He walked to the large freezer that was busily humming away in the corner of the room and opened the top. Looking at the ceiling mirror, she could see the frozen heads nestled within. Piles of them. He pulled one out and carried it over to the bed. Despite the pallor of the skin, the frost over the eyes and cheek, she recognized it as that of Renata Santiago, the whore that had gone missing back in May, before her body parts were discovered in a dumpster off Graylock Street. All that is but the head that now stared at her through spectacles of white ice. The eighth victim.
'This is Athena, Beatrice. The goddess of wisdom. One of the best. It is very cold where she has gone. Could you perhaps provide her some comfort?" He placed Santiago's frozen lips over her breast, the frost burning her nipple, which became instantly erect. She felt a thrill go through her whole body as he pressed the head more tightly against her breast before removing it and replacing it gently in the icebox.
"You could give yourself up," she said softly. "You don't have to do this."
"Oh but I do, don't you see. I very much have to do this," he said.
"Soon you will be joining my other guides to heaven," he said, indicating the icebox with his black eyes, "but first you must show me the way."
He ran his tongue up her leg, over her knee, up her inner thigh to the aching crack between her legs. His arm muscles were steel pistons, flexing as he lapped her. The touch of his tongue was electric, and she opened herself to him, overcome by wave after wave of the greatest pleasure she had ever known. She arched into him, cramming her mound against his face as he sucked her, and then he was climbing up her, his muscles rock hard against her soft breasts and his tongue found her other mouth and she sucked it as he thrust into her, six inches at first, then eight, then the full ten as he reached depths within her that no man ever had and she sucked him into her, her whole body a mouth seeking to engulf him, to keep him within her forever.
Her tongue swirled around his earlobe as he pumped faster and faster into her. "I am death come to receive you," she whispered to him as he exploded inside her, the warmth of his seed spraying her womb, suffusing her body with a glow she had not thought possible.
"You are the best of them, Beatrice," he whispered later as they lay there together, his legs wrapped around her, his hand softly cupping her breast. "You will be the one to show me the way where the others failed. You are death itself. I will return to you, Beatrice, and you will show me the way to heaven. Sleep well, my angel." He got off the bed and shuffled into the next room, leaving her in the darkness.
When she woke, she could hear him breathing softly in the next room. It was best not to press her luck, she thought. While the coroner said there had been multiple attacks on each victim, he could not say how many. The second could be the last. Reluctantly, her body still basking in the pleasure of his touch, she reached for the hairpin and began working the lock on the cuffs. She knew the gun still sat unmolested in her purse.
The man's eyes opened when he felt the cold of the steel barrel pressing against her temple. "You should have believed me," she said, raising her badge to his face. "I'm detective Veronica Hughes of the L.A.P.D., and you're just the man we have been looking for. That I've been looking for.
"Take those off," she said, indicating his pajamas. He looked at her strangely as if wondering at her nakedness, but complied, pulling off his shirt, then standing and dropping his pants to the floor.
"I thought you were special, Beatrice. I thought you were the one. You don't know how disappointed I am," he said, his eyes never leaving her huge breasts.
"Now put these on," she said, tossing him the handcuffs.
He shut the clasps over both wrists and looked at her expectantly.
"Now get in there." she said, indicating the first bedroom. He got up and walked into the room across the hall.
"Now get on that," she said, indicating the four-poster. He looked at her strangely then, but climbed on the bed.
"Now lie down," she said.
He lay down on his back, and she could see that he was becoming erect, already eight inches at least. She took the other pair of cuffs and closed the bracelet around his right wrist and cuffed him to the eyehook. She unlocked the other cuff from his right hand and climbed over him, her cunt on his nose, to cuff his left hand to the other eyehook.
She held the gun against his temple. "Don't even think about moving," she told him, and she slid down his body to tie his legs with the leather straps. Now Mr. Death was himself tied to the bed, naked, spread eagled and helpless.
She climbed up him, her moist cunt tracing its way up his hard chest. "Oh, but I am the one," she told him. "I am Kali, the bringer of death. I have tasted its pleasures a thousand times. I will take you places you have never been before.
She sat on his face, her cunt engulfing his mouth and nose. "Come to me," she told him. "Taste your death." She began to rock on his face as his tongue found her, swirling around her clitoris, probing her vagina, running along the inner lining of her labia. She grabbed his hair and pressed into him, rocking more violently, feeling his crushed nose sliding up and down her cunt, as he lapped her harder and harder until she finally spent, releasing her fluids all over his face, her juices running down his cheeks, staining the perfect black satin of the sheet beneath him.
She kissed him violently and then slid down the sheets until his magnificent cock was finally resting against her cheek. She fingered the base as she took it inside her mouth, feeling his whole body shiver as she took it deeply within her, cramming it down her throat while she fondled his swelling balls, filled with the juices of life. She took each ball in her mouth and sucked it as she slid her hand up and down his cock, touching it gently at first, then more violently, squeezing it to hold back the flow. She lapped underneath the head, then took the helmet in her mouth as she gave his balls a final squeeze before climbing up him to impale herself on him, his ten inches sliding into her secret depths, and she reached across him, her nipples brushing briefly across his chest as she retrieved the carving knife from the nightstand.
She traced its sharp point down his chest, drawing a thin line of blood as she began to rock on him, and she could feel him becoming even harder and longer as she played the cold steel of the blade over his chest and took him deeper insider her, thrusting herself violently down upon him.
He looked at her with love in his eyes as he arched his body into her. She felt his muscles tighten as he prepared to come and she drew the blade quickly across his abdomen, watching the surprise in his eyes as his gigantic prick grew even longer within her and she pumped him harder and faster, feeling the glow within her body building to a crescendo she had not thought possible. Her whole body shuddered as he came in a violent, rushing torrent inside her, his last seeds of life desperately seeking a new home as she felt the warmth inside her mixing with the hot fluid from his entrails as they spilled from his ruined stomach.
She leaned over to kiss him and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "You're so right, darling. Fucking the dying is much better than fucking the living. So much better." She saw the recognition in his eyes before the light faded. And the slight smile at the corners of his lips.
In the mirror she could see the icebox, filled with teachers waiting to be reunited with their star pupil.
The End.
Body Language
Back when I was about twenty, my old dad said to me, over a beer one day, "A divorced woman is a bit like a used car." I had to ask him what he meant by that, and he clarified by saying, "Just remember, a man gets rid of a used car for a reason." Looking back, I'm not sure if he was just making blokey conversation, or whether he was actually offering me some fatherly advice, but sadly he never lived to see my own wedding day himself, seven years later. He'd been gone two years by then, after we lost him to cancer, but if he had been there to see me tying the knot with Lyndall, I sometimes wonder if he would have reminded me.
Technically, Lyndall wasn't divorced, because she'd never actual
ly been legally married, but she'd been in a de-facto relationship for about six years, so she was the nearest thing to a divorcee. She already had two kids when I met her, so I kind of got a package deal when we got married, with a ready-made family, consisting of a wife and two young girls: Krystal, who was seven, and Karla, who was only four years old.
I've got to say, Lyndall and I were happy for the first few years, or at least I know I was. I grew to love those two girls like they were my very own, and they grew to love me right back. Lyndall and I also tried for another baby, but mid-term, she developed some complications, and she lost him. That's right; we would have had a son, but fate decided otherwise, and the doctors told us that another pregnancy would probably kill her, so I went in for the snip, and had a vasectomy, so there was no chance of that ever happening. We decided it was better for me to get the snip than for Lyndall to get her tubes tied, because her body had been through enough as it was.
I remember, the doctor emphasising that the procedure was permanent, and then asking me if I was prepared to accept that it was irreversible, in case my marriage didn't work out down the track, but I laughed at that, and said, "I'm married to the woman of my dreams, and that's just not gonna happen." How was I to know what the future held?
Looking back, it almost seems that losing the baby was a turning point, but things were never the same after that. Lyndall said she'd sailed through both her pregnancies with the girls, so it must have been something that came from my side. She was bitter for a long time, and I told myself it was hormonal, then when things didn't improve with time, I just tried to ride it out, but I really don't think things were ever the same again. Not that it was all bad times, though. We had long periods, years in fact, when things were really good, and I had my wife and two great kids to come home to, and when the bad times came, I just accepted that this was how life worked.
Those two girls were great. They rarely gave us any grief, and they made our married life so much better. They became very close to me, and often when Lyndall and I argued, they would take my side, not that I needed backup from two young kids, but it just shows the bond that had developed between us. Things got really bad for a period between Lyndall and me, around the time Karla started high school, and as far as Lyndall was concerned, I just couldn't do anything right, but then we kind of got over that, and settled back into normal family routine for the next couple of years. I stuck it out, telling myself that I loved her, and I loved those girls too much to walk out, even though I was sorely tested a few times, but then, when Karla was sixteen, Lyndall got pregnant.
She told me the vasectomy must have failed, but these things can only stay hidden for so long. It turned out she'd been screwing a sleazy little guy called Vinnie for ages, and Vinnie had told her a little white lie, saying he'd had a vasectomy as well. Lyndall had been playing an unwitting game of sexual Russian roulette for months, but unfortunately, Vinnie wasn't really shooting blanks at all, and one must have hit the target.
The pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, and Vinnie disappeared for a while, but once again, Lyndall and I stayed together, for Karla's sake, I told myself, because by this time, Krystal was nineteen, and although she was still living at home with us, she was already working full-time, and was old enough to fend for herself if the marriage broke up.
A year later, Vinnie was back on the scene, and in spite of what he'd done to Lyndall the first time, she got back with him again, and incredibly, she moved out of our place, to move in with him. The night she moved out, two weeks after Karla's seventeenth birthday, things got very ugly at our place.
Lyndall managed to drag up something from every argument we'd had, in thirteen years together, and throw it in my face, and I put Vinnie through our front screen door, although I didn't bother to open it first. Karla finished off the evening's entertainment, by screaming at her mother, "Go and fuck yourself! You're not a mother, you're not even fit to be called one!" and then, adding, "Go and fuck your sleazy little boyfriend, see if we care! We'll be happy without you!" as Vinnie reversed his car out of the driveway, with Lyndall stone-faced in the front seat next to him. Karla hardly ever swore, so her tirade made the whole thing much more disturbing.
That night, the three of us, Karla, Krystal and me, slept in my queen-size bed, the two girls huddled together on one side, crying themselves to sleep, while I lay on the other side of the bed, my anger at the hurt Lyndall had caused my two girls blotting out any pain I felt on my own behalf.
The next day, we got up and started our new lives together, without Lyndall, and in time, we got things going really well. We were a family, a man and his two stepdaughters, we all got on perfectly together, and every day, the girls did things to show me they loved me.
For sisters, Karla and Krystal weren't much alike. Krystal, at twenty, was very much like her mother to look at, being tall, fair-haired and curvy, with a pretty face. She was a looker, with rounded, perky breasts, and a beautifully shaped backside that got a lot of second glances from guys when she walked past. Karla, on the other hand, was more like her father, being tall and slender, with dark hair, and a little darker complexion than Krystal. Both girls had brown eyes, and their mother's mouth, although when I say that, it means their mouths resembled their mother's to look at, and not because of what came out of them.
Karla was about five feet eight inches tall, and was slim built, like her natural father. She wasn't straight up and down like Olive Oyl, but was just slender, with a few modest, girlish curves, just the same. Her boobs were fairly small, but were nice enough in shape, and her bottom, while not the traffic-stopper her sister had been blessed with, was still worth a second look, especially in the cute little denim shorts she liked to wear in summer. Those shorts also used to show off her legs, and while they were still a little on the thin side, they definitely had a nice shape to them.
If Karla wasn't a stunner to look at, she made up for it with a certain amount of style. She was bright, she spoke well, she had a ready wit, nice manners, and rarely swore or used foul language. She didn't smoke, and she was fairly popular at school. All in all, Karla was a really great girl, and I was proud to have helped bring her up this way.
Not long after Karla turned eighteen, she got her first boyfriend. His name was Anthony, and he was two years older than she was. He was a decent enough young guy, and he had a job, dressed respectably and had good manners, so she could have done a lot worse. Nobody needed to tell me that Karla lost her virginity to Anthony, I just knew. It was little things, like their body language, a subtle change in Karla's demeanour, and of course, as homicide detectives often say on TV, Anthony had motive and opportunity. She was still in high school, in her final year, but even as close as we were, with no mother around to handle the issue, I felt a bit strange about talking to her about contraception, so I had a word with Krystal, who had a word with Karla, and then took her to the doctor to get a prescription for the pill. Maybe Mike Brady might have handled it differently, but at least I did something.
Karla and Anthony kind of petered out after a few months, and it wasn't like some traumatic break-up; they just stopped going out together, but remained on good terms, with no fuss or bother. Then, Krystal moved out of our house, to move in with her boyfriend, so by the time Karla was eighteen-and-a-half years old, there were just the two of us living there.
By that stage of my life, things seemed to be going okay. I was forty-one years old, and I'd gotten over losing Lyndall to her sleazebag boyfriend, but although I'd had a couple of brief flings, and one or two one-night stands since she walked out, I didn't have a woman in my life. Karla was in her last year of high school, with a part-time job at McDonalds after school and on weekends, and she was living happily at home with me, and we looked after each other as best we could. All in all, I thought life was pretty good.
About halfway through that year, my niece, Jenna, got married to her fiance, whose name was Damien. Jenna's father was my elder brother, Frank, and although his four daug
hters weren't related to my girls by blood, they all considered themselves to be cousins, and they got on famously together. Naturally, Karla, Krystal and I were invited to the wedding, which, ironically, was held in the same church where Lyndall I got married fourteen years earlier.
The wedding was on a Saturday afternoon, with the reception held afterwards, in a function centre, not far from the church. I had given Krystal and Karla my Visa card during the week, to go and buy a new outfit for Karla to wear to the wedding, and I had trusted their judgement in getting her something appropriate, but I hadn't had a chance to see what they had bought for her. Shortly before we were due to leave for the wedding, I called out to her down the corridor towards her bedroom, "You ready?"
Karla stepped from her bedroom, wearing a sleeveless, formal dress that was knee-length, and deep purple in colour, with black lace rim. The neckline showed off some of her modest cleavage, and the dress hugged her slender curves on the way down. She had a silver necklace, with matching earrings, her dark hair was up, and then to top it off, she was wearing black high heels. She rarely wore heels, not that she needed them, and when she stepped out of her room, she walked a bit like a young foal finding its feet. Her air of elegance and sophistication was in contrast with her coltish gait, as she walked down towards me, and I said, "You look, umm," but I paused, to think of an adequate word, and then just settled for, "beautiful."
"Well, don't sound so surprised," Karla said, smiling as she walked up to me. With her heels, she was only about an inch shorter than I was, and she added, "You don't look too bad, yourself," as she looked me up and down.
She gave my suit a quick adjustment, by tugging at the shoulders, and then at the bottom of the jacket, and she stood back for another look, and said, "There, perfect. Watch out ladies, Allan Maxwell's dressed up in his best suit, and he's on the prowl."
Filthy Daddy's Taboo Erotic Sex Stories Page 25
