Chapter Text
My name is Patrick Bateman. I am twenty-seven years old.
I have completely lost interest in all things which used to bring me satisfaction in my life. Killing has slowly begun to lose its merit, as I have begun to recognize predictable patterns even in that. Girls’ screams sound the same, their blood the same shade of red. Their fear and pain no longer entertain me. My ears have grown accustomed to the sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing between my fists. I know how people taste, and I have memorized the sound of a dying breath. The function of a dying body has become all but familiar and predictable to me, and it is coming to a point where the smell of rotting flesh and the stink of shit is not worth the inadequate thrill that violence and gore now brings me. I am completely and utterly overtaken and enveloped in numbness in every aspect of life, and I am finding that increasingly less and less things pull me out of it.
I can no longer form an erection unmedicated, which has brought me an unending amount of distress and self-disgust. Even Body Double fails to make my dick stand up anymore. I don’t feel anything.
I spend my days in the office, pumped full of whatever drugs I can get my hands on, and at night I fuck hardbody girls with the aid of pills, and I kill them afterwards, forcing a weak orgasm when I can. I eat at the most expensive restaurants, but the food tastes bland and flavorless, the portions luxuriously small and easy to swallow down with no concern of fattening calorie intake. I wear the most expensive clothes, and I have a lifeless, albeit well-paying job.
I have been throwing most of my attention into my appearance, and I am tanner than I have ever been, flawless skin stretching over perfectly toned muscle. I am incredibly fit, as I follow a carefully orchestrated and intensive exercise regimen of my own design daily. Today I wear a double-breasted wool suit over a pinstriped undershirt in the color cornflower blue, with a paisley tie, all Versace down to the socks. I look good.
Tonight, I met Paul Allen at Texarkana over dinner in an attempt at gaining some information on the renowned Fischer account- One of the most valuable accounts at Pierce & Pierce, an account in which Paul has apparently gotten his hands on. Later, I have planned to kill him with an axe over an expensive bottle of Acacia in my apartment.
Paul has mistaken me for one of our business associates, Marcus Halberstram. This is understandable seeing as Marcus and I work in the same department, working identical jobs, and we share a penchant for Valentino suits and Oliver People’s glasses. We even go to the same barber, although I have a slightly better haircut.
Paul Allen is many things. First and foremost, as is true for most if not all of my associates at Pierce & Pierce, he is a complete carbon copy of all of my colleagues. They’re all the same. Cocky, greedy, rich bastards who are all addicted to blow and pussy and having more money and flashy clothing than all the other cocky, greedy, rich bastards around them. He is obnoxious and loud, supposedly charming and decently attractive. He went to Yale, and judging by the way he looks at me (Which, who are we kidding, is the same way that most people look at me), he is most likely a closet homosexual. He works out, tans, swipes his AmEx more times a day than he breathes air in and out his lungs, eats at prestigious, overpriced restaurants by day, goes clubbing at night, finds a decent piece of ass to take home, screws her, and repeats.
He is overly friendly in the way in which you know it is completely artificial, but he has a way of making it seem so genuine. Paul Allen is a certified smooth talker. Thats how the bastard probably got his hands on the Fischer account. And those reservations at Dorsia. Dickhead.
Most importantly, Paul Allen is a person that thinks he is better than me. The most alarming thing about this fact is that he may just have evidence to back this up as truth.
The dinner, though thus far proving to be unsuccessful, hasn’t been as torturous as I may have suspected, probably due to the fact that I am on my fifth J&B of the evening- neat.
Paul sits across from me at our table- a good one, one which provides a nice view of the front window. Overlooking our table is the massive head of a buffalo mounted on the wall, its beady, watery eyes watching over us as we dine. The table placement would be impressive if it weren’t for the fact that the restaurant is almost completely empty. Paul, on the other hand, is far more trashed than I, an almost impressive feat. His drink of choice for the evening has been a double absolute martini, and I have lost count of the number of which he has consumed, but assuredly the number in question would not be small.
We have moved on from casual workplace chit chat, and I am almost actually enjoying myself, if not just because I am watching the effortlessly cool, smooth talker of P&P unravel before me. He is completely and utterly fucked, nodding along with everything I say, no matter what that thing is, giggling to himself like a schoolgirl at my every word, and yet still holding firm at his refusal to give up even a tiny snippet of information about the account. I have been working on circling the conversation back towards the account, somewhat unsuccessfully.
“Holy shit. Halberstram. Check it.” Paul says, zeroed in on something in the distance.
I look over my shoulder absentmindedly, scanning the room for anything of interest.
I shoot a look back at Paul, wondering what has him cracking up like he is.
“It’s Curruthers! Are you seeing this?” he says, pointing blatantly towards the other man, who, sure enough is sitting across the restaurant at a table near the toilets. Quite pathetic, if you ask me. How does one even manage to acquire such a shitty table in a place that’s almost completely deserted?
I scrunch my nose at the mention of his name, looking to see what the big fuss is about.
What lies before me is truly a sight to behold. Curruthers sits stiffly in his booth, hands folded tightly on the table before him, an incredibly busty chick draped over his shoulder. In what must be an extreme lapse of judgement on her part, she is clearly coming on to him. She is blonde and wears a skimpy dress, (a bright pink, silk spaghetti strap that her tits are practically spilling out of. Looks to be Ralph Lauren or something.) As attractive as this girl is, and as clearly slutty, the man looks like he actually wants to off himself, or at least to melt back into his seat never to be seen again.
“Holy shit. She looks like a god damned porn star! What the hell is a girl like that doing here with a guy like Curruthers?” I exclaim, in a state of complete and total shock.
“That’s not even the best part.” Paul says excitedly, “She has a date. Some older guy- at least double her age. Looked like a grade-fuckin-A asshole. He left for the bathroom or something and she didn’t even wait a second to go throw herself at Curruthers. I mean, she’s totally coming on to him. It’s criminal!”
The both of us watch in awe as the girl actually grabs Luis’s jaw and pulls it towards herself, lining her heavily lipsticked lips with his ear and whispering into it seductively. He practically jumps out of his skin at her touch, stiffly and awkwardly adjusting his tacky bow tie. I almost feel bad for him.
“Really? Him?” I say in wonder.
“I know, right? I mean, hey. Some girls are into the dorky types, I guess. Or in his case, the total fags. Comes from a very specific brand of daddy issues if you ask me.” Paul remarks, almost delightedly.
“The boring kind.” I reply.
“Yeah right! How do you think you got a girl like Cecelia Wagner to go out with you?”
“Fuck you. I’m a total catch.” I shoot back.
“Yeah, yeah. Besides, I think Bateman and his girl fit the profile a bit better.” He says with a smirk, seemingly searching my face for a reaction.
I look at him unimpressedly. He seems quite intent on inadvertently insulting me today. What a jackass.
“Look at him! He looks like he’s got a giant slug crawling over him rather than a beautiful woman!” Paul cackles, eyes sparkling.
It is really quite a hilarious sight.
“Did he even come with anyone? Courtney or something? I mean what the hell would he be doing in Texarkana all by himself anyways...? Think he got stood up?” I wonder aloud.
“Maybe he couldn’t find anyone willing to be seen in public with him.” Paul says seriously.
But, as if on cue, Courtney enters the room on wobbly feet- She’s clearly on something. My eyes widen and I make eye contact with Paul, who looks almost giddy.
Courtney stops in her tracks and Luis’s body somehow stiffens even further, his mouth open in a little ‘o’.
Courtney promptly begins to cry, and Daddy Issues stands from her post hanging on Luis to shout at Courtney. Luis scrambles out of the booth, looking from Courtney, to Daddy Issues, back to Courtney again, evidently trying to reason with the two of them and twiddling his thumbs nervously as he does so. It is all too hilarious to handle. I only wish we were closer so we could hear what they were saying.
“Does she honestly think that Curruthers is even capable of having an affair?” I snort at the ridiculousness of it all.
“With a woman?! Can you even imagine?” Paul roars with laughter and I am cracking up too. Real, belly laughter. Something I can’t actually remember the last time I felt. I will never pass up an opportunity to shit on Curruthers and I am actually wondering what made me hate Paul so much in the first place.
The waiter walks past and Paul barks rudely at him to bring another martini. I respect it. There is no need to respect those so far below you on the social hierarchy. We are their superiors and should treat them as such.
“Jesus, this place has gone to shit.” he says bitterly, changing the subject. “I mean, I already asked that asshole for a refill, like, ten minutes ago. I shouldn't have to ask twice.”
“Actually, Paul, I think you just already drank it.” I remark with a snort. He really has gone off the deep end tonight.
He startles and looks down at his empty glass.
“Did I? Shit, you might be right.” He says, cracking up a bit. The side of my mouth threatens to quirk upwards, but I restrain this from happening. I know that the complaints about the restaurant are a subtle dig at me for picking it, so I won’t give him the satisfaction of laughing at any more of his remarks.
“Of course I’m right. Don’t blame the restaurant on your own drunkenness. Besides, you said it yourself- The Gumbo here is great.”
“Yeah, you’ve got that right. What’d you get again? Charcoal something or other?”
“Mhm. The charcoal arugula.” I say absentmindedly, checking my watch. When I look up, Paul is reaching across the table and stabbing his fork onto my plate. What the fuck?
I watch with horror as he samples my food. I imagine the bacteria crawling over his fork that has just scraped against my food, and I feel the overwhelming urge to bend over and empty the whole contents of my stomach onto the floor. Maybe it had seemed like we were getting on alright, but this is a step too far.
“Hmm. Not bad!” He says, not acknowledging the grimace on my face, and carrying on with conversation that I can’t even comprehend because I am so baffled with what had just happened. He speaks so casually, as if that was a totally normal action. What are we, a God damned couple? Who does that??
I push my plate away from me, my appetite completely lost. He’s insane if he thinks I am about to swap spit with him via my salad. The more I interact with him, the more convinced I am that he really is a closet homosexual. A homosexual’s spit in my food. Bacteria, spreading and multiplying and infecting. I shudder at the thought; His actions pulling me back into my senses and reminding me of the task on hand. I don’t like Paul Allen even remotely, and he will be dead by the end of the night. There is no need to imitate camaraderie with the man, or to allow myself to restructure my opinion on him.
“Hey Halberstram.” He says, pointing at me with the fork he had just moments ago taken upon himself to stab at my food on my plate.
I acknowledge Paul with my eyes, but don’t answer verbally, still feeling pretty disturbed by the incident with the arugula.
“Why do you even care so much about Fischer anyways? I mean, I wasn’t really under the impression that you gave that many shits about your job.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling slightly offended. Is he implying that I am insufficient in the workplace? Either way, I am grateful that he brought the subject back up.
“I just mean… does anyone?”
“Well sure, people care about their jobs. Jesus, don’t tell me you’re about to get all philosophical on me. I don’t want to hear about your hopes and dreams and how unfulfilling your life is or anything like that.” I say, half joking but not really.
“Christ, no. What am I, a chick?” he snorts.
“I guess not.” I say. Although, if you slapped some long hair and tits on him, you could almost mistake him for one- If it weren’t for his muscular, well-built physique. Maybe it is the alcohol clouding my vision but there is something about his eyes, which are big and wide and sparkling, surrounded by long, thick eyelashes, that looks so… effeminate. They are very pretty. Much too pretty for a guy. I push the thought away, grimacing at the knowledge that my brain even came up with such a thing. Remember what you’re here for.
“But anyways, c’mon. It’s not like any of us have any specific attachment to the profession, aside from the money. Nobody gives a shit about the work side of things. Everyone we know spends more time at ‘work’ with their noses buried in sports illustrated or playboy.”
“Or lines of coke.” I add.
“Exactly!” he laughs. “Anyways, I’m just wondering what you think you’d be gaining from knowing how I got it. You’ve got your hands full with Jhonston and whoever the hell else. You know logically that it would make no sense for me to go around handing out stakes in it. You have money. What’s the point?”
“To make connections, Allen.” I say. Is this guy fucking stupid or something? “That’s what we do. You know how it works. So, what gives? Who did you talk to?”
“Well, you know the business. Shit just falls into place, you know? You get a referral or meet the right guy and that’s all there really is to it. Tell you the truth I didn’t really even do anything. It’s all just right-place, right-time.”
“Yeah. Thats basically what I just already said. Do you always have to be so vague?”
“Well, I sure don’t want you leeching off of my hard-earned success.” He says jokingly. I roll my eyes and flag down the waiter and order for him to bring the check.
“You calling it quits already?” He says as the waiter scurries off to retrieve it.
“Yes. If you aren’t planning on giving up any information of value, I don’t really see any reason in prolonging this dinner.” Even if I’m not not enjoying myself.
“Harsh, Halberstram. Is my company really that shit?” he says, feigning offense.
“No!” I say a bit too quickly. “I mean, the place is dead anyways.”
“I told you we should have gone to Dorsia. I could have gotten us a table.”
“So could I.” I snap, beginning to tire of his constant need to tease me. Not that I’m taking it to heart or anything, but it gets old fast.
“Sure you could, man. You keep on telling yourself that.”
I shoot him a glare that could kill, and he suppresses a grin. What an asshole.
“I’m just fucking with you, dude. It’s fine, really. You were right. I don’t mind the Crawfish Gumbo once in a while. Besides, the arugula wasn’t half bad either.” He says with a wink. I swallow back the intense urge to vomit.
Just then, the waiter arrives with the check, relieving me of the task of coming up with a response. We throw our cards down and he scurries away with them like a mouse.
Now. I need to think of a way to get this asshole back to my apartment so I can kill the motherfucker.
“Do you want to come back to my place?” I blurt out suddenly, with none of my usual grace. It is straight forward and out of the blue, but it seems to do the trick because Paul simply shoots a smirk at me, and replies: “Thought you’d never ask.”
I look at him with a frown. I don’t really get this guy. He is acting weird. As if he would have had any previous suspicion that I would be taking him home with me tonight.
The waiter returns with our receipts and we both slide our cards back into our wallets.
“Alright. Let’s get out of here then.” Paul says, standing from the spot which we sit.
I slam back the dregs of my Corona, which by now is a bit watered down and tasteless, and happily oblige, relieved to leave this place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at my apartment and we are a glass or two into my bottle of Acacia.
The alcohol has pushed Paul even further over the edge and he has now most likely lost any semblance of coherent thought.
To set the mood, I am playing him some Huey Luis and the News. Currently blaring from my stereo is Hip to be Square. I am explaining the entire discography of their album, Fore!
As I explain this, I put on a cheap raincoat that I picked up from Brooks Brothers this past Wednesday and I remove my axe from the shower, where I had it stashed for later use.
Paul is sprawled lazily across my couch, completely inebriated, muttering something about a dog in relation to the newspaper that I have spread over my apartment floor so that I do not stain my good carpet or furniture with his bodily fluids.
He tosses his head backwards over the headboard of the couch, looking at me upside down through thick eyelashes and squinted eyes.
“Is that a raincoat?” He asks, quirking his brow.
“Yes, it is!” I reply jovially.
He laughs through his nose and collapses back onto the couch, hiccupping.
I allow myself a moment for the music that is playing to consume me, Huey’s deep jazzy tones getting me into the groove of things.
I take a deep breath in before I swing my axe at the back of his head with closed eyes and a strangled cry: ‘Hey Paul! Try getting into Dorsia now you stupid fucking bastard!’, and I hear the crack of his skull splintering as the shiny metal connects with his flesh and I feel the resistance of steel meeting bone, followed by the thump of his body hitting the floor. I open my eyes and the first thing I notice is the distinct lack of blood spattered over my floor, and the new presence of white fluffy feathers scattered about the room. Fuck. My couch. I hit the goddamn couch.
Allen giggles in between hiccups from the ground, the fucking bastard.
“What are you doing, Halberstram? Was that a fucking axe?!”
I peer over the, now ruined, expensive fucking couch, and make eye contact with the incapacitated, and unfortunately not decapitated man as he rolls around on the newspaper I sat out for him.
My nostrils flaring, I rip the axe out from my couch in one fluid motion, slapping the handle into my left hand menacingly. I stroll across the room calmly to go look Paul Allen into his bastard face before I put an axe into it, for real this time.
“I uh… saw a spider,” I say, not sure why I even bother to lie to a man whose skull I am about to split in two. Usually, I like to see the fear in my victims’ faces before I kill them. He lets out an ugly snort, spouting unintelligible nonsense that only somewhat resembles a sentence.
“I can’t fucking hear you, Allen,” I say, facing him with a twisted grin plastered on my face and holding the axe up in front of him, close enough so that he can see his own reflection in the reflective shiny steel. His crystal blue eyes widen in surprise and his mouth falls open in a little ‘o’ shape, the stupid giddy expression he previously adopted completely evaporating. He quickly scrambles off of his back and without hesitation, he grabs the Acacia and smashes the bottle over the glass coffee table, sending a tsunami of expensive aged wine as well as shards of glass from both the bottle and the table exploding onto the white sheets I have placed over the furniture to protect it from blood and other bodily fluids, the red wine ironically making the place look like a fucking murder scene. He stumbles to his feet and whips around with surprising grace, considering his drunkenness.
“What the hell is your problem, Halberstram?” He asks, swaying slightly, and pointing the ruined bottle at me with a shaking hand. I notice how it broke in such a way that it would be near impossible for him to stab me with it without, in turn, slicing a deep wound in his hand, and that thought excites me a bit. I swing my axe at him mockingly a few times, giggling to myself as he stumbles around and flinches, tripping stupidly on his own feet. I expect him to, in turn, stab the splintered bottle at me, but he instead throws it directly at my face, causing me to duck, and he takes this chance to dive at me.
I fall stupidly on my ass, Paul on top of me, attempting to wrestle the axe out of my hands. His drunken strength surprises me, as mere moments ago he was barely able to hold his own body up sitting on my goddamn couch, and since I am writhing on the ground slightly, shards of glass burying themselves into my skin from the back, he is able to pry it out of my hands. At this point he is straddling me, pinning me down with a knee on either side of my body, and pointing my own axe at me threateningly.
In the tussle he must have gotten some blood on him, because his face is speckled slightly with the stuff, and I am not sure if it is his or my own.
I do not take this moment to struggle with my mortality because I have no particular attachment to the life I have been living, and there is a great chance that my own death would actually come as a major relief to me, as I do not feel as if there is any exit from this hell in sight for me. I, instead, take this moment to admire first, myself in the reflection of the axe, and then the way that Paul Allen’s hair still looks damn good even in its disheveled state, and I make a mental note to find out where he gets his hair cut before he inevitably dies, silently hoping that my hair falls into place in such a way when I am on top of somebody I am about to kill, and that even though there is a chance that his haircut is slightly better than mine, that mine is more expensive at the very least.
Paul does not say anything and he does not move, simply just sits on top of me, heaving, unsure of what to do, probably questioning his morals , which are also probably clouded by the sheer amount of alcohol that he has ingested since I have been with him tonight. Just then, it occurs to me that there is not a single time in my memory that I have not had complete control of the dire situations I place myself in, and that I am currently in the position of all of the girls I have fucked or raped and then killed; I am completely at the mercy of another person. This thought turns me on a little bit, and I can feel myself getting hard, my erection spurred on by the feeling of Paul’s weight shifting over my cock. It has been a while since this occurred naturally, so, not wanting to lose the feeling, I buck my hips upward a bit and this action surprises Paul enough that he swings the axe harshly towards my face, causing my heart to skip a beat.
He misses by no more than two inches, close enough that I can see splintered wood through my peripherals and can feel the sharp bits of wood slightly rubbing against my skin, but I do not dare take my eyes off of Paul. We stare at each other for a split second, and it looks as if his own action has surprised him as well. I cannot tell if his missing me was intentional or a product of his own drunken stupor, but without missing a beat, from the moment that steel connects with hard wood I grab a fistful of silky, perfectly groomed hair, and I smash my mouth into his, our teeth clattering together and immediately I can taste blood which sends even more blood rushing towards my cock, and unexpectedly, Paul responds by urgently pressing his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and wine with an undertone of coppery blood, and although I hold a particular distain for cigarettes I lap the taste out of his mouth and into mine, thinking that since he decided to waste my wine all over the floor, I may as well make the best of the flavor while I have the chance, before I purchase a new one. Somewhere distantly in the back of my head, alarms are blaring that are telling me to stop, that this is wrong and disgusting. They will for me to remember the feeling of disgust and repulsion that I had felt not an hour ago when I had pictured my food swimming with bacteria from the same mouth that is currently attached to mine, but the feeling does not come. Paul’s tongue swirls around my mouth in such a way that suggests that he, too is taking in the flavor of mine, and as we continue to make out he is shamelessly grinding on my dick, which is harder than I have been able to get it in months, even with multiple doses of Viagra, and I begin to paw at Paul’s shirt, not allowing myself to consider the possible implications of another man’s tongue down my throat, but instead relishing in the feeling because in this moment, I feel alive.
I fumble with the buttons on his shirt: cotton, Joseph Abboud, and he tries to aid me in taking it off but his fingers keep slipping so I slap them away and he puts his hands in my hair and presses our faces together even closer, biting my lip hard enough that I think he may be drawing blood. Still working on the shirt, I squint my eyes open and see Allen’s immaculate tan, not quite darker than mine, not quite lighter either, but with a slightly different undertone than on my skin, one that I think compliments mine nicely. I want to see how his abs compare to mine, if he is as fit or as toned, but I cannot seem to get this damned shirt off of him, nor can I see his abdomen at the correct angle to check. I continue to struggle, rage building up inside of me, directed both at my dilemma with the shirt and the fact that though it feels good, Allen’s grinding is just not enough for me. I need more.
Paul abruptly slams me back into the ground, sitting himself up a bit, and briefly taking his mouth off of mine, a string of pink saliva keeping them connected still. He pulls the shirt over his head with one arm and quickly he puts his mouth back on me, now working his way down my sharp, impeccable jawline. I let him, and I return to my task, grabbing at Allen’s stomach, because I need to confirm whether his abs are as firm as mine are, because if so, I may need to alter my workout routine a bit.
I graze his abdomen a few times but Allen is moving too fucking much for me to be able to tell, and I accidentally grab a fistful of his erect penis, fully groping the other man and I recoil a bit, his penis serving as a sick reminder of his sex. But, as quickly as these thoughts enter my brain, they whiz right back out just as fast because Allen completely melts into my touch, his body jolting, and it seems to awaken something almost animal in him because he starts working on me even harder and faster. He tugs at my clothes, the goddamned raincoat that I had donned in order to kill the sonofabitch, and I don’t even fold them as they come off of me and it reminds me once again that I am not the one in control this time, and it makes me feel a little bit claustrophobic, a feeling that in this moment, I welcome. He is kissing and biting all down my body, his hands roaming all over me, causing me to shiver and for my cock to throb against both of our thighs.
He lifts his hips off of mine as he works down my body, and I miss the friction immediately, but not for long because he is shoving a large hand down my pants, finally making contact with my cock which is dripping with precum. He begins stroking as he licks at and admires my body, understandably, and without my even having to gesture him towards it or push his head, he takes my cock out of my underwear, which were sixty dollars and designer, and he hungrily licks at the head before taking it fully into his mouth.
He doesn’t choke, as even some of the most whorish girls I fuck sometimes do, but instead bobs his head at the perfect pace, hollowing out his cheeks and allowing me to grab him by the hair and fuck his mouth completely as he strokes at the base of my penis. His mouth is hot and warm and his tongue grazes the bottom of my penis as he engulfs me, his hand large and strong and sturdy wrapped around it.
This does not last too long as I am brought to an orgasm in record time. I come long and hard into his mouth and in another unexpected turn of events he does not pull his mouth off of my dick, but lets me come into his mouth, and he swallows hard, licking the remaining deposit off of my sensitive post-orgasm penis, and before I can run to my own defense and tell him that I am not homosexual, he brings his mouth back to mine and we are kissing again, my cum bringing a new salty taste into his cigarette breath. This goes on for a while until eventually I am turned on enough to wet my fingers using our combined saliva and stick my hand down his pants, beginning to jerk him off at a slightly awkward angle since I am still pinned below him and there is little room between our bodies. He adjusts a bit, sitting up so that he looms above me as I continue to stroke his penis, occasionally fondling his balls with my other hand in the same way that I know feels good to me.
It is then, as I stare at him from below, mouth salivating at the sight of his face which is screwed up with pleasure, that I realize that this is the most attractive I have ever found a man that is not myself. It then occurs to me the similarity between the two of us, the golden-brown locks of silky smooth and immaculately groomed hair, dazzling blue eyes, and perfectly straight, stark white teeth that commonly sparkle behind a cocky smile. I admire his tan skin and his bushy eyebrows and his long eyelashes and smooth skin and suddenly I am not looking at a man that looks similar to me, I am looking at a man who is me and I am looking at an exact reflection of myself, which is panting and grunting and looks impeccably hot, and I wonder if this is the very same kind of ecstasy that girls feel when I am fucking them and for a moment I am jealous of them, as fucking them could not possibly compete with fucking me.
This brings me to wonder that, if I am currently giving Patrick Bateman a hand job, I wonder if it is even possible that I, too, am Patrick Bateman, or maybe I am one of my own victims, and this is my atonement, to have to fall victim to my own hands, and this sends me into a spiral of hand saws and rusty hangers and AR-15’s and all the things I know Patrick Bateman is capable of doing to a little hardbody girl, and I do not know what is going to happen to me, and I am starting to feel dizzy but I think I still feel a cock pumping into my fist, and in my confusion I can’t remember whose it is or if it could even be my own, and I can feel my vision start to blur and nausea takes over me and then I feel my body close to orgasm and I give in to the feeling, unsure if anyone or anything is even touching me and I feel so confused and afraid and I am spiraling in and out of consciousness and