Jennifer Johnson

Post image for Jennifer Johnson

by Ian on October 28, 2010

I don’t know much about Jennifer, just that she is from Las Vegas and she has some fucking savage imagery…


God I hate this woman.  Her voice pierces through my ears like a shrieking cat, slowly dying on the side of a road – and even the dying cat would be more pleasant than listening to those sounds pouring out of her mouth.  It’s practically unbearable.  It is taking every ounce of strength to not reach over this table and stab her in the face with my spoon… Yes – a spoon.  If I could – I would grab my glass and shove it in her mouth- shattering it as I pushed it deeper into her throat. Broken shards of glass would be ripping her throat to pieces, blood gushing everywhere as she gurgles with her last breaths.  And before she dies, I would drag her to the kitchen sink and shove her right hand in the garbage disposal – she would wriggle and writhe, and try and get away, but I would hold her there, and slowly reach over and turn it on – and then I would watch her scream.  The pleasure I would have from this is insurmountable.  Perhaps I would let her go and watch her crawl on the ground in agony, begging me… Begging.  But I would just stand there and watch her – making sure she could see the joy in my eyes. Making sure she knew how much she deserved this – I mean, I wouldn’t be doing it if she didn’t absolutely deserve it, right?…  God I hate this woman.


I tried to get away, but it seemed impossible.  I was stuck in this situation, this horrifying situation.  What could I do?  They had me, and I am weak.  Finally, they untie me, knowing after days of starvation and torture I would not have the strength to do anything – to go anywhere.  I just lie there, wondering how I got here.  I can’t even remember any more.  My wrists are raw and bleeding from the coarse rope that was tied so tightly around them, and finally being untied I can feel just how swollen and sore they are.  One grabs me by the arm and forces me to stand.  They are taking me somewhere.  Will this be it? Are they finally finished with me, as I am practically no more than a corpse anyway.  I no longer scream, so their sadistic pleasures I am sure are no more.  They take me outside, and the cold air is refreshing, knowing I can still feel the icy breeze gives me hope that maybe I can help myself with one last brazen attempt.  With their guards down, I struggle and manage to break free – pushing one down as I turn and sprint for freedom.  I run as fast as I can, and I can feel the winter air stinging against my cheeks with each stride I take.  My bare feet are torn up by the rocky ground beneath me, but I don’t care.  I’m almost free.  But I am not fast enough.  I am soon tackled to the ground, rolling about with my captor, but as fate would have it I end up on top. I frantically search the ground for any kind of weapon and reach for a jagged rock- within my grasp it seemed it was meant for me.  I bring my hands high into the air over my head, tightly gripping my only means for an end- and with all my strength I bring the rock smashing down onto his skull.  Over and over and over I strike him, each blow crushing his brains in further and further as blood splatters over me.  He stops moving, but I am not done.  I keep hitting him until his face is no longer recognizable, and is nothing more than a bloody, pulpy mass at the end of his neck.  My hands are covered in his blood, and my body from head to toe is decorated in tiny droplets of satisfaction.  I finally stand over my masterpiece – feeling a slight sense of closure. I’m breathing so heavy, and I can see my breath in the freezing air – almost as if it’s escaping too.  Shaking, I drop the rock – although I almost thought for a second about keeping it – a reminder. A memoir. Now I just have to find the other man.  And I will find him.


Salty tears rolled down her cheeks, through the dirt and blood, stinging as they pass each abrasion and cut.  Her eyes are filled with sheer terror, and for me its magnificence is almost so overwhelming – I have to turn away to catch my breath as it tries to escape my lips.  Her sobbing cries are beautifully in sync with my heartbeat – natural music to my ears, lifting my spirits and bringing a smile to my once tortured soul.  She would soon realize this is as good for her as it is for me – a learning experience on both our ends – an almost unattainable knowledge, but here I stand ready to offer, and there she lies – ready to give.  I circle her, inhaling the scent of her fear as it radiates off her battered body – its sweet and pungent odor fills my nostrils with a sense of fulfillment and contentment.  My once white, latex gloves hug my fingertips and are now brilliantly red, shiny and wet.  I place my hand under her chin, and lift her bruised and swollen, exquisite face towards mine so she can see my eyes staring into hers – and I ask her again.  Her voice trembles and her lips are quivering, but this time she gets it right.  “It feels good.”  She murmurs, blood trickling from her lips down to the floor beneath her.  “I deserve this.”  I remove my hand from her chin and her head falls, hanging low, her hair flowing in front of her face, and I just hear her say, “It feels good… I deserve this… It feels good…”  Ah yes, my dear.  It feels good doesn’t it? I release her arms from the chains above her head and she slumps to the ground a broken woman.  A beautifully broken woman.  I pick her crumpled body up from off of the floor and lead her back upstairs – back to the world of light and love.  I tuck her into bed – something she has all too long ago forgotten.  Tomorrow, when she wakes and sees the world she thought had forgotten her – a world she had forgotten herself – she will finally be whole.  For you only know how to become something once you know what it is to be broken.  You see – this was as good for her, as it was for me.

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