18. [Bonus Chapter 3: A Bloody Love Story]
So Lawrence wasn't going to abandon me. He was just too excited about his gun-wielding victims, so much so that he didn't care about me. Fists, knives, and handguns are all things people use to protect themselves, but they have completely different effects. Lawrence had dealt with the first two too many times and was already numb to them. Only handguns could give him a mental climax, because they were something that could truly threaten him. He clearly had a gun, but he insisted on killing with a machete, just to leave his victims a sliver of hope, to make them think they could still be saved, so that they would continue to resist. What's the point of not resisting? Sadists love hysterical, ultimately futile, resistance.
I was glad; my understanding of Lawrence had deepened. We drugged Orwell and Emily, and under the cover of night, moved them to the back of the truck. Lawrence had little interest in Orwell; he looked down on men who hid behind women, and couldn't even be bothered to kill him. If it weren't for cutting off his limbs to scare Emily, Lawrence wouldn't have stopped him from jumping. What he was truly interested in was Emily. This woman deeply loved her boyfriend, and could be incredibly brave to protect him, yet she couldn't overcome her own humanity, even unable to pull the trigger on a murderer so close at hand. As a human being, I admired her, but the laws of survival are always cruel; kindness cannot save you from death, at least not in the face of death itself. Lawrence would only find her pathetic.
Orwell looked at me as if he didn't recognize me at all. He probably still thought his exposure therapy was effective and wanted to take me back to that mental hospital for further treatment, and maybe cure my Stockholm syndrome while he was at it. He had a ridiculous arrogance about his professional competence as a psychiatrist; he even thought my cure of my fear of flesh and blood was thanks to him. Like Lawrence, I had lost interest in Orwell. I only had one question left to ask him: "What did you and Emily talk about in the hallway?"
Orwell was on his deathbed; I had to wait for him to regain his strength before he could answer my questions. These were probably his last words, so I decided to be patient. Lawrence was also curious, but he lacked patience, irritably sharpening his machete. Emily was still lying unconscious on the ground, his face practically screaming, "I've got ice water ready; I want to pour it on her right now." Orwell, limbless, writhed in agony on the ground, his gaze towards me complex—like that of a patient whose treatment had failed, a lost child, an inescapable prisoner, a willing sacrifice—ultimately settling on an emotion I couldn't decipher, something akin to fear, yet entirely different from the way he looked at Lawrence.
Orwell still couldn't speak; he was too weak and could only whisper. I tried to lean closer to listen, but Lawrence grabbed the back of my collar, dragged me aside, and leaned in to listen himself. I guessed he didn't like me being too close to other men, and I felt a little smug. I obediently stood to the side with my hands behind my back, watching Orwell move his lips near Lawrence's ear and utter a sentence, word by word. I don't know if it was my imagination, but judging from the lip movements, Orwell seemed to mention my parents. Then Lawrence's expression changed slightly, and he knocked Orwell unconscious with the back of his knife.
I looked at Lawrence, puzzled. His face was cold as he walked towards me without a word, forcefully pressing me against the table where the toolbox lay. I immediately tensed up, cowering beneath him, but he forcefully pried me open, his groin pressing dangerously against my genitals, his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me. It was the first time I'd ever seen Lawrence look like that, like a lion eyeing its cunning prey, calculating where to begin its attack to crack open the skull and see what was going on inside. Before, I was always the one trying my best to guess his thoughts; now it felt like he was peering into my mind.
I desperately wanted to ask him what was going on, what Orwell had said to him. But Lawrence wasn't going to answer my questions. Instead, he leaned forward, his tall shadow instantly enveloping me completely. His arms braced on either side of my body, one leg pressed against the edge of the table, forcibly spreading my legs apart with his knee. He didn't touch my tattered shirt, only ripping off my jeans. He had me positioned with my shirt wide open, my lower body completely naked, and my legs spread wide. To make matters worse, my shoes and socks were still on, making it seem like I was deliberately seducing him. My face was burning red, and I turned my head away from him, but Lawrence grabbed my chin and turned me back, deliberately spreading my legs even wider, admiring my shameful expression, and exclaimed, "A magnificent sight."
That one sentence was enough to arouse me. My anus still contained his semen, which hadn't flowed out before because it had gone in so deep. Now, aroused by him, my soft, wet anus involuntarily contracted, and the semen slowly trickled down my thighs, pooling between my buttocks. I could even feel my buttocks slipping on the table. Generally, this level of lubrication would be enough for Lawrence, but he didn't immediately insert his penis. I rubbed my genitals against his groin, but Lawrence, contrary to his usual behavior, remained unmoved, gently breathing into my ear. I trembled all over; his eyes were extremely aggressive, and his tone chilled me to the bone: "I'm really starting to like you more and more, Ray. How many more little secrets do you have that I don't know about?"
I didn't understand what he was saying, and my eyes widened in confusion. Lawrence suddenly and roughly spread my buttocks, thrusting his hips in and out completely. I instantly saw the shape of his penis protruding from my stomach. My vagina was soft, and his thick penis moved in and out smoothly, making wet, squelching sounds inside me. He fucked me until I was red from head to toe, like a crushed cherry. I really wanted to ask Lawrence what he was trying to say, but he didn't give me a chance. He squeezed my buttocks together with his hands, making the already opened vagina grip his penis even tighter. My eyes were full of tears, and I moaned as he fucked me. This position always made me climax the easiest. He didn't touch my front; I quickly ejaculated onto his abs, but Lawrence pulled out before he even came, rubbing my still-erect genitals with his fingers. That place was so sensitive that it would leak fluid at the slightest touch, and it couldn't withstand his teasing at all. He not only rubbed the slowly closing opening open again, but also inserted it inside, rotating and probing, turning over and ravaging the softest part of my body. I trembled and moaned softly, and Lawrence revealed a playful smile, "You can't remember many things from before, can you?"
I didn't know what he wanted me to remember; I just wanted him to get back in and stop torturing me like this. Lawrence wanted to squeeze something out of my memory sponge, but he couldn't directly reach into my brain and stir it up, so he could only punish me physically. It was like the sleep deprivation the FBI loves to use when interrogating terrorists—the more you want it, the less they give it to you. The more I wanted him to violate me hard, the less he would do it. It was clearly a cruel form of corporal punishment. Seeing that I still looked innocent and had no intention of confessing, Lawrence began to fondle my prostate from various angles. I sobbed through tears, and small spurts of semen leaked from my anus again. I felt like a trained animal, my body becoming more and more accustomed to only being aroused from behind. I really wanted something thicker than a finger to penetrate me, but Lawrence only cared about ravaging my anus with his fingers. That most sensitive part of my body had been numbed by the fucking, and being pounded so fiercely only produced a dull, aching sensation. I teetered painfully on the edge of climax, my fingers scratching helplessly at Lawrence's arm, a desperate plea escaping my throat, "Put it in...please..."
Then Emily woke up. She was tightly bound with rope, and something was stuffed in her mouth. She struggled, making muffled noises. But Lawrence had lost interest in her; he only wanted to play with me now, and I didn't know whether I should be happy about it. Lawrence rubbed his thick, monstrous penis against my vaginal opening, making the flesh inside suck on his glans like lips. No matter how desperately I tried to swallow it to fill the emptiness inside me, Lawrence wouldn't give it to me. He arched his back, supporting himself on either side of my head, his penis teasing my vaginal opening like a cat, only making very small thrusts on the outside, each time making a "pop" sound. I was almost driven mad by him; tears streamed down my face as I pleaded pitifully, "Please don't do this, Caesar... Should I... should I remember something?"
“Shh,” Lawrence gently placed his finger on my trembling lower lip, “I don’t need you to remember anything.”
I nodded ingratiatingly, gently licking his fingers, looking at him with wet eyes, begging him to tell me what to do and to stop bullying me. Lawrence put two more fingers in my mouth, and I swallowed them completely from fingertip to base, licking the spaces between his fingers with my soft tongue. I looked up at him, knowing from what angle I looked most pitiful and innocent. Lawrence narrowed his eyes slightly, his breathing becoming rapid. He leaned down and bit my Adam's apple, grinding it until it bled, then licked the blood away with his tongue, as if quenching his thirst. I cried out, and he finally, as if bestowing a favor, slowly pushed his penis into my vagina. The soft flesh of my vagina eagerly enveloped it, desperately sucking on Lawrence's swollen and monstrous penis, like a parched land receiving rain. I wrapped my arms around his neck with satisfaction, while Lawrence bit my chin hard, breathing heavily as he said, "Whatever you remember, tell me immediately, understand?"
I nodded quickly and leaned forward to take the half of his penis that was still exposed. Lawrence gripped my waist tightly and thrust in and out relentlessly, pumping rapidly like a pile driver. I felt like I was melting from pleasure; this was the Lawrence my body knew. The harder he went at me, the more wanton I cried out, and we seduced and tormented each other until we both reached orgasm. After that, he fucked me three more times, flipping me over, until I finally passed out, letting him manipulate my body like a sex doll, and I knew nothing more.
When I woke up, I saw Lawrence sitting cross-legged in front of Emily. Her limbs were gone, and he was examining her back with great interest. It was smooth and flat, without any obvious flaws, not even a mole, like a perfect piece of marble.
“I think I should give you a gift, Ray,” Lawrence said. “Would you like some red roses?”
I didn't think Lawrence would be interested in going to a florist right now, nor did I think he would give me such a mundane gift as a bouquet. Every gift he'd given me so far had been extraordinary—the choker around my neck, the two horror novels—each representing a deepening of our relationship. So, I nodded expectantly, "I want it."
Lawrence smiled contentedly, tossed aside his freshly sharpened machete, and picked up the kitchen knife we'd taken from the orphanage. Its appearance was utterly abrupt; I had no recollection of having such a thing in my closet. Besides, I rarely used a kitchen knife. The last time was when I was dismembering a body at Sartre's house, and before that… when I went to Sarah's to cook for her? I couldn't remember. Sometimes my memory is particularly bad; I selectively forget things. Just as Lawrence once told me, he was mad, and I was deranged.
Lawrence reached out his hand to me and gently beckoned me. I knelt down and obediently rested my chin on his. He chuckled, scratched my chin, then hooked his arm around my collar and pulled me into his embrace. I gently nuzzled his neck with my hair, and he took my hand, just as he had when pressing that doorknob, and together they gripped the kitchen knife, pressing the tip against Emily's back. A drop of blood immediately gushed out. Emily's bloodshot eyes widened, and she let out a muffled cry through her gagged mouth—not just pain, but utter terror. The spot was so close to her heart; I could almost feel her erratic heartbeat along the blade.
Lawrence, like an experienced tattoo artist, patiently and gently took my hand and sketched the basic shape of a rose on her back. The lines were deep red, thin and pale; the rose was still the white of her skin, its petals not bright red. Lawrence wouldn't give me white roses; those represent mourning. Even in death, we would die passionately together, leaving no chance for mutual remembrance or mourning. As I thought this, Lawrence deftly chipped away at her skin with the tip of a knife, and the "petals" quickly turned the blood-red of muscle. It was a real red rose now. I smiled, and Lawrence took my hand again, cutting another red rose beside it, growing alongside the first, its thorny vines intertwined, like flesh intimately merging. I blushed immediately. Perhaps it wasn't such an obscene image, but as if to affirm me, Lawrence lowered his head and kissed my lips.
It was a very tender and lingering kiss. But I already had so much of his tenderness, and now I only wanted his roughness, so I pleaded with him, "Caesar, can you slap me?"
Lawrence paused, then slowly smiled, raising his hand to slap me across the face. The sound was crisp, the force immense; he knocked me to the ground, giving me a full ten seconds of mental orgasm. Emily stared at us in horror, even forgetting to scream in pain. She probably thought Lawrence had lost his mind and was about to kill me too, but I knew this was Lawrence's reward to me. He pulled me up from the ground and said viciously in my ear, "I need to know everything about you, understand, Ray?"
"Mmm." I kissed him carefully. "I'll tell you everything."
Actually, I was lying. I think I know how to prevent him from letting go of my chain easily.
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