Just to let everyone know. I am not holding back on this at all so it'll definitely get really dirty really fast, especially with the sex. It's more an experiment than anything--I'd like to see how far I can go with my writing.

The first boy I killed thought I was a prostitute.

He was young-looking and pretty, with ratty brown hair and shiny brown eyes that were wide as he gazed at me. In his grimy hand he held out two francs, hardly enough for me to service him, but enough that any sensible whore would gladly take the offer. "Bonjour," he said, his voice crackly and rough from the smoke and stench of the slums. "Would this be enough, mademoiselle?" he asked shyly. I took the money from him, examined it as if I was debating, then slipped it into the bodice of my dress, nodding at him.

"Oui," I replied, so I took his hand and led him down to a more secluded area of where we were. My breath was short and my heart was racing--I was seventeen at the time--and I was nervous and still very much a virgin, save for the places where my father had molested me. To this day I don’t know what possessed me to take that boy to the alley, but I definitely do not regret it. “How old are you?” I asked, unlacing my bodice so that my breasts were exposed. The boy didn’t even pull down his trousers--instead, he reached for me and pulled me to him, him leaning against the stone wall behind me and me pressing up against him.

“Fifteen,” he told me, reaching up between us to fondle my breasts with his coarse hands.

“Oh!” I replied, laughing in response to his clumsy hands. “So young to be doing this. Is this your first time?”

“Oui,” and he kissed me, his inexperienced tongue sliding past my lips and swirling around. I felt no spark of desire in my belly and certainly none of the infamous tingling of my skin. What it simply felt like was this--a large, slimy maggot trashing about in my mouth, seeking to escape deep down, as far as it could go. I felt the bile rise up in my throat but I suppressed it enough to move my own tongue against his, pushing him back onto the wall as I claimed dominance. He didn't seem to mind--absentmindedly he played with my breasts, which was the only sexual pleasure I was feeling at the moment. I remember my father having a certain fascination with my breasts--he liked especially to lick them and fondle them carefully, as if tasting something new. I reached my hand down between us and pressed the palm of my hand into the bulge of his pants, and I felt his lips vibrate as he moaned. "Ooh," he sighed.

I let myself smile a little bit, massaging him with my hand. Papa liked me to do this especially--he often told me what a clever vixen I was, to entice a man so. "A virgin, you say?" I asked him, pulling away from his lips.

"O-oui," he replied, gritting his teeth.

"Why waste your time with a whore?" I inquired. "There are plenty of wenches out there that would be glad to spend their time with you."

"Non, they are not as beautiful as you," he insisted. "When I first saw you I knew I must have you."

I smiled at him and helped him pull down his trousers, and his erection was already long and hard, and I gazed at it. The only other one I had ever seen was Papa's, and he was much larger than this little boy. However, I grasped it with my hand and was shocked at how warm and hard it was--it had been a very long time since I had last held one in my hand, you see, not since dear Papa died. "Shit," the boy muttered as I began to lightly run my fingers along the length of him, teasing his body into life until he was fully erect in my hand. I could tell he was getting anxious, so I pulled up my skirts and switched our positions--my back pressed to the wall instead of his. I took the hand that was holding his member and brought it towards me, and he eagerly finished it for me--with a overenthusiastic shove he pushed himself inside of me. It gave me no pleasure, not the kind I had hoped for, not the kind Papa was so good at giving me. But for the boy's sake I feigned it, urging him to go faster, and he did. I don't know for how long he went on until he finally shuddered with his orgasm, emptying his disgusting seed inside of me. I felt no anxiety that I would become pregnant, though. My father made sure that nothing like that would ever happen to me. The boy stood panting for a minute, still sheathed inside of me, until he pulled out and fastened his dirty trousers while I nonchalantly lowered my skirts and fastened the laces on my bodice. "Merci," he said all polite and formal, then turned and began to walk away.

Do not ask what overcame me that day. I was disappointed that I had not achieved what I had been searching for--real pleasure, the kind that Papa had experienced and that I eventually experienced with him. It was late at night, and I was young.

But I rushed after that boy and tackled him, slamming him down onto the ground. He struggled against me, shouting curses, and I knew that if I did not silence him soon someone would come running. So I just began to bash his head down onto the hard street, while he still shouted and flailed underneath me. Eventually, with a sickening crack, his skull burst open, and the street blossomed with red flowers. I sat over his limp body, panting from adrenaline, my fingers stained with the boy's blood and eventually I heard the shifting of feet against the cobblestone ground, and I knew that if I did not move soon I would be caught. I stood quickly and dashed away as fast as my corseted body would allow me.

I ran. I ran until I could barely breath, and I had to stop and lean against a nearby building to catch my breath. People passed me without so much of a glance, not even pausing to marvel at the blood that stained my dress and my hands. As much as I hated people and as much as I hated the male species I had never felt such anger before. Looking back now, I can assume I did what I did as an act of revenge. That boy saw me as nothing more than a warm hole, a place to escape. So I killed him, with my own hands, my only witness being the dirty streets of Paris.

And I don't regret it. I feel no remorse. My feelings died along with my father.