I was twenty years old when I moved back in with my father (George Snr, obviously) after my mum left him and took up with some arse-wipe she met at he... gym. He had been devastated by the betrayal and I had moved back in to keep him company and make sure he didn't do something stupid. I was quite a good cook and a bit of a neat freak, so it worked out okay for both of us. I got out of my shitty one bedroom flat and Dad got someone to talk to and enjoy the odd pint with at our local.Anyway on the. Her hands became busy with my belt and my fly, and I had the feeling that there was considerable urgency on her part as she dropped my pants and then almost ripped off my skivvies.She had hardly freed my dick when she was already kneeling in front of me, her lips tight around my shaft, moving back and forth. I told her to take it easy and stop after a minute or two, I wanted to have enough stamina left to bring her to her climax. Reluctantly she released me and stood up.I turned her around and. I hated all that had happened to me but it made me what I was. The world was lucky I wasn't a serial killer, some days I just had a hair trigger.That night I was suffering. I went home and got into bed, I considered taking one of the pain pills I had laying around. If I did that I would get to sleep much easier, but then I would also become dependent on them. So I got back out of bed and went to the net. Once there I went into a chat room and found a woman, with whom to chat. She was the one. Slumping to the floor I see him reach for the knife.Blinding agony courses through me. Several times I feel the knife slide into my body. Somehow it feels like it’s his right, he’s my husband, my lover, he has the right to do this to me. But why does it have to hurt so much.I see his foot swinging towards my face, inching slowly forward, I can see every little detail of the tread of his shoe, see the tiny piece of gravel stuck just under the toe of the shoe. His shoes moves so slowly as it.
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