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 naďve 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.

My second kill came soon after, and it was arguably my most reckless to date. If I ever was in any danger of being caught, it was over this one.

The thrill I'd felt in the aftermath of killing Bethany had been so overwhelming that I felt I needed to kill again, right now, the sooner the better. Afterwards, I'd refine my methods and get a little more patient as killing become more a pastime than an animal urge, after I'd grown used to it.

This time, though, I went out (way too close to my home, too) in a bloodlust, and I couldn't think straight after the experience with Bethany. All I had on me was a simple knife, and I drove around just like that in the bright light of day, searching for another victim.

It was over lunch that I found her. She was blonde, her hair straight and shoulder-length, dressed in a “professional” kind of skirt and suit, in shoes that had just a hint of heels, a perfect balance between no-nonsense professionalism and feminity. She was a little older than was my usual taste, but something attracted me to her anyway. Maybe it was her aura of optimism and confidence. Something beautiful, waiting to be torn down. I'd seen her cross the block on the way to the sandwich place I was eating at, so I had a good idea of where she'd be passing through on her way back.

After finishing my sandwich in a hurry and leaving, I scouted out the route I'd seen her take a half hour earlier, and I found a great spot, where a narrow and dark alley turned off the main street in a place that couldn't be easily observed from very many angles.

Waiting here, my pulse rate went through the roof as I heard and saw her approaching, oblivious to the danger she was in. I slipped into a shadow to heighten my chance of remaining unseen, and just after she passed by the spot, I stepped behind her, put the knife to her throat and clamped my hand over her mouth. She froze for a moment in confusion and shock, and in my estimation, it was this instant that sealed her fate.

I was able to drag her a few feet into the alley, where we wouldn't be seen by anyone that wasn't explicitly coming to look for us, and that was when she started screaming and struggling.

By this time, it was too late. I kept my hand on her mouth like a vise, choking back any screams, and bending back her head, while at the same time plunging my knife into her stomach again and again. From the moment the blade first broke through her skin and ripped into her stomach, she began faltering, stepping back and forth uneasily. She grew weak fast, and as I continued stabbing her, I had to use my other hand to hold her up so she wouldn't collapse to the ground before I was finished ripping up her inner organs. At this point, she was too weak to scream, anyway, so I wasn't concerned with that any longer.

By the time she went limp in my hands, I'd stabbed her three to four dozen times, and blood flow was already ebbing down. I let her drop to the ground in a huge pool of blood, and looking down at myself, I was bloody all over, too. My knife and the hand holding it were shining red, and the hand that had been over her mouth was bloody, too. I must have stabbed her in the lungs, too, as she'd been coughing up bubbles of blood towards the end.

In an attempt to conceal the blood on my front, I turned my jacket inside out and returned to my car like this. I would have probably been made if I had parked a little bit further away, but luckily, I reached it without any suspicious eyes taking too close of a look. Arriving at home, I had a major high as I registered I'd just gotten away with another killing, cold-blooded murder this time. In my bloodlust, I started licking the half-dried blood off my blade, and it sent me right to the bathroom where I couldn't help myself but to jerk off imagining the blonde's death throes as she'd been shivering and bleeding in my arms.

Watching the news the next day, I learned she'd been a single mother to a girl toddler who was now going to go in foster care, as her grandparents had died already. I wondered if she'd thought of her daughter as she was shaking and spewing blood in my hands.

Checking the internet, I actually found a great picture that some journalist had managed to take before police contaminated the crime scene, which existed in an uncensored version on some sites. Looking at it, I regretted having left in such a hurry; I would have loved to take in the aftermath right there. Her blonde hair had become dyed red, drenched in blood after she'd fallen. Her face was forever twisted in an expression of panic, agony, and despair. She had bloody froth at the mouth, and there was a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth that joined the big pool on the ground. From the angle the photograph was taken, you could see many of the stab wounds very well. You could see that I had even sliced her breasts a couple of times. That might be why she'd suddenly been coughing up blood.

After a period of paranoia, where once again, I thought the cops would come down on me any second now, I knew that I'd gotten lucky another time. It had been luck, though. Way too close, and way too out in the open. By all rights, I should have been caught. I wouldn't make that mistake the next time.

On my next time out, I was getting settled into my new hobby. I wasn't as nervous and impatient anymore, and the first-hand knowledge of what damage I could do gave me the peace of mind and confidence to take my time.

I had resolved to be a bit more careful this time around, knowing that repeat criminals usually got caught when they got sloppy. I resolved to get smarter instead. For one, I decided I was not going to keep killing around my hometown. In fact, for this one and most of my subsequent kills, I traveled out of state. There would be different police departments involved, and they wouldn't know where to look even if they somehow connected my crimes, which I was hoping to avoid.

For this one, I had a work related reason to travel to a neighbor state for a few days a week. While there, I had some spare time, and decided to be on the lookout for a good opportunity. I drove through downtown as well as outlying neighborhoods. I could have snatched some girl off the street, perhaps some poor girl in a bad part of town, but I found that didn't really do it for me. What had attracted me to my second victim, I realized, was that I'd be able to rip her out of somewhere she felt safe and at ease. I suppose I was just into destroying beautiful things—Bethany had really imprinted that in me, I guessed.

So it was in a high class suburb where I finally found what I was looking for. I found a family living in a home with a large property around it, and no neighbors nearby. That meant no ear witnesses for me. From what I could tell, they had a daughter in her early twenties who was home from college for a week or so. She was a cute thing, brown haired, with a fit and athletic body, breasts that were on the bigger side, as opposed to Bethany's, and with nice and fine facial features that just seemed to invite me to try out how fragile they were. Over the next few days, I observed their comings and goings from a well-covered spot of forest near their house through a pair of expensive binoculars I'd treated myself to. It was coming in real handy.

I observed that the father usually left for work the whole day, while the mother did a few chores around the house in the morning, and then went shopping or left for an appointment or a pastime outside the house. The daughter stayed in, and I finally found out what she was doing through my binoculars. Most of the time, she studied for college. Must have big exams coming up after the vacation. She went out running early in the morning. I might hit her then, though I'd kind of been looking forward to breaking into the home. Around noon, she spent between a half an hour and a full hour on the phone with someone, I guessed her boyfriend. If I wanted to give myself the biggest possible time window, I'd have to wait until after someone was expecting a call from her. In the afternoon, she did some more workout, outside when the weather was good, went back to studying for an hour or two, and then spent the evening relaxing with her parents, watching a movie by herself, or going out with friends.

       

I decided the most opportune time to go in was after her daily workout, while she was taking a shower. She'd be powered out, the sound of my breaking in would be drowned out by the running water, and I had a chance to catch her still naked if I got lucky, too.

The next day, I slowly crawled across the low vegetation that surrounded the home until I was fairly close to it, with a view at the garden, and the back entrance of the house. I waited patiently for the cute brunette to come out, and she didn't disappoint. Facing away from the home and playing music on her earphone, she had no way of noticing me as I snuck behind her, to place a twig in the sliding door so it wouldn't close fully, thereby not setting off the alarm when I opened it up to go in after her.

When she'd completed her workout, she was covered in sweat (I found I quite liked the look), and as I'd correctly guessed, she had so exerted herself that she’d developed tunnel vision and never noticed that the sliding door didn't close all the way. I waited until I could see the bathroom lights go on, and then hear the sound of running water. Once I did, I slid the door back open, and was inside the home.

Taking care not to make a noticeable sound, I headed toward where I knew the bathroom was. On the way, I passed by her room, where it said in large letters on the door “Amy”. I couldn't resist to go in, if only to find out what she was studying. I had to laugh when I found an opened anatomy book on her desk. Another medicine student! On a bookshelf by her bed, I found several trophies. Apparently, Amy was a distance runner. I took the biggest and heaviest with me and continued on to the bathroom. Arriving, I listened at the door, and was satisfied to hear the shower running, and Amy singing carelessly. A smile came over my face.

I didn't quite want to announce my presence just yet, so I opened the door very slowly and carefully. Amy had no idea I was there, as she was facing the wall under the shower. Extra careful not make a sound, and trying to stay low and crouched to minimize any shadow I might produce from the ceiling lamp, I approached the shower.

When I pulled the curtain, it was a complete surprise to Amy. As a matter of fact, she didn't even realize anything had happened the first second or so. This allowed me to slam my full weight into her shoulder, sending her crashing into the tile wall face-first. She tried to regain her balance, but there was no chance on the slippery floor and walls of the shower. As she was momentarily dazed, I turned off the water, not wanting to get wetter than I had to.

She was already bleeding profusely, so I assumed she'd broken her nose on the slam. I could see her tying to reorient herself, discovering me standing over her, mouth opening for a scream. I placed a punch square in her mouth, and another, and another, choking the scream right back. Instead, she was spitting out blood and fragmented teeth I'd broken loose.

Amy was paralyzed with shock at this point. I couldn't help but notice her firm, wet, big tits, so I coddled them now. Wanting to hurt her, I squeezed one really tight, and bit down on the other so hard, I broke the skin around her nipple. Another hand wandered down between her legs, a finger slipping right between her lips down there.

But I was getting sidetracked. I was here for the killing. The fondling had brought Amy back to life, it seemed, and she was stirring now. I took her head by the hair, rotated her onto her stomach, and slammed her face-first into the floor multiple times. By the second or third time, I could actually see teeth flying around. When I let go, she remained lying on the floor, whimpering in a miserably high pitch.

I lifted her head by the hair, which was getting sticky with blood now, to inspect the damage I'd caused. Her nose was now definitely busted beyond repair. Many teeth were missing, and both lips were split and bleeding. Her cheeks were scratched and bruised. There was a lot missing, in my opinion, though. I gouged one of her eyes, which turned out to be real squishy. Taking aim at her mouth again, I released two merciless punches that removed or loosened most of the teeth she still had remaining. I threw her over the side of the bath tub, so her head hung down the outside of it. Using her trophy, I started bludgeoning her in the back of the head. At the first strike, I broke skin, and blood was gushing from the cut the trophy had left. At the second strike, I felt myself hitting bare bone. At the third, I felt the hard wall of her skull give. I felt her head cave in, and my bludgeon moving through the broken bone into the soft tissue of her brain.

At this point, Amy went into a violent seizure. She actually managed to bite her tongue with the few teeth she still had. I decided to try and leave as shocking a scene as I could, and dragged the nearly unconscious Amy by the hands out of the bathroom and into her room, throwing her on top of her bed. I'd left a trail of blood on the way. I struck her a few more times in the face with the trophy bludgeon, leaving disfiguring dents in her facial features and opening deep cuts in her skin. By the time I was done, her face had turned into a bloody pulp. None of her features had survived. I placed a pillow off her own bed over her face, and kneeled on top of it. There was a bit of squirming underneath me, but after a minute or so, there was absolutely no movement anymore. When I checked, I found that her heart had stopped.

Before packing up, I positioned her as indecently as I could think of: with her legs spread wide apart, her hand in between, as if she'd been masturbating. Then I had another idea: in her anatomy textbook, I searched out the pages concerning heads and faces, ripped them out and spread them out on her bed. There was just one more thing I wanted to get: I went back to the bathroom, and sure enough, there were her sweaty sports bra and panties she'd gotten out of before taking a shower. I put them in a bag I'd prepared, along with the clothes I'd been wearing, got into something clean (not full of blood), and took off through the sliding back door, across their property and into my car.

I'd memorized what time the mother came home every day, so I made sure to pass in front of their house with my window rolled down when that happened. The blood curdling scream I got was more than satisfying as I drove happily home, the bag with my bloody clothes, and my souvenirs in my trunk: her sweaty, sweet smelling sports underwear, and the trophy with parts of her face and brains still sticking to it.

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.

If you can believe it, I almost let one get away once. It had been a while since I'd raped and murdered that young Christian mother, and that one had provided me with months of joyful memories. I'd learned the husband, who'd never gotten over the trauma of finding his beloved young wife where I'd left her, had taken his own life after the funeral, leaving yet another little kid to grow up as an orphan on my account. I was having quite an impact on the world by now, I reflected, there were people who would feel the consequences of my actions long after I'd died. I liked how mighty that made me feel.

Well, after growing bored of going over the same murder again and again, I became restless and knew I wanted to kill someone again fairly soon. The last two times I'd snuck into someone's home, and I was kind of missing the rush I'd felt grabbing someone out in the open. At the same time, I'd taken a huge risk, and I was wondering how to manage it this time.

I finally decided I'd kidnap somebody in a parking lot, have her drive us to some remote spot, and have a little murderous fun there. So the next couple of weeks were spent scouting out parking lots, weighing surveillance and ease of access against probability of a nice young hottie turning up when I needed her to. I decided very early on that only at night, I felt safe enough to try anything.

It took me quite a while, as I didn't want any scared little girl feeling stalked and avoid the place or even arm up with pepper spray or guns (though both of which could make excellent toys if captured along with her). So I came by different spots at an irregular, and usually with a seemingly valid reason, such as a non-existent doctor's appointment, or late night grocery shopping. Despite the difficulty, I managed to make out some potential targets and their routines.

The one I ultimately settled on was a bank teller who was in the reckless habit of parking her car at a secluded lot several blocks away, and do some shopping at different corner stores she passed by on her way back there after she'd gotten off work. She wore her light brown hair in a stern ponytail that accentuated her tastefully made up facial features, her delicate nose, high cheekbones and carefully plucked, thin eyebrows. I'd used their indoor ATM a couple of times, just to catch a glimpse of her beautiful face, as she smiled with ostensively genuine goodwill at a customer she was advising. Several other times, I'd found occasion to be sitting in a snack bar facing the street, just to watch her walk by in her pant suit.

The night I'd set for the ambush, I went straight to the parking lot, finding her car—a small black sedan—and parking my own car so I had a straight shot to her driver side door. Climbing into my passenger side seat, I waited, keeping a watchful eye in the direction I expected her to be coming from.

When I saw her approaching, I slid back into the seat, hoping she'd see an empty car, just barely still able to observe her as she made a straight beeline for her vehicle. I readied my knife I was going to threaten her with. I hadn't decided yet how I was going to kill her once I got her alone and out of help's reach, but it was very likely the knife would be involved. I waited for her to unlock the doors and start to get in.

When I heard the 'click' of the door being unlocked, and a glance confirmed she was getting in, I slammed my passenger side door open, bolted across the parking spot in between us, and landed on top of her, knocking her inside her car face-first. The plan had been to hold the knife to her throat and hold a hand over her mouth to keep her silent, but I'd dropped the knife in the rush! The split second it took me to register that was the time she needed to realize she was under attack, and her reaction surprised me. I would have made her for a shy, submissive girl, but in fact, she started fighting back the second she got her bearings.

She struggled and kicked and punched and bit at me as she tried to wriggle from underneath me and get away. In the meantime, I'd located my knife on the floor of her car, but bending forward to pick it up took just enough of my leverage away to allow her to get one leg free. As the momentum turned in her favor, I reflexively extended my arms to catch her, and with the force of adrenalin behind it, the knife in my hand sliced deep through her left shoulder, only sparing bone in it's path. With muscles and tendons cut up, her left arm became useless to her, and she was bleeding heavily from the cut. Damn, I didn't want her to bleed out just yet!

I'm sure she registered the pain of the crippling blow to her shoulder, but she, too, was pumped full of adrenaline by now, and she made use of it to try and run. Unfortunately, she also tried to grab her cell phone out of her purse at the same time, probably to call 911, and with one arm limp, she lost her balance, and the cell phone went flying across the parking lot, splintering into multiple parts as it landed on the concrete.

With raised knife, I rushed toward where she'd fallen, to try to stab her to death, if that's what had to happen after all. Being in survivor mode, the chick zeroed in on the knife in my hand, kicking and punching and grabbing at it, getting cuts acoss her hands, legs, and arms that would have been debilitating if not for the adrenaline. Finally, she managed to kick the knife out of my hands, and it slithered across the lot right underneath some car. Great, so much for that.

While the fight wasn't over by a long shot, it was clear who'd won already: despite her valliant effort, she'd already taken some injuries that gave me the clear advantage in a hand-to-hand fight. But I didn't want to let it come down to that if I could help it, because I understood the potential for being seriously hurt myself as well in a “fair” fight. Instead, I remembered she'd dropped her keys right beside her car door when I'd first rushed her, and looking back, sure enough, there was her keyring.

I smiled, picked them up, and got in her car, turning on the ignition. I could see her get up, but she was half crawling, half limping. She had apparently torn an achilles tendon in kicking at my knife. I had more than enough time to put her car into first gear, and roll up behind her. If ever there was a situation that was best described by the phrase “deer in the headlight”, it was now: the horrified look on her face was priceless when she turned around to see the bright lights of her own car and realized what was going to happen.

I pushed all the way down on the gas pedal and hit her square in the hip, as she was futilely attempting to get out of the way. I heard a deep 'thump', followed by the windshield cracking as the pretty young bank teller was hurled across the hood of her own car, flying over its roof for almost ten feet before landing on her side and sliding an additional foot across the concrete floor, tearing open the whole side of her face into one huge albeit shallow scratch wound.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see she was squirming about, but there was no getting up: her pelvis was shattered, and her legs twisted away from her body at unnatural angles. I put the car in reverse gear, and slowly rolled back. It felt like hitting a speed bump when I rolled over her with the rear, then the front wheels.

I got out of the car to examine the damage I'd caused. She was still alive, but dying. In rolling over her, I'd crushed her legs, and, fascinatingly, her stomach and internal organs. I'd crunched several of her ribs, and just missed her heart by a little bit. There was a fountain of bubbly blood out of her mouth, and her torso from the ribs downward was almost flat with the bloody imprint of tires.

I crouched by the young teller's face, petting her head, combing back strands of her beautiful hair that had torn free in the violence and were lying all across her face, in her eyes, around her mouth, everywhere. With the other hand I held hers. I spent several minutes beside her, watching her breathing and spasming grow ever weaker, as her eyes flitted around dazed and confused, until she'd taken her last breath, and I could feel the last weak pulse go through her wrist.

Then I got into my car and drove off, before anyone could alert the police and emergency services that, I knew, would arrive much too late.