An unusual pastime

As I watched the news reports on Amy's killing, I found I'd gotten into a sort of rhythm, of scouting, planning, execution, watching news, and cool down as I went through the killing in my head over and over again, savoring the best parts, and wondering what might be possible the next time. Actually, I realized what I'd become: a serial killer. I kind of liked the ring of that, though it seemed to suggest some kind of insanity that wasn't a part of it for me. I just liked killing; I just liked taking something precious away for my own enjoyment.

Watching the news aftermath of Amy's murder, I picked up on how horrified everyone was that it had taken place right inside her family home. I dwelled on that a little, and decided I'd want to kill someone in the intimacy of their own home again.

I didn't have an excuse to travel this time, but I still didn't want to risk breaking into a home right here, so I drove a few hours away, into a small town I hadn't known before. There were a few nice neighborhoods here, and I finally settled on what seemed to be a young married couple with a few months-old baby in a tiny home. The mother was a very pretty young woman, freckles across the face, dark hair, her body curvy, probably still from pregnancy, dressed in a conservative sweater and pants. She held her baby, and kissed her husband goodbye out in the driveway. She wore a simplistic wooden cross around her neck, and as her husband pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a fish bumper sticker on their small family car. I gathered they were pretty serious Christians.

I parked my car on another block, then made my way toward their home. I decided for a very straightforward approach; I went up to their door and knocked. The young housewife answered the door with her baby still on her arms. She looked at me puzzled and a little apprehensive. I guess my eyes already betrayed a bit about my intentions. "Hello...?", she said uneasily.

With sudden violence of action, I stepped inside, slammed the door, kneed the young mother in her stomach, and tore the little boy from her. Before she could react, she was lying on the floor winding about, gasping for air. When she looked up at me, I saw a look that has been burned into my memory ever since, of absolute terror as she realized the madman who'd just assaulted her was holding her infant son.

Between gasps, she managed to stammer: "Please, please, leave ... my baby ... don't ... don't hurt him, please!" In the smuggest voice I could manage, I answered: "Don't worry about that. Babies don't do anything for me." I could see her face lighten up. "I might have to hurt him, anyway. If you don't do exactly as I tell you."

"Oh God—ok, ok, I ... I will, I promise, I swear! There's no need to hurt him, no ... no need, no". I could tell she was unsure what to say to appease me, and what exactly I wanted from her. I decided to be cruel and let her reel in uncertainty for a while longer, so I told her: "Now, don't get excited, lady, you two can get out of this just fine, alright? Just show me where you keep your cash and valuables."

She stumbled around, trying to get her feet underneath her, but I kicked one leg away just as she put her weight on it, sending her flying back to the ground. She hit her head on the leg of a table in the process, and a cut opened on the side of her forehead that bled all over the side of her face. I shouted in her ear, stooping down: "Did I fucking tell you to stand?! Tell me, did I, huh?" She shook her head, mumbling "no", "So what the fuck are you doing getting up? You stay on the ground, you understand? You stay on the fucking ground!"

So she crawled through her house on all fours, sobbing silently, leaving smears of blood on the carpet and walls, in front of me, who was holding her son, into their bedroom. There was a double bed, with a cradle next to it, and a closet on the other end of the room, and that took up pretty much all of the space in this tiny bedroom.

The young wife looked up at me frightened, as if to confirm her boy was still ok, then crawled toward the closet, and took a box from the bottom shelf. After laying it on the floor in front of me, she crawled into a corner of the room beside the bed, cowering, touching the wound on her head carefully to find out how bad it was.

Opening the box, I found some pretty nice trinkets, a silver and gold necklace, an ancient pocket watch, both of which I guessed were treasured heirlooms, a leather bound copy of the bible, a stack of bills that amounted to about 150 dollars. I took all, and if I had meant to rob them, I might have been satisfied with the value of their heirlooms. Instead, I turned around and shouted: "Are you fucking kidding me, you bitch? That's all you fucking have? You think this was worth my trouble? This?!" I waved the bills in front of her face, and her wincing provoked me into slapping her across the face with an open hand. She was stammering something barely intelligible about "... all we've got ... swear ... nothing more to give you ..."

I smiled at her with false reassurance. "Oh, I'm sure there's something more to take here. So you couldn't possibly pay a ransom for your son, then, could you? Hmm, well... What do you think's the worth of a baby on the black market, take a guess, huh? Maybe it won't be so bad and he'll just be adopted out by some nice family. There are all kinds of perverts who'll pay good money, though... You want me to take him? I think I'll take him, ok?" She shook her head in absolute horror, saying: "Please, no, please, leave him alone, please, sir, please."

"Alright then, I guess I'm feeling merciful today. I'm going to give you one more chance to make it worth my while. Take off your clothes." By her look of relief, I could tell she'd been praying for this. She wiggled out of her sweater almost eagerly, smearing the blood from her forehead all over the side of her head in the process. When that was off, she became considerably more reluctant, as what was left were pants and her bra, and I was eying her bare stomach hungrily. There had already formed a purple bruise where I'd kneed her, and even though I usually preferred a lean, athletic body, there was a delicious vulnerability to the thin, soft layer of baby fat she had left from her pregnancy.

"The hell are you waiting for, bitch? Want to change your mind, or what?  Take them off, now!“ I shouted at the frightened young woman who cowered with her back to the wall and winced at every sound. She scurried to undo her pants, and burst into tears when they came off. She was wearing quite tastefully decorated white panties and matching bra. I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her forward and back into the corner again, shaking her, yelling into her ear: "Go on, we're not done here yet!"

Fingers shaking like leaves, it took her several tries to unhook her bra behind her back, but eventually she managed to open it up and slip out of it. I caught a short glimpse of a nipple, but she raised her knees to her chest to shield them from view. I gave her another hard slap across the face that sent spit and tears and blood from the cut on her forehead flying through the air. "Get on your knees!“ I commanded, "Your hands behind your head, and look me in the eyes." She was a miserable sight as she kneeled there with hands up and eyes red from crying, pleading for mercy as they searched mine, struggling the instinct to look down.

Her chest was looking marvelous, though. There’s something about young mothers, I'll say. Her breasts were swollen up with milk, her nipples puffy and inviting. Setting down the infant who was too disturbed at what was happening to mommy to even cry out, I took the time to knead her breasts, and suckle on them, even drawing a little milk.

Patting her freckled cheek condescendingly, crouching in front of her, I affected the most soothing voice I could accomplish: "Alright, now, sweetheart, we're almost there. You may take your hands down now. Take it off and we'll have it all behind us, ok?" She knew as well as I did that I was lying about being done after she'd taken her panties off, but it was fun to keep her confused and guessing. As I'd spoken, I'd taken one of her delicate hands, and helpfully set it at the waistband of her underpants.

She finally slid the piece of cloth down her thighs, and I took it from her, sniffing her delicious smell demonstratively before setting it aside. I got up, towering over her, and she freaked out as I loosened my belt buckle. I didn't stop, though, dropping my pants, sliding out of my underwear to reveal my rock hard penis.

Stepping toward her, I threatened: "I feel one tooth, and your son will regret it", and thrust my cock into her freckled face. She knew what I wanted, opened her mouth, and let me fuck her skull for the next couple of minutes.

I pulled out before I came, and watched her sobbing and pressing herself into her corner desperately, as if there were some way to get away from me through the wall. I caught her sending glances toward her infant son.

When I'd calmed down sufficiently, I grabbed an ankle of hers, pulled her out from behind her corner roughly, and mounted on top of her. My cock found her lightly-haired pussy easily, and I started pumping into her. Getting flashbacks from Bethany, I grabbed her by the throat and choked her again and again, letting her get a little air and a little blood flowing back to her head before pressing into her windpipe and arteries again.

After a while of this, the defiled young wife started coughing and gagging, and trying to avert her head to the side. I let her be for a second, and the poor thing threw up a mix of bile and blood onto the floor, her whole body rocking back and forth as I continued to pound into her. I hadn't realized but I must have already caused her significant internal injuries that she was throwing up blood. Perhaps the kneeing had been even harder than intended.

I grabbed her panties of the floor and jammed them into the woman's half-opened mouth, chipping a tooth in the process, and shoving them back as far as I could manage. She started her gagging again, but I was having none of it this time. I grabbed her by the throat, and lifted her upper body a few feet off the ground by it. As I continued to rock in and out of her, I shook her head violently.

Her face turned purple and blue and all the skin puffed up as the blood in her head seized circulating and her body screamed for oxygen. Her lips were covered with froth coming from behind the pantie gag. Her eyes were practically swimming in their sockets, losing focus, looking desperately at her little son on the floor next to us. I lifted her face right up to mine, looking deep into her dying brown eyes, wanting to be the last thing she ever saw, relishing in her look of terror and incomprehension, mesmerized by the little blood vessels inside her eyeballs that were popping open and coloring them red. Eventually, I was fascinated to see her pupils glazing over, turning blurry like smoky glass, something of a symbol for all her organs that were dying off one after another.

These were the thoughts that sent me over the edge, sending sperm into her warm body that had seized functioning. At the same time, she lost control over her bladder, and a warm trickle of urine washed my cock off as I retreated. I ripped the wooden cross necklace off her neck and jammed it into her asshole, wondering if somebody would find it in there. As an afterthought, I fanned the stack of bills out and shoved it into her vagina, as if symbolically paying for her services. Turning the saint into a whore. Destroying something beautiful.

As I got up to leave, and put my pants back on, the baby boy crawled over to his mother, cradling her lifeless head as if he knew something terrible had happened to her and was trying to comfort her. Looking over the scene, I felt like something of an artist for being able to create this heart-wrenchingly beautiful an image. To think that painters and writers labored a lifetime to capture this level of emotion—my hobby felt truly fulfilling then.