Warning. Explicit content. 18+ NSFW.
I stand by my work completely. I do not apologise. I do not censor myself. However, I am not my writing. Some of my work is a autobiographical and some of it is pure fiction. This is fiction. I’ll also give a warning when fitting. This prose fiction story is explicit and possibly harmful to trauma and abuse victims. I do not recommend that you read forward if you are sensitive to explicit content. I get a ton of negative feedback and comments about how some of my work is disgusting and offensive. I know it is. I’ll respond to those comments with a form letter like this to avoid carpal tunnel if I respond at all. I’m aware that my lack of a pseudonym and identifiable content can be harmful to my reputation. Also, this is wholly MY work. Leah is not responsible for any content that I write.
Show Me Your Teeth by Stephen J. Dawson Jr.
No sermon from a clergyman could ever make me shy away from the ecstasy I find by watching a woman squirm like a worm beneath the hot sun, weak and helpless prey robin’s hungry nest. She’s entertainment at best, and I only chase a woman when she runs away screaming. I dream of those days in such a deep sleep. That I chose to create the scene in my waking hour. To watch them cower, or unwittingly shower as I watch both give me a thrill. Whether I kill or merely admire makes little difference. I enjoy stalking as much as violent resistance. I subsist on the weak and oblivious. I seek so frivolously, the unsuspecting, the innocent, the women who deserve no harm. But a victim in my arms serves me well. I often don’t keep them for long but release them to live half a life and dwell on the time the felt helpless, detached from what made them feel whole. That was my goal, and success became sewn into my bone and sinew. I withdrew from all other pursuits and obsessed for this prize that I’d wear like cufflinks with all of my suits. I kept a reminder for us both, to me, a trophy but to her, the fear that I’d be somewhere behind her. Always ready to hunt again. My hands were still, and with steady aim, I released my arrow into the cunt. Writhing in pain, her spirit would harrow and be crushed by my display of such joy at me using her as my toy like a little boy playing dolls and tearing off their heads, that was the me I’d make her remember the kind of man that she would dread for the rest of her time. She felt she was mine and was disgusted by the sublime feelings I’d show when I expressed my lust. The only thing she could trust was that she would never be able to take back her peace until I was through and planned for her wake.
-Stephen J. Dawson Jr.