Erotic Fiction

Introduction

\"Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of Wealth and Taste\"


I suppose that is how I’d like to describe myself. I’ve always been rather fond of that song, in any case. My long story is not really of much consequence, but for the benefit of those reading this, I wouldn’t mind telling a bit about my past.


I was born in space. It’s not a big surprise to those who have come to know me. I was the son of the starry-eyed wannabe singer, Lydia Winters, who could for all intents and purposes be considered my mother. She was thrilled to come to earth and to learn about the music firsthand. She raised me on the good stuff, The Rolling Stones, Bowie, Megadeth, Heart. You name it, she was a fan of it. She sang along to Barracuda, not knowing what the words meant, but loving every progression, every single note as if she had written it herself. She aspired to be just like Joan Jett, having short blonde hair and skin-tight black leather pants. She taught me how to play the synthesizer, and became like a best friend to me.

When we landed on earth, things had changed. There was no music, well, there was, but not very good music. They had outlawed the heartfelt melodies of discontent and sex, and threw the world for a loop. We were stunned by this revelation. We were more stunned to have people greeting us.

\"Welcome to earth, please, come with us, we would like to do a few tests.\" Said a man in a long white coat, carrying a clipboard and flanked by two armed guards.

We went with him, all of us on the ship, to a large building, where they poked and prodded us, rigged us up onto machinery, and even killed a few of us to see how we worked. I was given rigorous tests to see what our threshold for pain was. I was still a boy at that point, and couldn’t fend for myself. I didn’t know what to think. Lydia was given certain substances and eventually died of an overdose of some sort. They killed the only person that meant more to me than music.

My captors were female, all trained to keep me at bay and play to my lust, which even then was strong and highly attuned. They walked around me, hooking me up to whatever pain-inducing device they had conceived for my torture. I hated every minute of it, but that very thing is what twisted my mind. I learned that pain was sexy, and that fear was beautiful.

When I hit what could only be considered puberty, I decided to try and break free. It was a daring escape, but I don’t like thinking about it much. I remember having been only shot once, which was a miracle due to the fact that innumerable armed guards were shooting at me and running into a wooded area, where I tended to my wound and hid for a week.

Once I figured that the coast was clear, I headed into the city nearby. I was wearing little more than a pair of boxer shorts and it was the winter. I would have caught my death if it weren’t for a nice lady who reminded me of my beloved Lydia. She brought me into her home and fed me, asked me my name and what happened to me. I decided to make up a lie at that moment and said that I didn’t remember what happened for the most part, and all I knew was that musicians had captured me and they left me for dead when I couldn’t perform adequately for them. She took pity on me and sheltered me, treating me like her son.

She was a kind hostess, buying me clothes which I always outgrew a month later, and taught me etiquette, and how to make a house more lively through the wonders of interior design. She kept her house immaculately clean, chastising me if I left so much as a dirty sock on my bedroom floor. She was fundamentalist in her beliefs, and refused to even have talk of \"heathen music\" in her house. She sent me to a boarding school for a year before I was kicked out for being ‘a bad influence’ on the children around me.

She had a piano, on which she taught classical music to children. She asked if I knew how to play and I started playing what I knew, classic rock ballads. She was aghast, she demanded to know how I knew how to play such filth, and I don’t know why, but I just snapped. She brought out something in me who was new and horrible, but I cleaved to it like a savior. I killed her with a knife she had stored away \"in case of emergencies\". This knife is the one I have to this day, and it has spilled more blood than I can recall.

I left her in the parlor, and I watched over her cadaver for an hour, standing where I had stood when she fell. I finally snapped back to reality, and packed up the little bit of clothing I had, the knife, and the money that she had stored away in the house ‘for a rainy day’. I wrote a fake ransom note by a band of fake musical thugs, saying they took me and killed her for her money, and wouldn’t be caught. I walked out of that world into the life of hotel surfing.

I lived in cheap motels, doing menial work as their decorator, occasionally. I saved up the money to buy an apartment, which I promptly moved into. I was hired at a design firm for my skills and eye of knowing what to do with space, and soon I was able to get myself on my feet.

Now you may ask, \"What drove you to kill so many women?\" I can answer that simply. I could hear them. Hear their thoughts about how successful I was with my business, that I was good for them, monetarily. All they wanted was my money, not my self. All they wanted was for me to be their sugar daddy. I couldn’t stand that. So in fear of being thrust into a commitment with high-maintenance women (Which was I really liked anyway), I decided to save the hassle and help the overpopulation problem. That, and the part of me that surfaced the first time I killed always rose up when it came to the matter of sex.

I started a band, played a few gigs, and eventually my drummer was arrested for the attempted murder of a Ministry of Music member. I think I’ll just disband, considering I have more obligations, now, what with a roommate and all.