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Please Let Me Know What You Think If This Very Short Short Story?

It was painful for me to be alive. My sociopathy was a slow and manipulative death. Being around normal people just to hide my veracious desires burned my insides until there was nothing but a raw patch of tissue left. No emotion. No empathy. Watching others in pain was my only alleviation.
I walked into my graduate courses with a steadfast pace, a silent demeanor, and an unapproachable gaze. I couldn’t wait to finish this ******* thesis. It was driving me to the edge of my mind. The hours couldn’t find their end quickly enough. I was always waiting. Waiting for things to end because they were never under my control. I was the victim of a clock rather than the victor. I knew 28 years old was too old to be finishing a master’s thesis. I was too close to the edge to be pushed with an iron boot of failure.
I remember when it happened. When I lost myself completely. I walked into my history class the first day. I noticed her the moment I walked in. She had a complexion the color of ecru like no one I had ever seen, eyes the color of burnt sienna, and a head of glistening brown hair. She was wearing lovely French stockings with her legs crossed, black pumps glistening. I couldn’t help but think how much I wanted to see her legs on my wall. They were muscular, in shape, long in comparison to her shorter stature. She drove me absolutely wild. Those four months were complete torture for me. I wanted to kill her for making me feel that way. For making me want her. I stared out straight in front of me everyday and never spoke one word. Not to her. Not to anyone.
Yet when I’d get home she would consume my thoughts once again. I would study write my papers, concentrate on my work. But every spare moment was dedicated to how I could get her into my bed. I wanted to love her until she died. Until her breath went away from suffocation. I wanted to choke her full of my desires.
I dreamt of her so often it was disturbing. My sick and twisted sexual thoughts were now convulsing with an uncontrollable fervor. I couldn’t speak to her because I knew I would lose it. The fourth month of class was finally nearing its end. I had been able to keep my distance from her, even though those weekly three hours were more than I could bear. The nausea that drifted into my veins was overpowering. Once I even had the misfortune of sitting next to her. I could smell her, smell her sweat, almost smelled the inside of her. I wanted to rip her apart and eat her flesh. She was everything I had ever wanted. I wanted her. I hated her.
I never once saw her again, but she consumed my thoughts like a slow maggot feeding at my psyche. I decided I had to see her, had to speak to her, had to face my fears. I hated her for terrifying me. For making me fear women. I e-mailed her and bullshitted about our course. I was surprised she even responded. I asked her out for a beer. She agreed.
That day, I ordered her a beer before she got there. She walked up the street looking like the devil incarnate. I could see through her cotton pencil skirt and her red patent heels shone in the afternoon light, making a spectacle of her muscular legs. She smiled, said hello, and approached me to kiss me on the cheek. I remained stoic, barely returning it. She made me freeze like ice. She was a cold ***** and it was something I could sense. Her gaze was full of frigid fire. She glanced at the beer and as she ****** her head a piece of hair fell across her face. I just wanted to grab her. The rest of the conversation there at the pub and later at the wine bar seems like a daze to me now. I couldn’t pay attention to what came out of her mouth because all I wanted to do was bite its lips off.
The moments I remembered the most were the ones where she discussed her exercise routine. It was refreshing to learn she was refining the masterpiece I hoped to some day take a chisel to; to sculpt her into my little permanent Venus de Milo. It was as if she were plumping up my chicken before I ate it. Her description of her workout routine turned me on. My hard on was raging the more she spoke. I couldn’t contain myself. I asked her to flex her legs so I could feel them.
I convinced myself that if she let me, I’d rid myself of my doubts, my insecurities, and make my final decision; to end my torture; to kill her. As I awaited her response my childhood flashed before me. I remembered the first time I asked my mother to let me lick the batter off the cake bowl. Her rejection or acceptance at the time was life changing for me. To be robbed of a few moments of unbridled pleasure would result in an impenetrable perdition. I waited what seemed like hours and finally it came.
She let me.