the kill

she wanted to hurt him. to cut him and watch him bleed. to strike him and leave a mark on his soft, white skin. seething and boiling, she silently savoured her prey. she wanted to hurt him. she flew down the stairs, possessed by a faceless rage. his body hit the floor with a sharp thud … like a felled tree.

“oh please,” he moaned desperately. terror lit his eyes … pleading … begging. it all made her hungry for the kill. she bathed in his terror … his flesh had a salty rich flavour. his gutteral cries electrified her. he croaked weakly as she inflicted pain … then pleasure … that quickly grew into agony … with the deft movement of her hands, teeth and tongue. his body convulsed in pleasure then writhed in pain. moaning. pleading. begging. groaning. croaking. gutteral cries. a tempest of rage engulfed her … orgasmic in intensity.

she drew the blade into the soft, loose flesh of his neck. it felt like cutting into a boiled perogy. death lingered. she watched his sticky, crimson blood ooze lazily from his flesh. painful anticipation descended … like waiting for the ketchup to hit the food.

she sliced the carotid artery. it felt like slicing licorice. she grew deaf to all ambient noises, mesmerized by the thick, warm, red geyser spurting from his neck. the pulsing spray reminded her of rain. the sound of rain. she bathed in this gentle, diffuse sound … then … gurgling, the gentle babbling of a brook … and … a gutteral moan emanated from the body as its spirit departed. her rage - melted to nothing.