There, you eunuch fuck. No more screwing over people with that." I stuffed a rag in his mouth to muffle the gargles, then finished him off with a quick slash to the throat—mercy killing, really, after all that fun. Dragged his carcass to my van, drove back to the villa's basement lab under cover of night. Down there, with all my surgical gear gleaming under the fluorescents, I got to work properly. Dissected the rest, harvesting organs: lungs, spleen, pancreas. Bagged the sellable ones—heart, kidneys, liver—for the black market contacts in Sea River North. The rest? Well, some for experiments, data for my "papers." But today, lunch is on him.
Back to now—lunch break at the clinic. I slip out to my car, drive home quick since it's not far. In the kitchen, I thaw out some of that fresh meat I prepped last night. Gotta be smart about this cannibal shit, though. I know my prions—those fucked-up proteins that cause mad cow disease and its human cousin, Creutzfeldt-Jakob. They're indestructible bastards, not killed by cooking, and they cluster in the brain, spinal cord, and nervous tissue. Eat that, and you're risking your gray matter turning to sponge, hallucinations, dementia, the works. No thanks, I'm twisted but not suicidal. So I stick to muscle meat—thighs, arms, that lean stuff—and organs like liver or heart, but only if I avoid any neural contamination. Kidneys are risky if not cleaned right, but I know how to flush 'em. Today, I'm grilling up some strips from his thigh, marinated in herbs and wine to mask any gamey taste. "You taste better than you lived, you worthless sack," I chuckle as I sear it on the stove. Add some veggies for balance—gotta keep it gourmet. Sit down at my marble counter, fork it up, savoring the juicy, iron-rich flavor. Better than any steak from those overpriced restaurants downtown. Wash it down with a glass of red, feeling that warm buzz spread. Lunch of champions.
After that, back to work for the afternoon sessions. More droning clients, more fake empathy. By 3:30, I'm out, driving home with the windows down, wind whipping my hair. Pull into the garage, strip off the normie clothes, and slip into something more me: black JK uniform, thick black pantyhose hugging my curves, laced-up high-heel mid-calf boots clicking on the tile. Gloves on—latex, of course, for that clinical feel. But first, rest. I flop onto the couch in the living room, massive windows overlooking the manicured grounds, security cams blinking like watchful eyes.
Time to unwind properly. I grab my electronic vape from the side table—sleek black thing, loaded with high-nic juice. Crank the wattage to max, 50 watts, feeling the coil heat up with that satisfying hum. Inhale deep, the vapor hitting my lungs like a freight train, nicotine rush slamming my brain. "Fuck yes," I groan, exhaling a thick cloud that hangs in the air like fog over North Gatter Lake. The buzz is instant—head light, body tingling, every nerve on fire in the best way. I take hit after hit, chain-vaping until my throat's raw, that peppery throat hit mixing with the sweet flavor. It's like a hug from an old friend, calming the edges of my mania, making the world sharper yet softer. But I need more. Swap out the pod for my special one—laced with etomidate, that sneaky anesthetic I source from shady suppliers. It's not for knocking out; at low doses in vapor, it's a euphoric ride. First puff, and it's subtle—a warm wave washing over me, muscles loosening like I've sunk into a hot bath. Deeper inhales, and the high builds: colors brighter, sounds muffled, a floating detachment where worries dissolve into bliss. "Oh, you beautiful bastard," I murmur, body melting into the cushions, pussy tingling again from the relaxation. It's like orgasming without touching—euphoric, dissociative, every breath pulling me deeper into that hazy heaven. I vape until the room spins gently, then set it aside, riding the wave.
Evening creeps in, and I'm restless. Dinner's light—some salad with leftover "protein"—but the real treat waits in the fridge: that severed cock from Mr. Moneybags. I thaw it under warm water, admiring the veiny length, still firm from rigor or whatever. Back to bed, lights dim, I lube it up generously—my juices plus some slick gel. "Come here, you dead prick," I sneer, positioning it at my entrance. Slide it in slow, feeling the girth stretch me, cold at first but warming quick. It's better than any dildo—real texture, that authentic give. I thrust it deep, angling to hit my G-spot, moaning like a bitch in heat. "Fuck you, you limp fucker—now you're useful." Pump faster, twisting it, my free hand on my clit, rubbing furious circles. The taboo of it all amps the thrill—using a corpse part like a toy, desecrating the dead. Hips grinding, walls clenching around it, building to that peak. "Yes, you worthless shit, make me come!" Explosion hits, body arching, squirting a bit on the sheets. Pull it out, toss it aside, spent.
Wind down now. Chew a wad of betel nut— that earthy, bitter kick flooding my mouth, saliva turning red as I spit into a cup. The mild high creeps in, energizing yet soothing, like caffeine with a twist. Chase it with a bottle of whiskey, straight from the neck, burning down my throat, warming my belly. "Night, you fucked-up world," I slur, collapsing into bed. Sleep claims me quick, dreams of blood and bliss awaiting.
Hold on, I ain't done yet. Let's dive deeper into that kill, because goddamn, it was art. That businessman—let's call him Victor, some made-up name for the sack of meat. I spotted him weeks ago, tailing him from his office in the financial district, learning his routines. Rich fuck drove a shiny sports car, lived in a penthouse overlooking the lake. I hacked his schedule from a client's files—turns out one of my weepers worked for him. Set up the trap: anonymous message promising discreet fun, location at that derelict spot by the ports where smuggling boats dock under the radar. He bit, showed up in a trench coat like some spy movie reject.
Tied him down, and the abuse? Oh, I savored it. Started with psychological shit—told him all about his dirty secrets I dug up. "You cheating on your wife with that secretary, Victor? Bet she doesn't know about the offshore accounts either." His face paled, sweat beading. Then physical: punches to the gut, making him puke. "Clean that up, pig," but he couldn't, bound as he was. I burned him with cigarette ends, pressing into his thighs, watching skin blister. "Scream louder, asshole—music to my ears." Whipped him with a belt, welts rising red. All while in my outfit: white JK uniform this time, white pantyhose gleaming, black heels clicking as I circled him. Gloves on, of course—kept it clean.
Vivisection details: After paralysis, I narrated every cut. Sternum cracked with shears, ribs spread like wings. Lungs deflating with a hiss as I punctured one. "Breathe deep now, fucker—oh wait, you can't." Spleen out—purplish, squishy. Pancreas, slimy and vital. I avoided the brain entirely—prions, remember? Those misfolded proteins replicate like viruses but aren't alive, causing transmissible spongiform encephalopathies. Stick to skeletal muscle, heart muscle—those are low-risk. Liver's okay if not from someone with hep, but I test quick. Kidneys: filter blood, but can harbor toxins; I rinse 'em good. No eyes, no nerves—too risky. Cook thoroughly, over 160°F, though prions laugh at that; avoidance is key.
Lunch prep: Ground some thigh meat into patties, seasoned with garlic, onions, a dash of cumin. Grilled to medium, juicy pink inside—fuck food safety norms. Ate with relish, thinking of his screams.
Vape session extended: After max wattage nic hits, the etomidate pod. Each drag: initial numbness in lips, then full-body melt. Euphoria like floating on clouds, detached yet hyper-aware. Time slows, pleasures amplify— even the fabric on my skin feels orgasmic.
Evening self-pleasure: That cock, now room temp, slid in easier second time. I rode it reverse, imagining him alive, helpless. Climax shattered me, multiple waves.
Betel nut: Chewed slow, the areca nut mixed with lime, that alkaloid buzz hitting nerves, mild stimulation before bed. Whiskey: peaty single malt, three gulps burning fierce.
And that's my day, you nosy fucks. Tomorrow? More chaos.
Let's keep going—detail the work day more. First client, Marcus: He droned about his boss, some tyrant. I probed: "Does this remind you of your father?" He broke, admitting abuse history. Filed away—potential blackmail. Next, the housewife, Elena: Infidelity issues. "My husband doesn't satisfy me." I smiled, "Explore your desires." Mentally noted her address for a visit.
Afternoon: A teen—wait, young adult, 20s—depression. "Life's meaningless." I fed him platitudes, but eyed him for "experiments."
Home routine: Lab check—organs chilling in preservatives. One kidney looked prime; call to contact later.
Vape: Clouds billowing, nic headrush making heart race. Etomidate: Dissociation peaks, like out-of-body, bliss without effort.
Self-pleasure redux: Used the cock with a vibrator on clit, double stimulation, screaming obscenities.
Betel: Spat red juice, high lingering.
Booze: Full bottle? No, half, drowsy now.
Dreams: Of ruling Sea River North, bodies piling.
Expand backstory flash in mind: Husband's suicide—jumped into North Gatter Lake to evade cops. We were partners in crime, robbing banks disguised, selling dope. His last words echoed as I vaped.
Daughter: Thought of her briefly, that innocent face. Sent her a text: "Miss you, sweetie. Mom's busy with business." Lie, but keeps her safe abroad.
Black market deal: After dinner, quick call to fence organs. "Got fresh goods—liver, kidneys. 10k each." Deal set for tomorrow drop.
Outfit change detail: Boots laced tight, pantyhose seamless, uniform crisp.
Cooking science: Prions from misfolded PrP proteins, resistant to proteases, heat. Human cases from cannibalism in tribes like Fore—kuru disease, tremors, death. Avoid CNS tissue always.
More abuse: During torture, waterboarded him with lake water I brought, choking gasps. Electrocuted nipples with battery clips—sizzles and screams.
Vivisection: Felt his pulse fade as I held heart.
Lunch taste: Savory, like veal but richer.
Vape flavors: Nic was menthol, cool burn; etomidate custom, flavorless but potent.
Self-pleasure sensations: Veins rubbing inside, tip hitting cervix, pain-pleasure mix.
End day: Gun under pillow, just in case. Sleep deep.