Chris eyed the slender form on his bed longingly. He’d gotten her cheap from the gentleman around the corner—who’d touted her as “French, thus quite capable of getting you there”—and sneaked her home to do the dirty deed. The plan was to quench his feverish desire then discard all evidence of the iniquity before church tomorrow. His pastor and sole confidant called it “foul, ungodly nastiness.” Chris didn’t dispute.
Grabbing her roughly by the neck, he immersed himself in glorious, satiating vice. ‘Marie Brizard,’ her name tag read. Minutes later, he tossed the empty bottle into his neighbour’s trash.