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

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Jillian's beaming lips strangled a grin to his profound mockery, and that to her, he unknowingly referenced himself as one of those said frat monkeys because that's only what Jillian saw him for. Typical of wild frat boys to diverge in misplacing blame on the women. Such a waste of education, though Jillian did certainly enjoy the haunting in his unyielding stare. It would give her a good something to laugh about later, it really would, a great laugh. She did not dart her eyes from his,, even though she thought something in his glazed over eyes creepy, until the brief silence between them and drew them to the pad of paper. Admittedly, she found his references to a real rapist enthralled by the idea of it, but it was evident from the whisked-like enlarged eyes that her self interested could not be concealed. Other than that, he was right he was boring her. Still she bemusedly saw him as guarding his silly self found 'social status'. You are excused, though no one asked you if I care what you believed in of me. T'wasn't the best thing Jillian always did, and even in her attitude she could gain the upper hand because she never striven for it, she expected so, and her attitude could grant her that on it own, as was expected here with this little dork. However, he gave her no such thing. Instead it enraged her, a anger that more so amused her than anything else He could call her endearing names, claim she does not know her self 'till her eyebrows knitted and politely shook her head to substitute rolling her eyes- which she did anytime he displayed such behaviors. She looked at him. SPIT At once Jillian naturally flinched and stood, metal chair legs scarped against the gray floor. A shutter of disgust compulsively shrilled a yell for the security! and to the very heels that cursed her in this prison. His aim was practiced, but spit was weak easily wiped away with three firm swipes from her sleeves. She glared daggers at his idle seething form. She might need to substitute a raincoat for sunglasses. The guards were in before she yelled for them and two large men attired in uniform seized the disruptive prisoner and assertively escorted him out. The door left ajar, Josh cued his presence with sincere apologies of the happening. He offered her a tissue and means to go home, both which she rejected with a smile. She cleaned up in the bathroom and proceeded with the remainder of the interviews... with real criminals hopefully. She met some questionable characters. Some of which seemed promising and while cordial in the situation there were others she wished to never again. Some intimidated her, with others she was not very impressed. One prisoner's face was masked in tattoos, the largest was a sling-shot on his right bony cheek. Before the day was out and the interviews came to an end, Josh escorted her out commented that she had the smile of her mom and dad, the same proud smile. Nine years ago, when Jillian was fourteen, her parents died in a car accident on their way to one of the largest party cities of them all Las Vegas only it was their party that got crashed. She went to live with her grandmother until she turned eighteen, moved out and got a place of her own. The most strong memory she had of her parents was of her mother hunched over the kitchen table, her eyes a pair of red puffy weights, stubbing out the wrinkled joint she tried to pass off as a cigarette and her dad, more impregnably fat and greasy-looking in the intervals that she saw him, distant and accompanied with beer and work. The Grants' were not rich, not poor either, though closer to the latter and left Jillian with everything they owned the beat up Pontiac Grandam, the classic furniture pieces and household items, and two thousand dollars. When she was younger she thought it was a bizarre thing to do for a girl they did not know very well. Their untimely death did not quite lose Jillian on her track it lost her. Later that week, Jillian had volunteered to offer her help in dissection, again, for the fifth year. She sat on her crouched calves, the heels of her foot arched up slightly off the floor, back used a wall for support, suffocating latex gloves webbed her tiny digits, ugly too big googles atop her oval shaped face. A professor gave her a scare at her sudden appearance to the outside of the classroom and her question to if are you ready, Jillian? The melancholy almost compelled her to her feet at the confirmation she was doing this to herself again. Jillian responded, Just a minute never once even turning her head to the professor whom then left Jillian alone again as she retreated to the classroom. A minute later Jillian entered the lab room. She provided expert-like advice to those students who shrieked in terror to the variety of dead animals corpse vacuum sealed in plastic wrap fetal pigs, rats, squids, worms, clams, birds, frogs, and more. Jillian went right home after that, drenched in repulsion that she enjoyed the day's occurrences the wetness in her panties was the reminder. On the drive home she vehemently promised herself a binding oath to bathe away the day. An oath forsaken. Instead Jillian Grant allowed herself to feel sick to the point of thinking she should probably try to vomit several times through out the day that she likely had animal guts and fragments flaked in her hair as she did homework assignments and ate a sandwich and suppressed the urge to Google some of the criminals she interviewed the other day in fear it might put her off on them if done too soon, next time, and lounged around her house until she did not arbor such feelings and a urge to masturbate pulled her form to her bed. She stripped, threw her clothing on the floor, hopped her bare butt on the bed, back on plush pillows, and extracted a small purple vibrator from under her pillow. She spat on it one, two, three, four times on each side before sliding between the feminine folds of her labia to give it lucubration. She was going through one of many fluctuation periods where she did not watch porn. She did this when she had to watch porn that got progressively darker and darker just to get turned on. Instead, she had still frames of half-naked females and males on her phone gallery icon. Feverishly, she swiped through pictures that captured her interests and made her thrust the through those swollenly aroused pussy lips. Jillian reclined her head and released a pleasureful moan and again and again with each pump. The next picture don't look of a dissected pregnant rat enstilled Jillian with horrid alarms and reluctance to pump. But she did. Damn it! Jillian whimpered as though the very thing she attempted to repel broke through and was presented to her. She hurriedly threw her phone to the floor in disgust, retaining her concentration on masturbating, she was so close and knew if she ceased her efforts she would not be able to cum, so she squeezed her eyelids shut. She thought she deleted all those pictures. At once she recalled the way it felt. She recalled the way it smelt. The images burned into her eyelids, becoming more real with the power used to shut them, her entire world was consumed with visuals that pulsed through her head and throbbed down into her throat, and pressed at her loins in a sick, sexual fashion, imprinting it inside of Jillian disregarding her will to ban them. Oh, fuuuck! Hissed Jillian in a fragile, gasping voice. She did not cease her thrusting, she picked up the pace. The slapping of her palm bouncing off her clit became lewdly wet. You're a dirty whore, Jill. Dirty w you're a d-d-dir-dirty-fucking-whore. A self-loathing, a self-pitying disgust plastered Jillian's face and it gave a violent speed to her hand and the sex toy pumping in and out of her. Jillian heaved inhales and exhales, thrusting with fury until she had an orgasm of pain. Her stomach was in knots from the intentional aggressive pumps. Jillian needed it to hurt. She was a bad, dirty, nasty girl. It was not a good orgasm. She did not enjoy it. Soon after she crossed to a photo frame that decored her dark brown bedroom dresser, cursed the person in the picture for doing this to her not the masturbation, she very well knew she did that to herself, and then she smashed it into shards of glass pieces on the wood floor. Another week later Jillian Grant sat on a metal chair in the same daunting colored gray roomed she did interviews in last week, legs crossed, foot loosely tapping in the air as she awaited the little dorks' arrival. She had decided that she will see him again after that little spit stunt of his, at least for even still, a warm up, maybe? A chair was pulled further from the desk and prisoner chair bolted to the floor, a small table provided for the pad of legal yellow paper and a pen. She was not attired in a raincoat or sunglasses, though she wore fashionable black sneakers.