I am a God

My knees are on her chest. She can barely breathe. Her struggles, their futility, are laughable. Her body is riddled with holes. Not stabs, holes. Deep, gaping wounds. My weapon of choice- A three-edged blade. A trench-pike my great grandfather fought with in the first World War. It was subsequently passed down to yours truly. Such weaponry was banned at the Geneva Convention in 1949. But who cares about the laws? Not I. I am a God. My illegal steel is attached to a the brass knuckles I clutch tightly in my fist. I am precise, aiming for the non-lethal.. For now. Just missing her jugular; shattering her cheekbone; her left lung, not the heart. Every blow leaving a red geyser in its wake. I know I am in control. I know I am better. I am a God. I stop when I hear blood gurgling in the back of her throat. It's exhilarating. I give her a good smack and stand up, backing away to take in the full view. The half alive carcass of a once beautiful woman twitches below me. Standing (not now of course) nearly 2 inches taller than me, she is still below me. I am a God. The bitch struggles to her feet. It is pathetic. She braces against the wall, averting her eyes, looking for something. A weapon? An exit? Tears and blood mingle on her horrifically disfigured face. My prey. It stumbles away as I start to ease forward. NO! That bitch! The audacity to drip blood on my floor, as if she is worthy to soil the carpet! The carpet of a God! I bury the trench pike deep in her thigh. I hear the delicious, crisp snap as I fracture her femur. I relish the scream of extraordinary agony as she crumples into a heap on the ground. I feel it resonate through my basement. The euphoria her cries give me. The orgasmic pleasure. She continues on, as though her pleas for mercy, for her very life, could be heard by anything outside these walls save for the night air. Oh, how fun this is. Fun only I can understand, because I am a God! I grab duct tape off of a shelf with the intent to shut her up, but wind up covering every square inch of her head but the eyes. She can't breathe and I can't contain the laughter. I punch her a breathing hole. In each cheek. It humors me to watch tears roll over the folds of tape on her face. The muffled screams, the weak thrashing. She's lost so much blood. And it's all on my fucking floor! I hyperventilate. Senses heightened. Every minute detail of her blood soaked face in perfect clarity. I can smell the coppery scent of that very blood in the air. I can feel her fear. I watch the subtle rise and fall of her supple, but brutally mutilated, breasts. Too subtle. She's fleeting. Now it simply wouldn't do for her to just slip away on me now, would it? I kneel down next to her, pick up her head, and start to slowly unwrap all of the tape off of her head. I tell her, quietly, that she was amazing. I kiss her, ever so softly, on her lips. Red. Bloody. As she twists and squirms, attempting to break away from the unwelcome gesture, I position my blade at the base of her chin. I enjoy the kiss a moment longer. In one swift motion, her life is extinguished, and my most prized possession, all 8 inches of it, is buried in the center of her head. I can see the red, glistening tip of the pike as it protrudes from the top of her skull. She is no more. But this means nothing to me. I am a God. I relish the texture of her warm, blood slicked chest under my fingers. I squeeze her life-less breasts, run my fingers up and down her thighs. Days. Days to do whatever I please, however I please, with my new girl. She's all mine. All submission. No protest, no screams, no insecurity. This voluptuous body that seems to scream "Take me!"
How ironic that not five minutes prior it screamed "Let me go!"
And I'll enjoy every second of it until the wonderful scent of her putrefaction draws worms and maggots. Until her skin falls away from flesh, and flesh from bone. Until I'm ready for someone new. Passion fills me as I gaze at my knew friend. My new Playmate. I am God.
I unclasp my belt.