An unusual pastime

For almost two years now, I've had a very unusual hobby: murder. Well, not so unusual, really—lots of people hunt for recreation. They just haven't found out the most thrilling game to hunt; or don’t have the nerve to try.

It’s one thing to outsmart a wild animal out in the woods. Yes, its senses are sharper than a man's, true. I don't mean to discount the smarts and care it takes to track, stalk, and shoot a game animal. But that's just it; it’s a sport pitting abstract human thought against the brute force of a beast. I guess I can see the appeal that has to some people; but it’s not what thrills me. What I find truly exciting is outsmarting another human being. To outsmart a creature that plans and thinks on an equal level with me; to defeat the measures they've taken to protect themselves; finally to snuff out the hopes and dreams and fears of a mind I can understand and empathize with—to me, there’s nothing like it.

I won't deny that a lot of the appeal is sexual. My targets are young attractive women I might be attracted to under different circumstances. While I enjoy the stalking and killing by far the most, I’m not above taking advantage of a victim sexually. In fact, it seems kind of silly to me—in my view, it is the ultimate lack of respect to take another person's life for my own enjoyment; to balk at disrespecting their sexual integrity over and above that as some people do, particularly those in the media commenting on a “heinous” crime, seems nonsensical. Far be it from me to judge them, though. I don’t really have a moral leg to stand on, after all.

It all started for me with an accident. I was out of town and looking for a great one-night-stand. I'd picked up a rather petite girl who seemed perfect. I'd later find out her name was Bethany, but we didn't exchange names at the time. She had black hair, somewhat more than shoulder length, and she'd gone out in matching black high-heeled boots and a black single-shouldered top, along with tight-fitting jeans. We got along great. I got a sense that she was more intelligent than your usual pick-up girls, and she wasn't as naïve as some were, who’d believe in a lasting relationship after hooking up once. No, she seemed to genuinely enjoy the thrill of anonymous sex with an attractive stranger (if I dare say so myself).

Well, being as like-minded as we were in our thrill-seeking, we found ourselves continuously upping the ante on the adrenalin once in bed, and things got real rough, real fast. While I'd started off undressing her gently, kissing and caressing her skin as it became exposed; taking off her boots to find she wasn't wearing socks, and caressing her toes and the underside of her feet with my lips; by the time I got to her bra, I ripped it right apart. For a few seconds there, I’d been worried she'd get mad and turned off and leave, but she was into it way too much, burying her long finger nails in my back, not nibbling but biting at my neck.

I first took her in the anus, pulling her head back by the hair, and holding it with one hand's fingers gripping into her mouth so she drooled uncontrollably. I kept pumping into her like this until I felt I'd come if I continued. At that point I pulled out, and turned her around on her back. She started to protest in frustration from the sudden stop, but the sound died right back down when I started caressing her vagina and clitoris with my right hand, once again holding face with the fingers of my left inside her jaws. I don't know what it was, but there was something hot about feeling her teeth and tongue, and causing her to drool and preventing her from speaking intelligibly.

Once I felt like I wouldn't come at the first skin contact of my penis, I pushed inside her vagina, which was shaven with just the hint of a little pubic hair, as if she kept it clean habitually, but hadn't anticipated sex tonight.

My hand slowly crept upward over her nice and athletic body, her rather small but very firm tits, until it came to rest above her collarbone at her neck. I looked her in the eyes as I slid my hand on top of her throat, checking if this would freak her out. In answer, she pressed her hand on top of mine, essentially choking herself. At that point, I thought it was safe to assume she was on board, so I pushed down into her throat, depriving her of any air flow. This was when things got really wild. She struggled underneath me, scratching me, grabbing at my hands, her chest heaving in desperation for air to breathe, but whenever I let off, fearing I'd gone too far, she protested miserably, telling me (in an increasingly sore voice) to go on, so I did.

There came a point when I was in so much joyful delirium, I'd stopped thinking of her, and just pressed down and pounded into her until I finally came deep inside her. It was then that I realized she was moving very weakly beneath me, and as I recoiled from her, I could tell she was hardly getting any air even though I'd let go. I must have crushed her windpipe, or something.

I didn't know what to do to help her, and it seemed like the woman slipped in and out of consciousness, until she stayed unconscious. Her chest was heaving up and down, and her unconscious body was convulsing for a few seemingly eternal moments until she finally slumped back down, and the reflexive breathing attempts died down. I felt a weak pulse that seized fast, and my one-night-stand died in my arms within minutes of my climax.

I'd panicked at the time, not knowing what to do with the body of the woman I'd just inadvertently killed. In what could only be described as a mad monomania, I'd decided that what I needed to do was clean up her body to get rid of any DNA evidence, and then dump it. In an almost calm state (really, a state of shock), I managed to go out to a local 24/7 convenience store, buy some bleach and a big suitcase without being all too conspicuously nervous about it, and drive back to the hotel room where the body was still lying on my bed. By now, a puddle of bladder contents, intermixed with my sperm, had formed around her crotch. Using the bleach in the bath tub, I washed out her ass, her vagina, her mouth, tried to scrub my skin from underneath her fingernails, and washed her neck that had severe bruises from where I'd strangled her. At the end of it, she looked even more deplorable and gruesome a body as before. If I didn’t know she’d already been dead, I’d have thought she’d been tortured horrifically to death.

Thanks to her small stature, I managed to pack her into the suitcase I'd bought, though her contorted body with bleach burns all over was an image that burned into my memory forever. At the time, it was traumatic—but today, I look back at it as beautiful. More precisely, it was the twisted beauty of something beautiful destroyed. I checked out of the hotel, hoping nobody would notice my suspiciously heavy suitcase, and drove home, throwing the suitcase in a dumpster the next town over.

Over the course of the next days, I was terrified of being caught, after all. Watching and reading all the news I could get, I learned her body had been found the next day by a garbage man. I learned her name was Bethany, and she was a finishing medicine student who was about to become a doctor. I learned she left behind a pet cat she'd loved dearly who still cried out for her from time to time, and many grieving friends who all described her as an outstandingly smart and likeable woman.

And as I came to realize that I was not going to be caught, that no one had any clue that might lead them to me, despite how careless I'd been, I began to feel a rush of power. Looking at the grieving friends and parents on television, I felt a perverse kind of pride, that it was me who had done that to them, and I’d gotten away with it. I had taken a young promising life, I had negated the hopes and dreams of a perfectly good human being; I had touched the lives of so many who were now grieving, I had, in a certain, small sense, changed the course of history by the power of my own hands. And I realized it was something I'd want to feel again.