Mrs. Wilkins stopped and turned to Ben. ‘Trish…she…she was askin’ for you, Mr. Morris,’ she said. ‘If you want, you can go in and see her....I’ll tell the nurses it’s OK.’ ‘Thank you,’ Ben said. He walked into the ICU and found the cubicle where Trish lay. He was shocked by what he saw as he approached the girl’s bed. Trish’s face was swathed in bandages, but he could still see how swollen and bruised it was. Tubes ran into her arms, and various monitors hanging on the wall beeped. He looked down. It gives me such pleasure to push down on the back of her struggling head and watching her face push slowly and firmly into the nice, rich faecal matter. Smothering her beautiful little 12-year-old face. Filling her pretty, pouty-lipped mouth with what came out of my bum-hole. Making her tongue taste and feel my filth. Making her nice blonde curtains all shitty. I feel so, so powerful. I torture her with it, smothering her, permitting her a few seconds of breath, then back down into the sludge. More

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