June 5, late evening
The bitch refused to die. Again, she had returned to torment him. Not this time. He was ready for her. Wherever she tried to hide, he always found her. He alone was her judge and jury. And he alone would convict her of the crimes she had committed because no one else had ever bothered. Her sentence? Death, of course, that was only fair punishment. It was up to him to see that the sentence was carried out. Slowly, though.
In a surge of temper, he tightened his grip on the girl’s throat and slammed the back of her head against the wall. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went limp. He released her and watched her chest rise as she inhaled air. Still alive? Good. He had come too close to ending it. Not yet. Not yet. She had to suffer as he had suffered.
He stripped off the dirty, skimpy white shorts and cut the bikini underwear with the razor-sharp blade of his knife. Slowly, using the point, he flicked the buttons, one at a time, from the pink cotton shirt. As the material gaped open, a white bra was revealed. He slipped the blade under the band between her breasts, sliced through the fabric and pushed the garment aside. He finished stripping the girl, posed her body, with her knees bent and her legs spread wide in an invitation, then made each of her hands cup her breasts. He bent over her still form studying his work. At last she was laid out and exposed for what she was: a whore, a slut to tempt and torture him as she had been doing his entire life. No more. He couldn’t take any more.
Even now, inches from death, she still controlled him. He could feel it. He could feel himself grow hard as he stared at her smooth young form, the flawless olive skin; each perfect breast peaked with a dark aureole around the nipple. No. With one gloved hand, he twisted and tore at them, making her moan. Then he fanned her thick dark hair out on the pillow. He wanted her. He needed her.
All his life, she had tortured him, teasing, hurting and rejecting him until he was forced to act. Forced to show her how he could take her without her touching him at all. It was part of her punishment, that and watching her die for what she had done. And then the pain would go away, and he would have peace. They would be safe.
Naked, he positioned himself between her legs, his erection hard, enormous and aching as he sheathed his penis with a condom. He grabbed and raised her hips as he thrust into her. Her eyes flew open, her legs kicked out. She cried out, a screeching wail, and beat at his arms and chest. He slammed a fist against her mouth. Still she fought and so he drove even harder into her. He held her down with one hand on her chest, pressing her deeper into the mattress, and used the other to smash her face again, then again, until she went lax. His excitement grew until he was slamming into her without mercy. He cried out a name as he climaxed and his semen filled the condom. His head dropped as the pain faded and breathing hard, he leaned over his prey, his fury and passion spent. He looked down at the face of the human wreck beneath him.
He did not remember moving his hands to her neck, yet it was clear that he had because his fingers now were clenched around her throat. Her large brown eyes were wide and vacant and her torn, bloody mouth hung open and slack. He let go of her throat and stared down at her for a moment, then calmly rose, going downstairs to the bathroom to shower and scour his body with disinfectant. After dressing in new black slacks and a black shirt, he slipped on his loafers. Donning thick rubber gloves and a rubber apron he returned upstairs where he opened a small bottle of bleach and poured a generous amount over her belly and thighs, carefully making sure he doused her pubic area. No evidence would be left behind. He was always careful about that. He wrapped her body in a cheap throw rug, not wanting any part of her to touch him. Now that she was gone, it was simply a matter of taking out the garbage.