I woke up this morning feeling like absolute shit, my body screaming for more of that sweet poison I've been cramming into it lately. Fuck, it's like my cravings have gone nuclear—cigarettes, booze, betel nut, all of it multiplied by a hundred. I lit up the first smoke before my eyes were even fully open, inhaling deep, letting that nicotine rush hit my veins like a goddamn freight train. Ah, yes, that burning sensation in my lungs, the way it makes my head spin just right, easing the itch that's been clawing at me all night. I chain-smoked three in a row, puffing like a desperate whore, feeling the warmth spread through my chest, making me wet just from the high. Then I grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand—cheap shit, but it burns going down, numbing the edges of my fucked-up mind. I chugged half of it straight, the alcohol mixing with the smoke, creating this euphoric haze where everything feels amplified, my skin tingling, my pussy throbbing with that twisted comfort only these vices can give. And don't get me started on the betel nut; I chewed a handful, the bitter juice flooding my mouth, staining my teeth red like blood, sending waves of that addictive buzz straight to my brain. It's like orgasmic relief, you know? Without this crap, I'd be a raging bitch, tearing at my own flesh, but with it? I'm invincible, horny as hell, ready to destroy whatever crosses my path.
I couldn't resist slipping into my favorite getup right away. Fuck normal clothes; I needed that fetish rush. I pulled on the black JK uniform, the skirt hugging my ass just right, then those thick black pantyhose, sliding up my legs like a lover's touch, making me shiver with anticipation. I laced up the high-heeled mid-calf boots, the ones that require tying those goddamn laces—tight, restrictive, perfect for feeling like the dominant cunt I am. And the gloves? Oh, those medical latex ones, snapping against my skin as I tugged them on, the rubber scent filling my nostrils, mixing with the smoke lingering in the air. I looked in the mirror, admiring how the outfit screamed "innocent schoolgirl gone wrong," my heavy black lipstick smeared just a bit from the chewing, black eyeshadow making my eyes look like voids. It felt so fucking good, like armor for my depraved soul. Sometimes I switch to the white version—the white JK uniform, those pristine white pantyhose that make me feel like a virginal slut ready to be corrupted, paired with white sneakers or black heels. But today, black it was. I felt empowered, ready to indulge in whatever sick shit my mind conjured up.
But that wasn't enough. My addictions have escalated, and so have my needs downstairs. I dug out my collection of toys—vibrators, dildos, the works—but the old ones felt weak now, like limp dicks from some pathetic loser. I needed stronger shit, the kind that could make me scream. I ordered a new set online last week, industrial-grade vibrators with adjustable speeds that could probably power a small engine, plugs that stretch you to your limits, and electro-stim pads that zap your clit until you're begging for mercy. I lay back on my bed, still in my outfit, and fired up the biggest one—a monstrous black dildo with ridges that could tear you apart. I lubed it up, shoved it in deep, turning the vibration to max. Fuck, the intensity hit me like lightning, my body convulsing as it pounded against my walls, sending shocks through my core. I added the electro pads, zapping my nipples and clit, the pain mixing with pleasure in this delicious agony. I came hard, multiple times, screaming obscenities into the empty room—"You fucking worthless cunt, take it deeper!"—imagining it was some victim's face I was grinding on. It left me panting, satisfied for a moment, but hungry for more real action.
That's when I called up some of the boys from the organization. Those dumb fucks in my crime syndicate—I've got thousands under my thumb now, ever since I offed the old boss and took over. They're loyal, or at least scared shitless of me, which is the same thing. I told three of them to come over to my villa in the suburbs of North Gat Lake City, that sprawling hellhole where half the place is paradise for the rich and the other half is a sewer for scum like us. They showed up quick, these muscled idiots named Jax, Rocco, and Vance—no repeats in names, just unique pieces of meat for me to use. I greeted them in my black JK getup, gloves on, boots clicking on the marble floor. "Get in here, you pathetic cock-suckers," I snarled, dragging them to the bedroom. They thought they were in for a treat, but oh, they had no idea how voracious I'd become.
I stripped them down first, mocking their bodies. "Look at this tiny prick, Jax—you call that a dick? It's more like a fucking clit!" I laughed, slapping it hard, watching him wince. Rocco was next; I grabbed his balls, squeezing until he yelped. "These nuts are worthless, you limp-dicked asshole. Bet you can't even last five minutes." Vance tried to act tough, but I shoved him onto the bed, climbing on top in my outfit, the pantyhose rubbing against his skin. I made them worship me first—lick my boots, suck on my gloved fingers like the whores they were. "Taste that rubber, you filthy pig," I commanded, forcing Vance's mouth around my hand. Then I lit a cigarette, blowing smoke in their faces while I chewed betel nut, the red juice dripping down my chin like blood from a fresh kill.
The real fun started when I mounted Jax. I rode him hard, my pussy clenching around his cock, grinding down with all my weight. "Fuck me like you mean it, you useless sack of shit!" I yelled, slapping his face repeatedly. He thrust up, but I was insatiable, bouncing faster, my boots digging into his sides. I came once, but kept going, draining him until he was gasping, his face turning red. "Pathetic, can't even satisfy a real woman," I taunted, switching to Rocco. I bent over, making him take me from behind while I sucked Vance off. "Deeper, you motherfucking retard—ram it in like you hate me!" Rocco pounded away, but I squeezed my muscles, milking him dry. He came too quick, collapsing, but I wasn't done. I flipped positions, using Vance as a seat, facesitting him while I fucked Rocco's limp body with a strap-on I'd pulled out. No, wait—the strap-on was for later. First, I made them double-team me: Jax in my ass, Rocco in my pussy, Vance's cock in my mouth. The room reeked of sweat, smoke, and sex. I orchestrated it like a symphony of depravity, cursing them the whole time. "You cum-guzzling bastards, harder! Make me feel it, or I'll cut your balls off!"
By the end, I'd orgasmed a dozen times, each one more intense, fueled by the whiskey I swigged between rounds and the cigarettes I smoked while riding them. They were spent—Jax curled up, kidney-shot from the exertion, Rocco panting like a dog, Vance barely moving, his dick raw and useless. "Look at you three, kidney-weak pussies, crawling on the floor like the worms you are. Can't even stand after fucking a goddess like me." I kicked Vance lightly, laughing as he groaned. They lay there Paralysis , unable to get up, while I stood over them, gloved hand stroking my clit one last time. It was barely enough to scratch the itch, but fuck, the power rush was intoxicating.
But sex alone doesn't cut it anymore. My sadism's ramped up too—I need to hurt people, make them suffer in ways that make my old games look like child's play. Last night, after sending those idiots home, I headed to my underground lab in the villa. It's my fortress: bulletproof windows, concrete walls that could withstand a bombing, full surveillance, emergency supplies. No one's getting in without my say-so. I had a fresh victim waiting—a sniveling little shit I'd snatched from the docks in Sea River North District, that crime-ridden shithole by North Gat Lake. He was some illegal immigrant, nobody who'd be missed. I dragged him in, strapped to the table, his eyes wide with terror.
"You disgusting piece of trash," I hissed, gloved hands tracing his skin. I started slow, injecting him with a cocktail of drugs to keep him awake but paralyzed. Then the fun began. I sliced into his abdomen with a scalpel, precise like the surgeon I pretend to be. Blood spurted, warm and sticky, coating my latex gloves. "Scream for me, you worthless fuck!" He did, muffled through the gag, as I peeled back the skin, exposing organs. I wasn't just killing—I was dissecting alive. I removed his kidney first, holding it up, watching it pulse. "Look at this shit—prime for the black market, you organ-donating cunt." I recorded it all, the camera capturing every gory detail: the way his intestines looped out when I tugged, the blood pooling on the floor, his face contorted in agony. I went further, cracking his ribs with pliers, the snap echoing like music. "Die slowly, you filthy rat—feel every inch of pain!" I whispered, carving patterns into his chest, blood spraying across my JK uniform, staining the black fabric darker. His screams turned to gurgles as I punctured a lung, air hissing out. Finally, I took his heart—still beating faintly—ripping it free, holding it triumphantly. The room was a slaughterhouse: guts everywhere, blood splattered on walls, the metallic scent mixing with my cigarette smoke. I came right there, rubbing myself through the pantyhose, the violence pushing me over the edge. "That's what you get, you pathetic scum—born to suffer for my pleasure."
Clean-up was easy; I bagged the parts for sale, dumped the rest in the wilderness. But that wasn't the end. These experiments? They're gold for my papers. I've been ramping them up—vivisections, drug trials on live subjects, psychological torture sessions where I break minds before bodies. I publish under a pseudonym in shady journals, but fuck, the data's spot-on. People eat it up—academics praising the "innovative methodologies," not knowing it's from real screams and blood. "Groundbreaking insights into human endurance," they say. Idiots. It's made me a name in underground circles, more cash rolling in.
And speaking of cash, that micro-movie I shot? Pure genius. I called it "Agony's Embrace"—a short film, super bloody, ultra-violent. No props, all real: I used actual victims, filming their tortures in the lab. Opening scene: me in white JK, white pantyhose, black heels, warning viewers, "This is not for the faint-hearted. Graphic content ahead—proceed at your own risk." Then it dives in—saws cutting limbs, acid burning flesh, eyes gouged out with spoons. One sequence: a guy tied down, me vivisecting him slowly, his innards spilling as he begs. "Please, you crazy bitch!" he screams on camera. I laugh, zooming in on the gore. Another: a woman force-fed poison, convulsing, foam from her mouth. Real deaths, real pain—no CGI bullshit. I uploaded it to dark web platforms, and it exploded. Views in the millions, awards from underground festivals for "realism." Comments like, "Props department killed it—looks so authentic!" Ha! They think it's fake. Earned me a fortune in crypto donations, more outer fast than ever. Suckers.
But I'm not stopping. Everything's upgrading—my methods, my cruelty. Next, I'll hit a bigger target: maybe raid a rival gang's hideout, slaughter them all in new ways. Electrocution while fucking them? Vivisect mid-orgasm? The possibilities make me drip. I'll stock up on more cyanide, that smuggled pistol always ready. Bribe more officials—mayor's already in my pocket, that greedy fuck. My organization's growing; that second-in-command handles the day-to-day, but I'm the queen bitch. Vending drugs in bigger shipments, organs flying off the shelves, population trafficking for experiments. I'll wear my outfits bolder, smoke more, drink harder, chew betel until my mouth's raw. And the sex? Next time, I'll break more men—make them beg for death after I drain them dry. Fuck anyone who stands in my way; they're all worthless cunts waiting to be destroyed.
Days blur now, but yesterday was a peak. After work—faking that empathetic therapist bullshit—I came home, chain-smoked a pack, downed a bottle of vodka mixed with betel juice for that extra kick. The buzz hit hard, my body humming, pussy aching. I changed into the white ensemble: white JK, white pantyhose so sheer they felt like second skin, white sneakers for mobility. Gloves on, of course—latex snapping satisfyingly. I felt pure, yet filthy, ready for mayhem.
I invited two more from the crew—let's call them Dirk and Slade, fresh meat. "Get your asses here, you cock-sucking morons," I texted. They arrived, eyes hungry. I led them to the lab this time, blending pleasure with pain. "Strip, you dumb fucks," I ordered. Dirk was hung, but I mocked him anyway: "That thing? Looks like a deformed worm. Bet it can't please a real slut like me." I tied Slade to a chair, making him watch as I fucked Dirk on the dissection table. I rode him reverse cowgirl, ass bouncing, pantyhose tearing slightly from the friction. "Pound me, you useless prick—make it hurt!" He did, grunting, but I clamped down, riding until he whimpered. Then I switched, sucking Slade while electro-zapping Dirk's balls. "Taste my glove, you filthy animal," I said, shoving fingers down his throat.
The orgy escalated: I made them DP me—Dirk in front, Slade behind—while I smoked, ash falling on their skin. "Faster, you limp-wristed assholes! Fuck me like you mean to kill me!" Orgasms rolled through me, each amplified by the vices. But I needed more; I grabbed a scalpel, nicking their skin lightly during thrusts, blood mixing with sweat. "Bleed for me, you pathetic whores." They came, collapsing, kidneys aching from the marathon. Slade pissed himself, the weak bastard; I laughed, kicking him. "Look at you, pissing like a baby. Crawl away, you worthless shit."
Satisfied temporarily, I turned to a new experiment. Had a girl chained up—a streetwalker I'd picked up. "You dirty whore, time for science," I sneered. I injected her with experimental drugs, watching her convulse, then sliced open her thigh, studying muscle reactions. Blood gushed; I recorded, narrating coldly. "Subject exhibits extreme pain—fascinating." I went deeper, removing bone fragments, her screams music. "Shut up, you screaming cunt— this is for progress!" The data? Priceless for my next paper on pain thresholds. Published it anonymously; got rave reviews. "Innovative empirical methods," they said. Fools.
Then, inspired, I shot a sequel to the micro-movie. Real kills again: three victims, tortured on camera. One guy flayed alive, skin peeling like wrapping paper. "Suffer, you maggot-infested prick!" I yelled, the blade gliding. Uploaded with warning; it went viral darker than before. More awards, more money. "Best effects ever," comments read. Idiots.
My villa's my kingdom—secure as fuck, stocked for apocalypse. I roam North Gat Lake City's underbelly, ruling from shadows. Sea River North District's my playground: smuggling via the lake, that vast 310,000 square kilometer freshwater beast, depth max 50 meters, bordering fictional lands. Crime thrives; I own it.
Family? Daughter's abroad with grandma, thinking I'm a saint. "Mommy's doing business," I lie during calls, masking smoke breath. Husband's ghost haunts me—suicidal prick, but he taught me well. We met in college, bonded over psychoses, married quick. Stole, robbed, got rich. He died vending dope, jumping into the lake to evade cops. "Don't ID my body," his last words. Faked divorce; kid born posthumous.
Work's a joke: 8:30 to 3:30, five days, 3500 euros plus bonuses. I sell clients' secrets, rob their homes later. Entry: cyanide or pistol ready, in fetish gear.
Cravings intensify daily. I need more—smoke two packs now, booze by the liter, betel nonstop. Fastens hit like drugs; big O's from the mix. Outfits? Constant rotation, adding gel clothes sometimes—black latex bodysuit hugging every curve, making me feel like a sex demon.
Last raid: broke into a client's house, wore black JK, thick black pantyhose, lace-up boots, gloves. Injected family with paralytics. Robbed valuables, then killed: slit throats, watching blood arc. "Die, you greedy fucks," I whispered, recording for personal stash. Sold organs; pure profit.
Organization's thriving: thousands strong, second-in-command runs ops. We vend dope in containers, bribe customs with "secure cargo" papers. Mayor's my puppet—benefits keep him quiet.
Pierced a rival last week: captured their leader, tortured in lab. Hooks through skin, pulled taut. "You think you can challenge me, you cockroach?" Ripped him apart, fed pieces to dogs. Members defected; my empire grows.
Sex with underlings? Weekly now. Last group: four guys—Finn, Gage, Holt, Ira. Fucked them senseless. "Suck it, you ball-less wonders!" Rode them in turns, using toys to prolong. They ended kidney-drained Paralysis, begging mercy. "Pathetic," I spat, leaving them broken.
Experiments multiply: neural probes on brains, acid baths for skin studies. Papers fly out; acclaim follows. "Revolutionary," they call it.
Micro-movies? Series now. Third installment: mass slaughter, real bodies piled. Warning upfront; still, views soar. "Hollywood-level gore," fans rave. Cash pours in.
I'm escalating everything. More kills, more fucks, more vices. I'll conquer this city, turn it to my hell. Fuck the world—it's mine to ravage.