VOLATILE

When I was was fourteen I had my first orgasm. I remember it clearly, the way my hips bucked into my hand, jerking faster, my palm tightening as I chased my climax.

I can still remember the tightening of my balls as I grunted… tugging and tugging until the pain morphed into pleasure and I painted my abdomen with my release.

I had always known pain, but that moment— it only made my desire to inflict it stronger.

When I was seven my mother and father, the founders of a multi-million dollar got into a fatal car crash, leaving me with a hardened father and a soft little bitch of an older brother by four years. Killian and I weren’t the closest until adulthood. Killian was always equal to that of a pussy when we were adolescents. Weak.

There wasn’t a funeral for her. Just a head stone buried a mere 24 hours later that read,

“Melina Sinclair-Atwood

Beloved Wife. Mother of Two.

Beloved Sister. Beloved Daughter. 1989-2025”

Her obituary was printed onto her tombstone.

“The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world”.

Which I suppose I had decided to honor.

There wasn’t a body to bury, because after the paramedics pulled my unconscious father out the car it went up in angry flames with my mother and another paramedic inside it. At least that is what was told to me. I found it hard to mourn her loss. Afterall, I rarely saw her, with how little she was of a hands-on mother.

I really only remember her tucking me into bed every other night and the songs she hummed to me before my eyes closed. The hymn plays on repeat at night when my thoughts are restless.

But in that quick moment I was left mother less for the rest of my life.

No more singing at night. No more “goodnight”.

I wish I could say my father cherished us, but her death might as well proved that wrong. He had always been a workaholic, never being home much; addicted to growing his empire more than his children.

A world known millionaire known for his technology company. ’Sinclair Teknology’ From then on, he only saw Killian as the next heir; and me? Well, he sent me away to a high esteemed fucking boarding school after my ninth birthday. I never saw outside the pristine black gates of that prison until I reached my mid-teens.

The school was called Hartford Prep School (for Wayward teens).

I remember it when my father handed me the pamphlet and told me “Keep your chin up, son.” before giving me a rough hug and a slap on the back, then shoved me into the black limo waiting for me. I remember as his face hardened and he tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, walking back up the cobblestoned pathway as the car drove me away to my new life.

The school wasn’t what I’d thought it would be.

I thought there would be nuns and crosses hanging everywhere to purge the evil from any soul that entered, but it was quite the opposite. Like entering a lions den with no warning of what might rest inside.

My father retrieved me when I graduated the school prematurely at sixteen.

I had entered college and spent my summer partying hard with a group of guys I had met in the boarding school. Things went downwards fast and on one of the nights we got fake IDS and went into a club. One of the guys, Tristan ended up fucking a stripper in a back room while we all jerked off to the scene of him taking her from behind.

That summer was when all hell broke loose.

By the time I was seventeen, I’d be jerking off 2-3 times a day when I found myself bored or just had the urge to wrap my fist around my cock. And that urge came very often.

At seventeen, I had my first piece of ass. Killian had threw me a large party while father was on a business trip, even when I had insisted he not. The party was loud and boisterous with our wealth on clear display as faceless unknown people occupied my home for the night, kissing in corners; fucking in guest rooms, jerking off and puking in the many bathrooms of our estate. Seniors leering at the juniors and them at the sophomores sitting in corners sipping on the cheap booze Killian had scored.

I remember her name so very clearly.

Abigail.

Abigail Greene.

I remember the way her tits bounced simultaneously as my hips met hers, her moans turning to cries; the alcohol in my veins driving me into a lustful frenzy as I fucked the living shit out her brains.

I had wrapped my hands around her throat and squeezed hard as I fucked her. I’d never forget that; particularly because she was the first taste of pussy I ever had, and better yet?

My first kill and it would be long before it was my last.

After Abigail came Leia, then Rory…wait. No.

Rory, then Leia? Which was it? Remembering their names got tiring after a short while.

So I just kept a journal of all the names. Pretty stupid right? Not enough to incriminate myself, but still pretty dumb.

It just kept going, until one night I accidentally killed the wrong girl.

Her name was Alice Wells. The daughter of a politician; a very well-known one at that. By the time I had reached the age of twenty four I had fucked more than I slept and killed more than I fucked. I no longer had an appetite for food, more so the deep hunger to see the light drain from the eyes of those I fucked.

Alice’s father Governor Powell found his daughter strangled to death in her bedroom without any clothes on as she lied bare under her sheets. I remember the next morning I awoke with no recollection of the night before just a necklace in my back left jean pocket. It wasn’t until a week later that I discovered my father had long knew of my… extracurricular activities since three years ago. As one of the most powerful men in the city he made the rumors and the investigation go away, but the governor hadn’t been satisfied. Alice’s death had been described as a brutal robbery that ended in a young girl being sexually assaulted and strangled to death on the news channel even thought there was no sign of forced entry and nothing of value was missing except her necklace of course, but the public didn’t need to know that did they?

And as for the sexual assault... Well let's just leave that there.

I knew that with the bodies piling up they had suspected a serial killer was on the loose, but you know serial killer was a scarier more gruesome term.

You know what I mean, like the kinda person who hacks off teenage girls heads in a movie drive-by and goes up putting them on scarecrows.

If you asked me I really wasn’t a serial killer, more so a seasoned murderer. Its like calling a chicken patty a burger. Just because its meat doesn’t mean it is the same kind. I bet you catch my drift.

Don't ya?

Eventually a few years into my early twenties, I grew bored with the fucking and killing. More so because I had no sexual attraction to a female unless I wanted to fuck her, and I could only fuck her if she interested me.

If I wanted to wrap my palms around her neck.

I had to admit strangulation was old fashioned, but it was clean. No mess. And while i enjoyed the messiness of it all. The blood, cum, saliva and sweat all mixed together; I couldn't deny I loved it, but I loathed the clean up afterwards.

I had wanted to settle down for a few years maybe have a normal family. A wife, a nice house and kids. With the exception of a double life I had supposed.

So when I found myself in Los Angeles for the weekend on one of my brothers business trips that he had begged me tag along on how could i resist? The expensive liquor, the clubs, the city full of bait? So I had said yes.

I didn't expect to get drunk and marry a tall dark beautiful young woman that could've been a model by the looks of it. The night was a blur really. Just glimpses of us fucking in and out of hotels and clubs in public restrooms after running out a courthouse.

I hadn’t expected to enter Los Angeles single and leave as a fully wedded husband.

I certainly didn’t expect that the morning after our rendezvous for her to reveal that she had a seventeen year old daughter in high school. News that inexplicably changed my life forever.