Psycho Thoughts

Am I wrong for thinking about wanting to kill with my bare hands? Or enjoying the sensation of squeezing the life from what disgust me the most?

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now, but I never wanted to say anything mostly because it involves a good friend. Several years ago this person gave my son a puppy, and I agreed to let him keep it, even though inside one of my many voices loath dogs. Over time I was able to build a privacy fence and put him in the backyard so he could run freely, and stay out from under my feet.

My son thought our dog was lonely being outside all day, so about a year later, we got another dog. This time a female. Within a year, I had puppies to deal with. My good friend/neighbor fell in love with one of the puppies and took a beautiful brown female to her house next door.

A couple years passed, and my dogs do what most outside dogs do... They try to escape. I began a daily ritual of inspecting the fence for new holes that my dog, or my good friends dog would make in our connecting fence. Still, no matter how hard I tried they somehow managed to occasionally escape.

It became really bad when her dog came in heat, and she would leave her dog in the backyard all day. The dogs destroyed the fence trying to get to each other. It didn’t bother them at all that he was her father. That’s just what dogs do.

Sixty one days later, her dog was having the incest puppies outside on the ground. I came over to help my neighbor out, since neither her or her dog knew what to do. I had to pick up the puppies, still enclosed in the birth sack, break it open, clear the fluids from their noses, and then stimulate them until they began to breath on their own.

I helped out my neighbor because she’s my friend, but in the back of my mind a part of me wanted to do what my father did to unwanted puppies.... Smash them all in the head. Out of six puppies, four lived... the two were stillborn.

The puppies are now almost 6 weeks old, and all though they are cute and healthy, I can’t get past the fact that the mom and the puppies have the same father. It makes me want to vomit every time I see them. I don’t know how to get past this other than just not seeing them and hope my friend quickly gets rid of them.

I’ve read that most women serial killers, kill by using poisons. I’ll admit that I have used this method to dispose of a few unwanted things in my life, but so far no people. (One of my voices giggled when I wrote that and whispered... "I’m not going to tell you what those things are because I’m not fucking going to jail"). For me, I think If I were to kill someone, it would probably be a pedophile or someone who commits incest, and then I wouldn‘t poison them. Instead, I would inflict painful injuries to their body until they slowly bled to death or died from trauma to the head and genitals.

I struggle with thoughts like this, sometimes for days at a time. Different people that I have talked to over the years, tell me I need to move on with my life and stop thinking so much about the things that occurred in my past. That’s not easy, when good friends have friends that are registered pedophiles, they live on your block, shop in the same stores, you hear on TV or online about the horrible crimes they committed against children or their own children, you see them with other children, and I know in the back of mind what is going on. It breaks my heart, and sends me flying back in time.

The same thing happens every time I see my friends puppies. It’s like a sharp slap to my face, telling me no matter what I do, I can’t stop it from happening. That’s what hurts the most, knowing I can’t do a damn thing. It gives me that helpless feeling, and that in turn makes me angry.

I beginning to think that maybe poisoning something’s in life might not be a bad idea, if it were to give me back some of that helpless feeling that was taking away from me. The only thing that keeps me from doing anything psycho, is one of those voices in the back of my head, that is floating down a river on a inner tube, doesn’t want to come out the water, and that is the one who that carries out all my insanely psycho thoughts.

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I’m thinking about going on a violent killing spree,
Taking out those who have caused me only misery.

But maybe I’ll just shoot them in the knee,
Leaving an open weeping wound for all to see.

Let them go on struggling to forget every day,
Only to have the haunting memory never fade away.

Just Breathe

The other night I sat alone at one of the parks and watched the local pd as I debated on laying open my flesh. As I held the blade tightly between my fingers, I flashed back to what it was like the last time a had to have stitches in my arm. I have cut since then, but only small rips at my skin that needed little or no attention. These wounds are minor compared to the normal 7 stitches that it takes to close one of my usual ‘accidents’.

I knew the officers that were on duty, and of course they all know me, so I really didn’t want to get caught doing something that is believed to only occur in teenagers, not to women over 40. After all these years of cutting, I still sometimes can not stop myself from inflicting pain to my body, but if I put myself in the right position, I will write instead. That was what I decided to do this time, write about what it was like the last time I cut myself deep.

This story mixes a little reality, with a bit of fiction.

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I’m standing outside a heavy steel metal door, with only a small thick glass window that looks into a tiny five foot by twelve foot room. I focus in on a dimly lit image standing towards the back of the room near a metal toilet with a sink attached on the back. I press my face closer and open my eyes wide trying to make the image more defined. I can tell that it is a person, and I think I recognize them, but I can’t seem to remember.

She is tall and a rather large woman with dirty blonde hair, and she is wearing a blue tee-shirt. She has her back to me, but I can make out that she is doing something with her arm.

I wipe a tear from my eye, blinking several times until I’m able to focus more clearly.

The woman is standing near the toilet with her arm leaning over a metal sink. She holds something shiny in her right hand. Something sharp. I wonder what she is doing? As she turns partly sideways I can see her left arm covered in fresh red blood. It is dropping steadily into the sink, splashing the sides until the blood flows down like spilled paint. Blood covers the razor sharp cutting edge of the blade that she holds tightly in her shaking right hand.

As the blood slows, she makes another slice deeper into the wound, filling it with fresh blood. It begins to drain down her arm, making a big mess, splattering onto the floor. She uses toilet paper from the back of the sink to wipe up the large droplets of blood from the floor. She uses more to slow the heavy flow of blood dripping down to her elbow.

I stand there, mesmerized by her actions, when without warning an almost familiar force grabs me around my throat and like a tornado, it sucks my dead mind through the tiny window. I now stand side by side the woman with the blood soaked arm, watching her lean over the sink to avoid making a mess for others to clean. In her eyes, I see the shame and disgust at what she has done.

I reach out to grab her arm, to let her know she doesn’t have to continue cutting. The wound is deep enough. As our eyes meet, I see the deep pain, I understand, but now we have to get help. Our hands touch and slowly mix together, until we become one.

I am now her. I am in control. I look down at the bloody blade that she held so tightly in her right hand, and my eyes open wide as I look at the open oozing new wound. My eyes stare widely at the steadily dripping blood, and I realize it is my arm that is bleeding heavily into the cold steel metal sink.

“Oh shit!” my voice trembles and my right hand shakes with the bloody blade. My whole body flushes with a surge of adrenaline and I begin to awaken. “Fuck! Who cut my damn arm? Why? Why do you do this?”

A voice from far away whispers, ‘She did it. She’s always the one who cuts.’ I hear the voice of the others arguing, fighting. They are the voices that feel like they don’t belong to me.

I cautiously sit the sharp blade on the back of the sink as a rush of sadness consumes my brain, squeezing it until tears swell from my eyes. It blurs my vision until I squeeze my eyes tightly and let the tears cascade down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away, and then use the remaining toilet paper to wipe up the blood that has once again dripped onto the floor.

I think maybe I can hide the wound, but it won’t stop bleeding. I need more tissue. The weeping voice inside me is hurt. The others fight about who’s fault it really is, and why one of them doesn’t step forward before she cuts.

With a sudden tear-jerking jolting shock, I realize where I am, and that I’ve got to stop the bleeding. I turn on the water and wash the blood from the open wound, letting the water stain a light rose color. The bleeding only becomes worse as the cool water stings the open wound. I carefully inspect the laceration that shows the fatty tissue underneath. There is no pain, just a slight stinging sensation, but the blood continues to pour from the wound.

I realize I will have to go to the emergency room, but I hate going to the ER. It’s always embarrassing trying to explain that I ‘accidentally’ cut myself, but this time others will be with me. I can not use that excuse. Along with all the stares, there is always at least one person who will make me feel even less of a human than I already do. They know what happened, but they don’t want to do all the paperwork that comes with committing someone for cutting themselves, so they won't say anything.

Maybe I should just cut a little deeper, and then lay down and go to sleep. A part of me struggles with what to do.

“Fuck!” I shout loud enough to vibrate off the walls. Nobody has this many accidents on their arm. Nobody. My arm is a battlefield, and each scar tells a separate story, many of which I would rather forget. Worse my mind questions, how do I explain this to those closest around me? How am I once again going to hide the wound?

Blood drains down my arm to the floor. A voice inside me is urging with me to get someone’s attention. ‘You need help’ a tiny voice whispers from somewhere far away. I shake my head in shame, and ponder how does one ask for help when they are locked up alone behind a solid steel door? Sadness gathers deep in my chest and I try to swallow.

I hear heavy footsteps coming. A voice steps forward, she’s the one who always has to have everything neat and tidy. She just wants more tissue so there won’t be a mess. A young man looks though the small thick glass window and sees what she has done.

I sit down on the small cot and take a deep breath. I know within only a few moments others will come. Later I will feel the familiar calmness that overtakes my entire body after I cut. It is that calmness that we seek. Afterwards we will sleep long and hard. Our mind will rest peacefully. But even as I do sleep soundly, one of us knows it hasn’t been a good day.

They know the hard part will come later, when I have to hide the latest cut from those I don’t want to know. I question myself if it was worth the few hours of feeling euphoric while I sat next to the officer baby sitting me as the they put seven stitches into my left arm to close the deep laceration. Maybe the next day will be a better day. This I know, she will not have to cut again for a few months.

When We Forget the Past, We Are Dommed to Repeat It

Gritting my teeth.... If I didn’t I would probably bite someone’s head off.

I’ve been in this ‘pissed off at the world’ kind of mood for several days now, and I feel an overwhelming need to get away from everybody and everything. Even if it’s just a few yards, I need some sort of distance. I’ve been extremely edgy, yelling about the things that are not in their place, about how unclean everything is around me, just yelling about everyday stressful things that take place.

When I get like this, I have to write. I do most of my writing at home on my computer, or in my bedroom in one of the various notebooks where I keep most of my more serious thoughts. But every now and then, I escape to one of the local parks. Mostly because I enjoy the feeling of being around the trees, smelling the fresh air, and being able to feel alone with my thoughts for a little while.

There is one park that I mostly tend to lurk around, which is fine during the daytime, but at night this causes a problem with local law enforcement. So, again I started studying/stalking them a little recently to discover a pattern in their activities. This then allows me to spend my time relaxing in my own way at the park during the times I feel the need. It has worked several times without a problem, but every now and then I lose myself into some deep thoughts when writing and get caught. Luckily Officer R was in a good mood this time and let me off with a polite warning. Thanks.

Being bi-polar is very rough. It can lead you down roads you normally would be to frightened to travel, and you find yourself doing things that later leave you wondering what the fuck you were thinking. Such as thinking about cutting myself deep enough to need stitches. But I don’t want anyone to find out, so instead I’ve been inflicting small injuries where others can’t see, or won’t really question what happened. It was just something to shock my mind out of feeling unpredictable, and to slow the racing thoughts. Sometimes that is not enough. Here is where the police come into the picture.

Where I sit at the park, I can see where they are in the distance. I‘ve even done this at other parks in different towns. When I get to the level where I want to do extreme cutting, I go park where they are within a short distance. ( Q-Trip is sometimes a good place to park:) ) Then instead of cutting, I write. From past experiences I know if law enforcement were to view my ‘accident’ they might try to lock me up somewhere. Locking me up actually makes things worse, because the moment I’m left alone, I will cut myself deep. It’s like a part of me says it’s okay now to cut, because if you cut too deep someone will be there to help you. Later is when it messes with my mind.

I’m still finishing up the rest of my thoughts that I wrote the other night, so I’ll post it a little later.

Frolicking Around in the Land of Oz

----Warning Adult Material----

The people in this town think I’m nuts,
they just don't know how right they are.

People around me, give me my inspiration. Thanks for the story. No harmful intent is meant to anyone, this is just for simple pleasure. This story draws characters from real life, however the story itself is 100% fictional. This is the world of fantasy and fiction where the hidden corners of the psyche may be explored.

Years ago I lost the ability to catch the type of fish I was after, so I devised a plan that involved using a different type of worm. That was where my neighbor became involved... she became my bait. She is young, pretty, thin, and has child-like qualities that my type of prey tend to desire. All I had to do was stick the hook down her throat and she would unknowingly help me vanquish my enemies. I no longer had to chase my prey, she would bring them to the surface for me and reveal their hiding locations. Then I could rob them of their wealth, or force them to perform sexual acts of humiliation.

Frolicking Around in the Land of Oz

Jay was in for what he thought was going to be a lousy weekend. Normally he spent his weekends patrolling the streets, preventing crime by spending most of his shift driving up and down well known streets. But for this weekend, he had agreed to change shifts with another officer who needed Wednesday and Thursday nights off to attend a meeting out of town.

He sat home alone, thinking about the different women he attracted just because of his uniform. Even though some of the encounters were frightening, it didn’t stop him from enjoying the job he loved. Occasionally he would spend his night shift posted at the local Q-Trip store watching the young girls come and go, flirting only with the ones who possessed young flirty girl-like qualities.

Officer Jay sat in the darkened room, smiling, thinking about a girl he had flirted with many times, when he was suddenly startled by a noise coming from his bedroom. Jay quickly rose, heart beating rapidly in his chest, took a deep breath and picked up his weapon from the coffee table. He heard footsteps coming his direction, so he quietly stepped behind a door going into the living room and waited on the intruder.

Jay was somewhat shocked when the intruder began walking into the living room. As the person came closer, he was surprised to see it was one of the girls he had flirted with at Q-Trip. She was dressed in low cut, tight fitting shirt and snug fitting jeans. He couldn’t help being turned on as he watched her stroll across the floor towards the kitchen, but then his officer training took effect and Jay stepped from the darkened corner.

“Put your hands where I can see them!” Jay shouted from the darkness.

All four foot, nine inches of Jennile froze.

“What are you doing in here?” Jay asked as he stepped towards her.

Jennile slowly turned around with a big naughty smile on her face, licked her lips, and stepped up to Jay, making contact with his body. “I just came by to say hello.”

Jay looked down at Jennile as she stared up at his 6’1”, 200lb body. He could feel the heat of her breath on his chest and it sent waves of pleasure descending deep enough to cause his cock to throb with excitement.

“How do I know you’re not here to rob or kill me?” Jay said with a slight smirk across his face.

“What do you want me to do? Take off my shirt to prove I’m not hiding anything?” Jennile giggled, took a step back away from Jay, and began removing her shirt. As Jay watched, she dropped it onto the floor, then removed her jeans and tossed them next to her shirt.

Jay began to smile. “That’s good Jennile, but you might be hiding a weapon in your bra. So, I think you need to removed it, so I can make sure.”

Jennile unfastened the bra and dropped it on the floor as Jay leaned forward to exam her lightly tanned nipples, and her smooth lean stomach. Jennile giggled like a schoolgirl as Jay ordered her down on her knees. She obediently knelt down in front of him. Jay reached down to her small petite body and stroked her pretty face and short black hair.

“I’m a bad girl. I need to be severely punished. Just please don’t take me to jail officer. I’ll do anything you want.” Jennile again giggled at the playful remarks.

Jay smiled and decided to play along with her little game. “All right, my little thief. Looks like I’m going to serve up a little harsh punishment. Unzip my pants.”

Her fingers lightly brushed against his semi-hardness, sending delicious tingles up and down Jay’s spine. Jennile swallowed hard as she reached her little hand inside his jeans. She could feel the soft cotton of his briefs, and the thick hardness of his cock underneath. Every movement of her fingers brought him pleasure as she slowly removed his cock. In her small hands, his cock looked like a monster, and she gasped when she saw its full length.

Jay grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her towards his cock. “Suck it for me you little bitch thief. And if you tell anyone, I’ll have you arrested for stealing.” Jay then pulled Jennile closer to his cock and ordered her to open her mouth. Jennile took his cock fully in her mouth without hesitation. Her tongue moved tentatively against the bottom of his cock, leaving a hot wet trail. Jay began taking short pants of air as he forced her head up and down his thick cock.

Unfortunately Jennile was much weaker than Jay and she couldn’t stop him from forcing his cock deeper into her throat. Jennile gagged and had to force herself back to keep from throwing up. Jay pulled his cock out of her mouth, grabbed her by her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Well, now little thief, that was a good start, but now put you hands behind your back.”

Jennile started to resist, but with his strength he was able to quickly restrain her. He cuffed her wrists together and pushed her onto the couch so that she was kneeling on the cushions, her face pressed into the back of the couch.

“What are you going to ...” she tried to say, just as he pressed a washrag into her mouth. Jennile struggled to spit it out, but he was on top of her, easily holding her in place with one knee on her back.

Jay’s cock had softened a bit, but it quickly became rock hard again as he reached around her and pulled down her underwear. His eyes hungrily sucked in the sight of her firm young ass as he yanked her panties from her thin body. Jay slid a finger in between her legs and started rubbing his finger over her smooth cunt. He slid a finger into her opening and began rubbing it back and forth. Jennile squirmed, trying to let out small squeals of pleasure. His excitement began to build as he placed the head of his cock near her tight anal opening and began rubbing the head of his cock up and down.

Without a warning, Jay felt someone behind him, but didn’t have a chance to even turn around before he felt a object being smashed against his skull. He awoke to his head aching.

He cradled his head in his cuffed hands as his eyes scanned across the darken room. He tries to struggle, but he can’t move.

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For part two of this story you will have to visit one of my other sites since Goggle does not allow me to post naughty stories on this site with ads.

http://mspsycho.wordpress.com/

or

http://mspsychossexythoughts.blogspot.com/

Hope you have a sexy ass day!!

MsPsycho