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Here He Has No Sanity [Mature Content]


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[color=black][size=1] I wrote this last night. If it offends you, it does to me, too. Don't post here just saying that what I've written is so wrong and that I should be condemned, or whatever, eh. This stuff happens, and, as a matter of fact, it interests me to try and understand someone's motive in something like this. It's really rough, and I have lots to move around and change and such.[/size]


[size=1]"Tell me that you love me," I say. I look at her, and she looks at me. "Tell me."

A tear rolls down her baby-puff cheeks. It shimmers and rolls down. And I want to slap her. I want to see her bleed.

Do you think me mad? Then you're just like all those rest; just like those that don't understand. I may be mad; I may be insane; I may be crazy; but, after a time, would you care to put me in your skin? Would you care to actually wear my mind, actually hear what I hear; feel what I fell. Would you?

I didn't think so, but at least I can try to put you in my skin. If there's one thing I've learned, everything has a motive. Don't you agree? It's quite a beautiful thing, it really is.

And I do want to slap her. I do want to see her bleed. When that tear rolls down that late evening in our packed trailer, I do want to slap her. I want to see her bleed. To think, after all, that all I want to hear is three simple, so very simple, words. I love you. I love you. How often has someone said that to you, and it actually meant something to you? Next to never, yes, I hear you thinking that. It's the same to me; it means nothing. Except in a few moments. So why should it be so hard to say those simple words? Why?

It makes me so angry. It makes me so mad. I just want her to say those simple words. I know they don't mean anything to her, and I don't know why this time she can't just say it. She has every other time. But when I look at her face, I can tell there's something different. That tear that ran down? It has, how shall I say, it has a dead feeling to it. Yes. A dead feeling. Like there's nothing left to feel but a vile and vehement hate of me.

I take her small, so pretty hand. I rub it. "It's all right. It's all right, now, please. Please," I move closer to her, bend down on my knees, and whisper in her ear, "Please. Tell me. Tell me that you love me."

More tears fall down her cheeks. And in my mind, I can feel something breaking. But, I hold it in. I've done it before. I may be mad, but I still have something in my mind speaking, whispering. So I hold on, I bend over again, I whisper in her ear.

"Tell me that you love me. Now. Daddie's running out of patience. Tell me."

The tears now start going like a rain storm of mud. My eye begins to twitch; it does this when I'm holding everything in like I am then. I feel like a blooded animal; I just want to beat her to a pulp. How selfish some people are, aren't they? My own daughter, she couldn't even tell me three simple words that she'd been saying all of her life to me Three words that don't even mean anything, really, when she says them.

My hand goes into a tight fist. My eye now is almost twitching at a constant rate. But still, I'm holding it in. But for how long? I ask her, again, as quiet and as conserved as I can.

"Tell daddy you love him. Then we can get this over with. Don't you want that?"

Her whole body trembles, and, ever so slowly, her mouth opens into a small slit. It comes out like a rancid sore, like a beating and malleted bloody pulp.

"I love you."

I immediately take my hand from her shoulder, and as I do, I kiss her neck very slightly with the nape of my tongue. The skin is soft, delicious. And after leaving her neck, I let out a genuine smile.

"I love you too."

Her face now looks at me with what seems to me to be obstinance. But, seeing it back in my mind, it's not that; it's fear. Fear. And it's the same face she's given me every time we've gotten this far. And every time, at this moment, I pause. And I do this time.

I pause, I collect my thoughts. I'm thinking how terrible I am, how completely wrong this is. But I can't help it, I can't help it. The voices are too strong; and, my desire. My desire's too strong.

Perhaps this pause is my last try at stopping where I've gone. Besides it, it's all in vain. Have you ever felt desire? Have you ever felt a need to have something, a deep and delving want? That's what I felt like, and I feel right now as I remember this. It's overpowering. My entire body just shakes with it. And the voices too shake with it, and their tone is of upmost importance and telling. They're screaming. They're wailing. It's like a thousand hailstones all hitting my head at once. I constant pat and pat of rape, incest, desire, want. My entire body shakes with it.

I lick my teeth with the tip of my tongue. A visceral, sexual tango inside my mouth. The taste is sweet. Like nothing that I've ever tasted before, yet have so many times.

I grab her, rap her around me like a human coat. I can feel her heart, its beats are quick and fast. Like the hard and cunning run of a siren allaying its last calls. Like the quick and rapping knock of someone's bony knuckles on a hollow door.

I breathe in a deep, purely sexually charged vent. The voices are even louder than before, and my desire, my desire is even stronger too; I shake with it. I place my hand down her denim jeans and feel the soft cushion of her behind.

By this time, she is, of course, struggling. She's pulling her arms to and fro, kicking her legs like mad. But, of course, her muscles are puny. And I, being a full grown man, am easily able to contain her stemmed movement and actions. I let her do this for awhile, I let her fight me.

I find joy in it, as I squeeze her buttocks and watch her squirm like a bug. It feels good. It's like watching fire burn for a pyromaniac. It's beautiful and rhythmic. Incestuous.

As she dwindles in her resistance, my arousal begins to grow more and more. And, eventually, everything thereafter becomes just a blur.

She begins to scream. It goes about and around the dense trailer like the pitch of an owl's stark "who." I take my hand from her buttocks, gently and slow, and begin to take off her shirt. I do it slowly; in a smooth and uncertain fashion. [/size][/color]
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[SIZE=1]That's deep, man... The way you wrote it... it's awesome... anyone could write about incest, but just the way you did it, it's truely great.

Good Job :) [/SIZE]
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[color=darkred][size=1]I think, on the whole, this piece captures the mind of the man very well. In some parts, it gets repeditive; [i]And I do want to slap her. I do want to see her bleed. When that tear rolls down that late evening in our packed trailer, I do want to slap her. I want to see her bleed.[/i] But, in an odd way, it adds to the thought process.

The opening line is brilliant. It lulls you into false impressions that the guy is the one who's hard done by. Then youget this awakening, and you're like "Whoa..."

I like that you finished where you did. Any further, and you'd 'squick' the reader. As it is, it stops where it seems to have the greatest impact. Your mind continues down the path, then shies backwards.[/color][/size]
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[size=1]Wow, hm.

I'm surprised by the subject matter. From what I have read of yours in the past, I guess they were all sort of building up to something shocking and *very* adult like this. I'm afraid that you might just be writing this for the sake of shock value, rather than writing this with for the sole purpose of telling a story.

Telling it from his perspective is a very useful tool, especially since they normally tell these kinds of stoties from the vistim's perspective. This is done to have the reader feel sympathetic towards the person who is telling the story, and it doesn't quite work here. As you mentioned, you want the reader to hate this person.

You might want to consider building up the character of the victim, to make her more identify with her more easily. Right now she just seems very vague and generic, which might be your point.

Well done, Mitch.

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This is good work. Probably one of the better pieces I've read from you Mitch. :)

The topic is a little disturbing tho. I'm not sure. You may have bitten off more than you can chew. And that may have some impact on the integrity of the story. But its a good try. And experimentation is always to be encouraged. :)

The start is good. The ending doesn't quite have the requisite sting to it. You might try dropping the last couple of lines and just end with 'blur'. The use of images was, on the whole, good. You haven't over-indulged with the decriptions as much. You are still a tad too self-conscious but its an improvement.


Good try.
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[color=black][size=1][font=rockwell] That's because I haven't finished yet. I agree, the whole blur thing isn't working for me either, though.

And what in the hell is this whole 'good try,' thing, exactly? Whatever..as long as I think it's well written, that is all that matters really. Until I go towards publishing something, that is.[/color][/size][/font]
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