Filler

He was still there; laying in the bathtub with his dark eyeliner smeared from the hot water.  His eyes were vacant, sexy in this way.  Limp and practically lifeless, I wanted to take him again.  It played out in my head -- I would thrust him against the side of the tub, break his flesh with my teeth then proceed to rape him again.  But, no, I am selfish and deny him of the pleasure. 1

I looked again, and noticed his nose had obtained a cherry shade that nearly matched his lips.  I figured it was from the heat of the water.  It was hot, and I blushed at thinking of the sex that could be seen in such warm water.  The ginger ecstasy that comes from a pure orgasm, the sound of water sloshing to and fro at the rhythm of our rocking bodies.2

He was such a pitiful creature, trapped in that pool of clouded water.  Bits of semen float, signs that I had accomplished something.  It was forced from him time and again, the white liquid of orgasmic quality brought on only by excitement.  Perhaps I should prop him up and carry out my romantic fantasies?  It ran through my mind many times, but something darker polluted the idea.  It tore through me, giving me visions of his ripped flesh generating rich-red puddles of liquid; his twisted face caught between terror and rapture; the deep-throated sound that rolls through my body when taking out such an act.3

Standing over his trapped form, I witnessed him blink.  He was alive -- oh, brilliant.  I examined him more closely than I had done before his rape.  I had picked a lovely victim, lucky me.  He was a beautiful thing.  Pearl white flesh stretched across a thin frame; seamless skin, previously unmarred by others, destined for my torrid lips; flourished hands that looked splendid when tied with shreds from his shirt; formless shapes for a stomach; a penis that could never be seen on such a skinny boy.4

It had been a while since I took a boy -- girls were my favorite.  They were loud and fiery, and I loved it best when they scratched me across my arms and back.  Females are more agile, and I found more excitement when I witnessed them squirm as they came.  I chose them more carefully, too.  But every now and them, I prefer a light-haired girl.  The strawberry blonds were sugary and always had the most flawless skin.  The blondes -- oh, they are best if they are a true blonde.  Given the opportunity, I would eagerly follow her squirming shape down to the goldest of gold wrapped around a pink, candy center.5

But he was different.  Dark, thin and quiet.  Nice to look at, albeit; but I had hoped for much more.  Maybe he had never been led astray by a complete stranger, then forced into sex.  Maybe.  I could not care less.  He was something in between, to keep me satiated.6

Just another filler.7