Perverts 'R' Us

Mr C

By Jon Brown ( S/M, B/D )

Dragon's Note: This story borders on the edge of snuff, but does not actually reach this extreme. I'm posting it because the villain gets what he deserves.

Every night since murdering his nagging wife, Steven Conner had gone to bed to rekindle his dreams of meeting the ideal woman. Despite over a century and a half of trying, and six marriages, he still thought himself cleverer than the rest, and was not a man to give up easily.

His secret to long life lay in the hills of Guadeloupe, where fountains renewed his youth, and shellfish that lived in the surrounding depths ensured him an untraceable poison in order to perform the perfect murders when his partners disappointed him and their flesh became ripe, an inescapable cycle where chosen body parts were refrigerated fresh from the kill at the morgue until he was ready for his steak tartar. Other organs were easily and quickly sold to black market surgeons. Money spoke every language, and the business of death was no exception.

The days which had passed since her death were fewer and swifter than the floors which flashed by on the lift panel in front of the tall blonde whom he stood next to in the lift. His nose swallowed the heady scent which drifted from her body, a mixture of expensive soap and a hint of morning perspiration which enlivened his senses and caused his loins to broil.

His eyes admired the backs of her smooth and shapely calves, as he sipped in more of her beauty every time she turned her head. She had made a point of smiling at him in the café bar, pretending not to notice his interest as she stirred her coffee spoon slowly with her left hand, and made a point of showing off her tapered fingers free of rings and hopefully commitment, and now here alone was brave enough to enter the lift with him with an exchange of simple pleasantries. He knew there and then that he would have to have her, as sure as his hand reached inside his jacket to pull out impressive 4 carat, heart-shaped diamond set in a platinum pendant.

The doors opened and he knew it was time to strike.

"Excuse me," his voice rising just above a whisper.

The woman turned, her eyes meeting his for a long moment before the pendant hypnotized her.

"Is this yours?" he said as he dusted it unnecessarily with a white silk handkerchief.

The blonde shook her head. "Oh, I'm always doing that." she said with a wry smile as she took it from him and drew a line across the spotless surface of the lift mirror, as easily as if it were butter.

"Yes, definitely mine." she said as she admired the cut glass and puckered her lips as if she might kiss the stone, and then him perhaps as an afterthought.

Steven smiled. He liked this one, she was feisty.

"Worried in case I swapped it for a fake?"

"You wouldn't do that to a lady, would you, er..?"

"The name's Steven," he said, practicing his most endearing smile.

The blonde laughed as she handed him back the ring.

"Well Steven, you're doing a great job of looking after it." she paused to admire the blue depths of his eyes. For your wife?" she pretended to assume, for she could see no signs of marriage on his finger, nor wear lines in his handsome face. She guessed him to be in his mid twenties. Maybe 15 years younger than herself.

"Which one?" He joked over the murders of his late wives, for there would be no trace left to create unnecessary suspicion of that he always made sure, meticulousness was his first name.

"So, you're either a Muslim or a bigamist, and as you're not wearing a skull cap, my second guess must be right."

His amusement turned to seriousness as he moved in from the opening, "Truth is I've been waiting to meet the right woman." He glided into her brown eyes like an eagle in dove's clothing. "Do you have a name for your beauty?"

"Beauty." She smiled amusedly at his unorthodox chat-up method, "Marie."

"Had he practiced this daily?" she wondered, "on a thousand beautiful women?" Pity such a rich picking had not come her way first.

"Well" she said, pulling up her hair. "Let's see how good it looks on this single woman ."

"It is my pleasure." The words flowed straight from his loins and his lustful intentions, though he doubted she would be as easy prey as the others. More the challenge for his highly seasoned century and a half, her clothes and her polished southern accent seemed promising, as did the new, red Porsche which was parked just four spaces from his Bentley.

Back at her studio they feasted on champagne and caviar, and then she showed him her collection of modern art paintings.

"I bought them all at the Tate Modern," she told him as they studied the language of oils.

"All by the same artist, I see." he said, finding her figure far more interesting than the surreal paintings of a dreamer. "Are you with him?"

"No, I didn't fuck him." she said, when she turned to catch him drooling over her round backside.

"I am an art critic, and I have enough money not to have to suck seed. And besides I'm a practicing Catholic."

"A little too much information, I think," though sex had been on his mind since entering the studio and he did wonder about a possible existing relationship. "Nothing as queer as folk, as they say."

She smiled, took his hand, and guided his arm around her waist as they looked at the last painting of a businessman on a inverted cross made from coils of crossed wires as it stood erect on a central reservation. Within the lanes, giant rats represented cars in a race to nowhere, running for the lead, on both sides of the motorway. The nearest and largest of the rodents, held the businessman's bloody sexual organs in its jaws. While on a fence in the foreground, the artist had been skillfully humanized - the bird faces of three large crows resembled the family of the crucified man.

"Manimals", she said the one word.

"Pardon?" he asked her again.

"The name of the painting…Manimals," she repeated.

"Mm, fascinating," he lied, for really he found it gross, and meaningless.

"Does it bother you that I am a virgin?" she asked him bluntly. "Not that I expect you to believe me."

"I-no," he stuttered, "On the contrary, I find it very attractive." He believed in what he felt, and his determination to make her his was therefore strengthened. "My ideal, in fact."

"Belief in perfection is dangerous." she whispered into his ear.

"Though life without risk is tepid," he added.

"Marriage would kill the risk," she suggested.

"Marie, you are too hot to be tepid," he said, not realizing just how true his predictions would turn out to be.

"I'm sure there'd be no need for risk if we were joined as you..." he paused to meet her lips, "...I…" and again. "We should be."

Harmonious with the splendor of a midsummer's morning, the idyllic white wedding went ahead at the same small village church where she was baptized. A low-key affair, which they both agreed was to their taste. For the first time in all his life, he felt as if he were close to perfection - Marie, a woman of her own strong opinions, yet accommodating to his desires and tastes as was he of hers. However he did not reckon on her sexual voracity, something he could only put down to her many years of suppression.

Even a man like himself, with the prowess of a demigod, found it a struggle to keep her satiated. No sooner had they shared their first night of intimacy than the missionary position was soon forgotten. From whips to handcuffs, then bondage and gimp masks, she became like an uncontrollable wild animal. One he battled to tame, despite the rawness of his raked back, which screamed as he tried to snatch rare moments of sleep between wild sessions of S/M.

"I've arranged for you to see a dietician, darling," she informed him as she stood naked in her cat mask warming herself by the giant fireplace, radiant and beaming, admiring her 4 carat ring, though unable to hide her expression of disappointment. "I should be pregnant by now, Steven."

"Huh?" Steven sighed as he pushed two more Viagra into his mouth and climbed down from the ceiling harness. He had no want of whining siblings as he recalled the pregnancies of two of his late wives. The unformed fetuses had tasted delicious.

"Whatever you think is best." he lied, deciding her time had come and wondering how her kidneys would taste in a stew.

The next day, a second blow came to reinforce his decision when the telephone rang with bad news: "The houngan has cursed us all." the black market trader told him, "Do not even fly your jet near here."

"Why?"

"Two days ago he caught a white man with his daughter bathing in the Devil's Den fountain, and now he has summoned loa Damballah to poison the limestone waters."

"What price will he take to lift the curse."

"He refuses to listen. He is a stubborn man."

"Nonsense."

"I tell you the truth, sir."

"Everything has a price," he panicked. "Tell him I'll double it, again," he spat as the receiver went dead in his ear. "Bastards."

With the secret of his youth threatened, he knew it would only be a matter of days before his mind and body would begin to deteriorate rapidly. Marie would have to go, especially if it was to be his last taste of female flesh - though he would not give up with the stubborn houngan as he began to make calls to other recognized elders on the island.

The last problem twenty years ago had been resolved within a week. In the back of his mind, he thanked that tomorrow was Saturday, and his turn to cook for them both - an ideal opportunity to strike the female dragon between the eyes before he became burned in her flames.

The summer's day was perfect as he set the table for two in the summer house and pulled the champagne from the ice bucket, his back to the mansion windows as he emptied the small phial into her glass and stirred it quickly with a spoon, finishing just as the phone rang.

"Hello?" he tried to sound calm as he dried the spoon on a napkin and repositioned it on cloth.

"The curse has been lifted, sir." It was his Guadeloupe contact who spoke. "The houngan has been persuaded to accept your offer."

"Good." he sighed, for the news had come sooner than he'd expected. "Business as usual, then."

"When?"

"10 am Friday outside the airport hotel."

"Yes sir."

Steven smiled to himself as he lowered the receiver, unprepared when Marie called him on her approach, cursing himself silently when he nearly upset the poisoned glass.

"Darling, I was wondering where you were," he said as he pulled out her chair and seated himself in front of his prawn cocktail. "No doubt, spending time on your beautiful hair, I suspect."

She smiled at him warmly, "Drinks already poured, I see," she said noticing the glasses.

"Proficiency." he winked as he unfolded his napkin upon his lap.

"Very." she smiled as her elegant fingers curled around the glass stem.

"Stunning red dress, my dear," he complemented her, as he admired the way it clung to her breasts, and revealed the points of her nipples imagining at the back of his mind how her heart would taste lightly baked, with some steamed charlotte potatoes, and petit pois, when the taintless poison had cleared from her body of course.

"I chose it to go with those beautiful flowers over there," she said, as she pointed with her eyes to the flower bed, barely a stone's throw behind him and took the opportunity to exchange glasses.

"Magnificent." he exclaimed, noticing the scarlet Stargazer lilies in full bloom.

"Absolutely stunning," she agreed as he turned back to see her holding the glass for him to join her.

"Cheers." Their glasses met before they sipped, and Steven's heart began to race.

"You crafty fucking bitch," he gasped his realization, as her cold laugh echoed in his ears.

"B-but, h-how?" he cried, gripped by the fast acting poison, which would torture him for the longest thirty seconds of his life.

She pointed to the glass in the summer house door as it swung lazily on a gentle breeze: first back to show a reflection of the study, and then forward to show their table, as she would have witnessed him administer the poison into her glass. "I was watching you all the time through the telescope, you stupid old fool."

"Idiot fuck," he cursed himself for having underestimated her as he slid to the floor with a crushing pain in his chest, and a painful tingling in both arms, taking the tablecloth with him.