Black Rose (2 page)

Black Rose

Because some women don’t want champagne and roses, they NEED black roses and knives. It is for these women I write my story…

My name is Charles Wentworth III and I suppose if I was to have to describe myself with one word it would be
oxymoron
. Whether it is due to nature or nurture, to say the least, I am a contradiction in terms.

I am just as comfortable in nothing but a pair of jeans, walking through my mansion barefoot, as I am in a suit and tie. I am a chameleon of sorts but, then again, when you’re a serial killer, concessions must be made.

I was raised in the upper echelon of society. In my world, appearances are everything and perfection is paramount. From the day I was born, I was taught in what manner to behave around the elite of society who inhabit my world—a world where you inherit your social circle and no amount of money can buy or secure your place there.

Though I was born into the status I have been allotted, I was also born with innate traits—traits that need to remain hidden at all costs. You see… I am a born
predator.
I am no different than a wild animal in this sense. I enjoy the hunt, capture, and take down of my prey. It isn’t something I do, it is who I am. No amount of resistance or therapy will ever change my nature. Just as surely as I was born into my social status, I was also born with the nature of a killer.

Surprisingly enough, this bleeds over (no pun intended) into my sexual escapades. Once I have tracked my prey, I will stop at nothing to attain that which I crave. I am a stalker in every sense of the word, and I am very good at what I do.

As fate would have it, I have raised my nostrils in the night air of sensuality and I have gotten a whiff of the prey that I so desire. A woman I have coveted in my dreams has now become a reality. After years of searching for a woman I can take under my wing and train, I have finally found her. By the time I am finished grooming her to my preferences, she will be perfect for me. She will be a woman with a craving for my cock and my deviant sexual tendencies.

Oddly enough, the type of woman I have been looking for is not what would normally fit the stereotype of a man of my means. She is the total opposite of the women who have graced my arm in the social functions I attend.

In the past, the women I fuck have been mere eye candy for the press and paparazzi who make a living selling my pictures to magazines. Paparazzi prey off the general public who live vicariously through the rich and famous and I gave them what they wanted to see.

Melanie is anything but mere eye candy; she is a woman with heart, soul, and substance. These characteristics seem to be lacking in the women who normally pursue me—women who crave the limelight, money, and social status I can provide. It’s enough to hurt a man’s feelings… if I had them. Lucky for me, I learned to turn my emotions off years ago.

I never lack a warm body in my bed due to the abundant pictures, newspaper articles, and press interviews of me ever present in the media. Each woman covets a spot in the social section of
The Courier Journal
, better known as the CJ of Louisville, KY. Horse racing has been good to this city and the Kentucky Derby has been a gold mine, a drawing card for the rich and famous. Anyone who is anyone attends the annual race and never lets the opportunity to show off their fashion sense in hats go to waste. It has grown so much that even those who grace the screens of Hollywood attend. Each woman on my arm believes I can give her a life of fame and fortune. Each woman believes she will be the one I will fall madly in love with and make all her dreams come true. In turn, I fuck them and move on to the next naïve victim. Being upfront with them about my unavailability only seems to spur them on. It’s a bit of reverse psychology though that is not the reason for my being so forthright. I am honest with them because I want to fuck them and then I want them to leave me the fuck alone.

My obsession with Melanie has opened the door to a problem I never anticipated. Now I always measure any other woman by the standard that I perceive Melanie to be and they never measure up. 

I have now come to the conclusion that the women in my escapades curb my passion—nothing more, nothing less—and tonight, I need some curbing to be done. For those of you who have read of my exploits in Miller’s memoirs (The Contract Series), I believe it is necessary to share this one story once again, for the sake of those of who have not. At the risk of repeating myself, please bear with me in order for me to enlighten those who have not read that series. Once again, I graciously offer my apologies. This will be the only story repeated and, I promise, I have purpose in doing so.

I make my way into an establishment on the Upper East Side for a drink. It always humors me how ‘the high society girls’ make their way over as if they aren’t trying to pick me up.

I eye the latest flavor who has eased her way into the bar stool next to me. Her hair is done in long, dark ringlets and her make-up appears as though it was professionally applied by a stylist. She wears a tight, salmon colored, banded dress that lifts up just high enough to show the lace at the top of her sexy, black thigh highs when she sits down.

I don’t have much time for the high society women who reside in my income bracket. They remind me too much of my Mother—uptight, frigid, social-climbing cunts.

I am smart enough to realize they can’t be that frigid all the time, not if they are anything like my
Mommy Dearest
. I know all too well I am the seed spawned from an affair my Mother had years ago but like any good high society family, denial runs rampant. The secret has been swept under the rug and
all is well
in the Wentworth household.

     Tonight’s entertainment makes her way to the ladies’ room. I retrieve my wallet and lay a generous tip down for the bartender. I swiftly turn on the toe of my Italian leather shoes and make my way into the hallway that houses the restrooms to await the brunette. She steps through the door and I lean in to speak in her ear.

“I’m leaving… and I would love nothing more than to pin you in the alleyway and fuck your brains out before I retire for the evening.”

With that, I quickly turn and make my way out the door. The baffled brunette just stands there for a moment in shock but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk away.

I lean against the alleyway wall, smoking a cigarette and listening for the click clacking of stilettos that I know will soon come.

Sure enough, the brunette turns the corner, looking back and forth over her shoulder behind her as she makes her way into the alley.

As soon as she opens her mouth to speak, I grab a handful of her hair and growl in her ear, “Shut the fuck up and get your hands up against the wall!”

I pull her legs out, bend her body at the waist, and move behind her as I begin to growl threats. “Don’t you dare move your fucking hands off of that wall, bitch!”

      I stand behind her and slowly shimmy her dress up. I yank her G-string off of her as if it is nonexistent. I begin to rub her torn panties back and forth between her already swollen nether lips, coating them in her juices. I watch her body tremble with interest as I lean in and begin to degrade her with my speech. “I’m a vile, nasty man. I’m an animal who is going to fuck you in a back alley and probably never see you again. Your cunt is dripping wet, girl. That’s it… come all over those panties, because when you finish coming, I’m stuffing them between those perfectly lined lips of yours!”

She cries out as her juices soil the underwear I have used to rub over her sensitive clit until I brought her to orgasm.

I jerk her head back and command her to open her mouth. I shove the soiled panties between her lips just as I informed her I would do. I pull my hardened cock out and sheath it.

“I’m going to fuck you up against this brick wall, girl.”

She jacks her ass up and spreads her legs, giving me free rein to follow through with everything I have threatened.

I am viciously fucking her when I look up and see a man who has entered the mouth of the alley. He is now watching us and engaged in full blown masturbation. Our twosome has now become a threesome.

    “You are a Fifth Avenue slut who is getting fucked in an alleyway while a drunk watches and jacks off.”

She hadn’t noticed him until I began to taunt her. I twist her hair in my fist as I take my finger and begin to manipulate her clit. It is evident I am not the only one who is getting turned by the knowledge that we now have a voyeur. Little Miss High Society is now clawing her perfectly manicured nails into the bricks as she climaxes.

I grab both of her hips, viciously pounding my cock in and out of her, as I unload into the condom I’m wearing.

I take a moment to recoup and then hiss in her ear, “Don’t fucking call me or look for me. If I ever want to fuck you again, I’m well able to find you.”

I throw the rubber off and turn, making my way down the alley. I can hear her heels clicking their way around the corner and back into the bar. I chuckle as I think about the irony of
high society.

Black Rose

“Though a single black rose, tis his kiss of death; for her it holds no power. For when she doth receive, tis not a mere black rose; but a bouquet thereof…”

I make my way through the room, fingering some of the items I have purchased for my precious Melanie and her son, Tommy.

I have spent a lot of time on her dwelling place that I will soon be taking her to. The time is at hand for me to take the last of these items to the apartment located behind my aunt’s suburban home. After all, I want to be certain my little prey will feel right at home. I have gone to extreme measures to ensure that everything I purchase will be to Melanie’s liking.

I know what size clothing she wears, what brands of make-up she would like to use but can’t afford, and what cologne she would love to be able to lavishly spray on. I know these things because my heart has broken as I’ve watched her at the mall staring longingly at the items she cannot afford to purchase. I have seen her get samples of the perfume she wishes she could wear while the woman behind the counter looks at her as if she is trash. There will come a day I will escort her back to the department store for the sole purpose of buying her the very cologne she was forced to put back. You can be certain I will purposely choose a different sales lady to make sure that rude bitch will not make commission from the purchase. Depending on my mood that day, I may even lean in and whisper something derogatory into her ear just to humiliate her and watch her pompous face turn beet red. I can assure you that she will pay for her rude treatment of my precious kitten.

Melanie is everything I have ever dreamed of in a woman to fulfill my eccentric sexual appetites. She is the perfect woman to teach, train, and to take. This makes her even more desirable in my eyes because even though I can afford to buy anything and, most times, anyone I want, I rather like the idea of
taking
Melanie.

The hunt of prey is always so delicious but Melanie isn’t just
any prey.
No, Melanie is a keeper.

She is not anything like the trash I have tied up in my basement right now. All he is… is a means to an end. He is only a messenger—someone to relay the message that I so desperately need to get out to the public. I need for the public to understand me. I need for my fans to see me for the man I truly am.

I don’t just want Melanie, I covet Melanie. I crave her, much like a junkie craves a fix. My desire is that she will crave me as much as I do her even when my truth is revealed to her. There have been times, such as the day in the parking garage when she took Tommy to the doctor, that I almost veered from my plan. She had been so close. I could literally smell her and it had taken all of my mental fortitude to not reach out and grab her but things have to be done correctly. She is a prize, someone to be treasured, and not a woman to be squandered on just any man. Enough thinking about Melanie, I have work to do.

I make my way out of the bedroom and through the massive hallway. I grab one of the black roses from the crystal vase adorning the massive, antique, oblong table which sits on the expensive, marble flooring. I walk down the spiral staircase and make my way through the mansion’s foyer, into the formal dining area, through the chef’s commercial kitchen, and to the door that will bring me to the basement confining my next victim.

The staff is gone for the day and I will have more than ample time to torture my prey before the final kill.

I pull the key from the small hook next to the door, unlock the deadbolt, and then place the key in my tailored pants pocket. I reach up to flip the switch on my right and make my way down the steps.

I approach the man I have secured to the large wooden column with zip ties and hold up the black rose as I eye him.

“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to leave this black rose with your lifeless body along with a note that will proclaim to the world I am not a mindless serial killer.

“I have purpose and that purpose is to rid this city of the dregs of society. I need to eliminate the scum like your worthless whores who spread disease, the pimps like you who prey on the working class, and the drug addicts who steal everything that is not nailed down. You know exactly what I am speaking of—users who prey on those of us who work, users who prey on those of us who are productive members of society.

“Your days of having your whores pick up men, luring them to hotel rooms so that you can rob them for drug money, are over. I bet you didn’t know that the last victim who fell for you and your whore’s set-up was in the hospital for close to six weeks. He lost his job, his wife, his children, and, ultimately, even his life. Unable to cope, he committed suicide by jumping from the roof of a downtown building all so you could get your next fix.”

I can hear the man’s terrified screams behind the gag I have placed on him as I pick up the razor sharp knife, but there is no redemption in my eyes… only justice.

The world needs to know Charles Wentworth III is not a serial killer without purpose; I am, however, a man who believes in leveling the playing field. If anything… I am an equalizer.

Yes, people need to know I am not some sick, demented, serial killer. I am not a man who randomly kills people off for the thrill factor. What I am is a man who believes in taking out the trash and that is exactly what I am doing—taking out the trash…