Another day in this shithole paradise called North Gatter Lake City, where the lake sparkles like a fucking diamond under the sun, but beneath it all, it's a cesspool of scum and secrets. I'm Hayley, the so-called psychologist who's got everyone fooled with my sweet smile and bullshit empathy sessions. But let's cut the crap—today's about the real grind, the bone trade. You know, that filthy underground racket where idiots buy and sell human skeletons like they're goddamn collectibles. It's simple: some twisted fucks want bones for art, rituals, or just to jerk off to in their basements. Others use 'em for medical shit, black market transplants, or even grinding into powder for quack remedies. Supply comes from graves, accidents, or like me, fresh kills. Demand's high 'cause real bones ain't easy to fake, and prices fluctuate like a whore's mood swings. In my corner of the black market, I keep 'em cheap but quality—clean, intact, no rot. That's why my shit flies off the shelves, you pathetic losers.
This morning, my contacts in the underground hit me up with a steal: ten fresh corpses, all clocking in under 24 hours dead. Not some bloated, maggot-ridden trash—these were prime, still warm in spots, blood barely congealed. Probably offed in some gang skirmish down by the docks in Sea River North District, where the illegals wash up like driftwood. I scored 'em low, maybe a grand each, 'cause the seller was a sniveling prick desperate to offload before the heat sniffed around. Dragged 'em to my villa's basement lab, that fortified bunker under my sprawling mansion on the outskirts. Walls thick as a bull's dick, cameras everywhere, bulletproof glass—my little fortress where no nosy fucker dares peek.
I slapped on my silicone mask first, morphing my face into some generic bitch no one would recognize. Distorts my voice too, makes me sound like a gravelly hag. Then I called in a few of my black gang goons—let's name 'em Dirk, Vance, and Rocco, those loyal dumbasses who kiss my ass for scraps. "Get your worthless hides down here," I snarled over the encrypted line. "We got work, and if you fuck it up, I'll carve your balls off and sell 'em as trinkets." They showed up quick, reeking of cheap booze and fear. Good.
We laid the bodies out on the steel tables, lights buzzing overhead like angry hornets. First things first: strip 'em naked, hose 'em down with bleach to kill any lingering stench or evidence. These corpses were a mix—five men, five women, all in their twenties or thirties, bruises blooming like ugly flowers from whatever beatdown ended 'em. One guy had a tattoo of a skull on his chest; ironic, the stupid cunt. I fired up a cigarette, inhaling deep, the nicotine hitting my veins like liquid fire, sharpening my focus while that sweet burn clawed at my throat. Fuck, it felt good, that rush making my skin tingle, my pussy clench just a bit. But I needed more—poured a tumbler of whiskey, straight, no ice, gulping it down till it scorched my guts. Alcohol and smokes, my faithful whores, keeping the edge off while I dove into this mess.
Processing starts with the meat. Can't waste good flesh, right? The edible parts—muscle from thighs, arms, torsos—I sliced off with my scalpel, precise as a surgeon's wet dream. Dirk held the limbs steady, his fat fingers trembling. "Boss, this one's got nice cuts," he muttered. "Shut your pie hole, you inbred fuckwit," I snapped back. I deboned the thighs first, filleting the meat like steak, pink and juicy. Tossed it in a marinade of soy, garlic, and my special herbs—laced with a hint of opium for that extra kick, though I kept that secret. Then into the oven, slow-roasted at 250 degrees for hours till it fell apart, tender as a virgin's first fuck. The smell? Goddamn intoxicating, savory with that metallic undertone of blood. I pan-fried some liver slices next, seasoning with salt, pepper, and a dash of chili—crispy edges, bloody center. Ate a piece right there, hot off the skillet, juices dripping down my chin. Tasted like victory, you know? Rich, irony, with that forbidden thrill that makes my nipples hard.
But the real work was the disassembly. I gloved up in fresh medical latex, the rubber snapping against my skin, hugging tight like a lover's grip. Felt secure, invincible—those gloves are my armor, my fetish shield. Without 'em, I'd feel exposed, raw, like some naked slut in a storm. They ground me, that slick texture promising control amid the chaos. I could wear 'em for hours, days even, the sweat building inside turning 'em into a second skin. Can't live without that feeling; it's like they're whispering, "You're safe, you twisted bitch, go ahead and play."
We gutted 'em next. Slit the bellies open from sternum to pubes, the stench of shit and bile hitting like a punch. Vance puked in the corner, the weak prick. "Clean that up, you disgusting maggot, or I'll make you lick it," I hissed. Pulled out intestines, kidneys, hearts—prime organs for sale. We bagged 'em in ice packs, labeled for the buyers. Profits on innards? Five-five split with my gang idiots; they get half for hauling and shutting up. The rest? Bones. I boiled the skeletons clean in massive vats, chemicals stripping flesh to gleaming white. Hours of simmering, the room steaming like hell's sauna. My prices are dirt cheap—fifty bucks a femur, hundred for a skull— but quality's top-notch, no cracks, no decay. Buyers line up, those perverted collectors and shady docs. Supply can't keep up; it's a goldmine, you greedy fucks.
Halfway through, maybe after the fifth body—a scrawny bitch with fake tits—I felt it hit. That itch, deep in my core, my perversions screaming. The sight of exposed ribs, the wet squelch of muscle tearing, it flipped a switch. My cunt throbbed, slick and demanding. "You assholes keep going," I growled, stripping off my bloody apron. "I need a break, or I'll gut one of you next." Stormed to the basement toilet, door slamming behind me. Locked it, leaned against the sink, breathing ragged. The gloves stayed on—fuck no, they weren't coming off. Pulled down my black pantyhose, the silk whispering against my thighs, exposing my shaved pussy. Fingers dove in, latex slick with my juices, circling my clit hard. Imagined those corpses writhing under me, their dead eyes staring as I rode 'em. "Fuck, yes," I moaned, plunging two fingers deep, the stretch burning sweet. Built fast, waves crashing—orgasm hit like a freight train, thighs quaking, cum dripping down my legs. Relief flooded me, that twisted bliss making stars burst behind my eyes. Wiped up with toilet paper, but the afterglow lingered, fueling me back to work. God, I needed that, you filthy animals.
Back at it, but the haul wasn't enough. Buyers were clamoring for more bones, more organs—supply short, those impatient cunts. "Cargo's light," Rocco whined. "Then we make more, you brainless shitstain," I barked. We geared up: me in my white JK uniform this time, crisp pleats, white pantyhose hugging my legs like a promise. White sneakers for stealth, fresh latex gloves snapping on. Felt that security again, the rubber a barrier against the world's filth, my mind whispering safety in every creak. Packed cyanide vials and my smuggled pistol, matte black and loaded. Hit the streets of Sea River North District after dark, where the shadows swallow screams.
Snagged three live ones—two junkie whores and a homeless prick loitering by the docks. Dragged 'em back kicking and screaming, zip-tied and gagged. "You worthless pieces of shit," I taunted, pistol to their heads. "Gonna make you useful for once." In the lab, it was vivisection time. I handled two myself: the first whore, a blonde skank with track marks, and the bum, reeking of piss. The gang took the other.
Started with abuse—gotta break 'em first, make 'em beg for death. Strapped the blonde to the table, naked and shivering. "Look at you, you cum-guzzling slut," I sneered, lighting a cigar this time, puffing deep. The smoke filled my lungs, nicotine buzzing like electricity, heightening every sense. Chugged vodka straight from the bottle, the burn amplifying the high, making colors sharper, pain sweeter. Grabbed pliers, yanked her nails one by one, blood spurting as she howled. "Scream louder, you filthy cunt! No one's coming." Then the burns—cigarette ends to her tits, skin blistering black. She pissed herself, the acrid smell mixing with smoke. For the bum, I used the knife, carving shallow cuts across his chest, spelling out "LOSER" in ragged letters. "You pathetic worm, bet your mom's ashamed she shat you out." Salt in the wounds next, rubbing it in till he convulsed, foam at his mouth. Broke fingers with a hammer, each crack echoing like music. They writhed, pleading, but that only fueled me—my pussy wet again from the power, the blood.
Then the real cut: injected sedative to numb but not kill, keeping 'em aware. Slit the blonde open vertically, ribs cracking under the saw. Heart still beating as I plucked kidneys, liver—warm, pulsing in my gloved hands. Blood everywhere, soaking my uniform, the metallic tang thick. She gasped, eyes wide in agony, till I yanked her heart out, the last beat in my palm. "Die already, you useless twat." The bum got it worse—horizontal cut, guts spilling like wet ropes. Harvested lungs, spleen, the works. He gurgled, choking on blood, as I twisted intestines free. "Feel that, you shit-eating mongrel? That's your worthless life ending." Finished in a day, bodies drained, organs iced for sale. Bones boiled clean by nightfall.
Exhausted but buzzing, I peeled off the gloves reluctantly—hours in 'em, that latex cocoon my sanity. Without it, vulnerability creeps in, like the world's judging my sins. But fuck that; I'm untouchable. Profits rolled in, bones sold out quick. Another win in this game, you envious pricks. North Gatter Lake City's my playground, and I'll keep carving my empire, one corpse at a time.