Page 163 of Nash

My survival.

“Fuck you!” I scream, fighting back.

He can’t take my kiss, but he can take my goddamn knee in his balls. It’s enough to buy me a second as he stumbles back, cupping his groin.

My heart hammers. My blood seeps from my torn scalp in warm rivulets down my neck. My logic struggles.The knives?The knives?

But he’s blocking the doorway to the kitchen now. And if I escape? He’ll go back and murder Alena before he’s murdered, too.

So I circle the living room furniture, putting the sofas and chairs between us.

He stalks around, his knife waving low, as I circle right, and he tracks left to catch me.

“You watching my hips now?” I taunt, and he sneers, slowing.

He craves this chase, this hunt.He’s a true predator.

All humanity leaves his eye, and he’s a vacant animal. He can’t take his rabid stare off his prey as I dart one way, and he prowls after me. Like an evil dance, we slowly circle the room.

He licks his lips, his bloody knife dripping in one hand, and suddenly, I know it’s blood from the sweet guard at the bottom of the steps.Turner snuck up on him and sliced his throat.That’s the only way he got in.

“You pathetic two-incher,” I snarl. “Your mother should’ve swallowed you.”

“Swallowed me?” He leans one way, so I dash the other while he unzips his navy shorts. “Yeah, you’ll swallow me while you choke to death on my inches.”

It’s vile. It’s gross. It’s not sexual, it’s depraved how he pulls his dick out. It’s not big, but it’s hard. Violence arouses him, so he exposes his erection, proudly, lewdly showing me how he gets off on hunting me, brandishing his bloody knife while his fiendish eye ogles my tank top and shorts.

“Choke on you?” I jeer, “Your baby penis could barely sneeze a wad of cock snot.”

His dick stabs the air, angry and red like his snarl, but it doesn’t soften. No, it hardens at my insult, bouncing when he suddenly lunges my way, and I race around, putting my back to the front door and his toward the golf course.

His ego hungers for my fight. He’d get off on my resistance. But me? I notice his dick drip, waiting and begging, and I’ve read too many books. I have an educated guess.

“You want to fuck me with that little thing?”

His mutilated lips part with a gasp, his hand instinctively returning to fist his erection.

Now, I have a solid theory, and I test it. “You know, I’ve heard excessive masturbation shortens the penis.”

His chest heaves. He starts jerking himself off.

One more test of my hypothesis.My professors would be so proud.“Would it squeal if I squeeze it?”

“Yes, bitch,” he hisses.

Yep, SPH.Small penis humiliation. It’s a legit fetish, and many men have it, even if they aren’t small.

Turner’s a textbook case. Born into so much power and entitlement, he craves humiliation, the emotional sadism of it. It’s cathartic for him. He doesn’t even realize it; he just gets off on it.

But I know how to use it.

The violent storm outside has muted to evening rain. The yellow flag to the tenth hole flaps in the waning wind, grabbing my quick attention, reminding me…

My golf clubs.

They’re behind me, down in the foyer by the front door.

I just need a chance to get to them.

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