Book 4 – Story 3 – The Doula

Positions of trust are hard to obtain. But she had the smile for it, and the laughter.
Playfulness is disarming to sheep. And she was a sly wolf with a good sheepskin vest.
They loved her here, she could see it. All so excited about how she could help them.

Rich fucking whitey bitch cunts. Fuck whitey.
She loved fucking up whitey’s children. Yuppie bitches with money paying her fuck to up their lives unnoticed.
She would fuck ALL of their children. Bitches.

She loved repaying them with her carefully crafted slow miseries.
They were so gullible here. The church women adored her.
You could feed them anything. Words, poison. They drank it all.
She fed the children now. After only 2 months of taking care of them, she was the one feeding them.
Foolish Christian bitches. It was so tasty watching their little mouths, drink their juice.
So tasty.

Her Master was pleased. Ten years of innocent miseries she had harvested. Slow, painful miseries of sickness and horror. Of suicides and hospitals and weeping. The long painful mourning cries of whimpering children who would never get better. Those that survive killing themselves later, when they remember her devilish little smile as wondered confused, what she was doing, why… So beautiful. All of it. Mother’s poisoned so their babies would suffer every day of their short lives. Babies and children poisoned so mother’s would be distracted by grief. Her Master would absorb their houses with his business as their lives shriveled and died with their children.

And here were ten more, ready to be born. She could see them through the skin of her adversaries, these sheep who could not see, thinking she would show them how. Lives to be twisted. Squirming in their yuppie blood sacs.

Pain is much sweeter when milked slowly.

She laughed, using the Voice to project her aura of childlike playfulness. A voice that gathered children, drawing them for those special moments, when she could twist, and laugh at their simple shocked glances. Quickly forgotten in more laughter and activities.

She gave each mother a Gift. Ties were best made with gifts, and gifts themselves could carry sickness.
Her Intent was strong. She would make them sick with kindness and connections, vaporous tiring episodes of clinging

Masked in playful cheerful helping. They would lap it up, her help, as long as she kept their babes squalling without her.
Dependency worked better than leashes for the Master’s food. He could drink their tears slowly. At leisure.

Lines of suckling energy she weaves about them with her musical laughter. She will have connections with each of them this night. Touching their bellies. She will connect with these children in the womb. She will start their miseries early.

She fondles them through the walls of their mother’s bellies, yuppie bitches squealing with delight that she could make their children move.

Of course they moved. I just pinched them bitch. She laughs a squealing child-pig laugh along with them, secretly mocking their stupidity. They do not see any of it. Blind money bitches. This was so much fun.

She had all of their lives
in her hands.

They were lapping it up. The gifts. The laughter. They would pay her money.
The Master would pay her more. For pictures of their children, growing. Their pretty little bodies.
He would come to know them all, intimately, over the years. She would show them to him. He would feed from them himself as they died, never knowing Him. She had no pity. The Master would love her more with each one of their gurgling breaths.

She laughed, a little girls laugh,
a projection filled with Innocence
and they all laughed with her