Night Terrors

It’s an interesting sensation, looking at memories you’ve ripped from your own mind, especially when it contains its own memories. A bit like the doppler effect of a freight train passing in the night.

            There are memories you look at now and feel nothing, but at the time they were almost unbearable. Bad enough the need to hurt that builds like a woman’s cycle without any clear sign of any pattern, but then the self-loathing that follows… how did you survive them?

            Before the memory excision technology was developed to first access, then excise the data in the hippocampus and prefrontal cortex, you wouldn’t have been able to. Need, action and guilt would have built a vicious feedback loop, eventually resulting in a mistake that would lead the police to your door. Even acing your chances by working across the land to minimize detection by one of the little-league minded PDs wouldn’t have been enough.

            You look back at that first botched attack on that whore in Boston, and wonder how you could have been so dumb as to let her see your ring and to talk to her, even through a vocoder. Thank the gods that you chopped the version you sold to that creep in the Azores. No one will know the truth.

            You’re cleverer now. Training by studying rips may not be as efficient as ‘normal’ learning, by experience, but it’s good enough, as the attack on the girl in Washington showed.

            Appa might almost be proud of you, if that perversion he uses as a sex toy hadn’t blinded him. Sometimes it feels as if the whore is spying on you, but you’re careful – she doesn’t know about this secret room. If she does find it, she’ll never get past the alarms without the combination. 

            And now he’s going to give her to you, maybe she’ll teach you a few new things before she reaches the end of her usefulness.

            You feel your cock hardening at the thought of being in her. Perversions are good with their mouths, desperate to worm their way into a man’s affections any way they can, eager to make up for not being able to give a man proper pleasure in the right way. To ease the need that’s starting to build already, you relive that first attack again, smelling the whore’s cheap perfume, her faked gasps of pleasure as she lifts her feet further up your back, the feel of her warmth below you and the contrast with the coldness of her body where it’s been exposed to the open air. But the real pleasure is in watching the terror on her face as your hands fasten around her windpipe, the way she tautens in panic around your cock.

            In now-time your hand strokes the bulge in your pants as she bucks and thrashes beneath you, then fights back, digging her nails in, but she’s fading fast already. Caught by surprise she lost vital seconds.

            In your memory you download hers and you feel as she dies her own terror and she’s bucking and writhing beneath you and terrified of you pumping pumping pumping above her

            –and you rip out the memory even as she dies with your cum shooting into her.

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