D-Topia ~ Three

…continued…

**Chapter Five – Anger Management Issues**

As I gained in proximity I began to hear the stranger’s enthusiastic moans and heavy shuddering breaths – it sounded like he was getting pretty close to erupting and letting loose his filthy spunk in my pristine oasis.

I could feel the blood rushing to my head, and hear my own heartbeat thumping inside my ear canals. I licked lips that were suddenly drier than a desert. I was pretty sure my rage had turned my face the color of a cooked lobster and that steam must be billowing out of my ears.

Also, I noted with even more rage, I was getting wet.

The sight and sounds of that filthy motherfucker pleasuring himself were making my cunt throb with an awareness I didn’t want to feel.

This cannot be allowed.

The stranger was slack jawed with his impending release; head tilted up towards the sky and pointed vaguely in my direction, with his eyes squinted closed – probably envisioning his pretty self being mounted by some burly ‘bear’. I had decided he was an uber gay, effeminate bottom, out of spite…and possibly to try and cool my wayward libido (no success there).

I flexed my fingers around the handle of my knife then switched my grip to the point, in preparation for my throw, while reaching around back with my other hand for another knife – just in case. But I never miss. I can’t afford to.

His groans had started to sound pained. I was surprised he hadn’t cum yet. I envisioned the hilt of my knife buried in his chest, while his moans turned into screams and his cock deflated from pain and blood loss – without releasing its load and sullying my water.

Blood: OK. Semen: NOT A FUCKING CHANCE!

I was within range now and tensed for my throw, taking a few calming breaths to ensure my aim and beginning to bring my hand back in preparation for my release, when a hoarse voice cut through my forced calm.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t stop fucking around and get over here now, I’m not gonna be able to hold off long enough to give you what you need first,” he said in a flirty, husky – decidedly un-accented – voice that ended on a groan.

So…not foreign…and not gay, I noted; I can admit when I’m wrong…

I was sure he hadn’t known I was there. What the fuck!?! I was so stunned as he gazed at me with the most impossibly spearmint colored eyes, and continued to pump his cock up and down with his tight fist, that I almost lost my grip on my throwing knife and dropped it in the dirt. Almost.

Recovering quickly I regained my throwing grip, and my anger, and took aim. A million different retorts to his arrogant, assuming words coming to mind as I let fly my sleek, matte black weapon towards his creamy, soft, vulnerable, egotistical neck.

Die, fucking prick!

The stranger’s hand – the one not currently engaged in activities of self-gratification – came up so fast I barely registered it as movement across my retinas, and plucked my knife straight out of the air, only inches from its intended target.

Well that’s never happened before, I thought dumbly, just before thinking: oh shit.

No more spearmint eyes and flirty smirking grin now; the stranger’s eyes cracked emerald fire and his lips were set in a firm, angry line as he strode purposefully out of the water, towards me, with murderous intent. At least his dick’s deflating now, and he hadn’t sullied my watering hole, I noted with a morbid, internal giggle before returning to my previous thoughts – so not the time to get side-tracked.

Oh shit. Fight or flight? Fight or flight? I stood rooted to my spot with indecision as the stranger closed the gap dangerously fast.
Flight!

**Chapter Six – Damaged (or Fucked in the Head)**

I turned tail and ran like a terror-filled jack rabbit. My momma didn’t raise no dummies. I had clearly underestimated the man, but to be fair to myself, I hadn’t met an obstacle – human or otherwise – that I hadn’t been able to overcome with relative ease since heading off on my own over six years ago.

Admittedly, I hadn’t run across all that many people – on purpose – but the ones I had hadn’t posed much of a threat to a person of my abilities. I’d had no reason to think this time would be any different.

This situation is out of control, I thought.

How in the fuck did I go from planning cold blooded – well, make that hot blooded (yes, I know my sense of humor is fucked in the head) – murder on an unsuspecting wanker to running for my life from one of my own knives? (By now you must realize that I talk to myself, inside my own head, an awful lot – this is what happens when you’re starved for human companionship – just a friendly warning, in case you’re contemplating my lifestyle).

And also, where the hell did my morals go? I can’t believe I lost my head so badly that I almost murdered someone. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!?
I mean, I know times are a little rough right now and it’s everyone for themselves, but I was never the kind of person who could just sneak up on some unsuspecting person and gut them, for no reason, in cold blood. I mean – yes – I’m a little fucked in the head, but I’m not a sociopath who derives pleasure from killing people. I’m a survivor.

I hoped that wasn’t about to change…

Fucking idiot! I should have just left the stranger to do his business in my pond and fuck off down the road. I clearly hadn’t been thinking straight; chalk it up to step-daddy issues.

“Fuck!” I yelped reflexively, as my foot got caught in a gnarled tree root and I nearly pitched face-first into a pile of deer scat. Pay attention shit-for-brains, I thought angrily. Focus or die, I chastised myself grimly, while listening for my pursuer who seemed much too close – and gaining.

That little day trip had cost me.

At least I didn’t impale myself on the pointy knife I’m running with. If I’d had the breath for it I might have tittered madly at my own bad, black joke. Good thing for me I didn’t – ummm? My brain cells must be really oxygen deprived if I thought not being able to breathe was a good thing. Idiot.

I was startled out of my musings by a voice in my ear.

“You can run, little bunny,” taunted the hungry wolf – from way too close for comfort, and with a voice that sounded irritatingly overflowing with the breath I lacked, “but you’ll never make it to whatever little rabbit hole you’ve been hiding in. I’m hungry. For blood,” he snapped in my ear, just as I felt his paw – er hand – wrap around my thigh, just above my knee, and pull, effectively tripping me.

This time I did do a face plant, and wound up with a mouthful of dirt, lungs without any air, abraded palms, and a sweaty 200 pound, very naked paper weight pinning me solidly in place. The knife – of course – had gone flying.
I am so viciously fucked, I thought as I struggled to put air in my compressed and tortured lungs.

“Get,” gasp, “off,” splutter, gasp. It was worth a shot – it’s not like I was expecting it to work or anything. Distractedly I noticed the sound of my other knife slicing into the dirt behind me as he embedded it in the ground, out of reach, at my side. It seems he wanted the use of both of his hands. I was afraid to examine the possible reasons why.

“Is that an invitation?” he whispered into my right ear as he ground his hips in a small circle so he could settle his quickly re-inflating member more comfortably – for him – in the crack of my ass. His thumbs also started running soft circles over the backs of my wrists, where he held them imprisoned against the ground.

***TBC***

©2015 Kat Crimson