Thread: Killers Affair —  [LackingInHeart & Death by orgasm]

RE Killers Affair - LackingInHeart Death by orgasm The little dork did not so much as stare at her shoe. Not that he even had the chance, but if anything that little display was not only meant to mock him, she knew that if he was what she wanted that there would be.... something. She did not know what, all she knew was that there would a clear indicator that just maybehuge maybe she was wrong, which she doubted although she hoped. That was not the case here. His chances went from zero to negative three. Might as well be negative three hundred. She was done. As he spoke, to her, she assumed since there was no one else in the room, Jillian wondered if he was generally talkative or if the situation of being away from women bought it out in him. He did seem nervousat least a little awkwardand the thought reminded her of the still tapping pen in her right hand. Sighing with exasperation, she killed the flexing of her hand, the tip of the black ballpoint barely resting on the pad of yellow paper. She shuffled in the chair with sudden urge to get away from him for forever. She lost interest in honoring the pad of paper and ballpoint pen, the pen went limp in her now relaxed digits. Her feet stretched to the front of her five inches apart and she leaned forward, about to stand up and walk out. But then... Like I said, I'm willing to talk about why I like getting off on assaulting cunty mouthed woman, just like yourself--which I would, you look like you'd be fun to slap around--we can get into that.... Her weight shifted to the sole of her left foot before her weight shifted back to the chair. Suddenly, she decided to stay, for at least a few more minutes. If she did not think he needed a good mouthing off to she would have the sense to get up and be done with it, stop wasting her time here. When he said that the entirety of her stiffened, yielding her stand as her jaw went slack. His words excited her. She was getting to him. She did this all the time. She had to find the one thing about somebody that they hold dear most and use it against them. In the case with this dork, it was not a far cry to take an educated guess of his dislike for cunty women and being treated with disrespect. What had she got to lose? Nothing. She was going for it. Do you want me to stop being a cheeky cunt? She smiled nastily. Her right hand lightly gripped the pen again. Her left hand clutched the side of the cold gray metal chair and used that arm to support herself. And you know what? You're right. You petty rich little frat boys like slapping women around. I see it on the news all the time. 'Drunk frat boy rapes drunk sorority girl'. Then the boys start getting blamed for incidents left and right. It must suck that you're one of the few to actually land some jail time. she paused to hope she did not get stuck interviewing one of his circle-jerk pals that were likely serving jail time with him. And boo-hoo you even got accused for 'murder'. Which, even if you did kill someone, you didn't, because you probably just left her laying on her back, drunk, knocked out, then she vomited, choked on her puke and died. She mocked a frown. Accident. She said disapproving. Parent of the year goes to... Her lips squished together as she shook her head, trying not to laugh, and directed her attention to the space between them on the table. Her eyes alight with genial amusement. Not that she was one to talk. She was here with personal ....and educational... business to... get better acquainted with a murderer. She was just curious. Curious as to why they do the thing that they do, how, when, why, everything. She firmly told herself and allowed those thoughts to go no further, before they got dangerous. But he did not know that. He did not know anything about her except her attitude problem. Another thing, you're also right about lifting her head and neat eyebrows at him introducing the reason of this interview. I'm only a student, guess I haven't learned those type of professional mannerisms yet. The mannerisms part was a lie, obvious by the small smirk hooking the corners of her lips. I'm here doing research for my thesis on the mind of rapists and murderers, murder is the contingency for rapist though. I'm hoping my research will make creating my official thesis statement more clear. I suppose they gave me you as a warm up? Her eyes widened and lower lip pouted questionably, asking herself, not him. At least that's the way she viewed it. Because I guess the facility needs to take precautions when dealing with a young woman interviewing criminals. There was change that came upon the room, extremely subtle, yet momentous. It was as if the lights in the gray interview room had a dimmer and were unnaturally dropped half way, like dusk. The temperature of the room became as though breathing came with difficultly, dense and thick. At once a change could be noticed on Jillian Grant's face and voice. I want a real, she cocked her head forward convicted of murder, killer. and leaned her torso against the edge of the hinged table, as though sharing a secret. It was. She was. It was the truest thing to ever spray from her lips. There was not one thing more true she could have possibly said the entire day. Even her name, Jillian, who was Jillian? She did not know her name in comparison of these truths. Maybe that momentous scene was just in Jillian's alerted mind. The girl rapidly blinked, eyes sauntered to the side, and she reclined back against the hard chair at the realization of what she just revealed. She attempted to remember the level of intensity to determine her next best move, but her mind was too scattered to be composed and flicked her vacant gaze at the pastel yellow pad of paper, blank with the exception of a scribble and trail marks of dots, still nonetheless the page was blank. A blank page can be scary thing. There's no direction and it's primed for any word, story, drawing, anything. Shrugging, she sloppily wrote down his name and X'ed it out with three lines each cross. Her chocolate brown eyes flicked from the paper to peer through her rich, dark lashes at him. How do you spell your name, Mr. Maximilian Ingle? asked Jillian with a malignant smile. She addressed people formally as a mean of derision, most of the time, and most of the time it was her own little joke she shared with herself.