[90lbsofdynamite]

Warning! You must be 18 or over to read this story. It contains rape and murder. If you do not like such stories, please turn back. This is a tale of kidnap, rape, child abuse, culminating in infanticide. I have given away much of the story in this notice. So heed the warning if you have a problem with this kind of story.

Sugar & Spice
by
Millie Dynamite

The man sat in the dark, clutching the girl’s hair tightly, forcing her lips down to his balls, dragging her head almost off his cock. He did this, face-fucking, in a rapid, jackhammer, fashion. Saliva and cum leaked from her mouth, dribbling over his balls, and dripping to the ground below them.

She’d long since given up fighting him. The child only wished for it to end. With one hand he fumbled with his cigarette case, pulling out a Lucky Strike, he tapped it down, put it in his mouth. He flicked the wheel of the Zippo, placed the flame to the end of the cigarette, and lit his smoke.

Dragging the fumes deep into his lungs. He felt it build, the man pushed up, forcing his cock deeper, then pulled back to just inside her lips. Joe sprayed a new load of semen inside her mouth. Tossing his head back, he let out a howl, as spurt after spurt filled her mouth to overflowing. Releasing her head, the girl let her face fall on his lap. The child, and make no mistake about it, she was just a child, was used up, her spirit broken, she lay motionless gazing at his dick. Sandy had become nothing but a cum doll.

“You’re not my first, Sandy,” Joe pulled the grasper from his mouth, exhaling a thick stream of smoke into the night’s air. “You won’t be my last.”

He petted her hair, running his fingers over her face, neck, and back. He liked the tight bodies and tender holes he had to violate to fuck the immature girls. “You are one of the best, though, sweetheart.”

“It began long ago, my darling, little angel,” he talked to her as he watched the sky.

Sandy listened, laying still, hoping it was all over.

****

It was an itch I longed to scratch, reaching all the way back to my 16th birthday. Until then, I liked older girls, older than me, before that fateful day. That morning, rising early, excited about getting my driver’s license, I rushed to the bathroom. That summer day, in 1934, when I walked in on my little sister, getting out of the shower. Seeing that tight, ten-year-old body, beads of waters shimmering on gooseflesh, her small buds crowned by tiny pointy nipples, her flat tummy, and her runty, hairless, virgin snatch, triggered something. A presence inside me, which never spoke before, from that day forward, niggled inside my mind.

I got a boner, standing there, staring at my six-year younger than me, sister. Her matted blonde hair, lovely big blue eyes, perfect full lips, and flawless little-girl skin, oh, sweet, Lordy, that was, so, wonderful. No pimples, no makeup to hide the beauty, no self-importance, or stuck up attitude about her. She quickly covered up and spoke to me.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you when I heard the door.”

I put it out of my mind. Not because she was ten, but because she was my sister. I began to look at other girls, seven-year-olds, eight, nine, and ten-year-old angels. That perfect age, innocent, with a fresh, unknowing, hint of sexuality. Little girls, so, eager to please, so, desirous of affection and attention.

I fought the desire for them. For ten years, I resisted the urge. I longed to take that innocence. Not through seduction, I just want to take it, destroy it. This dark passenger, the bastard that he is, nagged my thinking, “take that one, fuck her good, make her your own, fuck her up, let no one else, ever, have her. Fuck her up, then shut her mouth forever.”

I’d have to silence them, or they’d tell on me. Killing the little angels wouldn’t be okay, I couldn’t make that right. If you were going to fuck girls, that young, you’d never be able to trust them. And if you were going to kill them, there was no reason to seduce them. You could just take it, and that would be wrong as well. For some reason, a reason I didn’t understand, I couldn’t get the yearning out of my head. The taking them, killing them, I wanted it. Oh, yes, so desperately, I needed to do it.

Don’t get me wrong, I fuck women, lots of them. Big fat-tittied hourglass women, little A cup beauties, and everything between the two extremes. But it doesn’t do it for me, they don’t feed my need. They do, however, whet my appetite. Once I have satisfied them, exhausting myself in the process, and left them my creamy discharge, I feel empty, and still in need.

The closest thing, to real satisfaction, happened in France during the war. I mean, the nearest thing, before I found girls like you, sweetie. So, anyway, we were fighting our way south in France, our unit separated from the troop. Nothing intentional, just the heat of battle, we strayed north of where we should be.

Making our way back south, we came across a farmhouse. A large brick structure, with fields of grapes growing ripe on the vines. The farmer waved at us from the porch, happy to see Americans and not Germans. Yeah, me Joe Nobody, I was the rearguard. Trailing behind, by 30 to 50 yards, as the patrol passed this vineyard. Standing beside one of the barns was this French girl.

She was a lovely girl, somewhere between 14 and 16, a good figure. Flashing me a smile, she did a finger wave. The kind where you just bend and straighten your fingers, several times in a shy fashion. A coquettish smile on her face, she twisted her barefoot in the dirt. I stop, looked at her, licked my lips, ear to ear, and went up to her.

I could have seduced her, I should’ve. But that stranger inside me, he wanted something different. So, instead of coaxing her, I raped the girl. I choked the life out of her, as I completed the act. My cock shot a thick load, gushes of thick jism, while I watched her tongue sticking out, her eyes bulging, and rolling back, showing only whites. I didn’t stop, no, I kept fucking the kid, pounding away, after she was dead. I raised up and fucked the shit out of her for a good ten more minutes.

I shot a second load of batter deep inside her. It was a trance, really, like it wasn’t me, but that other fellow who hides inside me. I gathered up my shit, headed out, leaving her there, laying in the hay and muck on the barn floor.

For two days, I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see her father with a shotgun in hand. It took me both those days to realize, papa hadn’t a clue who to accuse. I pondered on his grief, each time getting a new boner, wanting, needing to relieve it.

Even so, she was close to full grown. That just wasn’t good enough. I wanted a little girl. I longed for a fresh, wide-eyed, innocent girl child, who no one ever touched. I was twenty-six the day I force-fucked the French cunt. I’d wait ten more years for a youngin’.

I married right after the war; it didn’t last. Last, I’d heard Jane moved to Nebraska. She took my snot-nosed son, Joe Nobody, Jr., with her. Good riddance to them both. I moved to Kansas City, the Missouri side, and got a job as a mechanic at a filling station. Sometimes I had to fill the cars with gas, mostly I worked on cars. It was august, 1954, and hot as hell, the first time I saw her.

Her name was Natalie, she lived in the ratty apartments, a block to the south. The cute darling hung around the station. The sweet girl was adept at the art of begging without begging. She watched for the wealthy marks to pull in to get gas. Friendly grandpa types were favorite. She’d hang around the outside vending machines, digging in the change slots. Pulling on the coin returns, she’d sigh or say, “Oh, phooey,” when nothing fell into the tray. The old farts would ask if she needed a soda. Nat shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head. “But I don’t have money.”

They’d buy her candy and soda, and Nat would greedily eat it like it’d be her last meal. Usually, she wore jeans, a striped shirt, and tennie-runners. Other times, Natalie would come around with a pleated skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks, and those worn-out tennis shoes. Sometimes, not often at all, she wore a frilly pink dress with ruffles, white ankle socks, and low heels with ankle buckles. To me, in the fucking Sunday dress up, Natalie looked sexier than Marilyn Monroe.

I fantasized about fucking her, killing her. I dreamed of wrapping my hands around her splendid, delicate throat. Choking the life out of her, all while, I hammered my prick deep inside her child-sized pussy. I wanted her so bad, I could taste her — smell — in my mouth.

When she was around, she had this smell about her, from this perfume she wore. I don’t know what it was, most likely her mothers. Nat didn’t put on a lot of it. When she got close to you, when she hovered around, you smelled it. A fresh, light scent of sweetness. Natalie wore the perfect amount, just enough to catch the aroma, but not an ample enough amount to identify it.

The station was closed on Sundays. Still, I worked on cars on Sundays, if they needed to be finished by Monday. I’d have the overhead, all but closed, and the side door cracked open, just a smidge, to have a draft moving through the joint.

It was an early Sunday afternoon in August. I just finished repairs on a Studebaker. While I scrubbed my hands, at the sink, I heard the back-door creak. I twisted my head to the clatter. Standing in the doorway, the sun streaming around her, was Natalie.

“What you doing here, Nat?”

“Mommy’s still with her new boyfriend. I couldn’t go to church; it’s too far to walk.”

“Okay,” I said. Shutting off the water, I pulled towels from the dispenser and dried my hands. “But why’d you come here?”

“I was bored and seen you were here.”

“Yeah,” my mind exploded with possibilities. “You want to go on a picnic out to the river, maybe?”

“That sounds fun,” she said.

I had chicken in the station fridge, grabbed some sodas, chips, and a chocolate candy bar for her. The moment, when the picnic hatched, no thought of fucking her, or killing her entered my mind. I just wanted to be near her, feel the thrill of being with Natalie.

After all, she was a beautiful child, like you are. You know, it’s the same way, I wanted to be with you. It always starts that way, I just want to be with one of you sweet, darlings. Have some fun, fun for both of us, that’s all I thought about, at first. And, like with you, we had fun, until it was more my fun than yours or hers. We drove out the river, had some chicken, I pushed her in swings, and gave her soda while I drank whiskey.

We drove out of town, down an old, winding, dirt road that ran along the side of the river. Arriving at a park, which for some unknown reason had no one there, that day. After we ate, Natalie got on a roundabout, and I pushed the thing. Faster and faster she spun, hanging on the handle, she leaned back, watching the sky. A few minutes later, I let it wind down and stop.

Nat got off, trying to walk, and she fell into the grass. I plopped down beside her, she laughed so hard and laid her head on my crotch. That moment, with her face, resting against my cock and balls, everything changed.

I studied the park, no one was around, no one on the road, and not one boat on the river. It was hot that day, no one ventured about in Missouri’s august sticky heat, in the countryside. I looked at a large thicket of trees. The thick growth of trees offered privacy, should anyone stray into the park. I had my angel, so perfect, so ignorant of the promise her body held.

There wasn’t a plan, not at that point, not exactly. I wanted Natalie, no, more profound than wanted. What I felt was greater than need. I had a salacious, power-hungry, ravenousness, yearning to consume her innocence. I would have her.

I scooped her into my arms, standing I strolled toward the grove of trees and the seclusion it offered me. Nat laid in my arms, gazing up at me, pure innocence shown in her stair, with a quizzical expression on her exquisite face.

“Where’re you taking me?”

“Over yonder, just a way further,” I said.

“Why?”

“A special reason, I need to give you something.”

“Something I’m going to really like,” she said, purring in a childish giggle.

“No, what I’m giving you is for me. I’m giving you me, I’m making you my little girl, and I’ll never let you go.” Holding her to me, tightly, crushing her tiny body to mine. “You belong to me now.”

Her body stiffened, I could feel her heart beating through her clothing, through my shirt. Trembling in my arms, she sobbed. Her fear gave me joy, her terror pleased me. A mania burst open inside me. All the years of suppressing my desire fostered the madness that took me. Nat’s reaction nourished my strange companion, strengthened him, freeing him of his restraints.

I’d come here months before, I’d cased the area. And in my mind noted how little use the park had. Then there was the abandoned house. A big two-story monster, complete with sheet-covered furniture. It hadn’t seen residents for years. Still, it was there, inviting me to use it.

I ambled to the door, dropping her between my legs, I pressed her face to the wooden door. Putting my hand on the back of her head, working my way down, I clutched Natalie’s neck hard.

“You stand there, like a fucking statue, Angel,” I fumbled in my back pocket for the picks. Once I retrieved them, I pushed my hard, jeans-covered cock and crotch against her head, and used my weight to hold her in place.

Natalie blubbered, trying to talk, but she only made a gibberish of sounds. I could feel her quivering, my desire blossomed, my pecker swelled and lurched, attempting to escape its enclosure. It was wrong, I knew it, it ate at me, the wrongness of the thing devoured my thoughts.

But the beast that lived inside me didn’t give a shit about right or wrong. The evil creature had but one necessity, it had to destroy her. I pushed right and wrong from my brain, shoved good and evil out of my soul.

This would last, I’d make the fun last for hours. In a few quick moves, I felt the lock give and open. I put my lockpicks back in my back pocket, turned the doorknob with my left hand while I put my right one on the back of Nat’s tiny neck.

Her skin bristled at my touch, the flesh all pimply, and her hairs had this static stiffness. A ten-year-old shouldn’t suffer such terror, shouldn’t know she wasn’t long for this world. Part of me, the cruel evil part, reveled in her dread.

We stood there, just outside this old mansion, frozen like blocks of ice. My conscience retook a hold on me, pleading against this thing I would do. Unmoving, I resisted my urges, my mind awash with doubt, fear, and loathing. This was wrong, I knew it, I didn’t want to hurt this child. And that truth hid a more profound fact, I, so, wanted to do her harm. I only feared the consequences. The necessitude existed in me to use her for pleasure. I reached down, took her hand, stepped beside her, and we crossed the threshold together.

“Good,” my unseen partner said. “This will be so much fun.” We were of one mind.

“Don’t worry,” I told her as we advanced to a curved staircase. As we ascended, I lied to her, “Nothing terrible will happen. I just want to look at you.”

I felt the tension slip from her. The stupid cunt believed me. “You won’t do anything wrong; I just need to look at you, and I’ll do a dirty thing.”

“You’ll mastabate,” she said.

“Yeah, I’ll masturbate, jerk-off, looking at your beautiful body,” I glanced down at her at the same time she gazed up at me.

“We don’t have to tell Mommy, do we?” there was this curious, innocent countenance about her. Like some angel, staring at sinners, then wondering what it would be like to have the freedom to sin.

“No, mommy never needs to know, anything, about you and me,” I gave her a sly smirk, took her hand, and led her inside a large bedroom. Everything, bed, dresser drawers, a makeup table, a full-length mirror, and chairs in the room were covered with large cloth canvases.

I uncovered a chair first, smiled at Natalie, drinking in the sight of her, and continued about the room. Removing each of the tarps, folding them neatly, I put them in a pile, never removing my eyes from her, for more than a second or two.

Likewise, she scrutinized me and my actions. Her eyes, wide with wonder, followed my every move. One could see the wheels turning in her mind. Natalie, like all prepubescents on the cusp of sexual awakening, had a curiosity. I wondered if she had played ‘Doctor’ with some young boy. I felt confident she hadn’t.

Why would she? Men bent over backward for her, with just a smile, a wink, and bob of her beautiful head, the silly saps bought her chips, candy bars, and soda pop. While innocent, she was more than aware of the effect her presence wrought on men. A boy would never do for this child.

All Natalie knew about sex was gleaned through the walls when her mothers, menfolk, came to call. The grunts and groans, the banging headboards, squeaking bedsprings and frames, and her mother’s impassioned cries told her it was fun. She also, most likely, knew that’s where babies came from as well. You never know, not with a girl her age, if that is something that scares them or thrills them.

“Natalie, dear, would you turn around for me? Just turn a circle, slowly, for me, sweetheart.”

She nodded her head. With a slow, precision, she raised her arms to her side, and Nat inched around a full circle. I went to her and grabbing the bright, pink ribbon around her waist, tugged on the flat of the bow, and the knot undid. The strip of material fell away, and I laid it on the chair.

I ran my hand over her face, brushing her cheek with tenderness. She blushed at my touch, started to pull away, then hesitated, her eyelids fluttering she stared at the floor. The fear hadn’t returned, her shyness wasn’t an act.

I knew she had mixed emotions, she ached for a father, she wanted to please me. Yet, she feared me. Some deep-rooted instinct warned her of the danger. Little girls have a way of ignoring their fears. Not as much as little boys, or maybe, just maybe, they are bolder than little boys. Who knows? All that to the side, she stood her ground, while I removed my shirt and undershirt. I let my clothing fall to the hardwood.

Her eyes studied my muscles, her delicate, small fingers reached out and touched my hard belly. She pulled back, her cheeks flushed again, and she looked up at my eyes.

“You’re hard as bricks,” Natalie touched me again, running her fingers over my belly, Natalie reached up to my chest. “So, very, strong. You could hurt me,” she moved back a few steps.

“Don’t do that. Don’t move away from me. I told you, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Nat moved back to her place, she fidgeted about, in a nervous stationary dance, but didn’t pull away from me. I put my calloused hand on her face again, cupping her jawline, and played with her earlobe. Such lovely, delicate ears, I moved the ringlets from them, admiring the perfection.

I reached down and took her hand. I moved her tiny fingers to my crotch and placed her hand on my hard as nails dick. Her eyes widened. Releasing her hand, I watched as she explored it. Natalie inched her face closer, her eyes examining the bulge under her fingers, trying to discern the things boundaries.

Reaching down, unbuttoning the fly, I fished out the monster. I’m sure it appeared mammoth to Natalie, though, in truth, it isn’t more than seven and a half inches. It was fat, close to as big around as long. She hesitated, then reached for it.

“No,” I commanded her.

Natalie pulled her hand back, she wiggled her fingers, as if playing the piano. Her long, enticing tongue darted out and retreated. Slowly, she lowered her hand to her side. Her gaze returned to my face, her eyelids fluttered, and then she blinked several times.

“It’s so big.”

I unbuckled my belt and jeans and let them fall to the floor. I kicked off my boots, stepped from my pants, sat on the bed, and stroked my hard fuck-pole. She treaded a few steps closer to me. I raised my hand to her, indicating for her to stand there.

“Take off your shoes and socks.”

She squatted, rocked back on her ass, unbuckled her shoes, tossing them off and to the side. Then her socks followed, landing carelessly near her footwear. She rose to her knees, looking at my pecker as I stroked it.

“Put those neatly by the chair.”

She complied and returned to the place she’d been. Still ogling my cock, intently observing my masturbation, Natalie’s tongue snaked out, wetted her lips. Then it slivered back into her mouth.

“Take off your dress, slowly, neatly fold it, and put it on the chair.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“I guess it’s okay, I have a slip, so I won’t be naked.”

“The slip as well, panties, and your bra if you have one.”

“I don’t wear no bra,” she hesitated, then did as I ordered her.

The rooms only light sifted through the slits on the wooden Venetian blinds. As Natalie slipped from her clothing, that filtered sunlight fell across her alabaster flesh. Once she stood there, naked as when she first exited her mother’s womb, she radiated in that soft, slatted light. It was as if her flesh glowed from inside her. While her flat chest, with its small bumps of her soon to bud breasts, cast a tiny shadow between the minor fleshy hills.

Her sandy brown, ringlet hair, framed that perfect face. That soft face, so lovely, so fresh, the delicate eyelashes fluttered, the blue orbs of her eyes shone, and her cheeks burned with a crimson passion. She covered herself, and I glowered at her.

Obedient to my stare, she uncovered. I patted the bed, she stood still. I patted it again, with reluctance, Nat took one fleeting step, then another hesitant one, followed by four more, until, she stood next to the bed, and next to me.

“Lay on your belly, right here,” I patted the bed again, “Let your feet dangle over the edge, spread them wide.”

I’m not sure she realized what would happen. Her big beautiful eyes, those limpid pools of azure blue, went vacant. She retreated from here and now, or perhaps, she tried to run away in her mind. Tears rolled from her eyes. Three of them. Yes, salty tears of fear rolled down her face. Two from the outside corners, and a third from one inside corner. What horror, had her might conceived? Not nearly so terrible as the dreadful things I would do to her.

She lay face down, her beautiful, round ass, ready for me. I rolled over her, resting my cock against her shithole. I put a hand in the middle of her back, roaming over all her delightful soft, firm, flawless flesh, as I steadied my cock with the other.

I felt her firm ass cheeks, pinching, squeezing, enjoying her beautiful child’s physique. I lingered, just feeling every inch of her. She quivered under me, like leaves when the wind blows through the trees.

My mind wanted me to stop, I couldn’t, or wouldn’t. I don’t know if my demon passenger made me do it, or just gave me permission. I shoved my cockhead inside her ass, with one hard shove ripping past her sphincter. I felt Nat’s muscles release, no they didn’t relax, they tore.

She let out such a screech, a long, loud squeal of pain. Such a sweet refrain. Her body shook as I invaded her. Her terror, it had a savor smell and taste, all its own. My invisible friend and I loved that aroma. The air was thick with the scent of her horror.

I pushed more of me inside her, thrusting in, pulling back — jabbing deeper. Repeating, over and over, humping her ass with a hard, deep piston action. Claiming her body, her being, as my territory. I fucked her with an urgency I’d never before experienced. A rush of pleasure, overwhelming ecstasy, the kind of thing a man yearns for his whole life, burst inside me.

She screamed, kicking her feet, beating her fist on the bed as I plundered her ass. Harder, and harder, I fucked her. Her body quaked and quivered, shaking out of control, as I took her. After some time, maybe twenty minutes, I shot inside her.

That didn’t end anything. My erection persisted. So, I fucked Natalie’s pussy, ripping her cherry to shreds in one hard thrust. Fucking into her, slashing a swath inside her, with each sharp plunge, splitting muscles. Oh, how wonderful that feeling is, gashing the muscles as you fuck a little, tight cunt.

Your power surges, as you force yourself further inside, fucking her. Always fucking her, fucking her body, fucking up her mind. Destroying her body and mind, dominating, controlling, making her yours. All the time, her body reacts, rebels, to your efforts. Rebel as she might, her self-worth slips away, with every thrust you make inside of her. It took longer that time, maybe forty-five minutes, and at last, I nutted off; still, that fucking hard-on refused to be satisfied.

I fucked her face. Then the cycle started a new. The sunlight turned to darkness, and still, I fucked her. I think, in all, I fucked five times in each hole, until, looking her in the eye, I squeezed the life out of her neck as came in her cunt.

For her, it was over, but not for me. I fucked all three holes two more times. Passing out, at last, sleeping until the wee hours of the morning. I burred her out behind that old mansion. I took her clothing with me.

Over the next few weeks, I followed, with keen interest, the story of the missing child, Natalie Carson. After a month, the papers dropped the story. Until the mother received the girl’s dress in the mail.

Every couple of weeks, a new article of clothing arrived, with curious stains on them. One sock, the other one, the slip, the first shoe, and the other shoe, Natalie’s mother, got everything the girl had worn. The only clothing that didn’t come special delivery was the girl’s panties. I’ll never let go of them. All soft cotton, pink, and stained with the scent of her. No, the perfume she wore, just her natural smell.

****

The man’s shuttered, holding her head still, he let loose another stream of cum inside her dead mouth. He pushed the small child from his belly, Sandy tumbled down into the hole. Putting his cock away, he stood and removed the shovel from the pile of dirt.

“So, Sandy, I bought that mansion,” he shoveled a load of wet soil onto her face. “Yes, sir, and amassed a fortune over the next few years.”

He continued to shovel the dirt into the hole. Covering Sandy’s body, he rested once the grave was filled.

“You see, Sandy, parents love their children. They pay through the nose to get them back, but when I take their kids for ransom, or I take them for fun, those little angels never return. You’re my, what is it? Yeah, you’re the 30th. I’ll plan an apple tree for you in the morning. This a very nice orchard, you’ll like it here. You have plenty of girls to play with, and I’ll bring you a new friend to join you and all my darlings soon.”

“I never, mess in my nest,” he said. Joe pulled his cigarette case from inside his coat pocket. He packed the smoke down and lit-up, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He talked as he returned to the house. “Kidnap for ransom, anywhere but Missouri, my little darlings for fun, taken from chance meetings at one of my candy stores scattered throughout the state. Yes, sir, the risk is in the kidnap for ransom.”

“Little girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. So, very, sweet, are their virgin cunts!”


Continue the story here Sugar & Spice Two: A Dream Dark and Deep By Millie Dynamite

Note, when voting on the April Writing Contest consider only this story not the following chapter or chapters. You can vote for my story in the April Writing Contest here RavishU April 2020 Writing Contest Poll

[90lbsofdynamite]

I added a poll to this story to help me determine if I want to explore the world of Joe Nobody further.

I'm thinking about adding polls to all my new stories and maybe some of those that are already out there.

[grendel]

The words were interesting, entrancing.

The protagonist though seems a straightforward whack-job serial-killer, not particularly interesting.  Unless that voice in his head is something more than schizophrenia.  He has made himself rich on ransoms which attract Federal attention and is still uncaught after 30 vics ... so maybe there is some there there but I don't see it yet.

[90lbsofdynamite]

to be perfectly honest here, I am totally uncertain if Joe Nobody is telling us the truth. The question is, can you trust someone who is a psychotic to tell the truth. Is Joe a reliable witness even to himself. Hearing voice could be accompanied by seeing visions. He may, or may not, be raping and killing little girls. At this point, I haven't been able to determine what the truth is.

Now yes, I am creating the story. But it isn't a plotted story. I use a technique my adoptive father taught me, it is similar to method acting. A seat of the pants writing where you let the character come to life and tell their own story. Pop's uses it in writing some of his horror tales. I'm using it for this series of stories, if Joe will cooperate, we will continue with his little tale.

I'm leaning toward believing that he is a serial killer and commits infanticide. However, this was a get to know you beginning and Joe isn't letting me inside him as much as I need to be to know him. Not yet, I think he doesn't trust me yet. Or maybe, I watched and read American Psycho to many times a few years back. That is a story that may or not have happened. It may, or might not be, all in the Patrick Bateman's head. It was never resolved in the book and it is a little grey in the movie as well. Okay, I mean gray, my adoptive mum is wearing off on me to much.

I also need to write a new chapter for Spiny Cactus. That one I have an over reaching plot laid out for, but I digress.

This series is experimental. I'm trying for a little more depth in the character than the Pedo character had, though Joe doesn't have that yet. Interesting thought, could Pedo be a relations of Joe's?

I think you should continue developing this.
Who knows what the next chapter may look like?

[grendel]

Sorry Dear Lady,
I meant to write a reply earlier than this but got distracted.  Thank you for your clear and candid description of where this story comes from.  I wish you good luck with it but it is so foreign to the way I write that I am not qualified to make further comment.  I mean I plot everything.  Now when it is working well the plot flows from the nature of the characters ... so sometimes they take control ... but they do it by hijacking the plot ... not by being someone they did not appear to be ... well at least not yet ... though I suppose that could happen. 

Anyway thank you for giving me a window into what you are trying to do in this tale.  I wish you success in your future endeavors.

Warm Regards,

[90lbsofdynamite]

Thanks grendel, I appreciate the input.

I'm almost finished with the second story in this series. I may hold back on posting it until the contest for April has concluded and voting as begun or maybe even finished. The rules I set for are the reasons I may hold off. The story, this month, should be self contained, having a beginning, middle, and end. Now, to be fare, that doesn't preclude it being one story in a series. But, I want this story judged solely on its own merits and not viewed with any over arching that is in inherent in a series. That doesn't, mean the rules prevent me from posting the others, it just seems more appropriate if I don't.

[90lbsofdynamite]

I gave in and added the next chapter. Do not, I repeated, do not take in subsequent chapters when voting on this story for the April writing contest.

[90lbsofdynamite]

if you wish to vote for my story in the April Contest (voting is from March 1st until march 15) vote here RavishU April 2020 Writing Contest

A Very good story.

Only....I dislike " bad ends" 

[90lbsofdynamite]

Well there are two more parts to this story, so far, with more to come.

I'm not sure serial killers get happy endings, are you?

[amandablonde]

I like to see evil triumph.  For me its a bad ending when the wicked get punished

[90lbsofdynamite]

amandablonde, as you know, I like to vary my endings.