by Don Elliott
Him.
She had gone to fetch him, knowing that she could have her way with him. And now he was going to pay the price for the murder.
She grinned at him and said, "Here. Here's a treat for you, to show I'm a sport."
She took off her housecoat.
And then, she grasped the hem of the negligee and seductively lifted it up, up over her shins and knees, past her thighs, past the flat stomach, past the slopes of her breasts.
She stood nude before him, wanton, alluring.
Mr. Crispian stared at her. His dimming eyes roved the contours of those lush thighs and shameless breasts. There was the dry, coppery taste of lust in his mouth. She did a slow pirouette, revealing to him the profile, the tall-nippled breasts thrusting out like globes from her body, the firm white mounds of the buttocks.
He saw everything. At close range. He could see the beads of sweat gleaming on her skin in the deep valley between her breasts. He could smell the scent of her. She was so close ... so very close.
Mr. Crispian tried to rise. He still held the scissors clutched in his hand. He wanted to strike out at her, to plunge the bloody weapon between those mocking white breasts, to see the crimson of her veins stain her nipples and her body.
He got halfway to his feet, then, with an effort, stood erect. He took an uncertain step forward, lurching and staggering, almost falling. She darted away from him, the spheres of her bare breasts swaying and jiggling. Her buttocks, her body, seemed to jeer at him.
"Oh, no you don't!" she cried.
Mr. Crispian swung the dripping scissors at her, aiming for those twin globes of sensual flesh. He might just as well have been trying to stab the moon. He missed by a wide margin and went sprawling forward, flat on his face, the scissors dropping from his fingers and skittering across the floor.
She was above him. He felt her warmth. He sensed the swaying globes of her breasts near him. He heard her silvery laughter.
Then the skillet descended once again, crashing into the back of his skull with fearful force.
Mr. Crispian's head dropped limply to one side, and he felt dark paralysis creeping up the length of his body. He lay there, conscious of the nakedness of the blonde girl somewhere nearby, and as he waited helplessly for the police to arrive he was thinking, I only wanted to look ... I only wanted to look....
THE END
