By Thermopyle
Warning: This story contains offensive and disturbing content. It includes explicit rape, implied murder, and a small amount of corpse mutilation. If any of these things upset you, or if you are underage, do not read this. You have been warned.
It's not easy, being a teenaged serial killer. So many potential victims, so little time to study. Not that I study, since my priorities are straight, but it sure is a neat intro. I've got a great body: tits that are full, yet not too big, a thin waist and tight stomach, and an ass that turns men into dogs chasing a fire truck. My face is the very picture of innocence, yet my dimples just beg to be filled by puddles of cum. I bit the nuts of the rapist who managed it, and then killed him.
At that time I was a bit of a tease, but an innocent one. Not anymore. Now I know exactly what men want, let them think they're going to get it, and then slaughter the fuckers. When a man's dick is in your mouth, he doesn't pay attention to the knife in your hand. It'll cut, too, since I bought one of those sharpening stones like Boy Scouts have.
I lean over the corpse of my latest conquest and let some of his spooge dribble out my mouth and onto his slit throat. I swallow the rest. It'll keep my belly warm all day. Hell, just the thought of little white man-soldiers being melted alive in my stomach is enough to keep me skipping for hours. Literally. Sixteen is a bit old for that, but hey, I guess some girls just mature slow. Sue me.
My friends think I'm still a virgin. I didn't tell them about the asshole that raped me, or the guys I've sucked off. When we talk about boys and beg the girls who've done it for details, I blush and act embarrassed. Can't change a lot without people noticing, you know. After the first time I killed, I started reading around to find out how to avoid getting caught. That was a big one.
Another was to keep your normal life separate from the abnormal. When boys ask me out or come on to me, I make sure to be all withdrawn and sad. It's not that hard to get a rep for being undateable, after you get your first crush sent to jail. They back off fast when my friends jump in to protect me. I'm still underage, after all, and stricken by guilt and pain. Sure, it'd be easier to hook up with some random guy, but then I'd have to worry about accidentally killing him. Plus it'd eat up all my playtime.
The third thing I figured out was that the death has to be quiet. I slit the first guy's neck, but that wasn't planned or anything. I really lucked out. I always go for the throat, now that I know. I must have good instincts or something. It doesn't surprise the guy when I stand and get close after sucking him off; he thinks it's time for the main course. It is, but not for him.
The most important thing I noticed when going through murder books was that if you're at the scene of the crime, you're a suspect. Sucking cum from my teeth, I quickly shove the knife in my backpack and leave. Ten steps later, I'm hopping home with a smile.
I keep an eye out, though, because there's another killer in town. Maybe we could meet and compare notes?
Young girls are the best. I cherish the confusion each shows when about to die. Had she been bad? Was she being punished? Why was this happening? Where was Mommy, or Daddy? Older is fine, too, but not quite as nice. The older ones figure it out faster, and the confusion disappears, replaced by panic and fear. That has its own taste, but I prefer the other. The appropriateness tickles me.
The blood's heat, the body's heat, has seeped into my rubber gloves. The dead girl's red obscures the black of their color, but the darkness still peeks through. That, too, is fitting.
I yank the eyelids up by the blonde lashes, and cut the flaps loose. Her blue eyes stare at me, just as they had before. The corpse belonged to a nine-year-old girl. She'd still wondered what she had done wrong, right up to the moment when I ended her life by stabbing into her open mouth and pinning her head to the floor. It could have been her age, or maybe the girl was just slow. Either way, she was dead. I continue the ritual.
After the eyelids come the breasts. This girl was completely flat and had probably never even dared to touch a training bra, so it was a bit tricky. If she had been a little chubby I'd have something to grab onto, but instead I almost have to scrape her nipples off. Younger is more satisfying, but everything has a drawback. Next is the clitoris, which is always difficult. Rape victims don't get excited, so the things don't stick out like they might otherwise.
The ritual serves a purpose. It has a specific meaning, tailored for personal revenge. I based the victim profile on the girl I'm going to murder. The serial killing is to protect my identity by making her death seem ordinary, or at least without specific motive. A few more and the little whore would be 'picked' by an unfortunate turn of fate.
I shove the last piece into a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, and seal the container. It's hard to distinguish between the bloody bits within. Neatness doesn't matter; the dog will eat them without noticing. The gloves go into a different bag, which I'll dump with the trash behind a local butcher's.
Before leaving, I look at the mutilated body of the little girl. She'd been cheerful, and happy. For her to die so young and painfully was an unfairness that I felt familiar. With Jessica, the student who had cost me my life, I would be much worse.
The man was big and his weight pinned me to the floor. His dick pressed up against my cleft, raping itself in with my slippery blood, just as it had before. He squeezed my neck, suffocating, and I flailed at him, pushed, tried to shove him off. The blood was in my eyes, spilling onto my face and chest, into my hair, and I couldn't see, and he wouldn't let go. I clawed at his hands, scratched him with my nails, but it did nothing, and I was going to die. Mr. Williamson didn't arrive, didn't come to the rescue, didn't come to save me.
Finally, his grip loosened, and I could breathe, and he collapsed on top of me, dead. I tore his hands away and the pounding in my head slowed, then quit. My throat hurt, so I swallowed, and his semen and blood were still in my mouth. I gagged at the taste, at the stench of him, and tried not to puke on myself. I rolled the body away, to the side, and his penis tore me on exit.
Naked, raped, and a murderer, I stared at the ceiling. I lied in a puddle of my blood and his seed, and his blood was smeared over my chest and neck. The knife I'd taken from him, the knife I'd slit his throat with, was several feet away. I sat up carefully, and the floor stabbed needles into my ripped vagina. Again, Mr. Williamson hadn't come when I waited. Somebody else had taken his place, and forced me to his home.
I stood, distended and loose and raw. My breasts ached from being jerked back and forth, and were purpling. One nipple bled from teethmarks. My neck hurt and I tried to keep my head still. I wondered if my teacher would care at all. He never seemed to.
The rapist had thrown my clothes to the corner, but I couldn't put them on yet. They'd get dirty. Best to clean up first. I found the shower on the second floor, and tried to drown myself until the hot water ran out. The heat soothed my throat and made my breasts feel better, but didn't help otherwise. The towel absorbed some blood when I patted dry my swollen lips. Blood that should have been Mr. Williamson's.
I went downstairs and dressed, careful not to step in anything. Every movement hurt, and my panties stained as I pulled them on. I picked up my bag and walked to the door, and then went back to get the knife and start a fire.
Classes started that day just as they always did. The troublemakers that bothered to show up either attached their foreheads to the desks they sat in, or leaned back and made snide comments during my lecture. The studious copied everything down, even when I rambled. The C's just drifted in and out of attention. Jessica made eyes at me from the front row. Quite normal.
Jessica Simmons was a fourteen-year-old blonde with blue eyes and a very pretty face. Her body was still developing, but the way she nibbled her lip and watched me anxiously made up for the lack. She was a very cute girl who had a very obvious crush. I say obvious because every once in a while her face would become pink, she'd look around nervously, and then she'd scoot her hips forward in her seat until I could see up her skirt to her white panties. The flash would only last a few seconds before she'd retreat into a neutral position and stare at the desk for the rest of the period, blushing innocence the entire time. She was cute, and not just physically, which made her more than a little appealing.
Teachers go to jail for sexual assault if they stare too hard, so I didn't. I was also careful whenever she'd come to me after class with a question, and I'd hurry her away even though she kept spacing out and staring at me with her heart in her eyes. This continued for several months and her affection never seemed to diminish. She left notes several times, asking me to meet her at some place or other, and I immediately burned each one. Better to ignore the situation and hope it went away, than to go to the principal and have him wonder if I'd led the girl on somehow.
On that day, when Jessica scooted forward in her seat and I took my obligatory glance at her panties, I saw that they weren't there. For the first time, I actually stopped my lecture, shocked. Everybody turned to the girl, who went pale and sat up suddenly, looking terrified. I cleared my throat after a minute, and class went on. When the bell rang, everybody left the room, except for Jessica, who remained seated. After the last student left, she came up to me, looking absolutely miserable. I was furious; if anybody else had noticed what the girl had done, I could be in serious trouble.
She latched onto me, weeping, and I shoved her away. Jessica fell backwards, skirt riding up to her hips, and hit the ground just as the principal walked into the room.
After I waited in his office for fifteen minutes, the principal returned.
"Robert," he said, not meeting my eyes, "did you notice what Jessica was wearing today?"
I'd noticed what she wasn't wearing, but said "No." I already had problems enough.
"A turtleneck sweater. It's ninety-five degrees outside. She had it on to cover the bruises on her neck."
I frowned. "Somebody beat her?"
David looked at me for a moment, then sighed. "She says she got those from you, and that you assaulted her yesterday. The nurse took a look and said somebody did. I don't believe the girl, but the police are on their way right now. You're in trouble."
I smile as I walk past my ex-teacher. This is the third time I've seen him this week, and he always pretends not to be watching. I play along. He went to jail for rape, so he probably wants some ass to justify. Maybe I'll give it to him, then kill the bastard for all those months he ignored me. Poetic justice, you know?
He'll probably build himself up, then come to me all bitching and whiney, wanting to know why I lied, why I set him up. Should I act sorry, or blame it on him? Either way, I doubt he'd be too pushy, even after going to jail. He's a sap. The fool blubbered and whined at his trial, confused as hell at my betrayal. He never got mad or angry or tried to attack me in the courtroom like people do on T.V.. The whole thing was pathetic, really.
Still, it seems risky. Most guys already have an out-of-the-way place picked for when they want to fuck, and I'm not sure Mr. Williamson does. My being able to find a spot would tip him off a bit, but leaving it up to him might get me caught. Besides, killing him might make some cop or a newsy type want to look me up. 'How do you feel about his death?' 'Oh, gosh, mister, I'm so sad!' Attention is a bad thing when you're trying to murder people quietly. Killing him seems like a bad idea, but I really, really want to do it. Decisions, decisions....
Walking past a parked car, I notice my old crush following. He hasn't done that before; maybe I won't have to decide after all? I can go along with whatever he has in mind, and figure out what I want to do in the meantime. My knife is sheathed down by my right foot, and covered by the pant leg; I always put it there before hunting. He'll probably just grab my arm and put a candy bar to my back, or something equally silly. I'll let him, and then we can have some fun.
The footsteps are close now, and quiet. I can still hear them, and it's hard not to laugh with excitement. Revenge will be so sweet. His shadow passes me on the sidewalk. He's close, and I'm tingly, just like all those times in class. I can't wait.
One arm wraps around my waist, and I start to turn. I'm ready to play the role of victim, which is a hilarious mask for a black widow. I open my mouth, ready to yell and knowing he won't let me, knowing that he'll cover it and tell me to be quiet. His other hand comes around my face and I smell something I remember. I smell something from that night, two years before.
It clamps over my mouth, and I try to stomp and scream and yell for help, but too late. I collapse, fighting unconsciousness, but I can't stay awake. It's going to happen again. It's going to happen again. I'll be tied to the chair and gagged and tortured and ripped and raped and torn and it'll hurt hurt HURT-
"Think it's funny now, you little bitch?"
My hands shake as I tie her to the chair. They are eager to begin, but I must follow the ritual. First step is the binding, and then, once she wakes, I will unwrap her slowly, deliberately. I will strip her naked by cutting her clothes loose. The back of the knife, which is chilled, will drag along her skin. Parents teach their little girls to fear exposure; to fear loss of control. I will feed both monsters.
I cover her eyes to heighten the initial terror. Where is she? What's happening? Who's there? These questions build momentum, and each one adds to the fright. The stage is set with little effort. The audience is self-absorbed, and creates its own tension.
I shove an old sock into the girl's mouth, and wrap a rope around her head to hold it in place. To call for help is the first instinct. Little girls scream and cry when something hurts or they are afraid. The expectation of Mommy or Daddy coming brings comfort. Even if she knows they aren't near, that they won't come, she clings tightly to that reassurance. It's all she has, so I take it away.
I bind her left leg to the chair with loops of rope, then move to the right. I stop. She has a knife. I yank off the Velcro straps and pull it free. The knife is heavy, and sharp. It's an expensive meat carver designed to hold an edge. The handle is black and rubber; easy to hold on to. I prefer mine, which has a wooden handle and doesn't look so expensive, but will use hers, instead.
Waiting is difficult. I could wake her easily enough, but natural is better. A harsh smell gains a specific response; disgust. That carries over to the following thoughts, and takes a while to shake loose. Waking naturally causes the question of whether this experience is a dream, a nightmare. If it is a nightmare, what happens next? Imagination breeds horror and fear. Once she realizes she is awake, that doesn't go away.
Her head wobbles slightly. I left it free. She can stare in every direction, but will see only darkness. She is awake. The girl looks around quickly, and moans protest through her gag. She jerks at her bonds, trying to break free, but the chair is heavy and doesn't move. Soon she stops, but her breath comes fast. If not for the gag, she would hyperventilate.
I wait ten minutes, then fifteen. Nothing changes. Usually the girl will have fits of terrified strength and will try to break free several times, but not today. Only her breathing betrays her fright.
I step forward, making the first sound she has heard since waking. No response. The knife, her knife, brushes across the inside of her thigh. The tip jabs into her skin and a drop of blood appears through the jeans fabric. She does nothing. I drag the tip towards me, cutting her leg, and pull the blade out. The wound is shallow and barely bleeds, and I carefully slice down her pants. When I arrive at the ropes, I circle her leg with the knife. The cloth splits and bares her. I do the same on the other side. She makes no protest.
I pull her shirt away carefully. Her chest spasms rapidly and it's hard not to do damage. The bra is easy, and I just cut the straps. She does have nice breasts. They will be easy to remove.
I'm almost tempted to leave her like this, mostly naked, and bound. With a younger girl it wouldn't be much of an issue, but this one is so nicely developed. In a bad area of town, nobody would call the police. Whether she made it out of the experience alive or dead, her torment would only differ by degree.
Instead, I slip the girl's knife into the waist of her jeans, and begin to cut them off. It requires a sawing motion, and the tip shreds her flesh with the repeated contact. I'm sure it hurts, but she doesn't react. The girl is breaking up my routine. I finish removing what remains of her pants, and then go on to her panties. They are white, and cotton, which is surprising. The knife has dulled somewhat and the elastic is difficult to slice through, but it only takes a minute to finish stripping her.
Now that she is naked, I dig one hand between her and the seat, and fondle her roughly. She is dry and difficult to manipulate, but I jam a couple of fingers inside anyway. The girl does nothing, and I force myself not to hit her. Instead I withdraw, considering.
The next step is usually to spread the girl's legs and pull the lower body forward, exposing her completely. The embarrassment and fear quickly escalates, heightened by my previous assault. In a child, this is when the confusion would begin to peak. The physical rape would then follow.
Should I proceed as normal? A change in routine would be dangerous, but if the ritual isn't effective, then what is the point? If it was another girl, I wouldn't care, but this one needs to be perfect. Getting caught would cost more than two years and a permanent blemish. I continue, angry.
I pull her bottom upwards, and shove a wooden prop between her and the seat. The girl's hips are now at the necessary height, which makes her legs pull tight against the ropes holding her ankles. Even through the remains of her jeans, the cord must chafe, and impede circulation.
I strip slowly, loudly, dropping my clothes to the floor. A girl this age should begin to cry at the slowly descending zipper, but she does not. I stare at her breasts, at the golden hair that strains to protect her tiny opening. Futility. She lies limp and unresponsive, and I am unready. What is she waiting for?
I close my eyes and think of the last girl. I think of her squirming protests and terrified denial. I think of her cries that squeaked past the gag, which I reveled in. I think of her trembling hips, which shied away in fear. I think of her confused obedience near the end, and push forward, taking a brief glimpse to guide myself in.
She puts up no resistance, but her face is wet below the covered eyes. I almost wilt, then force myself back into the fantasy. Minute, inhibited thrashing tempts me, drives me deep and hard to lustful revenge. Passive reality drags in its wake, and I eventually come to a barely erect, unsatisfying climax. The corpse of my desire remains cold and dead, breath even and deep. I pull out quickly, feeling sick.
The only thing left is for the girl to clean me off, sucking to a second ejaculation. I almost couldn't manage the first one; will I be able to do it again? I doubt her participation and wish for a way to finish this quickly. This revenge is a hollow one.
I pull the prop from underneath her, then begin to untie the girl's legs from the chair. They remain together, though, to prevent an escape attempt. Now I untie one wrist, fasten it to the other, and then she is free from the imprisoning seat. Still she does nothing. I untie the gag and extract the sock, ready to punch her in the stomach if she draws breath to scream. She doesn't.
I cut the blindfold off carefully, ready for her to attack or scream or run. It drops away. Her eyes are closed. Is she asleep? Slowly they open, blue and staring at me just as the other girls' had. They widen in realization, recognition, and begin to tear up. Finally.
Jessica throws herself at me, jumping up to get her bound arms over my head, around my neck. I set the knife, her knife, at her back, ready to stab, ritual or no. Her arms tighten as if to strangle me, and I realize that she's whispering.
"You came. You finally came," Jessica keeps repeating, and begins to cry.
The End