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Send to FriendIt had taken place in a Motel 6, the room paid for in her name. She was nothing more than a degenerate whore I'd found on a street corner, believing she would come out of this alive, with a generous sum of cash from my pocket, which would no doubt be used to support her drug addiction. Her name was Heather, and although her face was milk white, almost pallid, she took on a ray of dwindling innocence in her jaded eyes, a life of warmth, love, and wholesomeness in childhood that was somehow tainted in adolescence, becoming corrupted and tarnished beyond repair now that she had reached adulthood. She was petite and appeared timid, yet I could tell that whatever innocence she once possessed was gone now, despite her subtle modesty that she displayed while blushing and turning away with her eyes closed and her had bent to the carpet. She sniffled and brushed a hand through her golden mane of hair, which draped like an elegant curtain down her back, glistening even in the dim light of the motel room, then looked once more at me with dismay as she her leopard-skin coat off and rested it by the TV along with her purse, then slowly returned to the bed, her body trembling.
Through her uneasiness and bitter shame, she probably resented me for what I was going to put her through, even though she believed that I would pay her in the end, just as she probably despised her pimp for whoring her out on the streets not too long ago, and hated herself most of all for allowing it to happen. She hadn’t said so much, yet I could tell by her mannerisms, the way she moved with great reluctance both in the car, and now in the room as she came to me reproachfully. She tried to hide it, but I could see her cringing discreetly in revulsion at the thought of fucking me, but that was okay, for I wasn’t the least bit offended or shamed, because it was never about her wanting to have sex with me. Perhaps it might have been nice if she were happy at first, so I could perhaps rob that bliss from her, rather than making her happy, but this was just fine for a murder, I thought, so long as everything went as planned.
“What do you have in mind?” she asked, her voice quivering as she drew closer to me. I put my arm over her shoulder and she recoiled from my touch, nearly jumping from her skin, before regaining her composure and sat still and miserably by my side.
"How 'bout a little S&M?" I suggested. "I like it rough."
"Not one of my personal favorites."
"I don't care," I said matter-of-factly. "I'm the one paying, so my enjoyment is all that matters."
She shot me a nervous glance and nodded. I was turned on already.
"So what kind of 'tools' should we use?"
I considered her question for a minute or two. I had no "tools" with me except my buck knife, and she would never have agreed to allow me to use that on her. Ah, but in my violent fantasies, there never was consent. At the same time, though, the buck knife wouldn’t have been enough, because now that I had thought of it, I realized that I had no way of restraining her. Slashing her apart against her will would be too risky if there was even a small chance that she could get away. The culmination of years of psychological preparation had gotten me ready emotionally for this night, yet as far as tools went, I had come grossly unprepared, and cursed myself for such negligence. I needed to plan this thing out quickly, improvise somehow.
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” I grinned.
“Sure,” she sighed, defeated. “Whatever ya want.”
My wry grin widened. "The customer is always right."
She shrank away from me then, almost afraid, no doubt wanting this night to be over. She wanted to be out of that motel room as quickly as possible, yet at the same time, she was procrastinating, as though such delays might enable her to avoid the situation entirely. "Can I at least snort some coke first?" she requested. "It might help me to relax."
"Sure," I answered. "I don't see why not. The night's still young."
I approached her and she winced.
"I'm sorry." She blushed. "I'm just really nervous, that's all. I'm new to all this, you see. I haven't been around as long as some of the other gals."
“Ah, fresh meat.”
"Not exactly," Heather continued. "I've had a few customers, some experience. But I still get really nervous, kinda ashamed about whoring myself like this as well. But I'll get used to it eventually."
"I'm sure you will." I nodded, and thought: Stupid bitch, you're not gonna live long enough to “get used to it.” I stifled a chuckle, fearing that if I laughed, it might betray my true intentions and she would slip away from me somehow and call the cops. I couldn’t risk it, so I kept a straight, business-like face throughout the negotiations, hoping she wouldn’t catch on to what was really going to happen to her until it was too late to do anything about it.
"Maybe I'm not cut out to be a prostitute." Heather bent her head, moping.
She grabbed her purse from the TV, pulled out a bag of finely ground white powder, and then replaced her purse by the TV again. "This is what got me into the whoring business to begin with"—she thrust the bag of cocaine in my face. "If not for my addiction, my parents never would’ve thrown me out on the streets. I was so alone, so vulnerable after I was thrown out, wandering aimlessly on the streets, until my pimp found me. He said he’d help me, but has done nothing but sell my body so he could make a fortune. I hate this life, but I know if I try to get out now, he’ll find me somehow and kill me, so I’m stuck here.”
"Yeah, such a shame," I responded, uninterested.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice now filled with even greater shame. “I shouldn’t have said any of that shit at all. I know you won’t want to hear about it, and it’s not professional of me to talk like that to the customers.”
I shrugged coldly and nonchalantly. “You’re paid to fuck me, not love me.”
Heather sat on the bed, shedding a few tears, a bit jittery, and poured a small amount of cocaine into the palm of her hand. "The funny thing is: A part of me wouldn't give any of this up for anything." She shrugged. “Maybe that’s just the addiction talking.” Heather raised her palm to her face and inhaled the coke in one quick breath and gasped pleasantly. "Ah, that's the stuff!" she exclaimed. Some of the coke remained over her philtrum like a powdery milk mustache, but she didn’t seem to be self-conscious about it.
"All better?" I asked dispassionately.
Heather nodded. She smiled and offered me the bag. "Want some?"
"Sure." I took the bag. I had no real objections to snorting coke, nor any problem with taking drugs in general. I had smoked pot throughout my teenage years and still had enjoyed a joint every now and then, although not nearly as often. Cocaine, I figured, was merely the next step up, advancement to the next level, if you will. I was well aware that cocaine was vastly different from marijuana, much more potent and dangerous, and that people had actually dropped dead on their first dose. But hey, we all gotta check out sooner or later, and I wasn’t at all afraid to die, nor did I think I would be one of those people who died on their first dose.
"Help yourself," she said with a friendly smile.
I poured a small amount of the cocaine into my hand and handed Heather her bag back. I put the palm of my hand to my nostrils and quickly inhaled the coke. My head exploded in agony and my sinuses were on fire. I bit back a scream, and gasped huskily instead, coughing. "Christ!" My eyes watered profusely and my heart raced. I coughed harshly and groaned miserably.
Heather giggled. "It always sucks the first time you do it."
"Tell me about it!" I wheezed, coughing.
Heather threw her head back and laughed uproariously.
I was eventually able to regain my composure, though my nose still burned and my aching head was absolutely killing me. Cocaine was not the same as weed, not even close. At least not to me. But I was still able to think clearly enough and remain focused on the task at hand. I still wanted to hurt Heather, to abuse her and then kill the worthless whore. My determination hadn't waned. I thought of how she had giggled and laughed when I suffered and my desire to destroy her intensified.
Heather couldn't seem to sit still on the bed. The coke hadn't seemed to calm here down at all. But in a way, it had; she no longer seemed timid or uncomfortable around me. Twitching her arms and legs a bit, but still appearing to have prepared herself for what would go down, to live up to her end of the bargain. At least she seemed to think she was prepared.
Though truth be told, she didn't have a fucking clue.
"So what exactly did you have in mind for tonight?" she asked innocently enough.
"I'm still thinking," I replied. "What exactly do you have in your purse?"
"Not much," she replied. "Some cash. Change. Driver's license. Kleenex. Make-up. Nothing much, really."
"Anything else?"
She shook her head, and then hesitated. "Well, I have some handcuffs, but—"
Handcuffs. A light bulb went off within my head. Ah yes—those would be perfect for what I had in mind. My grin widened, and I became hornier than ever.
"My pimp makes me carry them around," she said. "I don't like using them, really."
"I want to go with the handcuffs," I said. "How many do you have?"
“Two pairs.”
It was getting better and better with every second.
"Do you want to wear them, or should I?" she asked hesitantly, though without any protest.
"I want you to wear them," I explained. "I want both of your wrists cuffed to the bed, and I want you to be gagged with a pillowcase."
"Sounds kind of rough," she said, and I could sense some of her uneasiness returning. So much for the cocaine calming you down, you vapid cunt, I thought sullenly, but with a hint of amusement.
"I know," I said, grinning, wrapping my hand tightly around my stiffening boner. "But don't worry—I won't rough you up too badly." I smiled, trying to reassure her so she would be more cooperative. "I know you don't like S&M and that you're only carrying the cuffs so your pimp won't beat you. But this is what I want, and this is what's going to happen. The customer is always right, after all."
She nodded timidly. "I guess."
"Now let's quit fucking around and get down to business already."
She sighed in defeat. "If you say so, Mister Gordon." She slowly pulled off her shirt and then unstrapped her bra, and her plump breasts swayed with the rising and falling of her chest. "Guess I better get the cuffs, huh?" she said quietly as she began to unbutton her pants and slip them down her legs.
"I'll get them," I said, turning around. I unzipped her purse, fishing around through her rattling change and dollar bills until I felt the smooth metal of the cuffs. I pulled them both out, holding them by the chains as I turned back toward her. She was now fully naked and trembling on the bed.
"Make sure you don't lose the key."
"Don't worry about it," I said, sounding laid back, and handed her the cuffs.
Heather cuffed herself to the bed as I pulled my cloths off and grabbed the pillow. I held it over her face a second or two, once both of her hands were cuffed to the bed and she was fully restrained, as though I was going to smother her with it. She flinched a little, but did not scream, only smiled wanly, knowing that I wasn't going to smother her. And she was right—after what I paid for this private hotel room, I sure as hell wasn't going to let her get off that easily. I pulled the pillow away, and then slipped the pillow case off and discarded the pillow, throwing it by the window, where it hit the radiator and then lay on the floor.
"Open wide," I cooed, like I were a mother trying to feed a one-year-old in a height chair, waving around a tiny spoon, pretending that it were a train or a plane that needed to go through the tunnel. I held the empty pillowcase before her, and slowly, her lips parted. "I need you to open up wider than that, Heather." And she did; she opened her mouth as wide as she could, and I crumpled the pillowcase tightly into my hand and stuffed it deep in her mouth, pushing it toward her throat. "Perfect," I said, stroking my erect penis. "Now we just need one more thing."
Heather made a few muffled gagging sounds, no longer able to speak. I interpreted it as her asking me what it was that we needed. She looked at me, slightly puzzled, her nostrils flaring and her eyes beginning to water.
Our cloths were strewn about in a messy pile by the foot of the bed. I pulled my jeans out and reached into the pockets, past my wallet, and then grabbed the hilt of my knife, pulling it out slowly. I rose, still standing by the foot of the bed, and held the knife before her. Heather's eyes rose like that of a frightened deer caught in a pair of headlights, completely paralyzed with fear and utterly defenseless, and she began to twitch, gasping, struggling in vain to scream, to force the pillow case out of her mouth, as she saw the blade of the knife gleaming in the dim light.
"I told you I like it rough," I said, laughing.
Heather shook her head frantically, tears now streaming down her face.
A thin stream of urine shot into the air from her vagina in a yellowish white arc, splashing lightly against my brow. Her warm urine moistened my brow then dripped in a few thin rivulets down the bridge of my nose and seeped through my lips. I stroked my tongue over my philtrum and chin, trying to lick up the few remaining drops of piss over my face, grinning and savoring each drop. It had very little flavor and was like licking off a few lukewarm raindrops from my face with my tongue, yet had a faint tang to the taste that spiced up the entire experience. As I drank the few beads of her urine, I felt that I was absorbing a sampling of her fear of me and terror at what was about to happen to her since her urination was a reflex brought on by that fear. This act, while not much, served as adequate foreplay and left my erection throbbing in blissful torture.
I crawled onto the bed and then over Heather's naked, shaking body, and forced my hardened cock into her moist cunt, hearing her moan painfully as my free hand grabbed her soft breast. The way she was trembling in fear beneath me was an extra turn-on. She was extremely vulnerable right now. I had her right where I wanted her, and there was no longer a damn thing she could do about it. Her eyes filled with tears, and snot was starting to flow from her flaring nostrils. She hissed again, struggling to scream, but it was a vain effort.
"Don't even bother, you stupid bitch," I said coarsely. "No one's coming to your rescue. Why do you think I insisted on having the pillowcase in your mouth? It’s so you don't scream and draw attention to what's going on." I snickered, and then slapped her in the face so hard that my palm left a red handprint over her cheek. "You're not going anywhere," I crooned, and then rammed my closed fist into her nose, forcing her eyes to water even more. A hybrid fluid of mucous and blood oozed from her nose, and she stared up at me with eyes that were dazed but still frightened. I laughed and slapped her again.
I then tracked the blade of my knife along her chest in a slow downward motion, moving past the smooth curves of her breasts, and stopped at the navel. Pumping my hard cock fiercely into her vagina once again, groaning loudly in great pleasure, and then thrust it into her a third time. My hand closed around her left breast, squeezing tightly, but leaving the nipple exposed. I brought up the knife, and guided the knife's edge over her breast, sliding it through and then cutting the nipple off. The severed nipple fell in a trail of blood onto her solar plexus, and the stub where the nipple had been lactated blood and milk into my face. I opened my mouth wide, guzzling it down like sweet nectar, savoring every second of it. I lifted the knife and brought it down again in a thin arch upon her right breast, watching it sink into her breast, drawing more blood. I held it there for a second or two, twist it inside her breast, as the tip peeked through the bottom of the breast, and then tore it out. The knife slipped from my hands as her warm blood and fat splashed against my body. Heather's right breast was now nothing more than two flaps of flesh and tissue, pouring blood and fat over her stomach, which washed onto the linen of the bed and soaked into my skin as well.
"I lied when I said I wouldn’t rough you up too badly, you stupid cunt!" I screamed, trying to control myself, struggling not to scream or moan too loudly. I didn't want to disturb any of the other guests, after all.
The woman sobbed, her face smeared in a thickening mask of blood, snot, tears, and mascara. She snuffled, looking up at me, her bloodshot eyes pleading for me to let her go, to not hurt or mutilate her anymore as her broken nose twitched, flared, and hung askew over her battered face. She squirmed, trying to shake free, and the cuffs rattled loudly, startling me briefly, but I was quickly able to regain my composure.
“You’re nothing but a pathetic slut,” I grunted and spat in her face.
I rose to my knees, still hovering over her, and punched her in the face once more. I thrust my closed fist again and again against her nose, her eyes, mouth, savagely hammering her face, offering no reprieve. A surge of power filled every molecule in my body, revitalizing me, making me feel reborn like a phoenix rising from the ashes as I destroyed that which was weaker than I. When I was done, her eyes were bruised, one of them beginning to swell shut. Her blood lips were swollen, and her broken nose was now crushed and appeared to sink inwardly into her face. She gagged, hacked, and managed to expel the crumpled pillowcase from her mouth, which was now purple crimson. Heather threw her head forward, overtaken in a nagging coughing fit. With each cough, she expelled thin ribbons of blood, phlegm, and mucous from her torn lips. I felt her bodily fluids hitting my face and chest, and I wanted more. Heather continued to snivel, moan, and sob after her coughing subsiding, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to scream or cry for help.
I reached to the side, groping in the slush that was her fat and blood from when I cut open her right breast, reaching for my knife. I felt the sharp knife's edge cutting the ball of my index finger, and my hand finally closed around the blade. I lifted the knife over her. Heather's mouth dropped open, and she was about to scream, but I brought it down upon her throat, sinking the blade just below her Adam’s apple, severing her vocal chords. I didn't slit her throat from ear to ear, severing her arteries, but instead extracted the knife after another sharp 180-degree twist to make sure her vocal cords were completely ruined. Heather could no longer scream, but she uttered these horribly horse gagging, belching sounds, trying to cry for help.
I began thrust my hardened cock in and out of her cunt, rocking back and forth while pumping harder and harder. And with each thrust of my cock into her vaginal opening, I brought the knife down upon her chest, stabbing her again and again wherever it would land. Heather continued with those horrible belching noises, gagging, wheezing, and squirming beneath me to try to shake free, but that made the experience that much more exquisite. I loved how she was struggling, crying, sobbing in agony and in fear. I thrived on the loud clamoring rattle of the handcuffs as she struggled in vain to free herself.
Eventually, Heather stopped moving, but I was so consumed in sexual ecstasy and the rush of power that I couldn't notice. Nor had I noticed immediately when my knees, shins, and feet were smearing in the feces that she had released whenever she finally had keeled over. I just continued fucking her dead, bloody corpse, stabbing her in the chest and sternum again and again. Had I known that I was now having sexual intercourse with a dead corpse, my knees, shins, and thighs sliding about in a pile of her shit, I probably wouldn't have stopped, nor cared much either, for I was too caught up in the moment.
The knife flew from my blood-soaked hands and landed to the left beside her bruised cheek as a pint of hot semen sprayed from my penis and splashed over her battered face. I was sweating profusely by then, my heart racing in excitement. I fell to the side, my back sliding along the pile of her excrements on the mattress, and just lay there for a long time, basking in the blissful afterglow, a bit dazed, and staring at the dimly lit ceiling.
"Now that was intense," I heaved, breathing heavily.
My eyes wandered about the room, until they fixated on the spatter of blood gleaming off the wall behind the bed. My heart was slowing back to its normal pace, and I was regaining full control of myself once more. Even as I regained composure, as the reality of what I had just done began to sink in, I never once felt an instance of shock or horror or bewilderment for what had just happened. It hadn’t been remorse for my actions nor aghast in disbelief that I had been capable of such horrific deeds, but instead a fear that I might have gotten caught in the act had someone heard all of the commotion that went on in this room. But I heard no footsteps approaching the door, nor did the phone ring, so from the looks of it, none of the other guests had complained.
I slowly rose into a sitting position, scanning over Heather's body quickly, which was now in a cocoon of blood and innards, lying on the mattress in a pool of even more blood, shit, piss, and fat staining deeply into the mattress.
"Looks like I won't have to pay you now," I said, laughing. I rose to my feet, feeling a warm drop of blood sliding from my brow down past the bridge of my nose, like a teardrop, and brushed it away absently as I walked slowly to the headboard of the bed, shaking the left handcuff gently just for the hell of it. I ruffled through her blood-drenched hair, sticky and soggy to the touch and looked more like dark clumps of seaweed than finely spun gold and closed my eyes, struggling to retain the fleeting ecstasy I experienced while butchering her alive. It was already becoming a distant memory, planting the first seeds of disappointment that I would later feel over the whole ordeal.
As I stood there momentarily, the rancid smell of feces filled my nose and I looked down amid the blood covering my entire body and noticed that my thighs, shins, and calves were now covered in Heather’s fecal matter, clinging loosely to my leg hairs. I stroked my left hand over my left leg, scooping up some of the shit that clung there and brought a small parcel of feces to my lips and ingested it, swishing the fecal matter around inside my mouth for a few minutes to savor the charred, sour flavor that coated my tongue before swallowing.
Without bothering to clean myself off, I put my cloths back on and prepared to leave. The cool night breeze hit my face as I opened the hotel room door. I breathed in deeply. Nothing like some fresh air, I thought with a smirk on my face, and laughed again. I stepped outside, my eyes veering right and left, making sure no one was in sight. Across the street was a skinny black man jogging on the sidewalk, but that was it, and he was too far away to be of any concern. I closed the motel door, hearing the lock click shut. I then peered one last time at Motel 6 and at the DO NOT DISTURB sign over the doorknob of my and Heather's room, and then headed for my car and went home.